


Wayward Son

by gunlord500



Category: Fire Emblem, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Fictional Religion & Theology, Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Politics, Redemption, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Soldiers, atrocities, warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 83
Words: 1,063,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunlord500/pseuds/gunlord500
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A telling of Renault's long life. Cross-posted at FFn; I wanted to have a backup for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anger

Wayward Son

_old man_

1: Anger

The rat stared up imploringly at Renault, eagerly awaiting the treat he always seemed to bring with him on his many trips to the town jail. The first time the big man passed through the rusted metal gates the rodent saw as the entrance to its home, it had fled in terror, like any rat, but Renault had eventually won its friendship over the course of his many stays in this dingy cell. He’d lost count of how many times he’d been thrown in here over the years, and after consistently leaving behind a few scraps of food he always managed to find somewhere on his person, Renault had won the tiny beast’s trust. He did not get along particularly well with the people in his life, so he hardly minded making a friend among the animals.

Renault looked down at his little companion and smiled in amusement. His large, dust-covered hands dug through the pockets of his workman’s pants to find the remnants of the lunch he’d had today; a few scraps of crust which had come from the foccacia bread his mother had baked for him. Tossing them to his cellmate, he watched contentedly as the creature voraciously nibbled at its meal. After the rat had finished and scurried off into whatever hole it came from, Renault sat down on his dirty cot and ran a hand through his teal hair. He winced in pain as he felt the large bump on the top of his skull; a parting gift from the idiot he had most recently roughed up. “Dammit!” he swore, “That stupid ass just had to get the last hit in, didn’t he…”

“I’d watch that mouth if I were you, son,” a husky voice said, accompanied by the grating screech of the door which led to the prison’s interior. “If you think about it, it’s what got you locked up in the first place, this time.”

“Jerid!” Renault groaned, recognizing the familiar voice of the jailer. “I’m already stuck in this filthy hovel. I don’t need your lecture to make it worse. Just stow it, will you?”

Renault’s whining elicited nothing more than an exasperated chuckle from the older man. “Boy, let me tell you, it could be a lot worse. This prison’s not fancy, but it’s not supposed to be a blasted resort. The cell you’re always in is probably one of the nicer ones I’ve got. Believe me, if you weren’t a bishop’s son, I’d have shut you in one of the basement rooms. Far as I’m concerned, you deserve it after this last tussle.”

The wayward son spat angrily on the floor and glared at his tormentor. “That moron threw the first punch!” he grumbled.

“After what you said to him and his little sister? Can’t say I blame him.”

“Come on, you can’t blame me either! I dropped my damn chisel right on my foot! Those things are heavier than they look! I got pissed off, and when a man gets pissed, he swears! It’s God-damn natural!”

“I won’t tell you again to watch that mouth, boy. Nobody takes the name of the Lord in vain when I’m around. But yeah, I guess it is natural to swear in that case. Of course, if you shout so blasted loudly, right in public on a busy road, in front of a little girl who was just out for a walk with her brother, I think it’s just as natural for the man to tell you to shut up.”

Renault said nothing. He simply sat and steamed.

“And, of course,” Jerid continued, “if you just yell at him, and I quote, ‘Your dumbass sister can burn in hell for all I care!’ well, I’d have to say you deserve that bump on the head he gave you.”

“You know, Jerid,” Renault grumbled, “If you love making people feel guilty so much, why the fu—dammit, I mean why in blazes didn’t you join the clergy?”

Jerid simply laughed. “This town needs a jailer, but it sure doesn’t need another bishop. Your mother’s already doing everything your father did, and more! Elimine’s grace, I think her sermons are popular even outside of Thagaste!”

“Yeah, well, I bet they’d be. Those stupid country bumpkins just eat up anything that comes out of big cities like this one!”

Jerid stared at Renault incredulously. “Renault, that has to be the worst thing I’ve heard you say today.”

“What? You have to admit that outside of places like Thagaste and Aquleia, an Etrurian peasant isn’t that much smarter than the average Lycian or even a stupid Ilian!”

The gaoler shook his head. “You may be right there, though I wouldn’t put it as harshly. I wasn’t talking about that, though. It’s the way you speak of your mother and the work she does. How can you think so little of a woman so devoted to God, _especially_ when she’s the one that birthed you?”

“Hmph,” Renault snorted, “I think a woman who loves her family is better than someone praying to some invisible man in the sky all the time.”

“Come on, Renault, now you’re just being silly. I can’t think of anybody who loves her only child as much as Monica does. Have you ever wanted for anything? Your mother takes care of you well, even though you should have gotten yourself out of her house by now. How old are you, twenty-three? And you’re still better at getting yourself into fights than you are at stoneworking! If your mother still comes to bail you out of here time after time, I’m surprised the Council of the Supreme Church hasn’t nominated her for sainthood!”

Renault gritted his teeth, but failed to come up with any kind of retort. In truth, Jerid’s words hit him harder than any ruffian’s punches ever did.

“You see what I’m saying, Renault?” the jailer continued, “your mother really deserves a lot more respect than what you’ve given her.”

“You don’t understand!” Renault burst out, jumping to his feet. “You can’t understand what it’s like living with that woman! You don’t have to deal with her day in and day out!”

Jerid looked at him strangely. “Being pampered by a wealthy clergywoman every day doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

Sighing in exasperation, Renault held up his hands. “Just drop it, alright? I don’t want to talk about this!”

Looking at the expression on the young man’s face, Jerid saw that his message had gotten through. Shrugging his shoulders and settling in on his shabby chair, he let the conversation go with a simple “Suit yourself.”

The two men sat in silence for over an hour, with Renault staring dejectedly at the dirty ceiling of his cell, and Jerid snoring loudly as he drifted off into sleep. He was hardly worried about his prisoner escaping, after all—the delinquent knew from hard experience it was more trouble than it was worth.

The jailer’s nap was brought to an end by the loud creak of the jail’s door opening, followed by the visitor’s attempt to close it softly. Renault immediately jumped up and ran to the bars of his cell. “Hey,” he cried, “Is it my mom?”

“Yes,” answered a stern, angry voice, “It is.”

Renault groaned inwardly when he saw the stony expression on his mother’s face as soon as she entered the room. It temporarily softened into a smile as the jailer greeted her, however. “Your Excellency!” Jerid exclaimed, bowing deeply. “It’s an honor to see you again, Bishop Monica.” He looked over the woman, then blushed profusely as he realized she was still clad in the pure-white vestments of high-ranking Eliminean clergy, miter and all. “Your Excellency, did you just return from evening prayers?”

“Yes,” she replied tolerantly, “I did.” She looked over at Renault, staring at her imploringly behind the bars of his cell. “I looked for you in the crowd of parishioners, Jerid, but couldn’t find you. Did you have to spend all day looking after my son?”

Jerid glanced sheepishly at his prisoner. “Er…yes, ma’am.”

Sighing heavily, Monica brought a hand up to massage her temple. “I’m so sorry, Jerid. I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble?”

“No more than usual, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s a relief, at least. How much is his bail this time?”

“Hmm…well, at least he didn’t hurt anybody too badly, just gave the fellow a couple of bruises…heck, judging by the bump on his head, I’d say Renault came off the worse today.” Jerid held up his hand and counted his fingers. “I think 500 gold’s enough to let him out, unless you’d rather keep him in here for another day instead of paying.”

“No,” Monica sighed, “Tomorrow’s Saturday, and Renault’s master will probably be furious if his apprentice misses another day of work. I’m just glad Renault’s shift was almost over by the time he got into this latest scrap.” She unlimbered a small satchel from her waist and fumbled inside until she had produced five large, shiny gold coins emblazoned with the likeness of Tages, a legendary king who supposedly created Etruria’s first laws, not long after Saint Elimine ascended to heaven. “Here you go, Jerid,” she said, handing them over to the jailer. “Oh, and take these, as well,” she grinned as she handed him a few smaller coins.

“Ah, Your Excellency, I, I can’t really accept this…”

“Please, Jerid. Take it as a small recompense for all the trouble my son’s caused you these past few years.”

“Well, alright,” Jerid chuckled as he took a rusty key from his belt and unlocked the door to Renault’s cell. He eagerly rushed out of his confinement, glad to be a free man once again. “Now, Renault,” Jerid said sternly before the hooligan had a chance to get away, “You see what a good woman your mother is? I expect you to treat her better from now on, y’hear?”

“Thank you, Jerid!” Monica smiled. Turning to her son, that smile transformed into an angry scowl. “Let’s go, Renault.”

The bishop’s son followed his mother none too eagerly into the cheerful daylight outside the grimy confines of the prison. As he stared at the hard expression on Monica’s face, Renault found himself wishing he was still inside his cell.

The bishop and her son made the long trek home in silence, as she glowered incessantly at him, and as he attempted to distract himself by absentmindedly gazing at the scenery. There was indeed much to look at—on any other day, Monica would excitedly point out anything and everything she saw of interest in the neverending panoply of sights and sounds the second-largest city in Etruria had to offer. Renault, while not as vocal as his mother, also took pleasure from basking in Thagaste’s urban glory, although he despised the human element of it—he tried his best to ignore the constant hubbub of the crowds and the jostling maelstrom of human bodies unavoidable in a city as large as this. Renault much preferred the inanimate aspects of the metropolis. On better days, he adored gazing at the seas of vibrant purple that constituted Thagaste’s famed vineyards and the glittering slivery-green of its many fields of olive trees. The buildings themselves were also a feast for his eyes. He loved the opulent, stately elegance of the great homes of the patricians, the towering walls and graceful spires that rose from the castle at the center of the city, and especially the magnificent facades of the grand cathedrals. Renault spent as much time admiring them as he did maintaining them; the lovingly crafted gargoyles that leered down at passers-by with their horrid faces, the gargantuan flying buttresses which supported the awesome edifice, and the wonderful stained-glass mirrors, possessed of their surreal, light-borne beauty, were a constant source of joy for the young man. Despite the utter disdain with which he regarded Eliminism, he could at least credit the faith for nurturing the greatest architectural style on the face of Elibe.

Renault’s sullen pout receded into a gentle smile as he quietly regarded the city around him. He and his mother were passing by a particularly ostentatious cathedral, and Renault began to forget about his problems and the miseries of the day as he lost himself examining the building. His mother, however was more than determined to see her son learn a lesson today. Stamping her foot on the ground in anger, she broke her son’s happy reverie. “Well, Renault?” she demanded. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

Renault sighed miserably. “I’m sorry! There’s nothing more I can say! That guy threw the first punch!”

“After you swore at him!” Monica retorted angrily as they continued to walk. “The guardsmen who locked you up themselves told me all about it after Friday prayers. Renault, didn’t I raise you better than to use language like that? What did Saint Elimine have to say on the matter?”

The bishop’s son groaned inwardly. “Umm, I know this one,” he stammered, badly attempting to feign some knowledge of any of the religion his mother had tried fruitlessly to instill within him.

“You should!” said his mother, looking at him expectantly.

“Umm…it, um, escapes me at the moment.” Renault said, giving up.

Sighing in both irritation and dismay, Monica recited the relevant verse. “People are not made unclean by what passes into their mouth; but rather, what comes out.”

“Hmph!” Renault grumbled, “Even if that’s the case, it’s still no reason for a guy to throw a punch at me.”

“Even so, is that any excuse for you to bring yourself down to his level? Elimine did recommend turning the other cheek, after all.”

Renault rolled his eyes. “Did Elimine have some sort of recommendation for every situation, mom?”

Monica’s frown deepened as she admonished her son. “Nearly every situation,” she said. “You’d be a lot better off if you lived life according to her teachings.”

“Well, the guy I got into a fight with could probably have used the advice more than me. He beat me up worse than I beat him up!”

“Did he?” Monica’s displeasure with him receded for a moment in the face of motherly concern. “Let me take a look.”

Renault bowed his head obediently, showing the nasty bump on its top to his mother. “That does look painful!” she exclaimed. “Poor thing, when we get home, I’ll give you a vulnerary for the pain.” She tenderly stroked the swollen area and kissed it, an act which greatly pleased the recipient. Renault despised being lectured by his mother, but he certainly didn’t mind being babied.

“Now, Renault,” she said sternly, looking straight into his eyes, “You do know you deserved that bump. When we get home, I expect you to properly make amends.”

Renault shrugged dismissively. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

Mother and son continued on in silence. It was dusk when Renault stepped out of the prison doors, and by the time they reached the entrance to their lavish (but far from showy) abode, night had almost fallen entirely upon the second-largest city in Etruria.

“Hey mom, I’m hungry!” Renault whined as he sat himself down at the head of his mother’s large dining table. The pair had just got home—Monica did not even have time to change out of her clerical vestments—when her son began demanding food.

“Renault!” she exclaimed, quite annoyed. “Let me change, for heaven’s sake!”

“My head hurts, too!” he cried after her as she ascended the stairs to her room.

“I’ll get you a vulnerary for it, just wait!” came the reply.

Fidgeting in discomfort, Renault smiled eagerly when his mother, now clad in a loose, flowing blouse and skirt, walked down to him with a vulnerary in hand. Inspecting the bump on his head and parting the hair around it with one hand, she dabbed a smidge of the sticky, smelly contents of the vulnerary on the area with a finger of the other hand. Immediately, Renault felt the ache start to dissipate. “That ought to do it!” Monica smiled. “There’s no need for you to actually drink the stuff; for such a small bump, it’ll heal on contact.”

“Yeah,” Renault said. “It doesn’t hurt at all, now! I’m still hungry, though.”

“I’ll get you something, don’t worry.” said Monica with a stern expression on your face. “Before I even start making dinner, though, I expect you to do something first.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Renault asked in confusion.

“Renault, don’t you remember what I said about making amends?”

“Um…yeah, I do. And?”

“Renault, how can you not remember this? The Rite of Contrition! It’s not enough to apologize to me, you’ve got to apologize to God as well!”

Rolling his eyes (an act his mother fortuitously either did not notice or chose to ignore), Renault folded his hands in front of him. “Right, right, I remember this,” he mumbled. “Okay, here I go…um…God, my Lord, who watches over Heaven and Earth, today I have sinned, and tonight I repent…uh, was that right?”

Monica nodded impatiently, and motioned for him to continue.

“Okay, I’ve got this…I have…uh, transgressed against my fellow man, and I, um…shit, what was next…”

“Renault, surely you must remember this simple prayer!” Monica said reproachfully. “And swear once more and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap!”

“Sorry!” Growing annoyed, the bishop’s son gave it another try. “God, my Lord, today I have sinned, and tonight I repent. I have transgressed against my fellow man, and…um…I’m sorry.” Renault looked up and smiled. “There, that’s it. I’m done!”

“Renault, how could you?” Monica fumed. “That’s one of Elimine’s most important prayers! You…you can’t just spout off a slipshod mockery of it like that! It’s an insult to God!”

“Look, I said I was sorry!” Now beginning to get angry, Renault took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm himself. “I don’t remember the stupid prayer, okay? I said I was sorry, I spent time in jail, and that’s good enough!”

“How can you say that?” his mother cried, now growing angry herself. “It isn’t good enough to simply accept punishment! You have to understand that what you did was wrong, and you have to accept the forgiveness of God! Temporal chastisement is important, but nothing is more important than the mercy of our Creator!”

“If God’s so merciful, why doesn’t he just forgive me instead of making me say some dumb lines from a book?”

“What are you thinking? The Rite of Contrition isn’t much to ask at all! It takes up just half a page of the Common Book of Prayer! The same one you’ve been reading every night before bed!”

Renault pressed his lips tightly together and glowered at his mother.

“You…have been reading it, haven’t you?”

“NO!” Renault slammed a fist down on the table, his knuckles white with rage. “I haven’t read a single page of it! I don’t want to read a single damn word from it! I don’t know anything about prayers, I don’t know anything about forgiveness, and I don’t care!”

Monica’s eyes flashed in anger, and her voice rose sharply and harshly. “How dare you say such things?” she demanded. “What’s wrong with you? This isn’t how I raised you! Do you want to remain in darkness forever? Do you want to cut yourself off from God?”

Renault’s lips curled into a bitter sneer. “Yeah, I do. After all, it beats what happened to Dad, doesn’t it?”

“Renault!” his mother cried, and drew back as if struck. The bishop’s son knew he had gone too far, but was too angry to stop.

“Yeah, God sure is merciful, isn’t he?” Renault spat. “Visiting death on one of His most pious servants? Real merciful. You’d think He’d have a bit more to spare for one of His own bishops, wouldn’t He? Remember just before he died, when Dad collapsed in front of his entire congregation during Mass? Remember how you had to spend hours cleaning up the blood he vomited? Remember how I prayed, day and night, for him to get better?”

“E…Enough!” His mother cried, her eyes growing wet with tears. “That’s enough!”

“Well, it didn’t make a bit of difference, did it?” Renault shouted. His voice grew low and guttural, and his face twisted into a bestial grimace of hate. “All those hours spent by his bedside, asking for God’s mercy, didn’t do a single thing! Is that God’s forgiveness? Is that how He answers his petitioners? By taking my father away from me?”

Trembling with rage, his mother shouted, “Do you have any idea how hard this has been for me, Renault? I lost my husband! I had to take up his responsibilities as bishop, with no-one at all to help me! You used to be such a good boy, and what have you done for me since your father died? Get in fights and cause trouble around town! God has been the only one keeping me together for the past ten years! He’s my only friend!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Renault shouted. “I’ve been training as a stoneworker for years now! Soon enough, I’ll be a full fledged architect! But no, I’m not training to be a bishop, so I’m worthless, aren’t I? Just because I won’t stoop down before the same God who took my father away from me, nothing I do is good enough, is it?”

“You know that’s not true!” His mother sobbed.

“You do nothing but nag at me and complain about me!” her son continued. “You forever criticize my work restoring your stupid church, even though you don’t know the first thing about masonry! You never stop needling me about those damn prayers! It’s always about God! You don’t care about me at all!”

“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Monica screamed in despair.

Blinded with fury, Renault paid no heed to her words. Memories thrashed and burned within his head, painful memories of the father he’d never see again. Memories of the strong shoulders upon which he rode as a child. Memories of the warm smile in a masculine, chiseled face. These images played themselves in front of Renault’s eyes, reminding him that they had been nothing but memories for ten years, and would never be anything but memories, all because of a deity who didn’t care.

“No,” he growled, “Even though God took Dad away from me, you never stop talking about Him. You blind your parishioners, in the city and outside of it, with those stupid lies. You do nothing but encourage people to put their faith in a God who hasn’t been there for seven hundred years, who’ll NEVER be there when they need them. You’re a damned fool, Mom!”

Monica could take no more of her son’s abuse. Almost bursting with anger, she strode up to Renault and slapped him as hard as she could across the face.

The dining room fell entirely silent, almost as if the walls themselves were hushed by the bishop’s outburst. For a long moment, the only movement was a single drop of blood trickling down the young man’s face, drawn by one of his mother’s long nails.

The first thing that broke the silence was Renault’s right hand, clenching into a hard fist. His eyes glowed like coals in his hate-filled face, and with a cruel grimace, he brought that fist crashing straight into the bridge of his mother’s nose.

Monica was by no means a large woman. She barely came up to her son’s chest, and her body was slight and soft—her son had taken his father’s muscular physique. She crumpled under Renault’s blow, and her teal hair flew out around her—the only attribute she had passed on to her attacker. Collapsing to the floor, she could only stare with wide, stricken eyes into her son’s red, narrow ones—the wide and open eyes of his parents had been lost upon Renault. The man took a step forward, and his beaten mother could do nothing but raise up an arm before her face in a pitiful attempt at defense.

The pathetic sight stirred something within Renault’s furious heart, and his terrible mask of hatred receded into a pained, twitching morass of regret. Looking incredulously at what he had just done, he could offer nothing even resembling an apology to the broken woman lying before him. He simply turned, left the house, and slammed the door viciously behind him. The tortured, agonized weeping of his mother was left far behind him as he wandered, aimlessly, into the depths of Thagaste’s torchlit night.

_:Linear Notes:_

A repost of Chapter 1 of Wayward Son from fanfiction.net. After that site's recent downtime, I thought it prudent to keep a backup of this fic on here just in case anything permanent happens. I've also wanted to see how AO3 worked, as I've heard a great deal about it...I find myself relatively pleased so far! As I did on the other site, I must warn for violence and both criticism and defense of religion in the later chapters. There is not, however, any explicit sexual content. 


	2. Heaven

Wayward Son

 

2: Heaven

 

 

Renault was first aware of exactly two things when he woke up—a hard leather boot gently but firmly prodding him from his slumber, and a throbbing ache in his neck and shoulders.

 

“Wake up. It’s time for work.” a flat, even voice deadpanned.

 

Shaking his head to drive off the last vestiges of sleep, Renault looked up at his caller. A red-haired man of average height and wiry build stood before him, gazing down at the vagrant impassively. Renault looked into his gray eyes, and was reminded, as he always was, of a still, frozen pool of water in the dead of winter. Renault had worked for the mason for over two years, but he had almost never managed to see what lay beyond the stoic, passionless exterior his employer presented to the world.

 

“Boss!” he exclaimed, “Uh, I mean, Master Henken! How’d you know I was here?”

 

“I was on my way to the cathedral when I heard someone snoring in this alleyway. The voice sounded familiar, so I decided to give it a look.” A corner of Henken’s mouth turned up in the slightest hint of a grin—the closest thing to an expression Renault had seen cross the man’s face. “I never knew the hard ground made such a comfortable bed.”

 

Renault grunted in annoyance as he got up and rubbed his sore neck. “It sure as hell isn’t!” he whined. “If I had anyplace else to go, I’d be lying on a bed instead of cobblestones!”

 

“Don’t you have a home to go back to?” came the curt reply.

 

The young man turned his eyes to the ground, suddenly seeming strangely contrite. “Home isn’t really someplace I want to be right now.” he murmured.

 

Henken arched his eyebrows upwards in surprise. Renault had proven to be a thoughtless, self-centered troublemaker during the time Henken had employed him, so seeing the bishop’s son so uncharacteristically ashamed of himself revealed that something serious had happened between the boy and his mother. Still, he knew better than to press the issue—if the kid wanted to talk about it, he would. “Well, whatever,” Henken said. “Let’s get to work.”

 

Thagaste was one city under the bright sun of the afternoon, but a completely different one under the soft light of the early morning. On any other day, Renault would have been enjoying himself immensely—very few people were out at this hour, which meant that the crowds and noise he so despised were absent. However, he found himself missing the commotion of a large city at day. The still and quiet of dawn gave little to distract him from the unpleasant memories of last night’s altercation. The sounds of his mother’s anguished sobbing echoed horribly inside his head, and he could only sigh miserably and hope his work would keep his mind off of his personal problems. Thus, he paid little attention to the majestic Etrurian architecture he usually loved to examine as he walked through the city—he merely kept his head down and gait steady until he and his master reached their destination.

 

Zodian’s Rest was the largest cathedral in Thagaste and the immediate vicinity, and reputed to be the very oldest, built upon the ruins of a house of worship destroyed during the Scouring. This grand cathedral was where Renault’s father had administered his diocese, a responsibility that had passed on to his wife after his death. Renault grimaced as he stood before the church it was his duty to repair—his very job served as a reminder of a woman he’d rather not think about at the moment. His master expected his apprentice to work, however, and pointed calmly but resolutely at the scaffolding erected at the western front of the church. “Time to get started.” he ordered.

 

Together, the two men clambered up the scaffolding until they reached the upper heights of the great façade. For the last week Renault and Henken had been working to repair damage caused by what couldn’t be explained by anything other than a freak accident. In the middle of a quiet Sunday night, a large chuck of the stone on the west side had simply crumbled to dust as if it had been crushed by a force stronger than any man. None of the parishioners or the clergy had seen what had happened, and nobody could figure out what actually did happen. Renault had been working with stone for over two years since Henken had come to the city looking for an apprentice, and neither of them could come up with any explanation either. “Man, I’d like to beat the stuffing out of whoever did this,” Renault grumbled as he began to carefully place bricks into the damaged wall and set them with mortar. “The last thing I want to do is work on this cathedral!”

 

“It’s nothing to complain about, Renault,” Henken pointed out, setting in place a replacement keystone for a demolished arch. “We’re getting paid some good money for this job. Besides, if it wasn’t this cathedral, it’d be some other building we’d be working on.”

 

Renault grinned for a moment, then nodded his assent as he saw that his boss had a point. Although most people found Henken’s emotionless demeanor to be disconcerting at the very least, Renault found that he was one of the few people he could get along with. When he gave advice it was with nothing more than cold, hard logic, quite unlike Jerid’s condescending lecturing or Monica’s self-righteous condemnations. “You’re right, master,” the apprentice acknowledged. “Still, I just can’t get past how weird this damage is, you know? I mean, what could take out such a big chunk of good stone from up here? I thought a mage would have blasted it, but I never saw any scorch marks or anything. I could see a bishop’s spell doing the damage, but why the hell would a member of the clergy deface their own church?”

 

“Watch the mouth, Renault, it’ll get you in trouble,” Henken laconically admonished, as he usually did when his apprentice swore. He appreciated the fact that Renault noticed subtle details like that, however—the youth’s acuity, combined with his skillful hands, were why Henken typically overlooked his numerous failings. “You’re right to notice that, though—good eye. I don’t know of anybody in this entire city capable of pulling off this kind of stunt. I’ve heard from a few travelers that attacks like this have been happening more and more in other parts of the country, though.”

 

Renault blinked and stared curiously at his employer. “You serious?”

 

Henken nodded. “I am, although this is the first time I’ve seen it in a big city like Thagaste. Most of the other incidents took place in very small, poor villages up north. A church’s walls just crumble away one night, or its doors and windows just disintegrate on another. I’ve heard that priests and clergymen have disappeared in a couple of towns too.”

 

A brief glimmer of worry crossed Renault’s face. “Do you think that could happen to my mom?”

 

“I doubt it,” Henken replied. “Most of the trouble’s occurring in poor towns in the north, like I said. If I had to make a guess, I’d say that whatever these vandals are doing is motivated by their poverty more than anything else. The king’s taxing the people harder and harder, and it’s not easy for some of the poorer villages to keep up. Combine that with the tithe required by every Eliminean church, and you have a whole lot of resentment brewing towards the clergy and the nobility. It wouldn't surprise me if this country had a rebellion on its hands in a few years."

 

“But if it’s just poor people doing the damage, like you say, then how are they doing it? What could possibly make solid stone just crumble away like this?”

 

“That’s a very good question, Renault, and I don’t have an answer to it.”

 

“So then it’s got to be something else.” Renault grinned. “The situation can’t be that bad, can it? Who’s been telling you this stuff? I’d bet they’re just making it up!”

 

Henken shrugged. “A friend of mine’s a royal tax collector, and that’s what he told me. Believe him or not.”

 

“Tax collector, huh? Looks like you know some pretty important people. Maybe this kind of thing does signify worse to come.” Renault chuckled in amusement. “Man, Elibe’s really falling apart, isn’t it? First there was that civil war in Lycia a few years back, and now there’s this rebellion brewing. Hah, if only I was a mercenary! I’d be making a killing off of all this war!”

 

Something that seemed dangerously like anger flashed behind Henken’s flat gray eyes. “You’re not. Get back to work.”

 

“Y-yes sir!” Renault stammered, completely unnerved and intimidated by his employer’s sudden burst of emotion. He had never seen Henken angry before; had never even come close to seeing him angry, but he had seen all he needed to know that anyone who antagonized the mysterious stonemaster was a fool.

 

And with that, their conversation ended. The two men worked in silence for hours, carefully setting stone after stone in place. The work was easier than Renault had anticipated, and it seemed as if they could fully repair the damage to the cathedral within a few days. The soft morning sun rose in the sky until it glowered overhead with the force of noon, and the empty streets soon filled with the noise of human life. Renault found this much to his liking. Despite repairing his mother’s workplace, he was able to drive all thoughts of the woman from his mind by immersing himself in the commotion of city life, by concentrating on nothing but setting one block after the next into place.

 

Unfortunately, the trance he had worked himself into could be broken quite easily by one thing—his own stomach. Renault had not had any breakfast, and as noon marched on, hunger began to bloom inside his belly, eventually making itself known with a loud and embarrassing grumble. Renault blushed and tried to busy himself by dusting away some of the debris surrounding one of the cathedral’s taller buttresses, but both he and his boss knew it was pointless.

 

“I’m actually getting hungry myself,” Henken dryly intoned. “Taking a break for lunch sounds like a good idea.”

 

“Uh…yeah.” Renault sighed apprehensively. He proceeded to sit silently with his hands folded in front of him while Henken proceeded to reach into a small knapsack he carried with him and pull out a piece of dried jerky and a loaf of bread. After taking a bite of the jerky, he noticed his protégé wasn’t eating anything. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You don’t have anything to eat? Your mother always makes you lunch to bring to work.”

 

“Not today, she didn’t.” Renault mumbled dejectedly.

 

“I see.” said Henken. He nonchalantly broke his loaf of bread in half and tore away a piece of jerky, holding both of them out to Renault. “Have this, then.”

 

“Master? Are you sure?” Renault asked, surprised at this uncharacteristic display of kindness.

 

“That noise your stomach’s making annoys me.” came the blunt reply.

 

“Oh. Sorry, sir.” Renault obediently took his share of his master’s lunch and began to devour it voraciously. He had already finished the bread and had just started on the jerky when he heard a familiar, annoying greeting.

 

“Oi, Renault!” came the cheery voice of a young man from below. “How’re you doing, my friend?”

 

Renault grimaced and clenched his hands shut in annoyance. He looked down and saw a portly, brown-haired youth a year older than he was, wearing the simple clothing of a poor seminarian and sporting a large, stupid grin on his face. “I’m fine, Serapino,” Renault called down to him. “Look, I’m taking a lunch break right now, and then I have to get back to work. Do you think you could leave me alone?”

 

“Oh! Whoops! Sorry, I didn’t realize that. Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything!”

 

“I’m sitting on this damn scaffolding enjoying a bite to eat after spending the morning fixing up your stupid cathedral.” Renault muttered to himself. “What else could I be doing?” Then again, Renault couldn’t be particularly surprised at how dense Serapino could often be. He’d known the aspiring priest since he had been very young—Serapino usually sat near him during church services. They had grown to be close friends, since both of them aspired to join the clergy, but after Renault’s father died and he drifted away from the church, they had also grown apart. Still, Serapino was quite fond of Renault’s mother and assisted her in her duties as bishop as part of his training. Thus, he continued to consider him a friend, much to Renault’s dismay. He was honest and well-intentioned, but also remarkably scatterbrained—Renault was amazed he had ever managed to gain entry to a seminary to train for the priesthood.

 

He smiled in satisfaction as the chubby young man started to waddle off, but silently swore to himself when Serapino hastily padded back with an inquisitive look on his face. “Oh! I almost forgot!” he called. “Renault, have you seen your mother today? There’s a couple of, uh, things she has to read, but she hasn’t come in yet. Do you know where she is?”

 

A sudden flash of anger burned through Renault at the mention of his mother, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. “I don’t know.” he called back down to Serapino.

 

“Oh.” The seminarian looked puzzled. “Uh, are you sure? Your mother’s usually really on top of her duties as a bishop, it’s sure weird to see her skipping out like this.”

 

“Look, I don’t know where she is, alright?” Renault again called down, growing angry.

 

“Really?” Serapino looked dismayed. “But you’re her son and everything, I thought maybe you’d—“

 

“I DON’T KNOW WHERE SHE IS, AND I DON’T CARE!” Renault shouted in fury. Henken shot him a look of surprise, curious bystanders gathered around to see what the commotion was, and poor Serapino was so bewildered by the sudden outburst that he took a step back, tripped on his own robes, and fell squarely onto his backside.

 

Realizing what he had just done, and seeing what a spectacle he’d made of himself, Renault was overcome by shame. He hastily shimmied down from his perch to help Serapino get back on his feet. “I’m sorry, Serapino,” he quietly apologized. “I’ve had a really rough night. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that, I’m really sorry.”

 

“Uh…it’s okay, my friend.” Serapino looked at him hesitantly. “Something really bad must have happened, huh?”

 

Renault sighed. “Yeah. It wasn’t your fault, though. Look, the last time I saw her…the last time I saw my mother, I mean, she…she was at home. Maybe she’s still there, I don’t know.”

 

The aspiring priest’s face immediately brightened up. “Alright! Thanks, Renault! I’ll just check in with her, then. Thanks again!”

 

Renault watched him waddle off towards his mother’s house with a heavy heart. The small crowd of curious spectators had grown bored and dissipated, and Renault finished up the last of his jerky as he climbed back up the scaffolding to resume his work. Henken, however, didn’t seem to expect him to. Renault’s employer simply stared at him evenly, as if searching for an explanation.

 

“Like I said, I’m sorry, master.” Renault shut his eyes and massaged his temple.

 

“It really seems like you’ve got something heavy on your back today, Renault.” Henken replied. Renault looked into his eyes, and saw something there that looked suspiciously like sympathy. “You want to talk about it?”

 

The young man looked down at his lap for a moment, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then looked at Henken. “Hey, master,” he asked, “do you mind if I ask you a question?”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“Did you ever know my father?”

 

Henken blinked, somewhat confused at this seemingly random turn in the conversation. “I can’t say I did,” he replied. “He died several years before I came to Etruria. Sergion was his name, right? He was a good man, from what people have told me.”

 

Renault smiled fondly. “Yep. He definitely was, master. I wanted to be just like him when I was a kid, you know. When I was little, he’d pick up and let me ride around his shoulders for hours. He never seemed to get tired, either. Back then, I thought he was the strongest man in the world!”

 

Henken smiled as well, a rarity coming from him. “I wonder if all children think that way about their fathers?”

 

“Heh, well, my dad wasn’t just strong. He was one of the kindest people in the city, too. After he’d finished his work for the diocese or presided over a Sunday Mass, he’d just head out to do good things for Thagaste. I heard stories about his work from all over the place. Spending a day helping out a soup kitchen, teaching classes at an orphanage, tending to the sick at one of Elimine’s hospices, that sort of thing.” Renault lowered his head. “I think that’s what killed him, in the end.”

 

“What do you mean?” Henken asked.

 

“It all started a day after he’d attended to a small hospital near the cathedral. The place gave aid to those too poor to afford a physician or a healer. Well, some of them, at least. Most just couldn’t be helped. Dad came home from that place one night, and he went to bed feeling as happy as ever.”

 

Renault’s expression darkened. “Over the next few days, though, he started to get really sick. He said it was just a cold and tried to brush it off. I guess he didn’t want to worry us. He kept saying nothing was wrong even as his coughing got worse. It wasn’t until Sunday that we found out just how bad his problems were.

 

“He’d insisted on presiding over the service even though my mom told him to stay at home. Mother and I sat on the front pew, like we always did, and listened to him preach. He seemed to be doing well enough, but he kept coughing and coughing. He apologized for it at first, but couldn’t keep it up. I remember…I remember him trying to get through the last homily before giving Mass, but…he couldn’t make it. I still remember that moment, as clear as if it happened yesterday. He…he gave one horrible cough, and started gagging. He fell to his knees…tried to get up, but…he just fell again and stayed put. Mother and a few other parishioners rushed up to help him, and we all dragged him home and put him in bed as quick as we could.” Renault grimaced. “I don’t remember if somebody else gave the believers their bread and milk.

 

“I don’t think I was ever as scared in my life, before or since. I thought my dad was the strongest man in the world. I never imagined something like that could have happened to him. But when we got him in bed, we saw blood dribbling out the corner of his mouth. I guess even he wasn’t strong enough to put up a fight against that.”

 

Again, that brief glimmer of sympathy could be seen behind Henken’s cold eyes. “It was consumption, wasn’t it?”

 

Renault nodded. “He’d probably caught it from some poor bastard at that hospice he always helped out at. When my mom saw what it was, she shut him up in the guest bedroom." Renault put his head in his hands. "It took him a week to die afterwards."

 

"My mom and I, we really did our best to help him. My mom did, at least--she made sure I stayed the hell away from that room. I remember her wrapping a cloth around her face, bringing a tub of hot water to my dad to wash away the blood he kept vomiting...what I remember most, though, is how we prayed. Day and night, we asked the Creator to help us, to do something for us. After I woke up, I said a prayer for him to get better. Before meals, when my mom and I said grace, we'd say a prayer for his health, and at night...my mom would give me a cloth for my face, and we'd kneel at my father's bedside, and ask God to heal him."

 

"It didn't do shit," Renault spat bitterly. "He lingered for a little more than seven days, just wasting away. It was the most horrible thing I'd ever seen. His muscles turned to rotten mush, his eyes sank into his head, and there was always that grimy coating of blood around his lips--as soon as my mother tried to wash it away, the coughing just brought it back. My dad used to be so strong, I...I just couldn't stand seeing him that way. Honestly, I was glad when he died. At least he wouldn't have to suffer anymore."

 

"Sometimes death really can be a blessing." Henken muttered softly.

 

Renault nodded in agreement, then looked up at the sky. "That's when I lost my faith, master. Dad was a bishop, but that didn't help him one bit. My mom and I prayed and prayed, but that didn't do anything. So then what's the point of believing in the God of Elimine? Hell, what's the point of believing in any of the gods of any religion at all?"

 

Renault grimaced, growing angrier. "My mom never saw it that way, though. After my dad died, she took over his position as bishop of this diocese and got even more religious. She's always on my back about how I'm not pious enough, how I should pray more, and how I'm a bad son because I don't kneel before some God who's never done anything for us." The young man gritted his teeth angrily. "I can't understand it, Henken! We followed the teachings of Elimine all our lives, and God still took my father away from us. Why does my mother still believe?"

 

Henken said nothing for a few moments, allowing his apprentice a bit of time to catch his breath and gain control of his emotion. "Renault...that's actually a good question." he replied calmly. "Take a minute and think of it this way, though. Your father's death was hard on your mother as well, wasn't it?"

 

"Yeah. If I ever get married, I'd like be as close with my wife as my dad was with my mom. His death really tore her up inside. After his funeral, my mom barely ate or slept for days. She'd just lie in bed staring at the empty space next to her. I was scared that she'd die too, but a lot of dad's former parishioners and his students from the seminary came by to cheer up his wife. I guess that encouraged her to take his position." Renault winced slightly as he remembered how angry he had made his mother the night before. "Even today, just mentioning my father gets a rise out of her."

 

"I thought so." Henken nodded. "So think of her feelings, Renault. Her beloved husband died, and she's had to raise their son all alone for the past ten years. I'm no expert on the Scriptures, but I do remember that Saint Elimine taught that good people would go to God's country when they died, where they received their rewards for all the good things they did in their lives." He gazed contemplatively at the cathedral they were working on. "That's something a lot of people want to believe in, your mother included. Even if your father died painfully, it's nice to believe he's happy in the afterlife. Even if he's not here anymore, it makes it a little easier to believe he's watching over you from heaven. Isn't that what your mother teaches?"

 

"Yeah. She always tells me that my dad's in a better place, that he's watching me with God, and all that other stuff." Renault clenched his fists tightly. "That just makes me angrier, though. I can't stand the thought of heaven!"

 

Henken blinked, surprised yet again by his angry apprentice. "Why?"

 

"My mom always tells me that my dad's happier now, that he's not suffering anymore because he's in a better place. But why does heaven have to be better? Why does God's country have to be better than anything we have here on Elibe? Why do we have to deal with suffering and death and pain? The Creator's supposed to be all-powerful, right? Why doesn't He just send everybody straight to heaven instead of waiting for us to die first?" Renault shook his head. "There's nothing in the world worse than death--I know that from watching my father. Why does God say we have to die before joining Him? I can't believe in a God like that. I won't believe in a God like that. And I can't see why my mom does!"

 

"Death is inevitable, Renault." Henken's voice was flat and hard, and his eyes were as cold as his apprentice had ever seen them. "It's everywhere, it's inescapable. Whether or not you believe in God, the one constant in life is that it ends. I've seen enough death to know that to be true."

 

At this, Renault looked at his master curiously, and Henken blinked, as if he mentioned something he shouldn't have. His expression softened, and he hastily waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss what he had just said. "Forget that, Renault. Look, I'm just saying that death is a natural part of life, and it's something all people have to accept. Religion is one way of doing so, and it's what your mother chose to help her deal with it. Can't you respect that, at least?"

 

Renault sighed heavily. "It'd be easier for me if she didn't try to shove her beliefs down my throat all the time. Even if she's dumb enough to believe all that crap, why does she have to force it on me?"

 

"Because you live under her roof and still depend on her to take care of you," Henken replied, his typical blunt, unemotional demeanor returning. "Your personal life is none of my business, but if you don't want to sleep on the hard ground and spend your mornings with an empty belly, you'll just have to deal with her religion. It'd be best for you to make up with your mother. I won't have anything for you to eat next time."

 

"Alright, alright, I get your point, master," Renault conceded, "I'll apologize to her when I get home. I'll try, at least."

 

"Good." Henken motioned towards the wrecked face of the cathedral, which still needed to be repaired. "We've chatted enough. Time to get back to work."

 

Both men turned back to the cathedral, continuing once again to set the stone blocks into place. After a few minutes, however, Renault paused for a moment to turn towards his master. "Uh...one more thing, sir," he mumbled.

 

"What?"

 

"Thanks."

 

Henken merely nodded expressionlessly, and Renault hastily returned to work. Thus, he did not notice the tiniest hint of a smile which had managed to creep onto his master's face.

 

-X-

 

The young seminarian stumbled as fast as he could through the crowded streets of Thagaste, deeply unnerved by the nonstop activity of the busy city. Serapino was not at all difficult to fluster even under the best of circumstances, and the fact that he had apparently managed to get himself lost did absolutely nothing to put him at ease. Disoriented as he was and preoccupied with trying to find his way to his destination, his troubles were compounded when he managed to blunder straight into another young man carrying a basket full of apples. The fruits spilled everywhere, and both men tripped over each other, straight onto the cobbled ground.

 

"AGH! You idiot! Watch where you're going!" the apple-carrier fumed.

 

"Ah! I-I'm so sorry, I swear by Elimine's name I didn't mean to...ah, I'm such a clumsy good-for-nothing!" Serapino hastily got on his hands and knees to pick up the fruits he had knocked down. The other fellow opened his mouth to agree, but stopped when he saw the title of the heavy, ornately gilded leather-bound tome Serapino had dropped. "You, are you a priest?" he asked. "That's a copy of St. Elimine's Journey you're carrying."

 

"Uh, I'm training to be one, yes," Serapino stammered, "though I doubt Elimine will look fondly upon me for all the trouble I've caused...ah, I'll wear out my rosary tonight making reparations for this mess!"

 

At this, the other man sighed heavily. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll clean all this up myself, you don't have to help me. It looked like you were in a hurry, so get going."

 

"Ah! Thank you, my friend!" Serapino exclaimed happily. "If only I knew where to go."

 

The other fellow blinked. "Are you lost?"

 

"Er," Serapino gazed up at the man with the most sheepish expression he could muster. "You could say that...I, uh, I'm looking for the house of Bishop Monica, but I can't seem to find it anywhere! It's as if it just disappeared!"

 

Serapino's new friend sighed heavily yet again. "It hasn't disappeared, you've just been looking in the entirely wrong area! Go down this street until you see a baker's shop with a red sign over the entrance. From there, head left. The bishop's place ought to be the fifth house you see. It's white with a red-shingled roof. You should be able to find it easily."

 

"Ah! A thousand blessings upon you, my friend!" Serapino's eyes lit up with gratitude. "I shall certainly mention you in my prayers tonight! Thank you, thank you!"

 

And with that, the aspiring priest eagerly waddled off in the direction the other man had pointed out to him. Shaking his head, the deliveryman chuckled. "A scatterbrain like that needs Elimine's blessings a lot more than I do," he laughed to himself, and then returned to picking up the apples Serapino had spilled.

 

-X-

 

Despite the directions he had received, Serapino still had a difficult time hunting down Monica's residence, and it was only thanks to the kind intervention of yet another goodhearted stranger (who was forced to show the bumbling seminarian right to the bishop’s front door) that he managed to find his way there safe and sound.

 

As he walked up to the doorstep, Serapino paused for a moment to take a look at the pretty, though not ostentatious, house. Monica kept her son’s skillful hands busy with their home when he was not at work, and the building gained much from the attention. The roofs of their neighbor’s homes were often just a tad leaky or shabby, but the shingles of Monica’s home were always in perfect condition. The shutters of the windows of other houses in the area were typically slightly crooked (and after bad weather, sometimes nonexistent) but all of Monica’s were perfectly straight and well-maintained. And where the elements took their toll on the walls of the other buildings in the neighborhood, the coat of limewash which covered the exterior of Monica’s home always looked as if it had just been painted on—which Monica forced her son to ensure it had every month.

 

Despite the outwardly picturesque appearance of the home, Serapino felt deeply uncomfortable whenever he dropped by for a visit. He’d never been able to figure out exactly _why_ —the house looked nice enough, after all. But something about it just struck him as unpleasant, somehow. The limewash was laid on with quick, hard strokes, those of a man who hated what he was doing. The nails which held the building together were driven in with an architect’s careful hand, but the wood around them was flayed and uneven, indicating more force than necessary was behind the blows. These small details reminded Serapino of how angry the person who made them always seemed to be nowadays, and the seminarian couldn’t help thinking that Renault was channeling his seemingly endless supply of hatred and resentment into his home as he worked on it.

 

Serapino sighed heavily. How he wished Sergion was still alive!

 

Still, it was his duty to check up on the bishop, and after all the trouble he’d caused for various people in his attempts to get here, God would not approve of him turning back now (and likely getting lost yet again). Thus, he raised a hand and rapped softly on the door. When no reply came, he knocked harder, and when he was rewarded with nothing after that, he curled a pudgy hand into a fist and pounded loudly on the door. To his surprise, it was not locked or fastened, and opened inward with a small creak into the empty house.

 

Serapino jumped back and yelped in surprise. “I’m sorry!” he apologized, but after he regained his wits, it seemed there was no-one in the house to apologize to. This deeply perplexed the young seminarian—if Monica wasn’t at the cathedral, where else could she be? His curiosity overtook his good sense, and he cautiously stepped foot into the bishop’s residence. “Uh…Your Excellency?” he called out nervously. No-one answered. Now both nervous and worried for the bishop, Serapino carefully made his way around her residence. The house seemed even gloomier than usual, as if the walls had borne witness to something exceedingly terrible last night.

 

The silence which permeated the dwelling was suddenly broken by a loud thump that came from above him, and Serapino nearly jumped out of his skin at the noise. Attempting to calm himself down before he lost his nerve and fled the residence, he thought to himself, “I bet it’s Monica doing something upstairs!” Relieved, he convinced himself that it was a reasonable explanation. He ran to the stairwell and looked at the darkened hallway at the end of it. “Your Excellency?” he called. Still, no answer. He quietly made his way up the stairs, wincing as they creaked beneath his feet. “Uh, Bishop Monica, I was just wondering where you were today…” he began to say, but stopped when he heard what sounded like soft, padded footsteps quickly making their way across to Monica’s bedroom. “Ah, Bishop!” Serapino called out happily, and hurried up to where he heard the noise.

 

Peering into the bedroom, Serapino didn’t understand what he saw. Monica was in there, all right, but he’d never seen her doing anything like she was now.

 

The woman feverishly paced back and forth across the room, words of prayer spilling incoherently from her mouth as she quickly and anxiously threaded the beads of her rosary through her nimble fingers. Her face was stained by what appeared to be an entire night’s worth of crying, and most unnerving of all, her nose was covered with dried blood. “Bishop!” Serapino cried. “What in the world happened to you?”

 

Monica suddenly stopped her pacing and chanting, although she continued to move the beads of her rosary. She turned her glazed, stricken eyes upon her visitor. “Serapino?” she murmured, almost uncomprehendingly.

 

“Uh…yes, it’s me, Your Excellency. What…what happened?”

 

At these words, Monica snapped out of her trance. “Ah! Serapino!” she exclaimed. “N-Nothing! I…I’m fine.”

 

“You certainly don’t look fine,” Serapino admonished, concern evident in his voice. “You didn’t come in today, even though there were several documents you were requested to sign. I was worried!”

 

Monica’s eyes widened. “Oh, by the Saint, you’re right! How could I have been so lazy! I am so sorry…I’ll get to it right away!”

 

She immediately tried to rush past her guest, but Serapino would not let her leave. He grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Don’t worry about it, Monica!” he pleaded. “It can wait until tomorrow. Please, just stay here. Lie down. I’ll…I’ll clean you up.”

 

Monica stared at him for a moment, and Serapino realized what he had just done. “Ah! I’m so sorry!” he cried. “I was completely out of place. P-please, forgive me, Your Excellency!” He bowed his head in penance.

 

The bishop looked down on him, and when he looked up to meet her gaze, he was surprised to see not anger, but a combination of sadness, affection, and strangely enough, relief in her eyes. “No, you’re right, my child,” she said gently. “Thank you. Your kindness is a blessing to yourself and others.” She returned to her bed and lay down, and Serapino immediately set to tending her wound. Setting the _Journey_ upon Monica’s bedside table, the aspiring priest took out a handkerchief from his pocket and a small ampoule of holy water from its clasp on his belt. Wetting the cloth with the pure liquid, he gently wiped the blood and tears away from the bishop’s face. Although he succeeded in wiping away the crusted blood, the bones of Monica’s nose still needed to be set. “Bishop, do you have a staff?” he inquired. She nodded and pointed him towards the closet, where he found a modest birch staff with a small sapphire set at its tip. Holding it up with one hand and pressing on the bishop’s nose with another, Serapino chanted the words of power. The bones of her face seemed to give way under his fingers, and he molded the smashed bridge of her nose back into shape. “Is that better? Does it hurt anymore?” he asked.

 

“It doesn’t.” Monica smiled. “I didn’t know you’d grown so skilled with staves, Serapino. A little more work, and I’m sure you’ll be ordained very soon!”

 

The young man blushed furiously. “R-really?” he stammered. “But I’m so clumsy, and I’m not so smart…”

 

“You have a good heart, and that’s all the matters.” Monica looked down for a moment and sighed. “I wish you were my son.”

 

Serapino was taken aback for a moment. “But you already have a son!” he opined.

 

Monica’s face hardened. “Yes, unfortunately, I do.”

 

Serapino remained silent, unsure of what to say. He fidgeted nervously and clasped his hands in front of his lap.

 

“Renault is a terrible child,” Monica continued, her voice choking with sadness and bitterness. “He’s a blasphemer and a thug. I’ve prayed for him so many times, and I have been praying for him since last night.” She raised the rosary she held. “I can’t remember how many cycles I’ve completed, just walking around this room. But it never does anything. He never changes” Her eyes began to water up, and Serapino held out another handkerchief. “Thank you, child.” Monica responded gratefully.

 

“Renault wasn’t always like this, was he?” Serapino asked quietly. “When we were children, he always used to come to church with me…”

 

Monica shook her head. “He used to be such a good boy. He wanted to follow his father into the clergy before…before Sergion…” Monica sniffled and blew into the cloth. “By the Saint, how I wish Sergion was still alive!”

 

Serapino nodded sadly. “Everyone wishes Sergion had not passed, Your Excellency. Still, though, he remains with us in spirit, right? He watches over us from Heaven, doesn’t he? That’s what the Scriptures say…”

 

“You’ve studied them well, Serapino.” Monica smiled sadly. “That’s what I’ve told my son, day after day. His father is watching him from heaven, and he wouldn’t want his son to turn out this way. But Renault is never sorry. He just gets angrier and angrier, no matter how I scold him. His father must be so ashamed…what have I done to deserve such an incorrigible child?”

 

“Um…” Serapino was yet again at a loss for what to say next. “I don’t know what went on between you two last night, but Renault seemed very sad about it today.”

 

Monica looked at him, somewhat surprised. “Is that true?”

 

He nodded “Yup, I asked him where you were while he was working on your cathedral. He looked like he didn’t get much sleep, and he seemed really sad about something.”

 

“He did?” Monica’s face softened for a moment, but much of its hardness remained. “He should. He always makes trouble for me and others, no matter what I say to him.”

 

Serapino looked at her in dismay. “But he’s still your son, isn’t he? Sometimes children fall astray. That’s just how they are. Elimine preached forgiveness…can’t you extend that to your own flesh and blood?”

 

“For ten years?” Monica retorted. “While he’s twenty-three?”

 

“I’m twenty-four and I still cause trouble for my parents. If someone wrongs you ninety-nine times, aren’t you supposed to forgive them one hundred times? That’s what I read in the Scriptures.”

 

“He is my only son.” Monica sighed. “You’re right, Serapino. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? I’m a bishop being taught Scripture by a student.”

 

At this, Serapino turned beet red, and tucked his plump head into his collar to make himself look as small as possible. “F-Forgive my impudence, Your Excellency!”

 

Monica chuckled. “There’s no need to apologize, my child. You’re wiser than you think.” She reached out and patted his cheek affectionately. “I truly thank you, Serapino. Whichever parish you eventually administer will be blessed indeed.”

 

“Th-thank you, Bishop.” Serapino stood up. “I have to go home, I think my parents are expecting me. So…so you’ll be alright?”

 

Monica nodded. “I will. Thank you again Serapino. If Renault comes home today,” she paused for a moment, “I…we’ll make things right. God will show us the way.”

 

Serapino smiled in contentment and waddled off down the stairs, with Monica following close behind him. As he exited her home and began making his way back to his own, he turned and saw the bishop happily waving him goodbye.

 

Not even getting lost yet again and having to ask for directions to his own house could dim his good cheer.

 

-X-

The sun was beginning to fall in the sky, and the streets were filled with teeming throngs of people returning to their families after a hard day’s work. Renault was one of them. He and Henken had managed to make more progress on the cathedral than expected, and it seemed they might be able to repair it completely over the next few days. They were both satisfied with their work, but although they hard parted with a simple agreement to meet at the cathedral next morning, Renault knew he was obligated to carry out Henken’s unspoken request.

 

With a heavy heart, he trudged resolutely towards his home, where restitution of some kind had to be made.

 

Standing at his doorstep, he brought up a hand to knock, but hesitated for a moment. _Is it really worth it?_ He thought to himself. Punching your own mother in the face wasn’t really a transgression easily forgiven.

 

Still, he had to try. Spending a night in an alley was not an experience he’d like to repeat.

 

He curled up his hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Anybody home?” he called.

 

He heard his mother’s soft footsteps padding up to the door, which opened swiftly with a creak, somewhat surprising him. Monica stood beside the doorway, waiting for her son.

 

“Y-you’re letting me in?” Renault stammered.

 

Monica nodded, and then moved further inside her home, beckoning her son to follow. Renault complied, closing the door behind him. The bishop and her wayward son now stood facing each other in their living room, alone. Renault’s mother looked at him with a cocktail of emotions he couldn’t quite identify—anger, bitterness, sadness, and expectation seemed mixed with what almost seemed like longing for something that no longer existed.

 

As he looked at his mother, he noticed that her nose seemed to have been repaired. “Mom, your face—“ he began, but Monica stopped him.

 

“Serapino came by earlier today,” she said flatly. “He fixed it for me.”

 

Upon hearing that his friend had been the one to comfort his mother while he was at work, Renault was overcome by shame. He shut his eyes and clenched his fists as he tried to force the words through his constricted throat. “Mom—Mother—“ he began, “I’m…I’m sorry.”

 

His mother simply stared at him, expecting him to continue.

 

“That was the worst thing I ever did in my life,” Renault continued, gritting his teeth. “I…that’s all I can say. That’s all I know to say.” He bowed his head. “I’ll…damn it, I’ll say the Rite of Contrition if you want. I’ll confess my sins to a priest! Anything! Please, just forgive me!”

 

“It wouldn’t make a difference, would it?” Monica whispered. In response, her son just stared at her in astonishment.

 

“For ten years since your father died, you’ve hated God, haven’t you? You’ve always spurned my attempts to bring you up in the ways of Elimine, and you probably always will. There’s nothing I can do to change that. I realize that now. So don’t bother with asking God for forgiveness. For you, it’s meaningless.”

 

Renault was taken aback. He didn’t think it was possible for him to feel any worse than he did as he came home, but he had just been proven very wrong. “Mother…what do you want from me?” he asked, his despair evident in his voice and forlorn expression.

 

“I don’t want anything from you,” she responded flatly. “You are my only son. It’s my duty to take care of you.” She looked up at him. “You’ve asked for my forgiveness, and it’s my responsibility to give it. So…I do forgive you, Renault.”

 

 _Is that it? Just her responsibility?_ Renault thought to himself, but realized it was best to keep his thoughts to himself. He merely replied with a quiet “Thanks.”

 

Renault looked at his mother unhappily. He had obtained her forgiveness, but felt that nothing had truly changed. She still looked upon him with that mixture of sadness and disappointment which pained him even more than all her angry lectures and harsh words ever had over the years.

 

He was a bad son, and his miserable apology had done little to change that.

 

“Are you hungry, Renault? Do you want dinner?” Monica asked.

 

“That…that would be nice.” Renault perked up, an idea coming to him. “Do you want me to help you, mom?”

 

The woman shook her head. “There’s no point. You don’t know how to cook.”

 

Monica quietly padded to the kitchen, and her son took a seat at their dining table. Sighing miserably, he put his head in his hands.

 

His mother had forgiven him. That was it.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

I am indebted to Trimurti for making available translations of the character ages for FE6 and 7 on her Livejournal. I am also, of course, very much indebted to her for her friendship over the years.

A few notes on theology:

 

First off, a bit of explanation about the concept of a ‘diocese.’ Literally speaking, a diocese is an area administered to by a bishop—i.e he looks over the spiritual welfare of all the parishioners in a large area. Under him are the local priests and pastors who take care of congregations at their local churches and things like that. However, during the Middle Ages, it’s also important to remember that bishops often had secular as well as spiritual duties—the clergy was often the most well-educated class in Europe at the time, so rulers often relied upon them to assist in worldly administration as well as spiritual administration. Thus, that’s the sort of thing that would have kept a bishop like Monica occupied in the world of Elibe. Now, I’m not exactly a historian (or a Catholic) myself, so, uh, if I’m wrong, could someone more knowledgeable please correct me? ^^;

 

Now, concerning the Eliminean Mass. As many of you know, the Mass, at least in Catholicism, is the ceremony surrounding the celebration of the Eucharist, i.e the bread and wine thing. Now, it’s canon that the Eliminean church has a ceremony called Mass, since Bartre tells Renault in their C support, “You may say Mass on Sundays, but you brawl your week away!” This brought some problems for me, however, since I thought it wouldn’t be accurate to have Elibe’s Mass be exactly the same thing. You see, the Eucharist is a commemoration of Christ’s feeding of His disciples, where he told them something to the effect of, “This bread is my body, and this wine is my blood.” The importance of this is that it foreshadowed Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, where he gave up both his body and his blood to forgive the sins of mankind. Thus, it wouldn’t make much sense for the Elimineans to have a Mass similar to that, since St. Elimine didn’t die for anybody’s sins, she just helped defeat the dragons ^^;; Thus, that is why I decided the Eliminean Mass would revolve around the presiding priest giving out bread and **milk** rather than bread and wine. Also, it’s partially to differentiate Eliminism from Christianity, since I don’t want to just rip off the Bible constantly, after all XD The specific significance of this will be explored in a later chapter, but for now, that’s just an explanation ^^

 

God and gods—Renault’s question, So then what's the point of believing in the God of Elimine? Hell, what's the point of believing in any of the gods of any religion at all?" is how I solve a canon dilemma seemingly posed by FE6 and 7. You see, in FE6, the Eliminean Church clearly believes in one God—in his supports with Dayan, Yodel states, “God would not approve of me pushing my beliefs onto you.” However, in FE7, Kenneth, the corrupt Bishop states, “There are no god **s**!” Thus, there seems to be something of a contradiction. I solved this by assuming Kenneth meant the gods of ALL religions, not just the Eliminean God. Thus, Renault acknowledges this, and he’s just as much of an atheist in the gods of Sacae, Nabata, et. al as he is about the God St. Elimine preached for. At least for now…;)

 

Serapino’s statement to Monica, “If someone wrongs you ninety-nine times, aren’t you supposed to forgive them one hundred times? That’s what I read in the Scriptures.” is a reference to Matthew 18:21-22:

 

“Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive someone who sins against me? Up to seven times?’

22: Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.”

 

I think it’s actually supposed to be “seven-times-seventy,” but this copy of the Bible (New International Version from the International Bible Society) just says 77, so I’m going with that. ^_^

 

Lastly, just as a note, for those of you who don’t know—consumption was the medieval name for tuberculosis. T-T

 

Well, that’s all I can think of. Thank you, once again, my dear reader, for staying with me for this second installment of _Wayward Son_. See you in the future!


	3. Departure

Wayward Son

 

3: Departure

 

Most architects, builders, and stoneworkers hated birds. Their constant squawking from trees and high perches made working on scaffolding a nightmare on the ears, the nests they built were troublesome to remove from a building under construction, and, of course, the seemingly endless supply of shit they left behind on rooftops (and on people’s heads) have made more than a few masons question the wisdom (or benevolence) of the Creator in giving life to what seemed to be little more than flying, feathered rats.

 

Ironically enough, Renault, a stoneworker who disbelieved in any sort of God with the same vehemence as a dedicated Eliminean zealot, found far less issue with his winged friends than virtually all of his compatriots in his field of work.

 

It was a beautiful Sunday, fully possessed of the agreeable weather Etrurian summers were famous for. Although the soft yellow sun glared down with a bit more force than most people felt wholly comfortable with, it provided a far softer touch than the bright, burning tyrant which mercilessly scoured the Nabata Desert, and provided far more warmth than it did in frozen Ilia, where frost chilled the air even at this time of year. The advantages of Thagaste’s milder weather were not lost upon the birds, and the city’s avian activity equaled, if not exceeded, its human business. A symphony of chirps, trills, and mating calls filled the air as birds soared over the faces of churches and castles and flitted between the branches of the city’s many trees and shrubs.

 

To Renault, lying contentedly under the pleasing shade of one of these trees and listening to the cheering sound of animals enjoying the summer as much as he was, the numerous troubles and worries which had plagued him for the past two months seemed to be as distant as they could possibly be. Unfortunately, he would be unexpectedly reminded of them by a scene which would have seemed otherwise entirely unobjectionable—some would even call it joyful—to anyone else.

 

The young man’s attention was drawn to a sharp, insistent cheeping that came from the boughs directly above his head. He turned his eyes upwards to see a small robin’s nest, filled with exactly three naked, loud, and apparently very hungry chicks. Their mother was not one to neglect their cries, and Renault was not at all surprised to see a harried-looking adult robin fly over to her nest carrying a large, juicy worm in her beak. Her brood set upon their meal with piranha-like voraciousness, but almost as soon as they had finished they began crying for more. The mother bird seemed to begrudge them little for their insatiable appetites. She glanced down at Renault—though he could not tell whether it was merely to judge if he was dangerous or to wonder in bemusement how this nestling fell so far from his mother’s nest—and then set off to find yet another meal for her babies.

 

Watching this display, Renault’s good mood evaporated almost instantaneously. Sighing heavily, he shut his eyes and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “Are all mothers supposed to love their children so unconditionally?” he pondered. He felt his stomach rumble—he was getting hungry, as he’d not had lunch yet. Digging around his pants pocket, he found not some foccacia bread or any other type of home-made treat, but instead 5 warm and sweaty gold coins. He looked down at them with a combination of distaste and dismay—his mother’s home cooking was infinitely preferable to anything he could buy at a shop or pub.

 

Did she realize that? If so, it made her reluctance to cook anything for her son all the more painful.

 

Sighing once again, Renault unhappily pocketed his change and set off for the nearest pub.

 

-X-

 

The Ruby Tortoise was far—VERY far—from the best hospitality Thagaste had to offer. The face of the small inn was dingy and quite shabby, its wood unpainted and its signpost (depicting a bright red-shelled creature that might have been a tortoise bearing a wide, toothy, and rather disturbing grin) pocked and dented from the rocks thrown at it by the city’s many youthful miscreants. Even so, Renault walked through its battered doors without any hesitation. He had been forced to become intimately acquainted with Thagaste’s many eateries over the past few months, and he found the Ruby Tortoise to be most to his liking. Although he could afford better (even with the pittance his mother provided him), the atmosphere of this poor little establishment appealed to him more than any other. It received comparatively little business—it was cheap enough to sustain its owner on drifters and those with nowhere else to go, but not cheap enough to make people ignore its obviously poor quality. As a result, it remained mostly empty except for a few regulars (Renault having become one) and was relatively quiet and peaceful. Renault found this to be much more amenable than the rowdier atmosphere shared by the city’s more popular taverns and pubs. His violent temper did him little good when surrounded by large numbers of belligerent drunks, and he had come dangerously close to getting himself thrown out of many establishments (and back into Jerid’s hands) when the opportunity to engage in a flat-out barroom brawl reared its head. Such opportunities were more than scarce at the Ruby Tortoise (the lushes which frequented it being more of the self-loathing variety than the angry one), which meant that Renault had a much easier time keeping himself out of trouble.

 

 _Of course,_ Renault thought to himself, _I wouldn’t even have a chance to get into trouble if my mom would just start cooking for me again…_

 

Sighing heavily, he fully realized that he had to deal with reality, not his dreams. He walked around the dim, gloomy confines of the small dining room which composed the inn’s first floor and chose a seat at a table in the sunlight filtering in from one of the room’s few small windows. The creaking of the chair as he sat down broke a silence otherwise pierced only by one patron’s soft sipping of drink and another one’s quiet sobbing into his. The noise readily caught the attention of the establishment’s proprietor.

 

“Renault, is that you?” a frail female voice wafted out of the door to the kitchenette on the other side of the room, just behind the bar.

 

“Yeah, it’s me!” he called. “I’d like the usual, if you don’t mind!”

 

A loud giggle echoing off the walls of the little room was the answer to his request. “I was expecting you! Your stew’s almost ready, please wait just a moment!”

 

Renault chuckled to himself and settled back into his shoddy chair. He’d visited this place so many times over the past two month the owner had begun preparing his meals in advance. Soon enough, a thin woman with dark blue hair popped out of the kitchenette, carrying a steaming hot bowl of Renault’s favorite beef stew. “Thanks, Lisse!” He smiled as she placed his meal on his table. Lisse looked at him expectantly, and he held out his five gold pieces, which she eagerly pocketed. She seemed to want more from him than just his money, however. “Say, Renault,” the innkeeper stammered, fiddling nervously with a lock of her hair, “You didn’t bring anyone with you, did you? You’re not expecting anybody?”

 

Renault smirked. “Has anybody else ever come out to eat with me?”

 

“So, um…it’s just about my lunchtime. Would you mind if I took a break and had it with you?”

 

His smirk gave way to bemused chuckling. “Lisse, we’ve had this conversation about every day for the past few weeks. Have I ever complained about you eating with me? Go ahead, it’s not like I’m your boss or something. You can eat wherever and whenever you want in here; it’s none of my business.”

 

The woman gave a small squeal of delight and rushed back to the kitchenette. “I’ll be right back, please wait for me!”

 

“Yeah, whatever.” Paying her no heed, Renault hastily plunked his wooden spoon into the bowl and began his earnest consumption of its contents.

 

Just a few moments later, Lisse came out carrying a small plate of hard biscuits and slices of potato. Her arms were so thin and brittle that Renault was surprised she didn’t break in half under the weight of the plate, but then again, she looked so sickly he was surprised she was even still alive. The woman was actually a full year younger than he was, but managed to look even older than his mother. Her dark blue hair was thin and stringy, and Renault could almost swear he could see flecks of gray beginning to creep in. The lines and wrinkles on her haggard countenance looked better suited to a woman more than twice her age, but seemed appropriate given how much she had already suffered. Her deep blue eyes were the worst part, though. They were wide and stricken, perhaps from experiencing the heartache and despair of the poor on a daily basis. If Renault could choose one word to describe her, it would be ‘tragic.’

 

Still, he had to admit that those traits were lessened under certain circumstances—most notably whenever Renault stopped by for a visit. Just looking at him made her movements quicken and her eyes sparkle like those of a girl her age should.

 

She brought her meal towards their table with a jaunty bounce in her step far different from her usual listless shuffle. Even though seeing him put her in good spirits, her friend sighed inwardly as he watched her approach. Despite the poverty and privation the young woman lived in, she never spent her few luxuries on herself. Her plate was utterly bare of meat, for what little of it she had, she scrupulously saved for her patrons—most notably Renault. As she set her plate on Renault’s table and took a seat in front of him, her delight at the prospect of eating with her favorite customer (and person) dimmed somewhat as she noticed he was almost half done with his meal. “Renault, you didn’t wait for me!” She pouted.

 

He shrugged in response. “Hey, I’m not your husband, either. I paid for this meal, and now I’m eating it. Something wrong with that?”

 

Lisse bit her lip. “Well, no, but…but still!” Her eyes glistened, and while Renault knew she wouldn’t cry, he could see he hurt her feelings more than he intended. Sighing in annoyance rather than guilt, he hastily apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was just hungry, that’s all.”

 

“Ah, of course! I understand.” Her mood seemed to brighten considerably, and she smiled. “I guess you were really eager for my cooking, right?”

 

“Well, at least I get what I pay for.” Renault grumbled under his breath.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Uh, nothing! The food’s great. That’s what I said, yeah! The food’s great.”

 

She seemed content with that answer, so Renault found it prudent to steer the conversation elsewhere while he was ahead. “Say, Lisse,” he began, “We’ve been eating together a lot these days, but I’ve never seen you have your meals with any of the other regulars. Am I the only guy you do this with?”

 

“Sort of, I-I mean…well, yes. Um, you don’t mind, do you?”

 

“I already said I didn’t. I’m just wondering what makes me so special.”

 

“Well, a lot!” Lisse smiled brightly, something she also seemed to do only around Renault. “You’re really smart, for one thing. You know so much about architecture, and especially about other countries, like Lycia and Bern.” She giggled softly. “I’m so jealous; I don’t know anything at all about anyplace outside this inn. I’m sure you must have traveled a lot to know everything you know, huh?”

 

The young man grunted derisively. “Hardly. I’ve never set foot once outside of Thagaste.”

 

Lisse seemed genuinely surprised at this revelation. “But…but then how did you learn all the stuff you talk to me about?”

 

“My mom’s the bishop of this city and presides in the cathedral of Zodian’s Rest. That’s a pretty important position in the Eliminean hierarchy, so she gets a bunch of letters from all the other dumb sheep all over Elibe. That’s how I learned most of the stuff I did. The rest I got from my dad’s old history books. He was kind of a scholar, I guess.”

 

“Wow, really? That’s so amazing! My parents were never anything more than owners of this inn. So your mom’s a bishop, huh? I guess you must be pretty religious, then.”

 

“Hah! Not at all. I don’t believe a word of that garbage. I could tell you the intimate details of each and every canton in Lycia, but I don’t know the first thing about praying or forgiving or any of that crap. What’s the point? My dad was bishop when he died and God didn’t do a thing for him. No point in believing in a God like that. None at all.”

 

“I see.” Lisse suddenly looked particularly downcast, and for a moment Renault was afraid his talk of religion had offended her. That was not the case, however. “My dad died too,” she whispered softly. “My mom as well. Both my parents just got really sick, and I, I had to…bury them…just last year.”

 

It was now Renault’s turn to be surprised, and he felt the tiniest twinge of pity for the beleaguered young woman. “So you’ve been living here all by yourself for the past year?”

 

She nodded. “I just keep to myself in one room upstairs. The room my parents used to live in is now another guest room…not that it makes much difference anyways, because most of the people who come here, and that’s not a lot, just want to drink and eat. I can’t remember the last time I had somebody besides myself in one of the rooms up there.”

 

She looked up at Renault, and he could see genuine affection marking her face. “That’s why I’m so grateful to you for coming here, Renault. I haven’t had anyone to talk to for so long, but you…you changed all that.” She looked down at her plate sheepishly. “Th…thank you.”

 

Renault was at a total loss for words. “Uh…you’re welcome, I guess. I just like it here ‘cause it’s cheap and quiet.”

 

Lisse looked somewhat hurt, and Renault had the distinct feeling that was not the answer she was looking for. Attempting to rescue himself, he tried asking another question. “So, wait, I’m not the only person who comes here. Haven’t you ever tried chatting with those other two guys over there?”

 

The other two of the inn’s patrons gave little heed to Renault’s mention of them. The man sipping his drink shot Renault a furtive, suspicious glance and went back to his ale, while the crying man was in no condition to pay anyone any attention—his tear-stained face rested next to his empty mug as he snored quietly.

 

“That’s why.” Lisse sighed as she looked at the sleeping drunk. “You’re the only regular here who’s willing to do anything else but stew over their booze.”  


Renault found this admission to be somewhat depressing. Had he really sunk to the level of this rabble? “Well, it’s not like I have any other choice,” he mumbled to himself, “you’re pretty much the only other person I have to talk to besides my boss at work.”

 

Apparently he had been somewhat louder than he intended, because Lisse looked at him curiously. “Really? What about your mother?”

 

Renault rubbed his forehead in irritation. “My mom and I don’t get along so well these days.” Unbidden memories of his mother’s anguished sobbing and broken nose welled up inside his mind, and he grimaced. “It’s not something I want to talk about.”

 

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t offend you, did I? I’m really sorry, I—“

 

Renault cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just finish eating.”

 

The rest of their lunch proceeded in slightly awkward, uncomfortable silence. Despite having a much larger meal than Lisse, Renault finished his stew before she even had a chance to start on her biscuits. Wiping his hand on his sleeve, he left his bowl and spoon on the table for Lisse to pick up and headed for the door.

 

Just as he was about to leave, however, Lisse called out for him. “Renault, wait!”

 

He turned back to look at her strangely. “What?”

 

She hesitated for a moment. “I, I was just wondering, um…”

 

“Well?”

 

“Renault…you, um, you don’t mind coming here, do you?”

 

“What kind of question is that?” Renault laughed. “If I did, I wouldn’t drop by here, now would I? This place sure isn’t the best I can afford, but it’s quiet and there aren’t any barflies trying to pick fights with me. It’s the best place for me to eat at if I don’t want to spend a few nights in jail.”

 

Lisse still seemed somewhat distressed. “Well…that’s not quite it…what I was wondering, is, um,” she paused and took a deep breath, “Renault…do you mind me?”

 

Renault didn’t know what to make of this strange question. “Huh?”

 

“I-I mean, do you mind talking with me? Do you not want me around? I’m sorry if I’ve just been annoying you all this time.”

 

The young man glanced curiously at her for a moment, contemplating his answer, and then grinned. “You know, Lisse,” he said, “I honestly can’t say I do. As far as I can remember, you’ve never pissed me off too much. One thing’s for sure, I get along with you a hell of a lot better than I do my mother!”

 

Renault, out of force of habit, unconsciously recoiled after he said that, expecting to be rebuked for swearing, but he then remembered he was talking about his mother, not to her. Lisse was too overjoyed to pay much attention to bad language anyways. “Really?” she said, bounding up to him with pure, needy happiness in her eyes. “You mean it? So you like being with me?”

 

Renault took a step back, a bit embarrassed. “Well, it’s not that big a deal,” he stammered, “Like I said, I don’t get along with my mom so well, so it’s not like I paid you some big compliment.” He looked at her bashfully. “But yeah…I don’t mind you. Not really.”

 

She smiled broadly at him, and he noticed she really did look a lot less miserable like this. “Thank you, Renault. I mean it. Thank you so much.”

 

“Uh, yeah. No problem.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, look, I gotta go. I, uh, I’ll be back for dinner, alright?”

 

She nodded enthusiastically, and waved goodbye to him happily as he left the Ruby Tortoise behind him. Renault thought he heard Lisse singing a cheerful little ditty to herself as she went back inside, and try as he might, he couldn’t quite suppress a small smile from breaking across his face.

 

Maybe tonight’s dinner wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 

-X-

 

“Mom, I’m home!”

 

No answer was forthcoming, and Renault had long since stopped expecting one. Sighing, he wiped off his shoes and entered his mother’s home. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have bothered coming here at all. Dinner with Lisse _had_ been nice, and since she knew about his troubles at home, she had offered one of her rooms to him. He declined, as he didn’t have the money, but then she offered him a room for free—hers. He had hurriedly and awkwardly declined her offer, and even after rushing home his face was a bit red. There were indeed a few women in Thagaste he wouldn’t mind being propositioned by, but Lisse was not one of them.

 

Sighing heavily, he proceeded to look around the house for his mother. As he walked into the living room, he heard splashing coming from above, and he realized his mother was in the privy, taking a bath. He wandered upstairs, loitering outside the privy’s door—he wanted to relieve himself and then wash up before heading off to bed for the night. As he passed by the open door to his mother’s room, however, something caught his eye. Her table was usually full of books, but tonight, only one sheet of paper (a luxury, even in Thagaste) occupied its space.

 

Curious, Renault made sure his mother was still washing herself, then surreptitiously made his way to her desk. He picked up the piece of paper—it was apparently a letter—and began reading.

 

_Beloved Monica,_

_Elimine’s blessings be upon you. And I say this not as a mere greeting but as a sincere prayer, for the days are growing dark in Etruria and for Elimine’s flock in particular. So troubling have been these recent events that the Supreme Church has instructed me to send this missive to the highest-ranked and most important of our clergy, and especially those of us ministering to people in the north of Etruria._

_On the eighth day of the Month of the Wyvern, a royal tax collector by the name of Revil came upon the hamlet of Scirocco, located at the very north of Etruria, within the countship of Glaesal Nerinheit. Upon reaching the village, he proceeded to do his duty and demanded that the people give up the required tax of gold the King demanded in addition to the crops they owed their lord, Count Glaesal of Nerinheit. While they were able to provide their Count’s required tithe of crops, they simply did not possess enough gold to render unto the crown. Revil would not concede and continued to demand they pay. This resulted in one of the most troubling instances of mob violence I can recall in my lifetime. The citizens of Scirocco did not relent to the tax collector’s demands and instead turned upon him. Father Valentius, the local parish priest, noted Revil’s beaten and castrated body hanging off of a tree on the outskirts of town the very next morning._  
  


_Father Valentius, fearing for his safety, left Scirocco soon after, fearing for his safety, and contacted the bishop of his diocese, who then contacted both the royal court and his ecclesiastical superiors. This is the first public and recorded death in the region that has caught the eye of the Supreme Church, but our heads doubt it will be the only one. As a result of the royal decree stating that taxes have to be paid in gold as well as crops, many towns in our country have been forced into bankruptcy and many citizens have found themselves deep in debt. Because of this, many have turned to theft and robbery, and reports of bandit raids and brigand attacks have soared over the past year. The Supreme Church also fears that some of the anger directed towards the Etrurian crown is also focused on its Eliminean servants as well. In the past year our brethren have reported numerous incidents of arson and other types of vandalism afflicting their churches. Some of the damage is patently inexplicable, often involving sturdy stone crumbling overnight or doors and windows vanishing without a trace. Also, two priests in two separate towns have disappeared under mysterious circumstances and no report has been made yet of their whereabouts. These accursed incidents seem to be taking place primarily in rural and impoverished areas such as Scirocco. Due to all of these factors, the Supreme Church has ordered brothers and sisters ministering in these areas to give up their parishes and convene in the nearest city. Although the heads of our Church are well aware of our responsibility to the poor and unfortunate, Elimine did not condone suicide. Northern Etruria is simply growing too lawless and violent for our brethren to preach the good Word without fearing for their lives. At the present time, it is our duty to protect our fellow shepherds and ensure they do not meet the same fate as poor Revil, may his sins be forgiven._

_As a result of this directive, Your Excellency, you may notice a sudden influx of less cultured brethren entering your diocese. I entreat you, Revered Sister, to follow the example of the holy Saint and display the virtues of restraint and patience towards these newcomers. Hailing from villages far smaller and poorer than the great city you minister to, you cannot expect them to be as erudite and well-versed as you, in matters both worldly and sacred. However, it is faith, not the mere trappings of knowledge, which is the true gate to salvation, and as Your humble servant, I beg of you that you take it upon yourself to alleviate what ignorance they may have rather than condemn them for it._

_Finally, beloved Sister, though I have already asked much of you, I must do so one last time in this letter. I beseech you—please watch yourself and your family. Although these deplorable happenings do not seem to occur in large cities such as Thagaste, I still worry for you, truly. The damage to your cathedral you described in your letter just two months ago sounds suspiciously similar to that reported in smaller villages such as those near Scirocco. I greatly fear that the scourges of social unrest and mob violence have already sunk their foul tendrils deep into your fair city._

_May the Path of Elimine forever be yours to tread._

_Your faithful servant, Giuseppe_

“Renault, what are you doing?”

 

Renault spun around as quickly as he could in surprise and shock, dropping the letter as he did so. His mother stood in the doorway, her slightly damp hair accentuating the sad look of disapproval she fixed towards her son.

 

“M-mom!” Renault stammered, “I’m sorry, I was just—“

 

“Going through my personal effects without permission.” Monica quietly padded over to her son and picked the letter off of the floor.

 

“I’m really sorry, Mom, I was just curious. You…you’re not angry with me, are you? I’ll say the—“

 

“Don’t bother, Renault. You don’t have to do any repenting, because I’m not angry with you. It’s never made any difference before, and it wouldn’t now.”

 

Somehow, this made Renault even more miserable than he would have been if his mother had started shouting at him.

 

“Just go to bed, Renault. You have work tomorrow, and Henken will be displeased if you’re late.”

 

“All right.” Renault started off for his room, but suddenly stopped and turned towards his mother excitedly. “Mom, I know I shouldn’t have, but I read what that letter was talking about. It’s starting to get more dangerous nowadays. Who knows if another riot will start around here like the one that happened in Scirocco? Do you think I should…I should come with you when you go to the cathedral tomorrow? I want to be able to protect you if…if something happens.”

 

Monica shook her head. “You wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t need to be taken care of by my son.”

 

Something about the way she said that, something about the utter lack of affection in her voice, hurt Renault more than anything she’d ever said to him before. He clenched his fists at his sides, wanting to lash out at her, something, anything, but fully realized that would do no good.

 

“Just go to bed, Renault,” Monica said tiredly. “I’ll leave some money on the table downstairs for you to buy breakfast and lunch tomorrow morning.”

 

Renault opened his mouth, was about to plead with her to cook him something for breakfast, but realized there was no point. His last word to her for the night was a disgruntled “Fine” and he walked to the privy to do his business. After he wiped off his hands and exited, he walked sullenly to his room. Shutting the door, he didn’t bother to take off his day clothes. He just jumped onto his bed, blew out the small candle on the windowsill that provided the room’s sole source of illumination, and proceeded to lie on his back, attempting to go to sleep but being unable to do anything but stare at the moonlit shadows that danced on the ceiling.

 

Did he belong here?

 

That was the one thought that played inside his head, over and over again. What was the point of staying in this city? What was the point of having his meals in the worst inn the city had to offer, being hit on by a pathetic, needy innkeeper, and rebuking her advances only to come back to an empty, miserable house where his own mother barely tolerated him?

 

He sighed quietly and turned over on his bed. Maybe he _should_ have taken up Lisse’s offer. But then again, where would that leave him? The Ruby Tortoise was a run-down hovel, and despite the fact he could easily tolerate talking to Lisse for at least short periods, he felt absolutely no attraction to her whatsoever. Living with her may have been more attractive than living with his mother, but he doubted he’d be able to stand being around her for any great length of time.

 

Renault thought about what he had said to Lisse earlier in the day. “I’ve never once set foot outside of Thagaste,” he had told her. Now, in a stroke of bitter irony, he realized how much he truly despised the city. For all his love of its animals, for all his admiration of its architecture, he hated its inhabitants. He could not stomach the noisy crowds, loathed the piety of the vast majority of its citizens, and had no real friends here. Jerid annoyed him, Serapino was a fool, and his mother brought out the worst in him. He genuinely respected his boss, though—Henken had proven to be a surprisingly good listener, despite his emotionless exterior.

 

Renault sighed and closed his eyes, attempting earnestly to get to sleep. Maybe he’d talk to his boss about it tomorrow.

 

Somehow, though, he had a feeling that Henken wouldn’t provide the answers he wanted.

 

-X-

 

Renault hated Mondays as much as almost everybody did, but he had to admit this day wasn’t starting off too badly. He’d managed to get a decent amount of sleep, and as he headed off to work, he held his bag of tools in one hand and a soft pastry in another. His mother had kept good on her promise to leave some money for him on the table as she always did, and he was thankful most of the bakeries open at this hour sold their goods under reasonable prices. Finishing off the last bit of his meal as the sun slowly rose higher in the sky, it wasn’t long before Renault arrived at his destination—a small section of the city’s outer wall. The fortification had not been damaged, but it had been neglected for years, and the king had declared it time to renovate all of the realm’s defenses. Henken had already been hard at work removing older, crumbling bricks from the wall and setting new ones into place. He saw his apprentice approach, nodded in acknowledgement, and pointed towards another section Renault was to repair.

 

The two men worked in silence, as they usually did. And, as usual, when the sun rose to its usual noontime position, they took their lunch break.

 

“Master, I’m going to go buy something. Is that all right?”

 

Henken nodded wordlessly, and Renault hurriedly clambered off his scaffolding and ran towards a nearby fruit vendor. Purchasing a pair of apples for a gold piece each, he stuffed them into his pockets and went back to Henken’s section of the city wall, climbing back up to the scaffolding where his master was having his meal.

 

Henken gave no indication he noticed his apprentice’s presence, but any kind of expression was comparatively rare on the man’s face, and Renault had long since gotten used to it. “You know, Master,” Renault said as he crunched into one of his apples, “I can’t figure out why the king’s asking us to put these walls back together all of a sudden. Is there a war brewing or something?”

 

The master stonemason was silent for a moment as he took a bite of the hard jerky he so loved. “Could be,” he said laconically between chews. “Things are getting pretty bad inside Etruria.”

 

“Yeah, I heard.” Renault nodded. “Didn’t a riot occur in Scirocco or something? My mom got a letter talking about how a tax collector got lynched a couple of weeks ago.”

 

“You heard right. The king enacted a straight tax in gold about six months ago. Big cities like Thagaste and Aquleia didn’t have many problems dealing with it, but that’s because those places tend to be trading hubs and centers of mercantile activity. They’ve got gold to spare. The north relies almost entirely on farming, though, not trade. People living in places like Scirocco have almost no gold to begin with anyways; most of their wealth is what they harvest. They can barely keep up with the Church’s tithes as it is! They never had any problem back when all they had to do was give up one-fifth of their crops to their Count, but this new tax is really hurting them.”

 

“Man, that sounds pretty grim.” Renault looked at his master strangely for a moment. “Where are you getting all this stuff? You sure know a lot about taxes.”

 

“Like I told you a while back, I have a friend who’s a royal tax collector. His name is Harvery. In fact, I’ve been seeing a lot of him recently—he drops by my house almost every day. He should be out in the countryside collecting the king’s dues, but ever since he heard about Revil’s lynching, he’s been too terrified to leave Thagaste. He’s been staying close to me these days for protection.”

 

Renault laughed out loud, spitting out bits of apple. “He’s going to a stonemason for protection? Weird guy.”

 

“Hm.” Henken, as usual, displayed no emotion at his apprentice’s remark, but despite his flippant dismissal of the tax collector’s faith in his master, Renault couldn’t rid himself of the nagging feeling that it was more than a little well-founded.

 

“Anyways,” he said, trying to steer the conversation to a different path, “I really have to wonder. Why’s the king even bothering with a tax on gold? Etruria’s not in debt or something, is it?”

 

Henken finished off the last of his jerky and shook his head. “No. Etruria and Bern are rattling sabers again. Both countries have been sending a lot of emigrants to the Western Isles. Etruria’s a lot closer, though, and the population’s more than half Etrurian. Caledonia and Fibernia are on the verge of becoming Etrurian colonies. Bern doesn’t like this, and it’s threatened trade embargoes and the like unless we stop sending so many of our people to the islands. If that happens, things will probably escalate until we’re at full-scale war.”

 

“Oh, man. That _does_ sound grim. So the king’s setting this tax in order to pay for a bigger army to defend the country if worst comes to worst, is that it?”

 

Henken nodded. “It’s a no-win situation if you think about it. On the one hand, armies need a lot of gold to be properly armed and armored, especially one that’s as reliant on mages as Etruria is—those books of theirs are incredibly expensive, I’ve heard. On the other hand, these taxes are pushing the people towards rebellion. So if the king doesn’t levy this tax, he won’t be able to defend the country, but if he does, his army will probably be too busy putting down riots like the one in Scirocco.”

 

“So then why doesn’t the king raise a regular army?” Renault asked. “As far as I can tell, our mages are our main defensive force. Wouldn’t it be cheaper to start outfitting regular knights, cavaliers, and archers instead of just mages?”

 

Henken nodded again, but this time a cloud seemed to pass over his emotionless grey eyes. “That’s the strange thing, from what I’ve heard. The king’s not raising a regular army of his own—he’s putting more and more into mercenaries. Harvery said it’s the Prime Minister’s idea.”

 

“Prime Minister? You mean Paptimus, right? I’ve heard about him. Didn’t he use to be a gladiator or something, but then the former Mage General discovered he had this amazing talent for magic and adopted him?”

 

“That’s pretty much it. It wasn’t long afterwards that he managed to make himself the king’s right-hand man. Anyways, apparently this guy has a thing for mercenaries, because he’s encouraging the king to rely on them. Foreigners, native-born Etrurians…only ones he won’t hire are Ilians, for some reason. They’ve been doing pretty well, and the king’s been impressed with their performance putting down bandit gangs and the like. He’s probably going to rely on them even more in the future.”

 

“Wow!” Renault laughed. “Becoming a mercenary’s sounding better every day. There really does seem to be some easy money in a job like that, at least around here.”

 

“Is easy money worth selling your soul, boy?”

 

The hair on the back of Renault’s neck stood on end; Henken sounded genuinely angry, and that scared him. “S-Sorry!” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

Henken closed his eyes and took a deep breath, calming himself down. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

 

The stonemason picked up his tools and shifted his cold eyes back towards the fortification. “Enough talk,” he stated curtly, “Get back to work.”

 

Renault was quick to comply with Henken’s orders, but sighed inwardly anyways. His master’s face was once again as stony and inscrutable as it ever was, and while Renault couldn’t tell whether Henken was still angry or offended, Renault still got the distinct impression that the man was not in the mood for further discussion of any sort.

 

If disappointment was visibly etched on Renault’s face, Henken did not notice it. The two men worked in cold silence until the sun began to fall, at which point they simply packed up their tools and parted wordlessly.

 

If Renault had hoped for Henken’s advice to help alleviate the unhappy situation in which he now found himself, those hopes had been completely dashed.

 

-X-

 

The Ruby Tortoise was uncharacteristically busy tonight, a fact Renault noticed the moment he stepped through its door. After parting with Henken, he had returned to his mother’s home and picked up a few gold pieces, expecting to make up for an unhappy day with a quiet, uneventful dinner as he was used to. He quickly scanned the room and found the source of the noise—one table was far more crowded than usual.

 

At a shoddy table near the center of the room were seated four men, all of them livelier (and healthier-looking) than the miserable drunks which were this establishment’s typical clientele. A large, heavyset fellow with orange hair and a poorly-kept beard laughed raucously at a bawdy joke of his own telling, wrapping an arm around the cleanshaven young man sitting next to him, someone considerably smaller and slighter of frame who was also laughing at his friend’s joke, both out of embarrassment and genuine good humor. Opposite to these two sat another large, muscular man with a handsome face and long, dark-blue hair, chuckling to himself at his friends’ antics, and finally, someone who appeared to be the leader of their little party—a lean, dangerous-looking man with long blond hair and a great number of nasty-looking scars crisscrossing his sturdy frame.

 

Renault was somewhat irritated at the inn’s newest patrons, but as he took his seat at a table farther away from them, he had to concede they weren’t that annoying. Despite the large orange-haired man’s constant jabbering (which was getting progressively more slurred), Renault had to admit that it was still quieter in here than it was at virtually all of the other bars, taverns, and inns he’d been to, and also, none of the newcomers seemed to be particularly belligerent. Still, Renault was rather angry about blowing his chances to talk about his problems with Henken, and even if the new guys weren’t in the mood for a fight, he certainly was. He shot them an angry, venomous look, hoping to anger them, but no response was forthcoming. Only the older blond man seemed to notice, and he merely raised an eyebrow and grinned at Renault.

 

That obviously wasn’t the reaction Renault was looking for, but at this point, the grumbling in his stomach had become insistent. Shrugging, he abandoned his attempts to goad the newcomers and concentrated on getting himself some food. “Hey, Lisse!” he hollered, “how about some service?”

 

“Renault!” Upon hearing his call, the young woman practically bounded out of the kitchen, a bright smile on her face. Renault had expected things to be a bit awkward between them after their last meeting, but he couldn’t recall seeing her this happy in a very long time. Something very good must have happened to her today.

 

“You look cheerful. What’s the occasion?”

 

She pointed over to the group at the center table. “Those four just came in this morning. They said they’re mercenaries heading off to a mission, and that they needed a place to stay for a night before they continued their journey.”

 

“Mercenaries, huh?” Suddenly, Renault was very thankful he hadn’t succeeded in pissing them off too much.

 

“Yep! I haven’t had any of the inn’s rooms taken for the longest time, but they got three—one for the kid and the big orange-haired guy, one for the blue-haired guy, and one for the leader. They’ve eaten a lot today, too, and they tip really well!” She giggled. “The money they’ve spent ought to keep me fed for a week!”

 

“Is that so?” Renault grinned. “Good for you, Lisse. Maybe things will finally pick up for you, eh? Now,” he held out his coins, “Feel like making a bit extra by feeding me?”

 

“Of course!” Lisse quickly pocketed the money and set off for the kitchen, but was stopped for a moment by the leader of the mercenaries.

 

“Excuse me, miss?” The blond-haired man called.

 

“Er, yes? What is it?” Lisse looked over at Renault. “Just one moment, I’ll get your meal right after this!”

 

Renault shrugged and leaned back in his chair, glancing again at the mercenaries. The leader motioned for Lisse to come closer to him, and as she went over to their table, she leaned forward; the man handed her a few gold pieces and whispered his request into her ear. She stood up, an odd expression on her face, and she shot Renault a curious look. He blinked, not knowing what to make of the situation, and Lisse simply shrugged at him and headed towards the kitchen. Renault again looked at the mercenaries, but they had gone back to their meals and seemed to want nothing to do with him.

 

A few minutes later, Lisse popped out of the kitchen with a bowl of Renault’s favorite stew in one hand. He settled into his chair and drew back his sleeves, but Lisse didn’t bring him his meal right away. Oddly enough, she placed the stew on the counter of the bar, went over to one of the casks of ale, and filled up a large mug to the brim. She then picked up the bowl, walked over to Renault, and placed both it and the ale in front of him apprehensively.

 

Renault, by this point, was totally confused. “What the hell? I didn’t order any ale! You know I hate that stuff!”

 

Lisse looked quite sheepish. “Well, yeah,” she stammered, “but that guy bought it for you anyways.”

 

She pointed to the mercenaries, who were now all staring at Renault curiously. The blond man grinned cheerfully at him and lifted his mug, inviting him to drink.

 

“Man, I gotta at least give this booze back,” Renault said. Picking up the mug, he started over to the mercenaries’ table.

 

“Greetings, friend!” the leader smiled. “Like your ale?”

 

Renault placed the mug at the center of their table. “Actually, no, I don’t.” He then noted the surprised expressions on their faces and again considered the wisdom of picking a fight with them. “Look, nothing personal,” he said, “I don’t like ale, that’s all.”

 

“Don’t like ale?” The big orange-haired man looked both surprised and amused. “I gotta tell dad about this, he’ll never believe it! Hell, I didn’t even think anybody could live without the stuff!”

 

“Roberto!” The smaller man sitting next to him admonished, “Not everyone loves booze as much as you, ya oaf! Heck, you’d probably be a lot better off if ye felt more like our new friend here!” He smiled embarrassedly at Renault.

 

“Aw, hogswallop!” The orange-haired man, Roberto, downed the contents of his mug and reached for Renault’s. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you can’t drink more’n a cupful of this stuff before passin’ out and pissin’ yer pants!”   


“R-Roberto!” The smaller man turned beet red, which elicited much laughter from his friends. Even Renault couldn’t help chuckling a bit at their antics.

 

Maybe these guys weren’t so bad after all.

 

“Look, I’m sorry about the ale.” Renault said after the laughter had died down. “You want me to pay you back or something?”

 

“No, not at all. My fault for getting you something you hated, anyways. No reason to despair over a little thing like that, though. Am I right? How about taking your meal and sitting with us, friend?”

 

“Wha?” Renault didn’t know what to make of this.

 

“C’mon, man!” The blue-haired fellow smiled. “We won’t bite.”

 

Renault looked over at Lisse, who just shrugged, then again at the mercenaries. Something felt funny about the whole thing—he could see it in the blond man’s eyes. Still, he could detect nothing but sincerity in the eyes of the other men, so he shrugged and accepted their offer. “All right, what the hell.”

 

He brought over his stew, pulled up a chair, and sat down with the group. “Glad you joined us,” the blond man said. “How about some introductions? What’s your name, friend?”

 

“Renault. What’s yours?”

 

“Tassar. Good to meet you.” He motioned towards the orange-haired man. “That is Roberto.” He then pointed at Roberto’s smaller friend, who smiled self-consciously. “That’s Apolli.” Finally, his gaze turned towards the blue-haired man, who was busily digging into a slice of mutton. “That, my friend, is Braddock.” He then turned to Renault and held out his hand. “I trust we are well-met?”

 

“Uh…yeah, I guess.” Renault took the offered hand and shook it. His new companions voiced their approval, with Apolli and Braddock smiling at him and Roberto offering him a swig of his ale, before remembering he didn’t want it. “So anyways,” Renault began, shifting in his seat and stirring his stew, “What’s the deal? Why’d you buy me a drink?”

 

Tassar chuckled. “No real reason.” Something in his eyes told Renault that wasn’t quite true, but he said nothing. “I just saw you in here and thought you were interesting, so I wanted to chat. I guess you could say I’ve taken a liking to you.”

 

“Hah, hah! You oughta be honored, man!” Braddock smiled. “It’s not often that Tassar takes a liking to someone, and when he does, there’s definitely something special about ‘em!”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Renault was now somewhat suspicious. “What’s so interesting about me?”

 

“Well, a few things.” Tassar leaned back in his chair. “For one, you don’t look quite like you belong here.”

 

“Eh? What do you mean?”

 

“Well, look around you.” Tassar waved his hands around the room, where the other regulars from yesterday and a few more assorted vagrants were drowning their sorrows in ale. “You seem to be cut from a different cloth than all these other guys; you know what I’m saying? You don’t seem so…well, let’s be honest. You don’t seem to be as pathetic as they are. You’re not a drunk, and you don’t strike me as a failure…are you?”

 

Renault snorted. “Hah! Don’t lump me in with that rabble. I have a job and I have a home. I’m a stoneworker and I live with my mother.”

 

“Wow, a stoneworker?” Apolli seemed genuinely impressed. “There aren’t many stone buildings where me an’ Roberto are from. You must get paid a lot!”

 

“Not really.” Renault looked away, somewhat embarrassed. “I’m just an apprentice, so it’s not like I’m rich or anything. Still, though, I get paid a decent amount. I just give it all over to my mom since I still live in her house. She’s better with money than I am, so she just gives me a stipend every day for meals.”

 

“Is that so?” Tassar asked, “So, let me ask you a question. What are you doing here, Renault?”

 

The young man was somewhat confused. “What’re you talking about?”

 

“You could obviously do better. You could obviously afford better, at least. So why’re you spending your time at a crummy place like this?”

 

At this, Renault grew both suspicious of the man’s motives and angry at his dismissal of his favorite place to eat, even if what he was saying was true. “You think this place is crummy, huh? So then what are big-shot mercenaries like _you_ doing here?”

 

Braddock chuckled. “He’s got you there, boss.”

 

Tassar smiled in response, and Renault was a bit surprised to see that he wasn’t offended. “Well, I have to admit that’s an understandable question, my friend. Thing is, though, we’re not really big-shots. We’re on our way to a job, so we haven’t been paid yet. Most of the money we did have, we spent on equipment. This place was the best we could afford with what he had left.”

 

“Oh, is that it?” Renault was satisfied with this explanation, and the tension at the table dissipated. “That’s understandable, I guess.” He went back to his stew.

 

Tassar would not let the subject go, however. “Now, I answered your question, friend. So about paying me back?”

 

Renault thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Even if the Ruby Tortoise isn’t the best place I could eat at with five gold pieces, I like the atmosphere here. It’s nice and quiet. There aren’t any drunken idiots trying to pick fights with me. I stay out of trouble when I’m around here.”

 

“Is that so?” Tassar grinned at Renault inscrutably. “So I guess you’re the kind of man who avoids fights, eh? Are you training to be a priest or something?”

 

Renault snorted. “Hell no! I don’t believe in anything about Eliminism, certainly not that nonviolence crap. Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with teaching some buffoon a lesson with your fists. I just don’t want to go to jail, that’s all.”

 

Braddock smiled, Apolli and Roberto looked somewhat dismayed, but Tassar’s grin grew even wider, and Renault was momentarily disturbed—there was something predatory about it. The mercenary’s eyes flashed, and it was almost as if he were a shark closing in on its prey. “I thought so,” he said, leaning in closer to Renault, “I thought you were a fighter just from that one look you sent me as you sat down. It looks like I was exactly right, eh?”

 

“That look?” Roberto seemed quite confused.

 

“Yeah, Renault was looking at us when he came in,” Apolli chimed. “I didn’t think much of it, but I guess Tassar was right. You did look kind of angry.”

 

Renault was completely taken aback. “Y-yeah, I guess. Uh, I’m sorry?” He didn’t know what to say.

 

“No need to apologize, friend.” At the sound of Tassar’s smooth voice, Renault’s eyes locked onto his, and he was almost hypnotized by the intensity of the mercenary’s gaze. “You told me quite a lot about you with that one look, and with the way you act around here, the way you talk to the innkeeper.

 

“You’re an angry young man. You’ve gotten into more than a few fights, haven’t you? And you said you live with your mother. Why are you slumming it here instead of staying at her home? I don’t know anything about your personal life, but you can’t be having a good time if you have to come here for dinner.”

 

The wolf closed in on its prey. “It just seems to me, my friend, that you don’t really belong here.”

 

_You don’t belong here._

 

Renault was struck speechless. Whoever this Tassar was, he had found an answer to the question which had so plagued the young mercenary during the past night, and had been at the back of his mind for months.

 

Noting the youth’s reaction, Tassar leaned back, basking in the curious glances of his fellow mercenaries. “I’ve got a solution to your dilemma, you know.”

 

“W-what?” That was all Renault could say in response.

 

“Why don’t you join us?”

 

Renault was as shocked as the other mercenaries. “Are you serious?” he asked.

 

“You sure about this, boss?” Braddock looked at Renault a bit warily. “You seem like a tough guy, but being a mercenary’s tough business. You think you’re cut out for it?”

 

Tassar chuckled. “Both of us have been in a few wars before, Braddock, but trust me, this job isn’t anywhere near as tough.” He looked at Renault charmingly. “Why don’t I tell you a bit more about it, eh? Then you can decide whether to tag along with us.” After Renault nodded his assent, Tassar began describing exactly what he and his men set out to do.

 

“See, Renault, you’ve heard of the recent lynching in Scirocco, right? Some unruly townsfolk got angry about the new tax and decided to string up some poor collector. Well, the crown’s understandably not too happy about that, so the higher-ups decided to do something.

 

“The king wanted to send out a battalion of Etruria’s famous mages to the town to put down any resistance, but his prime minister convinced him that would be overkill. ‘Why not just hire a few mercenaries?’ he said. Well, the king ended up compromising. He gave the Mage General’s younger brother, Khyron, some cash and told him it was his chance to make a name for himself by putting down the uprising in Scirocco. Khyron was instructed to hire some mercenaries to help him out, and, well, those mercenaries just happen to be us.”

 

“Wait, you said this job was pretty easy,” Renault said. “Having to put down a mob sounds pretty dangerous to me.”

 

Tassar laughed out loud. “You greatly overestimate the poor townies, Renault. Scirocco’s a tiny village, less than a hundred people. It’s little more than a hamlet, really. And the people there are even poorer than the sods crying into their drinks right here in this inn. We, on the other hand, have the Mage General’s little brother on our side, military-grade equipment, and, of course, my sizable experience in battle. There’s no way we could lose!”

 

He grinned. “When you get right down to it, the only thing we really have to do is scare these poor bumpkins—no offense, Apolli and Roberto—back into line. We just march in there, knock out the few dumb, belligerent bastards who managed to get a mob worked up, and force the rest to pay up what they owe. Really, it’ll be just like a bar fight. Only difference is you’ll get paid a nice five hundred gold instead of getting tossed into jail for your trouble!”

 

Renault looked at Tassar earnestly. “It…it really doesn’t sound so bad.”

 

This elicited a knowing smile from the mercenary leader. “Well, what do you say, boys? Think we’ve got ourselves a new soldier?”

 

The inebriated Roberto raised his empty mug cheerfully. “The more the merrier’s what me dad always said!”

 

Apolli chuckled nervously. “Couldn’t hurt to have another man on our side. Khyron was complainin’ about being understaffed, so I guess this oughta make him feel better.”

 

Braddock shrugged. “I agree with Apolli. This sure isn’t going to be some pitched battle, and Renault’s been in some fights before, so I don’t see him being a liability.” He looked at the youth. “Besides, he seems like my type of guy. I don’t think I’ll mind hanging around him.”

 

“It’s settled, then!” Tassar looked at Renault. “So, you with us, Renault?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Renault replied thoughtfully. “This isn’t exactly a small decision. I have to think about it, you know? And even if I do agree, I’ll have to tell my mother and my boss.”

 

Tassar nodded. “I understand. It’s not like we’re dragooning you or anything. We just thought you’d make a good addition to the team—this job seems right up your alley. You don’t have much time, though. We leave tomorrow at noon. If you want to come with us, meet us at the north gate of the city. If not…” He shrugged.

 

“I…I got it.” Renault stood up, leaving his chair and empty bowl in front of him. “Look, don’t expect me, alright? I may show up, but if I don’t, just leave. This isn’t…like I said, I gotta think about it.”

 

“No problem. Even if you don’t decide to join us, thanks for eating with us.”

 

“Thanks…Tassar, right? Thanks. I really will think about it.”

 

With those words, Renault took his leave of the mercenaries and headed back out into the shadowed urban labyrinth that was Thagaste at night. No-one from the inn followed him, and his only companions as he made his way home were the doubts and dreams swirling away inside his head.

 

They would not leave him even as he entered his home, sullenly and silently greeted his mother, and threw himself, fully clothed, onto his bed for a second time.

 

_Should I leave? Should I stay?_

 

Renault unhappily threw a hand over his face as he once again watched the moonlit shadows dance across the roof of his room. Sleep would not come easy for him this night either, it would seem. Over and over again, he played through the events of the past few months in his head. He recalled the good times he’d had in this city—his mother’s meals, the beautiful architecture he so loved, and the quiet conversations with Henken he found so illuminating.

 

Yet, no matter how hard he tried to stop them, the unhappy memories kept billowing up to the forefront of his mind. Every time he thought of his mother, he thought also of the cold, indifferent way she looked at him nowadays. Every time he thought of the city, he was drawn to the churches and cathedrals that dotted it all over, cruel reminders of the father God had so mercilessly taken from him. And every time he thought of Henken, he remembered the stonemason’s sudden anger at talk of mercenaries and his resultant stony silence for the rest of their time together, and realized how little he truly knew the man.

 

If Henken couldn’t be considered a true friend of his, who could? Lisse? Renault sighed unhappily as he thought of the shabby, gloomy confines of the Ruby Tortoise. Was that truly his only refuge in this city? A dilapidated inn frequented by the most pathetic of the city’s inhabitants? Was his only friend a miserable, needy girl who adored him simply because he wasn’t as beaten-down as the rest of her clientele?

 

He thought again of what he had said to her. “I’ve never set foot once outside of Thagaste.” He had never given much thought to that fact before, but he did so now. Despite having read about so many locales all across Elibe, despite having devoured his father’s large collection of non-religious histories, Renault wondered what it would be like to actually see those places with his own eyes.

 

Could they really be so much worse than Thagaste?

 

Would he be any unhappier anywhere else in Elibe than he already was at home?

 

The tormented young man pondered those questions for a long, long time. And when he finally closed his eyes and went to sleep hours later, he had found an answer.

 

 

-X-

 

Renault was always an early riser, but this morning he awoke even earlier than usual. Though he wasn’t planning to go to work today—and not again for a long time—he still had a few things to take care of. The sun had only begun rising in the sky, and Renault found the darkness of the house to work slightly to his disadvantage, for it was somewhat difficult to see. As quietly (and carefully) as possible, he snuck downstairs and filched an empty burlap sack from a cabinet in the kitchen. Opening up several other cabinets, he took items that seemed like they might be useful to him in the future—various foodstuffs, cutlery, and a few vulneraries from his mother’s medicine cabinet—just in case. Tip-toeing up to his room, he then stuffed a few sets of spare clothing and a few of his favorite books (taken mainly from his father’s collection) into the sack just for safe measure. Finally, searching under the loose floorboards beneath his bed, he found his personal stash--two small pouches containing about two hundred and fifty gold pieces each. He pocketed one and tossed the other into the air, smiling as he heard the metal clink inside as he caught it.

 

He was now ready for his departure. Renault made his way back downstairs, pausing for a moment at the dining table. A few pieces of parchment from a letter his mother was in the process of reading as she ate dinner last night lay in front of them, and Renault considered taking a quill and writing his mother a note to inform her where he had disappeared off to. That, however, would prove to be unnecessary.

 

“Renault, what are you doing?”

 

The young man nearly jumped in surprise when he heard the tired voice coming from behind him. He turned to see his mother staring at him with red, sleep-deprived eyes, clad only in her sleeping gown.

 

“M-mom, I was just—“ Renault fumbled with his words, trying to find a suitable explanation.

 

Monica simply continued to stare, and as her son watched her flat, stony expression, he only found his resolve strengthening. He no longer saw any need to mince words. He slung the sack over his back and headed for the door. “I’m leaving, mom.”

 

“What?” That was her only response.

 

“I saidI’m leaving!” Renault shot flatly. He turned back for a moment to glance at the woman. “But you don’t really care where I’m going, do you?”

 

It seemed for a moment that he had actually succeeded in extracting a reaction from the woman, and her mouth tightened into an angry line. “How dare you speak to your mother like that—“ she started, but just as suddenly, as Renault watched, her anger evaporated, and her countenance receded into the same unhappy disappointment Renault had grown so well acquainted with over the past few months.

 

“It doesn’t really matter what I say, does it?” Monica sighed. “Fine, then. Go. If you must leave, then leave.” Her eyes watered slightly, and a pang of regret shot straight through Renault’s heart. “May Elimine’s blessings be upon you, whether you accept them or not.”

 

The bishop started to make her way listlessly back to her room, and as Renault watched his mother leave, he briefly thought of rushing up to her, giving her a hug and a kiss, anything before he left. But he then thought of the look in her eyes, the disappointment etched on her face, and realized that such a gesture would be both unappreciated and utterly pointless.

 

Without another word, he left his mother’s home.

 

-X-  


The Ruby Tortoise was all but empty when Renault entered, with Lisse as its only occupant. The young woman was busily cleaning up the bar and setting up the tables when Renault entered and took a seat at one of them, placing his sack on the floor.

 

“Renault!” She cried out in surprise, “I wasn’t expecting you this early!”

 

He nodded apologetically. “Sorry about that, Lisse. I just wanted some breakfast. I’m willing to pay extra for it.” He unloaded ten coins from one of the pouches of gold he had. “Will this be enough?”

 

The woman’s eyes practically glowed at the sight of the money. “Oh, wow! Of course that’ll be enough! What would you like, Renault?”

 

“I know it’s kind of a weird meal so early in the morning, but I’d really like to have my favorite beef stew one last time. Think you could get it for me, Lisse?”

 

She looked at Renault somewhat strangely. “Er…sure.”

 

She went back to the kitchen, and a few minutes later popped out carrying a steaming bowl of the stuff to her customer. “Mind if I have breakfast with you?” She asked. A quiet ‘no’ was her answer, and a few minutes later, she took her own meal over to Renault’s table and took a seat in front of him.

 

They didn’t talk much—aside from a few comments from Renault about how the stew seemed particularly good this morning—but eventually, Lisse’s attention was drawn to the large package next to Renault’s chair, and he knew the time had come to break the news to her. Sighing heavily, he spoke first. “You’re wondering what I’m doing up so early, right? And you’re also wondering what’s in the sack, right?”

 

She looked a bit embarrassed. “Er…well, yes.”

 

“Yeah, well, it’s nothing too special. Some clothes, some food, a bit of extra money, and a few vulneraries. Just some stuff I’ll need for a trip, is all.”

 

“A…trip?”

 

Renault sighed yet again. “Yeah. Look, Lisse, you probably won’t see me for a few weeks…I’m gonna be going away for a little while. Up north. Up to Scirocco.”  


“W…why?” The expression on her face was completely unreadable.

 

“I gotta get out of this city, Lisse. I can’t stand it here anymore. You know those mercenaries who came by yesterday? They wanted me to come with them. I’m going to take ‘em up on their offer.”

 

Her eyes watered and her lip quivered, and Renault could now tell what the emotion on her face was—sadness, pure and simple. “Lisse…”

 

“Wh-what about me, Renault?” A tear began its descent across her cheek, wetting her red face. “Y-you’re going to leave me alone? All a-alone…alone AGAIN?”

 

“Aw, dammit!” Renault was afraid of this happening. He took his handy handkerchief from his pocket and tried wiping the tears off his companion’s face. She responded to his attempts by slapping the hand away. “I’m not going away forever, dummy!” he growled, beginning to get annoyed. “It’s just for a few weeks! I’ll be back before you know it, and I’ll be a much richer man too. Hell, I’ll have enough money to BUY one of those rooms of yours! Come on, don’t be so stupid about this!”

 

Lisse sniffled and wiped her eyes. “R…really?”

 

“Yeah. Trust me, Lisse, I won’t be gone long. Just wait for me, alright?”

 

She smiled and her tears seemed to stop, much to Renault’s pleasure. “Okay. You promise?”

 

“Yeah, I promise.”

 

“All right. I’ll wait for you.”

 

“Heh, thanks.” Renault grinned, but then suddenly seemed as if he was struck by something. “Hey, Lisse, what time is it?”

 

“Um…” She looked at a window. “Judging from the sun today, I’d say it’s about a quarter to nine.”

 

“Aw, man!” Renault grimaced. “I’m not late, but I don’t have a lot of time, either. I gotta get to the North Gate by noon, but there’s something I have to do first. I have to run, Lisse. See you later!”

 

Jumping up from his chair, he picked up his sack from the floor and raced out of the small inn. “Renault, wait!” Lisse cried out after him. But it was already far too late, and he paid her no heed as he rushed off to his next destination.

 

-X-

 

Henken noticed the fact that his apprentice was about fifteen minutes late, but since Renault had been so prompt for the past few months, he decided not to hold it against the young man today.

 

Far more suspicious, however, was that Renault was carrying a large burlap bag instead of his usual toolkit.

 

Chafing under his master’s probing gaze, Renault shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Uh, Henken…I mean, Master, could I talk to you?”

 

The stonemason said nothing, so Renault decided to take that as a yes. “Look, Master…I won’t be able to come to work today. I don’t think I’ll be able to come to work for a few weeks. I’m not taking a vacation or anything, I just…I just have to leave the city for a while. An opportunity came up that I couldn’t refuse, and I have to leave by noon. I’m…I’m taking a trip.”

 

No expression broke the cold stone façade of Henken’s face. “You should have given me some notice beforehand,” he said flatly, in a voice that betrayed absolutely nothing, neither anger nor acceptance.

 

“Yeah, I know, Master. I’m really sorry about this. It just came up last night, and I have to leave today. I would have told you sooner, but I just didn’t have time. Please, Master…Henken…will you let me go?”

 

At that moment, Renault wished for all the world that Henken would actually show some emotion on that stony face of his. He couldn’t bear not knowing. Even anger, refusal, would be better than Henken’s typical emotionlessness. Of course, the stonemason wouldn’t provide any of those things. Over the course of seconds that felt like an eternity to Renault, he pondered the request with the same flat fixity he always wore. Finally, though, he was ready to provide an answer.

 

“Yes.”

 

Renault heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks, Henken! I really appreciate this—and I mean that.” He turned to leave, still wearing a big smile. “I’ll see you later, man!”

 

“Wait.”

 

Renault turned back, puzzled. “What is it?”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

This question made Renault a bit nervous, as he didn’t know how Henken would react if he found out the true nature of his apprentice’s new job. He tried to answer as evasively as possible. “Uh, I’m just going up north with a few guys. Nothing big.”

 

“I’ve heard a troop of mercenaries is heading the same way. Are you going with them?”

 

Renault saw no point in lying—Henken would see through it anyways. “Yeah, I am.”

 

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence between the two men.

 

And in the very next, Renault felt a fist as hard as steel slam into his stomach.

 

“Oof!” He grunted, doubling over in pain. That same fist ratcheted out once, twice, thrice more, slamming mercilessly into his face and knocking him to the ground.

 

Renault could do nothing but look up into the cold gray eyes of his assailant. What he saw there terrified him. Rage, white-hot and burning, seethed behind those typically empty eyes. Henken’s voice remained utterly flat; a testament to the man’s discipline and self-control, but Renault knew enough to be terrified by the implied threat of his words.

 

“Get up. Get your sack, and get out of my sight.”

 

The terrified apprentice did just that. Wiping the blood from his lips, Renault picked up his things and raced away from his former master. Even though he was more afraid than angry, however, he still found enough outrage inside him to leave Henken with a few choice parting words.

 

“I’LL SEE YOU IN HELL, YOU BASTARD!”

 

Paying no attention to the astonished stares of the crowds around him, Renault rushed off to the North Gate.

 

-X-

 

“Your men are all here and your equipment is packed, Tassar. What the devil are we still waiting for?”

 

As Renault rounded the last corner before he arrived to reach the North Gate, he heard a loud, self-righteous voice he didn’t know arguing with another man he definitely did. Coming up to his destination, Renault saw a small supply wagon pulled by two horses sitting still, with another speckled horse whinnying impatiently nearby. In front of this he saw his friends from last night—Tassar, Apolli, Roberto, and Braddock—arguing with an important-looking nobleman with two women—well, one woman and a girl who looked a few years younger than Renault—behind him.

 

“Ah, there’s our man now!” Tassar smiled broadly. “This is who we were waiting for, Khyron. A new soldier for our ranks!”

 

Renault looked at the nobleman and his entourage apprehensively. “Tassar, who’re these people?”

 

“Hmph!” The nobleman, despite being shorter than Renault, seemed to be looking down on him. “Is he a new recruit, Tassar?”

 

The mercenary smiled. “Well, are you, Renault?”

 

He nodded, still looking at the noble. “Yeah, I…I guess I am. I need to get out of this city, so I figured I’d tag along with you guys.”

 

“Hah hah! Now that’s the spirit, mate!” Roberto walked over and clapped Renault on the back heartily. Apolli smiled cheerfully, and Braddock also seemed happy that he joined. “Glad to see you here, man.” He grinned.

 

“Well, that seems to be settled!” Tassar motioned to the nobleman and the women. “Renault, this fellow here is Khyron, a Royal Mage and brother of the Mage General. These two ladies are also here on behalf of the crown. She,” he said, pointing at the statuesque, dark-green-haired woman, “Is Rosamia, Khyron’s apprentice.”

 

The woman was dressed in a white silk blouse and skirt and wore sturdy leather boots and a red cape. While still respectable, her attire was much more modest than the showy gilded tunic and rich purple cape Khyron wore. She looked at Renault impassively, her stoic expression a perfect display of military décor worthy of a soldier on parade. “I’m pleased to meet you. I look forward to serving with you.” She nodded towards Renault politely.

 

“Excellent!” Tassar then pointed towards the younger girl, dressed in equally modest white clothing and standing next to her speckled horse, stroking his mane affectionately. “This,” he smiled, “is Yulia, one of the court’s Troubadors. They sent her along to deal with any injuries we may have to deal with.”

 

“Pleased t’ meet ya, Renault!” The girl flashed a pleasant smile at him, and Renault could see an affectionate, kindhearted nature sparkling behind her bright blue eyes—not unlike what he noticed in Apolli.

 

“Hee hee, quite a girl, eh?” Roberto grinned broadly. “Figures, though. She’s my sister, after all!” He nudged Apolli hard (but good-naturedly) in the ribs and winked at Renault. “She also just happens to be this guy’s sweetheart, so best keep your eyes offa her lest ye get an ass-kickin’ from both of us, y’hear?”

 

“Roberto!” Yulia and Apolli both admonished the big galoot with blushes on their faces, but their was laughter in their voices, and as Apolli moved over to take the girl’s arm, Renault saw genuine affection in the way they looked at each other. Even he had to admit it was kind of cute.

 

“No problem,” he grinned. “I’m more of a fighter than a skirt-chaser anyways.” Given how consistently he had rebuffed Lisse’s advances, he had to admit, this was quite true.

 

“All right, that’s enough!” Khyron stamped his foot on the ground impatiently. “Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, let’s get a move on, shall we? I don’t know about you low-lives, but I’ve got better things to do with my time!”

 

Renault steamed indignantly at the man’s rudeness, but Tassar put his men into action before they could get too angry. “You heard him! We’re not getting paid by the hour. The sooner we get this job over with, the sooner we can go back home! Let’s move out!”

 

Urged forward by Khyron and Rosamia, the wagon had already started to move forward at a slow pace, with Yulia astride her horse tailing a few feet behind it. Apolli, Roberto, and Tassar had already begun walking quickly to keep pace, and as Renault started forward, he noticed Braddock watching the wagon with a trace of both resentment and bemusement.

 

“Nobles are such assholes,” he snorted. He turned to Renault, grinning boyishly. “Am I right or am I right?”

 

Renault laughed out loud. Braddock seemed to be his kind of guy. “You are most definitely right, my man.”

 

“Hah! I knew you’d see it my way.” Braddock patted his new friend jovially on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get moving. The sooner we get to Scirocco, the sooner we get paid.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”

 

Braddock stepped outside of the Gate, and Renault was quick to follow him. For the first time in his life, he stood on ground outside of the city walls. As he walked, he looked around and in front of himself. The sky was a beautiful bright blue, the grassy fields around him a cheerful, vibrant green, and the cobbled road their wagon was traveling on seemed to stretch out forever in front of him, an open invitation to better things.

 

Despite all of this, despite his new friends, and despite his eagerness to escape Thagaste, Renault still couldn’t shake a tiny, nagging feeling that he was heading towards his doom.

 

Braddock, who had already outpaced his friend, must have noticed his hesitancy, for he looked back and clapped his hands loudly to get Renault’s attention. “Hey, Renault, are you coming with us or not?”

 

“Y-yeah! I’ll be right there!” Renault broke into a light jog, hurriedly attempting to catch up to his comrades.

 

Even as he reached Braddock, and even as the two of them sped up to avoid falling behind the rest of their party, Renault couldn’t help turning his head back for one last glance the city he had been born and raised in.

 

Even though he’d only taken a few steps outside its bounds, it already felt as if he had left Thagaste—and his old life—far, far behind him.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Small notes on a few things:

 

First off, about taxation. From what I have studied of medieval feudalism, I’ve gleaned that for the most part, peasants were obligated to give a certain amount of their crops to the owner of their fief—I think the number was typically 20%. From what I understand, direct monetary taxes—income or otherwise—weren’t as prevalent back then as they are now.

 

Secondly, about Khyron’s cape—the color purple was often associated with royalty and other persons of importance during the Roman and medieval periods. Being related to the Mage General himself, Khyron is pretty important.

 

Finally, as I’m sure those of you who’ve played FE6 will say, “But wait a minute…Etruria does have a regular army, with a Great General, Knight General, and even an Archery General! Why do they just have mages in this fic? Why are they utilizing mercenaries instead of their regular army?” Well, remember, this fic takes place around 280 years before FE7 and 300 years before FE6. In FE6, it’s stated that a millennium has passed since the Scouring, but in chapter 1 of this story, Renault says that 700 years have passed since the Scouring. Thus, to explain, the simple fact is that Etruria hasn’t yet formed the modern military we see in FE6. It will, however…indeed, the inception of the positions of Great General and Knight General is something we’ll see in this very fic :] That won’t happen for a while, though…so keep reading, my friends! I’ll see you later :D


	4. A Nasty Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and company reach their destination, but soon find their job won't be as easy as they hoped.

Wayward Son

 

4: A Nasty Surprise

 

All in all, Renault thought, the life of a mercenary wasn’t so bad. A lot more boring than he had expected, but otherwise not bad at all.

 

It was the fifth day of his little journey, and so far, the only real work he had had to do was march steadily forward while enjoying the reasonably mild weather and pleasant scenery. A comparatively easy life as a stoneworker in Thagaste had not given him much tolerance for the rigors of travel, but the pace Tassar and Khyron had set was hardly grueling, and Renault had an easy time keeping up with his troop.

 

He yawned conspicuously (drawing an amused chuckle from Braddock, who was walking beside him as usual), indicating the only real problem he had with life on the road. There were few inns or taverns between Thagaste and Scirocco, and Tassar was unwilling to spend the money required for rooms anyway. Thus, the mercenaries and the mages alike had nowhere else to sleep but the hard ground. Renault’s bed back at his mother’s house was hardly luxurious, but it was certainly more comfortable than soil and stones.

 

Still, he was getting used to it. In many ways, Renault actually found it easier to fall asleep under the stars than under his own roof. For the first time in months, he could close his eyes without dreaming of a mother who hated him, friends he didn’t have, and a city which held so many painful memories for him.

 

His father’s ghost, it seemed, had not followed him outside of his birthplace.

 

“If you clock out on the road, I’m not gonna carry you.” Braddock grinned sardonically as he watched his friend yawn yet again.

 

Renault grinned right back. “Smart move on your part. I don’t think you’d be able to!”

 

“You may have a point there. How tall are you? Let’s see.”

 

Ceasing their march for a moment, the two friends stood ramrod-straight back-to-back. “Stop cheating, Renault,” Braddock laughed as he felt the other man trying to stand on the tips of his toes. He put a hand atop his head, and it hit empty air as he moved it above Renault’s. “Just as I thought! You’re about an inch shorter than me.”

 

“You serious?” Renault looked at Braddock suspiciously. “Are you sure it’s not just your hair?”

 

Braddock laughed again and ran a hand through his uncut and unruly blue locks. “My hair goes down, not up. Still, I’m a pretty tall guy, so don’t feel too bad. Hell, you’re pretty big yourself, especially for a city boy. Are most stoneworkers your size?”

 

“If they are, I haven’t seen ‘em.” Renault grimaced as he thought of Henken and their unpleasant parting. “My last boss was a little shorter than I was.”

 

Braddock saw the expression on his friend’s face and clapped his shoulder sympathetically. “Hated your boss, huh? Well, don’t worry about it. Not like he’s here with us, right?”

 

Renault didn’t quite hate his former master, but the sentiment was close enough and he smiled. “You got that right! To hell with him!” He then winced out of habit, expecting a rebuke for the profanity.

 

Braddock looked at him curiously. “Eh? What’s with the expression?”

 

“Sorry, man,” Renault said sheepishly, “My mom and most people back at Thagaste had a thing about bad language.”

 

“Hah! How stupid!” Braddock laughed, very loudly this time. “Words are just words, and anyone who actually cares about a bunch of harmless words is just an idiot. Mercenaries like us don’t give half a rat’s ass about silly stuff like that.” He grinned mischievously at Renault. “And you can be damn sure you heard me right.”

 

Renault joined in his friend’s laughter, feeling better than he had in a long time. As the two of them resumed their march, Thagaste’s wayward son once again felt like leaving the city had been exactly the right choice.

 

-X-

 

The mercenaries continued their march for the rest of the day, and by the time dusk bathed the countryside in its signature purple hues, even Braddock was beginning to feel a bit fatigued. He was not the only one, of course, as Yulia, one hand on her horse’s reins, clamped her mouth shut and put her other hand over it to disguise what would otherwise have been a most unladylike yawn. Apolli, noticing his fiancée’s weariness, hastily called out to Tassar. “Oy, boss! Don’t wanna push, but d’you think we could rest for the night? Some of us are gettin’ a wee bit bushed.”

 

Yulia smiled gratefully at her beloved, and Tassar glanced at Khyron. “How about it, sir?” he asked. “It’s getting dark. I’d say it’s a good time to set up camp.”

 

“Hmph!” Khyron snorted haughtily. “We’ve wasted enough time already. Aren’t you mercenaries supposed to be used to journeys like this? And you, Yulia,” he turned his head and called out to her, “Even if you’re a woman, you’re still a recruit for Etruria’s magic battalions. I expect you to be stronger!”

 

Apolli bristled, and Roberto opened his mouth to upbraid the arrogant sage, but before either of them could get a word out Yulia stopped them. “Sorry, m’lord!” She called back to Khyron, “You don’t have to worry about me. I can keep on, but please, don’t y’think my poor horse’s earned a break? I’ll go on foot if I must, but at least let the mare some peace.”

 

“Yulia, you don’t have to—“ Apolli began, but his beloved stopped him again.

 

“It’s alright, sweet,” she said quietly to him, “Someone has to rest, and if it can’t be me, it might as well be her.”

 

“Bollocks!” Roberto fumed. “The beasts are fine, it’s you who’s needin’ the rest! I’m just gonna go up there and set that popinjay straight! He can’t just push you ‘round like that!”

 

Before an argument could begin, it was Rosamia, sitting besides Khyron on their wagon, who convinced him to relent. “Sir,” she began respectfully, “I really think it would be advisable to set up camp before it grows dark. We’re already well ahead of schedule, and if we rest now, we should be able to arrive at Scirocco early tomorrow afternoon. It might prove beneficial in the long run.”

 

“Is that so?” Khyron frowned. “Keep in mind, Rosamia, that you are my apprentice, not my advisor. I shall be the one to decide our pace, not you.”

 

“Of course, my lord.” She bowed her head deferentially, and as a testament to her discipline and control, a barely perceptible twitch of her lips was the only indication of her irritation. “Forgive my presumption, I only wished to serve you.”

 

Tassar continued the cause Rosamia had begun. “Your apprentice has a point,” he said. “We all need rest, including you. My men won’t be able to do their job if they’re too tired. If we stop now, we’ll be able to reach Scirocco in top shape. If you want your money’s worth from us, you’ll set up camp.” He shrugged. “Not that I’m telling you what to do, of course. Your choice.”

 

Khyron snorted again, both in irritation and disdain. “Not much of a choice for me, is it?” he huffed, “If I did have a choice, I would have just brought along some of our royal mages instead of wasting money on you freebooters! Of course, since the king’s advisor seems to love your ilk so much, His Majesty dispatched only my apprentice and a trainee healer and told me to just hire a complement of mercenaries! What nonsense!” He sighed heavily. “Still, I am a noble of Etruria, and I shan’t let this inconvenience stand in my way! If a brief rest is all you need to do the job I paid you to do, then so be it. However! We shall leave the very moment dawn’s first rays break the horizon, understood?”

 

Tassar nodded as a show of gratitude, barely managing to hide his exasperation at the pretentious noble’s obstinacy. “Thank you, sir,” he stated tersely. Turning to the rest of the troop, he called, “All right, everyone! Time to set up camp! We start again early tomorrow morning, so make sure you get some rest!”

 

Upon hearing this, Renault, walking with Braddock at the tail of their company, almost let out a whoop of joy. “Finally!” he exclaimed. “I am dead tired!”

 

“Same here.” Braddock shot a venomous look at his employer. “Man, can you believe that Khyron? Ooooh, I’m a high-and-mighty Etrurian noble,” he drawled in a sarcastic imitation of the sage, “I’m so very generous for having hired those nasty mercenaries to do my dirty work! And to think, they even demand a decent night’s sleep! How very presumptuous!”

 

At this, Renault burst out laughing, bending over and clapping his hands on his knees. “Oh, man,” he gasped between chuckles, “If that’s not a spot-on impression, I don’t know what is!”

 

Khyron had not heard Braddock’s snide jab at him, but he had heard Renault’s laughter, and he was none too pleased to hear his hired men goofing off. “Hey, you there!” he called. “I’m not paying you for whatever stupid rubbish you’re laughing about! If you’ve enough time to be loitering about like this, you’ve enough time to earn your keep! Help Rosamia set up camp!”

 

Renault opened his mouth in the beginnings of a blistering retort to the arrogant noble, but Braddock clapped a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. “Don’t bother, man,” he grimaced. “We’d be in deep shit if we picked a fight with him. Nobles get to do whatever the hell they want, and nobody can do anything to stand up to them, especially guys like us. It’s disgusting, but that’s the way it is.”

 

Renault saw the expression on his friend’s face, and got the distinct feeling that Braddock’s hatred of the ruling class ran far deeper than simple jealousy. Before he had a chance to question him about it, the blue-haired man had already set off for the wagon. Renault hurriedly followed him, only for both men to find Rosamia hard at work unloading the company’s bedding for the night. She was a statuesque woman, but not a particularly strong one, and while she wasn’t having much trouble unloading the modest sleeping mats, Renault and Braddock could still do it faster. “Hold on, miss,” Braddock said as he went beside her and hauled up another mat, “my friend and I can help you out. Come on, Renault, lend a hand!”

 

Renault hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and went over to assist Braddock and Rosamia. “Hey, at least this is gives me something to do besides march all day!” he smiled.

 

Rosamia, however, wasn’t particularly eager for help. “I appreciate your assistance, but it isn’t truly required,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of this myself.”

 

“Hah! We didn’t mean to insult your pride, Rosamia,” Braddock smiled. “We don’t really have a choice, though. Khyron ordered us to help you out. Isn’t that right, Renault?”

 

“You got it. After all, we gotta earn our keep, don’t we?”

 

Braddock let out a loud guffaw at Renault’s sarcastic jibe at Khyron, and for all her discipline, Rosamia had to put a hand to her mouth to suppress a chuckle. “Very well, I accept your aid.” The smile she gave them was not wide, but it was genuine.

 

As the three of them set out sleeping mats for the rest of the company, they noticed that their fellows were hard at work as well. Although the wagon was well-stocked with rations, Roberto and Apolli still wanted to hunt up some game—“No point wasting the food we were given if we can find some ourselves” was what they’d said. Yulia was busy watching over the horses as they grazed, and Tassar was fastidiously checking over all of their equipment, making sure their weaponry was in top shape. Conspicuously absent from all this activity, however, was Khyron.

 

“Where the hell is that guy?” complained Braddock. “I guess the Mage General’s brother is just too good to do any work like the rest of us, is that it?”

 

“Not quite,” Rosamia said. “I think he’s meditating. Look in the wagon.”

 

The three of them did so, and sure enough, they saw Khyron seated in the same place he had been all day, but in a very different position. His eyes were shut tight and he sat cross-legged, with his arms held out in front of him and his hands clasped together. Braddock reached out to tap his shoulder, but Rosamia hastily and insistently stopped him.

 

“No!” she hissed quietly but firmly. “Whatever you do, don’t disturb him. This meditation is crucial for mages. We need to focus and balance our energies before using magic; otherwise it’s much more difficult to cast spells and they won’t be as effective. That would be a very bad thing if we need to use magic when we reach our destination, so it’s important to leave Khyron alone. I’ll do the same thing later tonight, to prepare for whatever’s waiting for us at Scirocco.” She scrupulously led her companions away from the meditating sage.

 

“Is that so?” Braddock was somewhat suspicious. “Sounds like a convenient excuse to slack off to me.”

 

“I think she’s right,” Renault said. “My parents used light magic, so I’m not sure if it’s exactly the same, but I remember my dad talking about how praying made casting magic a lot easier, especially if you were about to head off to battle. I’d guess this is what anima users do instead.

 

Rosamia nodded to him gratefully, and Braddock just shrugged his large shoulders in assent. “I can’t complain if that guy’s actually doing something useful, I guess. It’s nice to see he understands the importance of preparation, at least.”

 

“Khyron is very dedicated to his duties,” Rosamia said. “I can admire that about him, if nothing else.”

 

Renault grinned. “If nothing else, huh? Sounds like you don’t like him too much.”

 

Rosamia hastily slapped a hand over her mouth, realizing her misstep, but that only elicited amused laughter from Braddock and Renault. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Braddock said. “There’s no need to put on airs with us. Trust me, we don’t like that pompous windbag much more than you do.”

 

The young woman smiled gratefully. “Thank you, but still, I am his apprentice. I simply cannot speak ill of him, whether with friends or not.” She looked behind them, where a little campfire had been set up. “Oh! It seems Roberto and Apolli have returned from their trip. I have some preparations to make myself, so why don’t you two have a meal with them?”

 

“You won’t be joining us, Rosamia?” Braddock seemed a bit sad.

 

“I’d like to, but I must attend my master. Khyron would scold me if he saw me getting too friendly with commoners. Troop solidarity and morale are foreign concepts to him. Farewell.”

 

She turned away from them and headed back to the wagon where Khyron was, causing Braddock to spit angrily on the ground. “Damn nobles!” he growled.

 

Renault shrugged. “Hey, I liked her too, but it means more grub for us, bud. Let’s go see what Apolli and Roberto managed to find.”

 

Renault and Braddock walked towards the campfire, where Apolli, Roberto, Tassar, and Yulia were already busy enjoying their meals. Roberto heard them coming and waved them over to a couple of empty seats around the crackling flames. A large black pot was suspended over the fire, and the smell happily wafting from it reminded Renault of yet another reason he was glad to be a mercenary. Strange as it was, the food he’d been eating was some of the best he’d ever tasted. While the hardtack rations he had for breakfast and lunch were nothing special, dinner was always delicious. It had been nothing but rabbit stew for the past few days (in this area, bunnies were quite common and easy to catch), but he found it to be many times better than Lisse’s beef stew, and almost as good as his mother’s cooking. Maybe he just liked rabbits better than beef, but whatever it was; the meals thus far had been immensely satisfying.

 

With great satisfaction, Renault got a wooden bowl and spoon and helped himself to a ladle of the stew, with Braddock doing the same right afterwards. After stirring it and blowing on it to cool it down, Renault had a spoonful and found the stew to be as good as usual. “You’re sure this is made just from the rabbits that are everywhere around here, right?” Renault asked. “This stuff’s pretty damn good for wild game.”

 

“It’s all wild!” Roberto grinned broadly. “So far, we haven’t eaten even a bite of the stuff in the wagon, at least not for dinner. Everything we’ve had we caught ourselves!”

 

“Aye, sorry for not being able to bag heartier fare,” Apolli said sheepishly. “If we were back home, I’d be able to shoot up a good buck or boar, but around here there’s not much else but rabbits to catch.”

 

“Oh, really?” Renault smiled as he took another ladle of the stew. “These rabbits are so tasty, I can only imagine what the chef could do with something bigger. Yulia’s not as good as my mom, but damn, she comes close!”

 

At this, Apolli, Roberto, and Yulia exchanged furtive, slightly surprised, and somewhat embarrassed glances among themselves. This display greatly confused Renault, for as boorish as he was, even he realized his offhanded compliment should not have been that offensive. “What? What’d I say?” he asked, fairly puzzled.

 

“Ah…while I’m greatly thankful for your kind words, sir, I’m really not the girl y’should be givin’ em to.” Yulia blushed slightly, looking quite sheepish.

 

“Huh?” Renault was now even more confused.

 

“I think the fella you oughta be complimentin’ is right here!” Smiling affectionately, she sidled up to Apolli, who Renault noticed was easily the most embarrassed out of the trio, clasping his hands in his lap and earnestly looking down at his feet.

 

“’Ey, why’re you bein’ so sulky, ya chump?” Roberto happily clapped Apolli on the back. “Take some credit when it’s due! ‘Bout time someone besides us noticed how good y’cook!”

 

Renault gazed at the slight young man in astonishment. “YOU’RE the one who’s been cooking these meals?”

 

Apolli nodded. “Uh…yep. I’m, uh, sorry?”

 

Renault chuckled in response. “Hey, no need to apologize. Like I said, this food’s pretty damn good. I’m just surprised it’s a man cooking it! Me, every time I tried to help out my mom with a meal, it turned into a disaster!”

 

Yulia giggled sweetly. “Well, don’t feel too bad. There are plenty of women out there who can’t cook either.” Blushing slightly, she admitted, “I just happen to be one of ‘em. ‘Course, that’s just one of the many reasons I’m so glad to have Apolli around, eh?” She snuggled up to him, resulting in the young man finally displaying some pride in his abilities and puffing up his chest—eliciting chuckles from Roberto and smiles from the rest of the party.

 

“You know, you seem like a pretty nice girl,” Renault said thoughtfully. Yulia blushed and her brother and fiancé beamed at the compliment, but it was followed by a somewhat probing question. “So I have to wonder, what are you and your friends doing here? Me, I just joined you guys because I wanted to get out of Thagaste. But what’s your deal? Wanted to see the world outside your hometown as well?”

 

Yulia, Apolli, and Roberto exchanged looks, but the young woman just shrugged, figuring it was all right to tell their story. “Well, for me, at least, I didn’t have much of a choice, or at least not too many good choices, anyways.”

 

“Huh?” Renault didn’t think the lively young woman was dragooned into this operation.

 

“See, me, Apolli, and Roberto all come from the same village. It’s a tiny little town up in the north, just a few miles to the east from Scirocco, in fact.” She looked down a bit, as if ashamed. “As y’ can imagine, our home wasn’t exactly what you’d call wealthy.”

 

“You weren’t destitute or anything, were you?” Braddock cast a sympathetic gaze towards the three commoners.

 

“No, no!” Yulia was quick to dismiss the notion. “We weren’t wealthy, but we sure weren’t starving. All of us here and the rest of our friends back home. We got by through farming, fishing, and huntin’. It was a pretty good life, when you get right down to it.”

 

Roberto’s eyes misted with nostalgia. “Aye, sis’s right. Things were pretty peaceful, we had enough to eat, and we had each other. A man can’t want for much more’n that!”

 

Apolli nodded in agreement. “Even after the king levied that new tax, we managed to make ends meet. A coupla old ladies in our village knew how to knit, and one guy’s a decent carpenter. They managed to whip up some clothes and wooden toys for us to sell, so we always managed to scrimp up enough gold to pay the bills one way or another. We always had enough.”

 

“Still, though, I really thought our town should have more,” Yulia said. “See…me and Roberto, we’re the magistrate’s children. You’d think Roberto’d take on the position after Dad, but…”

 

“He’d make a terrible magistrate!” Apolli chuckled goodheartedly. “Can you imagine how the place’d be run with this guy in charge? The town hall would be turned into tavern!”

 

“Bah!” Roberto snorted, “Never saw the use in all that talkin’ anyways. Not a problem in the world that can’t be solved with a few kegs of good ale!”

 

“And that’s exactly why you’re not going be followin’ our Dad!” Yulia scolded. Turning away from her booze-loving brother, she continued her story. “Well, Pop talked things over with the townsfolk, and, well…they all decided that I oughta be the next magistrate.”

 

“Really?” Renault seemed to be amused. “A female magistrate, huh? Never thought I’d see the day.”

 

Yulia wasn’t sure if she was being insulted or not, but she decided to take the flippant remark as a compliment and move on. “As the next magistrate…well, t’be honest…I felt I should do something for it, y’know? Sure, we had enough, but there was so much more we didn’t have. Didn’t even have a blacksmith or school!” Yulia’s bright eyes seemed to dim as she mentioned the last item on that list. “Aye, it’s a shame. Most of the kids in our village won’t ever know how to read their own names! Me, Dad, and the priest’re the only ones who’re much good with books.”

 

“The old man tried teachin’ me some letters, but I was never much good for ‘em,” Roberto said apologetically.

 

“I can’t read either, but Yulia’s been teachin’ me a few things for the past coupla months. I’m gettin’ better, right?” Apolli looked to his beloved for affirmation, which she provided by smiling sweetly at him.

 

“Pfeh, illiterate?” Renault sneered. “Ignorant country bumpkins. How surprising.”

 

At Renault’s sarcastic jab, the three townsfolk did appear to grow offended, with Roberto seeming to grow quite angry, but Braddock managed to defuse the situation. “So, uh, what’s that got to do with how you ended up in Aquleia?” he blurted.

 

Renault looked at him curiously, his sneer disappearing. “Aquleia?”

 

“Yeah,” said Braddock, “That’s where we met.”

 

Yulia, Apolli, and Roberto forgot about Renault’s insult at the mention of Etruria’s grand capitol city, and the young woman continued her story. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, m’friend!” She grinned at Braddock. “See, it all started a few months ago, back at home. As the magistrate’s daughter, I often had to help the parish priest with a lot of his duties. It was expected of me, ‘cause the Church helps out so much with administration and the like.

 

“I didn’t have to do much, mainly organize books and copy manuscripts and stuff like that. One day, though, the priest decided to teach me a little bit about the magic he used—not Light tomes, surely, but the staffs I’d seen him wield to patch up minor injuries and the like. That’s when things really changed!

 

“The very first time I picked up a lil’ Heal staff, it felt like it belonged in my hand my whole life. Just that day, one of the milkmaid’s sons had broken his arm after tryin’ to scamper up a tree and fallin’ down, but I just went over to him, said the words, and set it right without even a second thought! Father Brentus’d never seen anything like it in his life!

 

“He was pretty excited, so over the next few days he spent a lot of time with me, working with staves and the like. Now, I wouldn’t say I’m anything special, but he thought I had some real talent or somethin’, because he whisked me right to m’Dad and told him that I’d make one heck of a fine Troubadour for the court!”

 

“A Troubadour for the royal court?” Renault was somewhat suspicious. “That was a priest recommending you, right? Why didn’t he tell you to go join the clergy? I’d expect the Elimineans to be falling all over themselves for someone of your talent.” That last statement was spat out with a cruel dose of cynicism, and oddly enough, Renault saw Braddock nodding bitterly, as if he understood and agreed.

 

Yulia seemed to miss Renault’s scornful undertone, as she answered his question honestly and sheepishly. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to join the sisterhood,” she said. “But the thing is, well…the Royal Court pays a lot better.”

 

Renault grunted knowingly. Could there really have been any other motivation besides greed?

 

“It’s not just for my own wallet!” Yulia retorted insistently, seeing the expression on the cynical young man’s face. “Think of the good I’d be able to do with that money! Hire a few architects, a stoneworker…in a few years as a Troubadour, I’d be able to scrounge up enough gold to build the town a decent school!”

 

“Altruism, huh?” Renault made no effort to hide his sarcasm.

 

It passed clean over the head of the good-natured Roberto, who merely shook his head. “Aye, that’s sis for ya,” he said, “Always thinkin’ of others first, herself second.”

 

“Well, can’t the same be said of you two?” Yulia grinned broadly. “After all, I sure didn’t force ya to follow me here!”

 

“She’s got us there, Roberto,” Apolli chuckled. Looking at Renault, who was a tad confused, the young man continued his fiancée’s story. “Our village priest was an accomplished spellcaster and an honest man,” he explained, “So when he went to Yulia’s pop and told’im his girl would make a good Troubadour, we sure took him seriously. Heck, he even had a letter of recommendation written up and everything! At the very least, everybody in town figured it was worth a shot, since we all knew what’d be coming if Yulia actually made it in.

 

“Problem was, though, she’d have to travel to Aquleia to present herself afore the nobles and everything. They don’t let just anybody become a royal magic-user, after all. So Yulia got herself a horse, took the priest’s letter, and was all set out to go, but…”

 

“Surely y’don’t think we’d let her go alone, do ya?” Roberto roared. “The roads are dangerous these days, with the bandits ‘n everything! No way we could just leave her to the wilds!”

 

“Ah, that’s just more of your bluster,” Yulia replied, “We didn’t meet with any trouble on the journey to the capitol, did we?” She smiled sheepishly at Renault and Braddock. “Well, as you can see, that’s why my brother and m’sweetie are here with me. Just couldn’t leave well enough alone, and felt like they just had to escort me all the way to Aquleia!”

 

“So then what are all of you doing here?” Renault asked. “Aquleia’s a good ways south of your hometown. Why are you heading back up north to Scirocco with us? Did the court reject you?”

 

“Nope, quite the opposite,” Yulia answered. “When me and my protectors got to the city gates, we showed the guards the priest’s letter and they showed us to the Mage General’s mansion.” She grinned again, pride in her accomplishments plainly apparent. “He read the letter too, and was pretty impressed by what it said. So he gave me a set of simple lil’ tests—cast a spell here, memorize something there. Well, I passed with flyin’ colors!”

 

“Good thing she’s on our side, right?” Braddock smiled reassuringly, and Renault had to nod, as he was genuinely impressed. Etruria’s spellweavers were indisputably the best on the continent and for Yulia to be accepted into their ranks with such ease indicated indisputable talent.

 

“What are you doing on our side, though?” Renault was still curious. “Were you ordered here by the king?”

 

“Well,” Yulia was a bit hesitant, but she decided to come clean. “Yes. As it so happened, just as I was accepted as a royal Troubadour, word came in about what happened to that taxpayer in Scirocco.” A shadow fell across her face as she considered poor Revil’s fate. “The higher-ups at court wanted something done right then, and the king’s prime minister—Paptimus, I think—thought that puttin’ down this little ruckus might be a good experience for the Mage General’s lil’ brother.” She pointed towards Khyron, still deep in meditation near the wagons (and now joined by his apprentice). “That’s why the two of them are here. Guess they thought it’d be a good way for me to earn my keep too, though, because one of ‘em mentioned something about needing a healer, and I just happened to be the newest one on their hands.”

 

“Is that so?” Renault sat back, considering the girl’s story. “Yeah, it sounds reasonable. I have to wonder, though, what’re Apolli and Roberto still doing here? They sure don’t look like royal mages to me.”

 

“That’s quite simple,” a voice echoed from beside the group, “They came as mercenaries under me.”

 

A set of surprised faces turned to look at the newcomer, whose presence was previously unannounced. While Yulia had been telling her story, the blond-haired mercenary leader, Tassar, had quietly come and sat down to the side, going quite unnoticed in the deepening night as he pensively munched on some rations taken from the wagon.

 

“You see, my friends,” Tassar began, “Apolli and Roberto were obviously quite excited to hear that Yulia had been accepted into the royal court as a Troubadour. After all, now her greatest dreams were open to her! But they were obviously less pleased to hear that she would already be heading into an assignment—especially one that seemed as dangerous as putting down a lynch mob in Scirocco! No good brother or boyfriend could allow her to go alone, am I right?”

 

Both Apolli and Roberto nodded insistently, and Tassar smiled knowingly. “The problem was, of course, that the nobles,” this word was spat out with bitterness comparable to Braddock’s, “wouldn’t permit them to tag along. They were just civilians, after all.”

 

“Bollocks!” Roberto said, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “Me an’ Apolli would be as good in a fight as anybody! I’ve been choppin’ wood since I was a wee lad and m’axe can cut flesh just as well as wood! And Apolli here, this kid’s got eagle eyes, I tell ya! He can fletch a deer a mile away w’ that bow of his!”

 

“I’m not that good, ya oaf!” Apolli protested.

 

“Bah, close enough!”

 

Yulia looked at her teammates, with just a hint of guilt in her eyes. “I really didn’t want them to come along,” she said. “They’d already escorted me all the way to Aquleia, and that was more than enough. I didn’t want to cause them any more trouble, y’know?”

 

“What’d I tell ya?” Roberto said, “Always puttin’ herself last!”

 

“Yulia, we didn’t come with you because we felt obligated or anything,” Apolli smiled gently. “We came because we wanted to be close to you. We both knew what you were trying to do for us and our town, so we wanted to help you out any way we could.”

 

Yulia smiled affectionately at him, but Renault was more interested in their story than their feelings for each other. “It’s nice that you two are so devoted to each other,” he pointed out, “but I don’t think that’s why Khyron let you come on this little trip.”

 

“You got it,” Braddock said. “It was a little quick thinking on Tassar’s part that got ‘em recruited. See, you don’t think the court would send one Sage, his apprentice, and a Troubadour completely alone, did you? Even the king realized that a little muscle was necessary.

 

I think he’s big on mercenaries nowadays, though, probably because of how much the Prime Minister loves ‘em. So instead of sending a contingent of soldiers or guards, King Galahad gave Khyron about six thousand gold to hire a few mercenaries. Problem was, though, there weren’t too many in Aquleia! With all the bandit activity around here and this country’s deteriorating relationship with Bern, most of the city’s mercenaries were already away on jobs. Tassar and I were the only ones he could find and afford who hadn’t already taken some other assignment.”

 

“Both of us can more than hold our own in a fight,” Tassar grinned reassuringly, “but Khyron still wanted more men at his side, especially fighters. His spells are pretty deadly, and it’d look bad if he ended up torching the people he’d come to arrest. Still, though, it didn’t look like he had much choice, until the day we finally left. Just when his group met up with me and Braddock at Aquleia’s north gate, those two,” he motioned towards Roberto and Apolli, “came along raising one hell of a ruckus.”

 

Roberto crossed his arms over his chest resolutely. “We were comin’ whether Khyron liked it or not!”

 

“Our employer was pretty angry,” Braddock chuckled, “but then Boss made a suggestion. Why not hire them as mercenaries?”

 

“It was perfectly logical,” Tassar said, “since Roberto was obviously the kind of big, tough man Khyron was looking for, and I felt Apolli’s skill with the bow might come in handy. It wasn’t difficult to convince Khyron to sign them on.”

 

“The money’s not bad,” Roberto grinned, “so Yulia won’t have to spend all her paycheck spiffin’ up our town, huh?”

 

All three of the country-dwellers looked at Renault. “Well, we’ve told you our story,” Yulia smiled, “so why don’t you tell us yours?”

 

Renault grunted. “There’s not much to tell. I saw Tassar, Braddock, and your friends hanging around an inn I liked, and Tassar offered me a drink, which I didn’t accept, and a chance to join his mercenary band, which I did the very next day. I wanted to get away from my mom for a while and to see the world outside of Thagaste, so I joined up. That’s it, really.”

 

The rest of the group nodded approvingly. “Same here,” Apolli said, “as much as I love my hometown, I always wanted to see what other parts of Etruria looked like.”

 

At this point, the campfire was burning low and the entire party was feeling sleepy and sated after a good meal. “Man, I’m tired!” Braddock yawned, “Boss, think we should pack it in for the night?”

 

Tassar nodded. “We should get to Scirocco by tomorrow afternoon if we manage an early start. If you want to be at your best by the time we get there, you’d better get some sleep now. That’s my first order to you as your commander!”

 

That was an order Renault and his friends were quite happy to follow. Khyron and Rosamia had already eaten their dinners from the wagon’s rations and were already fast asleep atop their respective sleeping mats. The rest of the troop headed towards theirs, with Yulia, Apolli, and Roberto’s mats close together, slightly farther away from Renault, Braddock, and Tassar’s. They had no blankets with them, but the summer night was warm enough that they didn’t need any. With a satisfied yawn, Renault curled up on his mat, with Tassar and Braddock already snoozing away above and to the left of him.

 

His belly was full and his heart was free of the anxieties which so plagued him in Thagaste. As Renault slowly drifted off to sleep, all he could think about was how sound his decision to leave his birthplace had been.

 

Of what he would find and what he would do when he reached Scirocco, he paid no thought.

 

-X-

 

“C’mon, bud. Time to get up.”

 

Renault opened his eyes, and this time he expected to see the person squatting before him. Smiling, Braddock gently shook Renault’s prone form. “We’re leaving pretty soon, man. You don’t wanna get left behind, do you?”

 

Renault sat up, stretched, then yawned contentedly. “No way,” he smiled, “I haven’t had a good night’s rest like that in a while! I’m ready to go when you are.”

 

Braddock laughed. “That’s good to hear. Getting used to having the ground for a bed, huh?”

 

“Hey, I’ve slept in a cobbled stone alley before.” Renault rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “This isn’t so bad compared to that, right?”

 

Laughing yet again, Braddock lent a hand to help his friend get on his feet. “Even I’ve never bedded in an alley before, so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. Hey, we’ve got a few minutes before we head out. Pack up your mat in the wagon and have breakfast with me, huh?”

 

“Sure thing. Rabbit stew again?”

 

“Nope. There’s no time for Apolli and Roberto to go hunting again. A quick meal of bread and water is what’s on the menu this morning.” Upon seeing the slightly dismayed look upon Renault’s face, Braddock grinned cheerily. “Hey, come on, it’s not so bad, right? Better than nothing.”

 

Renault nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”

 

The two men walked over to the troop’s supply wagon and stashed their sleeping mats in its interior. Braddock stepped inside to get at the food packs, soon returning with two loaves of black bread and a pair of canteens filled with water. ‘Eat up,” he smiled, tossing a canteen and a loaf to Renault, who managed to catch both without dropping either.

 

As the two of them began eating, Braddock sparked up some conversation regarding the party’s planned destination. “You know, Renault,” he said through a mouthful of bread, “I just don’t get this whole problem with Scirocco.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, these people lynched a tax collector just trying to do his job, so that’s definitely bad. Still, though, don’t you think the king’s to blame for this as well, at least a little bit? I mean, it’s obvious this new tax isn’t working out. How the hell could anybody expect a tiny, out-of-the way hamlet like Scirocco to provide much gold?”

 

Renault shrugged. “I dunno, man. Just between you and me, King Galahad’s a halfwit. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing!”

 

Braddock chuckled, inadvertently showering wet flecks of bread onto his chest. “Yeah, I thought as much. Typical aristocrat. If he doesn’t know what he’s doing, though, how come the entire country has to suffer for it? Does every region of Scirocco have to follow the king’s dictates, no matter how stupid they are?”

 

“Well, yeah. He’s the king.” Renault took another bite of his bread and looked at Braddock strangely. “You’re not from Etruria, are you?”

 

“Nope. I was born in Lycia.”

 

“Hah! I thought as much. I figured a Lycian like you wouldn’t know stuff like this.” Braddock frowned slightly at the dismissive insult, but didn’t say anything. “Here, I’ll explain it to you,” Renault continued. “Here’s the difference between Lycia and Etruria. Lycia’s a federation, right? It’s not really one unified realm, but more like a bunch of allied territories, called ‘cantons,’ am I correct?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Now, each of these cantons is pretty much independent, right? There’s no king or anything that rules over all of Lycia, each little territory is governed by its own marquess.”

 

“Well, that’s not quite true,” said Braddock. “Ostia’s the strongest of all the Lycian cantons. In times of war, all the other marquesses have to follow the lead of its marquess.”

 

“Well, yeah. But most of the time, in peace, each canton is pretty much independent, right? Each has its own customs, each can set its own taxes, that sort of thing.”

 

“Okay, that’s right, at least.”

 

Renault grinned. “That’s not how it works here. Like I said, Etruria is a monarchy, not a federation. All of the regions in this country aren’t autonomous. They can’t set their own taxes or laws, regardless of what’s appropriate for them. The monarch of Etruria, the king, has absolute authority over every last parcel of land in this country.”

 

“Are you sure?” Braddock smirked wryly at Renault. “I know for a fact Etruria, Bern, and other monarchies are made up of smaller territories as well. Reglay, Caerleon, Latium, and several others, so I’ve heard. They’re called ‘countships,’ aren’t they? For instance, we’re in the countship of Nerinheit right now, right?”

 

Renault blinked. “Yeah, you’re right. How do you know that? You’re not Etrurian!”

 

Braddock’s smirk became a smug smile. “I’ve just done some reading, is all.”

 

Renault’s smile was both genuine and admiring. “I’m genuinely impressed, I didn’t think a foreigner would know the names of Etruria’s countships. Down to earth AND well-read? Never thought those two attributes would go hand-in-hand.”

 

Braddock chuckled jovially, the tension between the two men dissipating. “Hey, man, don’t get all mushy on me. It’s not like I’m a sage or anything. Just a bit smarter than your average mercenary, huh?”

 

“Hah hah, I guess so. Still, you’re not quite on the mark about Etruria’s countships. See, here’s the difference. In Lycia, all the marquesses are technically equal, right? Even though some territories are stronger than others, and Ostia is the strongest of them all, each marquess can essentially run his canton as he sees fit.

 

Not so in Etruria. Every count in the realm can administrate his countship, that’s true, but it’s not really considered his. The king of Etruria is the guy who actually owns the land. Essentially, he just gave it to the count to oversee, and in return, the count has to make sure taxes are paid to the crown, the laws are obeyed, and, in times of war, serve the king as a soldier. So really, while the marquesses in Lycia are pretty independent, the counts and nobles of Etruria aren’t. They’re all the king’s vassals—they have to do what he tells them, no matter what, or else they’ll be considered rebels and lose their positions.”

 

“Ah, I get it!” Comprehension dawned on Braddock’s face as he finished off the last piece of his bread. “So even if a count doesn’t like the new taxes, he still has to make sure they’re collected? He doesn’t have any choice?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

Braddock snorted. “Man, that’s stupid! What kind of government is that?”

 

“Hmph!” Renault grunted and washed down the last bits of his bread with a gulp of water from his canteen. “What, you think Lycia’s government is any better? There’s a reason it’s just a minor power, you know! No strong central authority! Each territory has its own military, own tax system, and a few of its own laws. It’s so disorganized! For every marquess who runs his territory well, there’s another who’s a complete incompetent, and the marquess of Ostia can’t do anything about it because he’s just the ‘first among equals’ or some crap like that!”

 

“Well, you have a point there, Renault,” Braddock had to admit. “Still, though, think about it. Sometimes that disorganization can be a good thing. In Etruria, all these problems are occurring because there’s just one law for the entire nation. Every single region of Etruria has to pay this new tax, regardless of whether they can shoulder it or not. It’s not a big deal for the richer countships, but for a poor one like Nerinheit, it’s completely impractical. If this was Lycia, of course, this wouldn’t be a problem. The rich cantons can levy heavy taxes since they can afford them, and the poor cantons can go with lower taxes. Even if one marquess doesn’t know what he’s doing, he can’t mess up all the other territories. If the king of a monarchy doesn’t know what he’s doing, though…well, that’s a much bigger problem.”

 

“Huh,” Renault pursed his lips thoughtfully, “You know, you’re right. I never really thought of it that way before. I gotta admit, you’ve got a point.”

 

“See? I told you so!” Braddock grinned mischievously. “Guess Etruria’s not so great after all, huh?”

 

Renault grinned right back. “Hey, I wouldn’t go that far. After all, even if our present king’s a halfwit, his stupidity is what’s paying our wages when you think about it. If it wasn’t for this dumb tax, there probably wouldn’t have been a lynching in Scirocco, and we wouldn’t have a job right now!”

 

“Well, that’s true,” Braddock laughed. “And speaking of that job, I think it’s about time to get moving, eh?” The two men looked around the camp, where their compatriots were finishing their breakfasts and the last preparations for their journey. Apolli had armed himself with a sturdy iron-reinforced bow, Roberto had unlimbered his trusty iron woodcutter’s axe, and Yulia sat astride her horse, holding a larger version of the birch, sapphire-tipped rod Renault had seen in his mother’s home—he believed it was a Mend staff. Khyron and Rosamia had taken up their seats at the front of the wagon, and Tassar making a few last-minute preparations at its back.

 

The mercenary leader looked over his shoulder. “Renault, Braddock!” he called, “Come get your stuff ready.”

 

Renault looked at Braddock, who merely shrugged, and the two of them made their way over to Tassar. “Put on your equipment, Braddock,” Tassar said. Braddock readily complied, retrieving a fine-looking breastplate, greaves, gauntlet and axe from the supplies.

 

Turning to Renault, the mercenary tossed him a heavy, padded object. “Oof!” Renault grunted, managing to catch it with some difficulty. “What the hell is this?”

 

“Leather armor,” Tassar replied. “It’s just about your size, lucky enough. It’s not as good as mine,” he gestured at his worn but sturdy-looking breastplate, “but it’ll provide a bit of protection.”

 

“Protection?” Renault was growing somewhat worried. “I thought we wouldn’t need any! This job’s supposed to be easy, right?”

 

“Yes, that’s right. Still, even though I don’t expect to see real combat, wearing this’ll make you look more like a real mercenary. It’ll be easier for you to impress the townies.”

 

“If you say so.” Renault proceeded to don the armor, which actually fit him quite well, much to his surprise and Tassar’s satisfaction.

 

“Ah, take this, too.” Parsing through the wagon’s weapon rack, Tassar managed to find something suitable for Renault. He handed the young man what would be his very first weapon—an unassuming iron sword, still sheathed in its scabbard. Renault took the offered weapon with equal measures of pride and trepidation, for while he felt stronger and more confident just by holding a weapon, he also hoped that he wouldn’t have to put it to use.

 

“Go on,” Tassar grinned, “take it out. Have you ever held a sword before?”

 

“No,” Renault stammered sheepishly, “I can’t say I have. Uh—“

 

“It’s no problem.” Tassar’s voice was sweet, almost hypnotizing. “Everybody has to start somewhere, don’t they? Go on, unsheathe it. You’re right-handed, aren’t you? Just grip the hilt with that hand, the scabbard with your left, and pull the sword out.”

 

With the mercenary’s gentle encouragement, Renault finally worked up the courage to brandish his new weapon. With one strong, fluid motion, he drew out his blade.

 

The young man was almost surprised by how easily it slipped out of its sheath. Even though there was nothing at all exceptional about the weapon—it was a simple double-edged iron longsword, and Renault had seen better arms on Thagaste’s city guard—he still felt the slightest twinge of awe as he held the sword up to the sun, watching its edge gleam in the light.

 

His very own sword! How far he had come from under his mother’s wing!

 

“Pretty good, Renault!” Tassar clapped his hands together. “You move well. I think you’ve got some potential! You’re just a fresh recruit, so you’re nothing special yet, but I think I can teach you a couple of basics.”

 

“Whoa, hold on a second!” The brief surge of self-confidence Renault had felt as he brandished the sword dissipated at the frightening thought of actually using it in combat. “I thought you said we wouldn’t actually have to fight!”

 

Tassar chuckled. “Easy, easy. I meant what I said. We don’t want to kill anybody, after all, we just want to put a couple troublemakers in chains and drag them back to Aquleia for trial. I’m just saying, it couldn’t hurt to know how to at least hold your new weapon, right?”

 

Despite his apprehensions, Renault found himself growing more confident just listening to Tassar’s comforting words. “Well…all right.”

 

“Good!” The mercenary leader smiled. “I’ll just teach you a couple of stances first. Like I said, you don’t actually need to learn the strikes,” and as he said this Renault couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t being quite truthful, “but a good stance will make you look more professional.” His eyes narrowing somewhat, he said sternly, “No mercenary of mine will bumble around not even knowing how to hold a sword!”

 

And so it went, for the better part of fifteen minutes, while the rest of the troop finished up packing their supplies and getting their equipment ready, Tassar patiently guided Renault through the four basic stances of the longsword—Ox, Plow, Fool, and Roof. Even though he was completely new to the art of swordsmanship, Renault found these stances easy enough to comprehend, drawing pleased compliments from Tassar.

 

“Looks like you’ve got the hang of the Roof stance,” he said with satisfaction. Renault was standing before him with the sword raised above his head (which was why the stance was called the Roof), both hands gripping the handle (with his right above his left), and with his shoulders also raised about forty-five degrees. “Just lead with your left leg and bend both legs a little more,” Tassar advised, hastily interjecting “not too much!” as Renault bent too low. The young man quickly straightened out just a bit, and Tassar grinned. “Good, good. That’s it. Just as a pointer, you don’t have to hold the sword over your head at all times. In some situations, you may want to hold it a little lower, over your right shoulder.”

 

“Is that so?” Renault followed his leader’s suggestion and shifted the sword downwards.

 

“Not too low!” Tassar cautioned. “Keep your hilt in front of your collar, not in front of your chest. And don’t rest the blade over your shoulder, you can cut yourself that way, and it makes you look lazy.”

 

“Alright, I got it.” Straightening up slightly, Renault moved the blade upwards. “Like this?”

 

“Yes.” Tassar smiled. “Good form, Renault. I think that should be enough for now. If you remember how to keep these stances, you’ll look less like a kid with a sword and more like a professional warrior.”

 

Before Tassar could continue, he was suddenly interrupted quite rudely. “Are you two done playing around?” Khyron harrumphed, getting up from his seat on the wagon to march towards the two men. “We’re ready to move out! Stop wasting time and get to your positions!”

 

“Hey, we were just training—“ Renault began, but Tassar cut it off.

 

“Of course. Our apologies, sir. Renault, you heard him. Let’s get going.”

 

This satisfied the haughty sage, and as he headed back to his wagon, Tassar turned back to Renault. “I understand how you feel,” he said sympathetically, “but remember, that guy is the one paying our wages. Most of the time, lords don’t even care whether their mercenaries live or die, much less about what they have to say. If you don’t want to get sent back home without even an extra gold piece in your wallet, you’d better learn to keep your mouth shut around your employer, no matter how stupid he may be. That’s an even more important lesson for a mercenary than knowing how to use a sword.”

 

The wagon had started to move, with the rest of the mercenary troop following behind it, and Tassar quickly turned away from Renault to catch up. The young man stood still for a moment, watching his mentor jog away and digesting what he had said.

 

“Fine,” Renault muttered to himself. “I’m getting paid good money for this little trip anyways. I can deal with a popinjay like Khyron.”

 

With those words to soothe his wounded pride, Renault broke into a light run, hurrying to keep pace with his companions.

 

-X-

 

“Nice axe, man!”

 

Walking along the modest dirt trail that served as a road for most of the poorer north of Etruria, Renault stared admiringly at the vicious-looking axe which was Braddock’s favored weapon. It was indeed impressive—where Roberto’s axe had merely a cheap iron head attached to a modest wooden shaft, Braddock’s had a cast-iron shaft and two polished steel heads, one larger than the other and particularly vicious-looking.

 

The Lycian grinned proudly. “Really is, isn’t it? Here, watch this.” Braddock took one gauntleted hand and gently ran a finger over the edge of his axe’s larger blade. He then lifted the finger and held it before Renault’s face, where his friend could see a thin tear on the gauntlet’s metal.

 

“Whoah!” Renault was taken aback. “That’s some edge!”

 

“Yep. This axe can chop through even the most heavily armored knight like he was wearing nothing but rags!”

 

“Where’d you get it? I’ve never seen something so sharp!”

 

Braddock held his weapon up to the sun, gazing at it fondly. “You won’t see something like this outside Lycia. It’s called a Wolf Beil, and it’s an Ostian specialty. We’re the only ones who know how to forge ’em and how to wield ‘em.” He looked at Renault slyly. “Guess Lycians aren’t so stupid after all, eh?”

 

“Heh, maybe not. Still not as smart as the Etrurians, though!”

 

Braddock chortled at this, but stopped as something in the distance caught his eye. “Hey, what’s that?”

 

Renault turned his eyes forward and saw what appeared to be a squat mound rising above the ground. He squinted and strained his eyes, but whatever it was, it was too far away for him to make out any details. “I have no idea,” he said, “I guess we’ll see when we get closer to it.”

 

The group continued their march for a little less than half an hour, and by that time they had just about reached the mound Braddock had seen in the distance. Up close, they could easily discern what it actually was.

 

What had looked like a mound in the distance was actually the derelict ruin of a small castle that had not seen a single visitor in decades. It might have been quite beautiful once, but age and neglect had not been kind to it. The stones of its walls were chipped and crumbling, and the bright colors of the shingles atop the pinnacles of its spires had turned dull and stained with the guano of the bats which had taken control of the building after its original inhabitants abandoned it. As a former stoneworker, Renault couldn’t help but wince when he thought of the amount of work it would take to restore that building.

 

“We’re nearing our destination!” Khyron announced cheerily. “I’ve heard quite a bit of this castle! It used to be the seat of the previous count of Nerinheit before he moved his family to a manor in the countryside about thirty years ago. The present count, Glaesal, has spoken much to me about his youth here.”

 

Despite his employer’s cheerful chatter, Tassar wore a grim expression indeed. The reason for this became apparent when he pointed to a small, dead tree growing a few yards away from the abandoned castle. “Look at that,” he said bluntly. “We’re definitely close, all right.”

 

All of the travelers turned to get a good look at that tree.

 

The sight which greeted them was enough to make Yulia shriek with fear and nearly fall off her horse.

 

The rotting corpse of Revil, the unfortunate tax collector, hung swaying from the highest twisted branch of the dead tree. His skin had turned a repulsive shade of gray and was beginning to slough off, and his glassy eyes bulged from their sunken sockets. A fat, limp tongue lolled from his gaping mouth, and flies buzzed incessantly in and out of the orifice. The corpse itself was bad enough, but when the party looked downwards, even the battle-hardened Tassar felt more than a little disquieted. The enraged townsfolk had not merely excised Revil’s genitals, as Valentius had stated in his letter—they seemed to have gouged out his entire groin, and a host of maggots writhed vilely in the ragged hole of the man’s crotch.

 

Renault blanched and shut his eyes as tightly as he could, and even Braddock had to look away. Khyron’s face tightened into an angry scowl, and Rosamia stared resolutely at the horrid sight, using every inch of her formidable discipline to restrain her impulse to retch. Yulia had not the same strong mettle, and as she nearly vomited, Roberto and Apolli hastily helped her from her horse before she fell off of it. She promptly threw herself into Apolli’s arms and buried her head in his chest. The young man stroked her hair and put his head next to her ear, whispering “it’ll be all right, it’ll be all right,” over and over again, as much to distract himself from the horrifying image as to comfort his sweetheart.

 

After allowing his troop a few minutes to compose themselves (and to allow Yulia’s fearful sobbing to subside), Tassar deemed it time to press on. “This may be horrible, but we’ve no time to waste,” he said grimly. “Whoever did this has to be punished. Let’s go.”

 

“Wait,” Apolli said, drawing hesitant stares from the rest of his companions. “I…I don’t think we should leave yet.”

 

Tassar narrowed his eyes. “What?”

 

Apolli met his gaze with a sincere, determined one of his own. “We can’t just leave the poor man hanging there like that! He…he deserves a decent burial, at least!”

 

Yulia broke away from Apolli’s embrace, sniffled, and wiped her face with the sleeves of her flowing white blouse. “I…I agree,” she stammered. “Nobody deserves…deserves this. It’s just wrong to leave him for the crows to pick at! I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night thinkin’ of him just rottin’ there!”

 

Tassar shook his head. “We don’t have enough time,” he stated flatly. “Isn’t that correct, sir?”

 

“No, it’s not,” Khyron replied, greatly surprising the rest of the group, who never would have thought the impatient, haughty man would accept a delay. Khyron got up from the wagon and strode up to the corpse, anger flaring in his brown eyes. “This was once a royal servant!” he declared, his voice rising. “Even the humblest tax collector is an agent of the king! No matter who they may be, they are still deserving of respect! And these…these commoners have done this?” The sage was yelling now, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth. “Unacceptable! I shall never tolerate such flagrant disrespect towards the crown! I cannot allow a servant of my country to hang here and rot like…like an animal! He SHALL be buried, on my pride as a royal Etrurian sage! All of you, get to work!”

 

“I thought we were mercenaries, not gravediggers,” Renault said callously, drawing angry stares from the rest of the group.

 

Tassar quickly cut off any argument before a fight could erupt. “Mercenaries obey the orders of their employer,” he stated firmly and coldly. “You have just been ordered to bury this man’s corpse. Do it, or leave.”

 

The mercenary leader’s tone invited no dissent, and Renault saw that he had no choice. “Fine,” he mumbled despondently as he headed off with his companions to fetch shovels from the wagon.

 

“Come on, Renault,” Braddock admonished, somewhat disappointed by his friend’s petulance. “We might as well get the body out of sight while we’re here. It’ll be pretty bad to have to look at some nasty corpse when we’re heading back, won’t it?”

 

“Not as bad as watching somebody die from consumption,” Renault grunted.

 

Braddock had no idea what to make of that remark, but he let it pass as Renault took up a shovel and began helping Apolli and Roberto with the digging. The ground was soft and gave quite easily, and they had soon dug a makeshift, shallow grave for poor Revil a few feet away from the dead tree. Tassar, wearing heavy leather gloves, expertly cut the body from the tree with a well-aimed throw of his hand axe and proceeded to dump it into the grave.

 

“Do…do you think we should read him the rites?” Apolli asked before his friends began dumping dirt back into the grave.

 

Khyron nodded. “That would be appropriate. However, I have had no formal religious training. I don’t think I would be able to do so properly. Rosamia, could you?”

 

The woman shook her head. “I only know what you have taught me, Lord Khyron. I don’t know the words of the rites.”

 

“Hmph! Useless as usual,” Khyron sneered, unaware that he was insulting himself as a teacher by demeaning his student. “Can anyone fulfill this task?”

 

“I-I can,” Yulia piped up. “Th’ priest back at home taught me a bit of that kinda stuff. I think I can do it.”

 

“You may be a commoner, but you are still a troubadour of the Royal court. It is only appropriate that you show some worth.” Khyron nodded. “Very well. Go ahead.”

 

“Ugh,” Braddock muttered under his breath before the young girl began reciting the solemn prayers. He coldly walked off a short distance so he couldn’t hear any of the words, and Tassar merely nodded knowingly as he watched him go. Curious, and wanting to get out of earshot of an Eliminean ritual he disdained, Renault followed his friend.

 

“Hey man, what’s up?” he asked.

 

“Huh?” Braddock looked at Renault apologetically. “Sorry, Renault. I…I’m just not so big on Eliminism, is all.”

 

“Hah! Nice!” Renault grinned broadly and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Same here!”

 

“Really?” Braddock’s sheepish look became a hesitant smile.

 

“Hell yeah! That’s one reason I wanted to get away from Thagaste!” Renault snorted. “I hated all that religion crap people always tried to shove down my throat. Especially my mom, she was the worst. I had to get away from it all.”

 

“Sorry to hear that, my friend,” Braddock said sympathetically. “I wouldn’t have as much of a problem with Eliminism if most of its adherents were nice, like Yulia. People like your mom are what make me hate it. Uh…no offense.”

 

“None taken. You’re spot on.” Renault looked over at Yulia, where it seemed she had completed the rites. “Well, looks like it’s over with. Come on, let’s finish the grave and get going.”

 

Soon enough, the hole in the earth had been completely filled, and it was as if a dead body had never hung from that tree in the first place. Despite this, nothing could shake the atmosphere of gloom and dread that had settled over the once-cheery party. Tassar and Khyron didn't care, of course, and the troop was once again marching on the final leg of their journey.

 

Suddenly, it seemed, this journey would not be quite so fun.

 

-X-

 

"Looks like we're here," Tassar said.

 

The party had marched north from the abandoned castle for a little less than half an hour, and had finally reached Scirocco. Even though their journey was at an end--all they had to do was apprehend whoever worked up that lynch mob--none of them felt particularly glad. The sight of the mangled tax collector had made all of them much more wary of what could potentially be waiting for them inside the small village.

 

The mercenaries were currently standing in front of the tall wooden double-doored gate which served as the only means of egress into the small town. Like many northern Etrurian villages, the people of Scirocco had erected a tall wood fence around the perimeter of their settlement, in order to provide at least a modicum of protection from wandering gangs of bandits. A single bowman stood as a sentry in a watchtower behind the gate, watching the approaching procession with some curiosity.

 

"Hold!" The young man shouted. "Who are you, and what business do you have here?"

 

Khyron stopped his wagon and imperiously strode up to the wooden gate, looking up at the boy in the lookout. Tassar, Braddock, and Renault hastily got into position close behind him, in order to protect their employer if something went wrong.

 

"I am Khyron Caerleon, brother of Exedol Caerleon, Mage General of Etruria!" he declared. "I am a lawful emissary of His Eminency, the King of Etruria! By royal decree, we have been ordered to apprehend the criminals responsible for the death of Revil, agent of the Etrurian crown! You will grant us entry and hand over those we seek, or you will face the wrath of the king himself!"

 

The young sentry took a moment to digest all of this, and then sneered contemptuously. "The king?" he called down, "None of us here are afraid of that fat, ugly bloodsucker! The king and all his men can go rot in a gutter!"

 

At this, Khyron's face contorted and scrunched up, his cheeks turned a bright shade of scarlet, and his hands trembled at his sides. Everyone around him wisely took a step back, for none of them had seen the sage so incensed before. "How dare you!" He screamed up at the young man, who looked no more intimidated than he had before. "You impertinent worm! I shall teach you the proper respect!"

 

"Khyron! Wait!" Rosamia and Tassar both yelled, but the furious sage paid them no heed. He quickly held up a thick red book filled with eldritch flame--an Elfire tome--and began chanting. Before he could cast the spell, though, he was interrupted by a sharp report from above.

 

Upon seeing the intruder begin to cast magic, Scirocco's young sentry put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill, sharp whistle. Khyron stuttered and looked at the strange fellow, not at all sure what that whistle was supposed to herald.

 

The sound of a host of flapping wings was the first answer he received.

 

"What the hell?" Renault asked, instinctively drawing his sword from his sheath and holding it before him, as if it would ward off whatever threat was fast approaching. His companions readied whatever equipment they had as well, not knowing what to expect.

 

What emerged from behind Scirocco's walls defied any expectations they may have had.

 

A score of Pegasus knights soared into the sky above the heads of the frightened travelers, circling over them like vultures over a corpse. The pure-white wings of their mounts seemed to glow softly in the afternoon sun, and the edges of their slim spears were all pointed downwards, ready to dive into flesh. The eyes of the young female knights riding the pegasi seemed to be almost as frightened as those of the mercenaries below them, but they were Ilians nonetheless, and their expressions showed beyond any doubt that they were more than ready to kill.

 

As he watched the winged warriors glide ominously above him, Renault knew then and there that this job would prove much, much harder than he had originally thought.

 

_:Linear Notes:_

 

Allow me to acknowledge some sources I used in writing this fic. The description of longsword stances comes from the fine people of the Association for Renaissance Martial arts, or ARMA. I looked at several articles on their site, you should be able to find them at thearma.org . I also used the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Arms and Armor guide.


	5. Mercenary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault begins to learn what a mercenary's life truly entails.

Wayward Son

 

Chapter 5: Mercenary

 

“Still wanna fight now?”

 

The sentry of Scirocco smiled smugly as he looked down at the horrified expressions frozen on the faces of the royal mages and their mercenaries. A young, teal-haired swordsman seemed particularly awestruck, his hands dangling limply by his sides.

 

Renault thought he was dreaming—or having a nightmare. This was supposed to be a quick job, a pleasant little journey punctuated by a simple brawl and ending with five hundred gold pieces jangling in his pouch. But instead of facing a few dumb, buck-toothed bumpkins, Renault found himself looking up at a complement of fierce, well-trained, and airborne warriors.

 

Khyron was the first of his group to say anything. “H…how?” he blustered, his typical arrogance dissipating in the face of his shock. “Th…this can’t be! Pegasus Knights are the most highly valued mercenary troops on the continent! How could you afford to hire this many when you couldn’t even pay your own taxes?”

 

The sentry just laughed again. “Well, well, that’s a pretty good question, ain’t it? Too bad the answer’s not for you. You wanna find out, you’re gonna have to knock me from my nice little perch up here. ‘Course, I don’t think it’ll be that easy for you, will it?” He looked up at his flying friends. “Call me crazy, but I have a feeling these ladies might have something t’ say about that. Ain’t that right, dears?”

 

He casually waved his hand and motioned for his allies to set down, which they did so in perfect and precise formation. Renault and his friends found themselves facing a score of Pegasus Knights on the ground in a V-shaped formation protecting the gate of Scirocco. Most of the knights seemed to be young girls just about Yulia’s age or younger, clad in the distinctive high stockings, low-cut white uniform, and light chestplate Ilia provided to its female warriors. The pegasi they rode were beautiful creatures—even the stallions were more delicate and finely-formed than the most well-bred earthly mare, and their wings were covered in downy feathers that could have passed as a swan’s plumage.

 

The only exception to this was the woman at the head of their formation; apparently their leader. She was considerably older than her troops, with the beginnings of worry lines etched in her forehead above her tired green eyes. Her hair, also green, was neither unkempt nor exceptionally well-maintained; it simply fell over her shoulders to the nape of her neck, carefully brushed to keep it out of her eyes. Her armor provided a bit more protection than that of her troops, covering her upper waist as well as her chest, and her mount was considerably better armored than its fellows, equipped with ornate gilded barding and wearing a holed helmet which allowed its single horn to protrude unobstructed. Most impressive of all was the fine silver lance she held with relaxed care.

 

“I am Commander Fontina of the Dawnwings, Ilia’s eighth division of Pegasus Knights,” the older woman said. Her tone was firm, but there was a hint of resignation in it. “We have been hired by the town of Scirocco to protect it from any outside interference, and that includes any incursion by the Etrurian military or mercenaries hired by the Etrurian crown.”

 

“What is this?” Khyron sputtered. “Scirocco is an Etrurian town, and its people are Etrurian subjects! How can we, agents of the King himself, be considered ‘outside interference’ here?”

 

“Because we don’t take orders from the king anymore!” the sentry shouted from above. “We’re sick and tired of having to send our money to that doddering imbecile. From here on out, this is our land!” He pumped his fist angrily into the air. “Scirocco is an independent village!”

 

“Independent village?” Khyron repeated incredulously, “What nonsense is this? Why, I’d think you were rebelling against Etruria!”

 

The sentry laughed harshly. “Not too quick, are you? Don’t you get it? That’s exactly it! We’ve severed all our ties to that worthless fool sitting on the throne. We’re willing to fight for our freedom, and anybody who tries to take it away from us is going to end up just like that damn tax collector!”

 

The mention of poor Revil set off Khyron’s pride, and his anger overwhelmed his good sense. “Insolent wretch!” he shouted, again brandishing his Elfire tome.

 

Before he could even open it, however, he was stopped cold by the twenty knights before him brandished their own weapons. Yulia let out a small shriek of surprise and terror as slender spears and javelins were pointed directly at Khyron, ready to skewer him at a moment’s notice.

 

“I would firmly advise you to choose a different course of action, sir,” Fontina stated, her voice as cold and grim as the metal of her weapon. “We have not been ordered to engage in combat unless absolutely necessary. We are only here to protect the town. If you turn back now, we will allow you to leave with your lives.”

 

“Do you know who you are addressing, woman?” the sage retorted. “I am Khyron of House Caerleon, brother of the Mage General himself! I am a full-blooded Etrurian noble! I shall take no orders from an Ilian vulture!”

 

At this, an angry scowl almost collectively spread across the faces of the Ilian knights, and Fontina had to raise a hand to stop them from taking flight and slaughtering the arrogant noble in a rage—though at that moment, she wanted to do the exact same thing herself. Despite their importance in conflicts all throughout Elibe, Ilian mercenaries were widely despised for making their living off of war and death. Thus, in many countries they were scornfully called “crows” or “vultures.” All Ilians considered this a most terrible insult, and it was only the falcon knight’s absolute control over her troops that prevented them from answering Khyron’s slur with their lances.

 

“I will tell you a final time,” Fontina said, the anger in her voice little more than the slightest tremor. “Leave now, or we will attack.”

 

“I told you, I shall take no orders from”—Khyron began, but Rosamia rushed up to him and grabbed his wrist before he could do something stupid.

 

“Master, no!” She hissed insistently. “We’re completely unprepared for this. We don’t stand a chance!”

 

Khyron glared down at her, rage etched into his face, but Tassar added his voice to Rosamia’s. “Khyron, we’re outnumbered more than two to one, plus we have no idea what else might be waiting for us inside of Scirocco. We can revise our strategy if we fall back, but we’ll be slaughtered if we get into an open battle right here!”

 

“Fall back,” Khyron hissed between gritted teeth, “Why mince words? We’re retreating, aren’t we? Retreating like cowards?”

 

“There’s an old saying, sir, discretion is the better part of—“

 

“I know the aphorism!” he snapped. “Fine, I understand! We are turning back!”

 

The rest of his party turned to look at the sage, happy to get out of a real battle but unsure of what his true intentions were.

 

“You heard me!” Khyron shouted, as much to drown out the wailings of his wounded pride as to be heard. “We shall turn back at once!”

 

Fontina smiled grimly. “You have made a wise decision, sir. There need be no blood spilled this day.”

 

Both the mercenaries and the Pegasus knights seemed relieved to hear this—except for one person.

 

“Aw, dammit!” A young pegasus knight groaned in disappointment as an opportunity for an ugly battle disappeared. She sat astride her pegasus right behind and to the left of Fontina, and she fingered her lance in frustrated anticipation. “Captain, why can’t we just kill ‘em all right now? It’s no fun to just let ‘em go like that. We were sent here to kill, so let’s earn our keep, huh?”

 

“Silence, Kasha!” Fontina scolded harshly. “We have been ordered to fight only when absolutely necessary! Do not allow your lack of control to endanger us all!”

 

“Come on, Captain!” the young knight whined. “Look how badly we outnumber them! They don’t even seem that tough! Look at that kid over there,” she said dismissively; waving towards a shocked Renault, “He’s shaking like a leaf! What a coward!”

 

Renault was indeed absolutely terrified, but his fear receded for a moment when he saw that he himself was being addressed. “W…what?” he stammered, “Are you talking about me?”

 

“That’s right, boy.” Kasha sneered. “You look like you’re just about ready to wet your pants! Hah, hah! Do you even know how to use that sword strapped to your hip? Doesn’t look like it!”

 

This was exactly the wrong thing to say to the temperamental young man. He clenched his fists as his vision turned red and white-hot rage replaced fear in his heart. “I don’t need to take this from some stupid Ilian bitch,” Renault growled. “You think I can’t fight?! I’ll show you!”

 

“Renault, no!” An expression of pure dismay was stamped onto the faces of both Braddock and Tassar, but neither of them was fast enough to stop Renault from following through with his promise. Just as Tassar had taught him, he drew his sword from its sheath in one fluid motion, then took a step forward with his left foot and held the weapon over his head, settling into one of the basic stances of any skilled swordsman—the Roof.

 

For a brief moment, holding the sword as a real mercenary had taught him, Renault actually felt both confident and pleased with himself.

 

Then he remembered that Tassar had not actually taught him any strikes that could be launched from this position, looked at the twenty trained Pegasus knights staring at him incredulously, and began to realize the full magnitude of his stupidity.

 

“Oooh!” Kasha chirped in delight. “Looks like you’ve got some fight in you after all! Let’s see how good you really are!”

 

“Kasha! Enough!” Fontina shouted, but even she could no longer restrain her underling’s bloodlust. Kasha spurred her pegasus and the beast flapped its pearly wings, propelling rider and mount high into the sky. With a vicious grin, Kasha readied her spear, spurred her mount a second time, and dived like a screaming arrow straight at Renault.

 

Even in his wildest nightmares, the young man had never expected to die so soon or so far away from home, but in the span of a single moment that seemed like an eternity, Renault locked eyes with the blood-crazed Pegasus knight careening towards him, and knew beyond a doubt that here and now was his life’s end.

 

-X-

 

“DIE!” Kasha screamed joyously, racing down to Renault with her spear at the ready. The terrified young man tried to think of some defense, tried to recall ANYTHING useful he had ever heard about swordplay, but only succeeded in stumbling and falling squarely on his behind. His eyes widened and he could do nothing but gape at the lance plunging towards his chest, preparing to tear through his cheap leather armor and pierce straight through his heart—

 

And could only blink in confusion when the last thing he heard was not the sickening sound of rending flesh but the harsh clash of metal against metal.

 

Much to his surprise, he found he wasn’t dead—precisely the opposite. And judging by the astonished look pasted onto the face of the bloodthirsty Pegasus Knight veering away from him, she seemed to be just as shocked as he was.

 

A religious man might have attributed this turn of events to an act of God, but Renault, unbeliever as he was, saw no need to think of divine intervention when he saw the hulking form towering protectively over him.

 

Faster than Renault had thought possible for a man wearing such heavy armor, Braddock had darted in front of his prone body and turned away Kasha’s killing blow with the flat of his axe. The Ostian gripped his weapon and steadied himself, preparing for another attack from the Pegasus knights. He quickly turned his head to glance back at Renault. “Are you all right?” he asked.

 

“Y-yeah.” Renault didn’t know what to say—he’d never had his life saved by anybody before. The beginnings of a stuttered “Thank you” reached his lips, but Braddock quickly cut him off.

 

“No need to thank me,” he quickly stated, “We don’t have time. Just get up and get back. If they come again, I’ll hold ‘em off.”

 

Renault was only too happy to oblige. Shaken as he was, he still managed to remember to pick up his fallen sword, and proceeded to rush back to Yulia, Roberto, and Apolli, who all seemed only marginally less terrified than he was.

 

Kasha, however, had already regained her composure and had landed in front of Braddock, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Nice move!” she said appreciatively. “You’re pretty quick, even considering that axes are good against spears. I think I’m gonna have a lot of fun with you!”

 

Braddock ignored her outright, turning instead to Commander Fontina. “Look, miss,” he began, “We weren’t expecting Pegasus Knights to be defending this town, and we sure weren’t prepared for it. Trust us, we don’t want to pick a fight with you, not when you outnumber us this bad. But,” he motioned towards Kasha, “If you guys want a fight so badly, at least a few of us are more than able to oblige you.” He gripped his sturdy axe, brandishing it before him skillfully and threateningly. “I’ll be honest, you may be able to take us down. But I think it’s going to be more than a little harder than you expect. Don’t you agree, boss?”

 

During Braddock’s soliloquy, Tassar had quietly walked up beside him, unlimbering the small hand axe strapped to his back. He tossed it before him casually, indicating how skilled he was with the nasty little weapon. “I think I do,” he said calmly. “So make your choice, woman. You want us to leave, or you want us to stay and fight?”

 

“I think I’ll choose the second option!” Kasha smiled, but before she could even prepare to make another attack, she was quickly stopped by a scathing rebuke.

 

“KASHA! ENOUGH!” Fontina yelled, in a commanding tone that intimidated even her battle-crazed subordinate.

 

“B-but,” Kasha stuttered meekly (amazing Renault, who couldn’t believe anyone could reign in someone that crazy), but her superior would brook no disagreement.

 

“You are a knight of Ilia!” Fontina hissed, quietly this time but no less forceful. “And more than that, you are a knight in MY wing! You will NOT cause me shame, girl. Do you understand?”

 

Kasha’s eyes smoldered with resentment, but even she was not so foolish as to defy Fontina’s orders—the cast of the older woman’s face was terrifying enough to cow even her into submission. “Yes, Ma’am,” she glumly replied, hanging her head.

 

Fontina turned to the mercenaries. “Forgive the display,” she said flatly, “but as you can see, some of my subordinates are considerably more eager to fight than I am. I cannot guarantee your safety if you stay here much longer.”

 

Khyron’s face twisted as he attempted to deliver a scathing retort, but Tassar hastily cut him off. “No!” he insisted. “We’re not prepared for this! Ilian mercenaries are no joke, sir. We should fall back to revise our strategy, if nothing else.”

 

“Very well,” Khyron said with gritted teeth. Turning to his troops, he announced, “We shall leave Scirocco for now, but we shall return! Follow me!”

 

The sage hastily returned to his seat on the wagon and turned it about, with Rosamia rushing to get on. The rest of the mercenaries hurried after it, all too glad to get away from the Pegasus Knights.

 

Unfortunately, judging from what Khyron had said, both the mercenaries and the Ilians had a bad feeling they’d be seeing each other again soon enough.

 

-X-

 

Gerard would not call himself a nervous man (though the Pegasus knights defending his town probably would) but he could hardly claim to possess nerves of steel either. Thus he made no effort to conceal his worry, in both the form of sweat gleaming off his pale, bald head and his nervous habit of wringing his hands together, when he heard that a small detachment of soldiers loyal to the crown of Etruria had just arrived on his doorstep.

 

His worries had only grown when it seemed that the loyalists had not fled at first sight of his Pegasus Knight allies, and he could swear the few strands of his hair that were not white would fall straight out after he saw a lone knight soar into the air, spear at the ready, and descend to a killing dive, which was quickly followed by a frightful clash of metal. He was glad when he saw the girl ascend again, apparently unhurt, and deep inside he could only hope no harm had come to anyone else either.

 

Gerard took out his handkerchief and wiped at his brow unhappily. Noticing his blatant anxiety, the young red-haired girl standing next to him reached out to quickly and surreptitiously squeeze his hand. When he looked down at her, she flashed him the same reassuring, irresistible smile that had won him (and the rest of the village, particularly his grandson) over the moment they met.

 

“Worry not, my friend,” she said, “These Pegasus Knights are the best my master could afford, and as you know, that’s quite a lot! They’ll have no trouble driving off these loyalist pigs!”

 

Seeing the young lady’s optimism, Gerard couldn’t help feeling better himself, although the anxiety in his eyes had far from disappeared completely. “Y-you’re right, Meris, of course.” He smiled tentatively. “I’m sure I’ll feel better when—Oh, look!” His eyes lighted up. “They’re returning now!”

 

Sure enough, accompanied by the loud beating of twenty pairs of white wings, the Pegasus Knights had launched from their guard outside of Scirocco’s walls to return behind them. They alighted near the makeshift stables Gerard had ordered built for them soon after they first arrived, and the mayor of the town along with his red-haired benefactor immediately rushed towards them to congratulate them. His heart leapt with delight when he saw that all the girls seemed to be unharmed, save for Kasha, who seemed quite disappointed, and Fontina, who was glaring angrily at her.

 

“Ah, thank—“ Gerard was about to say “God,” but stopped himself, remembering the animosity Meris along with many other townsfolk held towards Eliminism. “Thank you,” he stammered awkwardly. “I was so afraid you might have gotten hurt when I heard that terrible noise earlier! I’m so glad you’re all safe!”

 

Fontina smiled at him as she descended from her mount, and that smile was quite genuine. “I am touched by your concern, sir,” she said—quite sincerely, as most foreigners cared very little for the lives of Ilians—“but I assure you, we are all fine. The racket you heard earlier,” she glared pointedly at the unhappy Kasha, “was nothing more than the result of a shameful display of insubordination. Nothing for you to worry about.”

 

“Aha, I see,” Gerard said. As relieved as he was to see none of the mercenaries had been hurt, he still worried for the fate of his little town. “W-what of the loyalists you faced?”

 

“They fled with their tails between their legs!” Kasha groaned. “How pathetic! I didn’t even get a chance to skewer one of ‘em!”

 

“Kasha! Silence!” Fontina scolded. Turning back to Gerard, she smiled again. “They have indeed fled. Scirocco is safe for now.”

 

Meris grinned cheerfully. “As I said!” she declared.

 

Gerard was all too happy to acknowledge that. “Thank G—I mean, I mean…Ah, Meris!” He embraced the girl warmly. “I…I can’t begin to thank you for what you’ve done for our town! And you, Fontina!” He broke off from his hug and looked as if he wanted to embrace the older woman, but remembered her station in the military and thought better of it, extending a hand instead. “Oh, you and your brave knights! How can I repay you?”

 

Fontina merely accepted his hand and offered a wry grin. “Don’t concern yourself with that. Meris has already paid us more than enough, after all.”

 

This resulted in smattering of amused giggling coming from the Pegasus Knights and a good-hearted laugh from Meris and Gerard. “In that case,” said Meris, “This sounds like an occasion for celebration! Mr. Mayor, what say you to a grand feast for the village tonight?”

 

“Er, well.” Gerard once again wrung his hands together nervously—a part of him wasn’t entirely sure his village’s troubles would disappear so quickly.

 

“C’mon, pops! I can’t believe you’re still worryin’ about this! You didn’t see those cowards running away like I did! Trust me, they ain’t worth a second thought!”

 

Gerard turned to look at the speaker, the brown-haired youth who had served as a sentry when the mercenary troupe had come calling. “Altor,” he scolded, “Why aren’t you at your position? What if they come back?”

 

The young man laughed. “Look, it’s just as I said! They won’t come back! Stop bein’ such a worrywart, grandpa. Loosen up a bit, huh?” He grinned at Meris. “I, for one, like her suggestion. What’s the harm, eh?”

 

The old man narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain the loyalists have fled?”

 

Altor’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “I told you not to worry about that. If those dogs return, we’ll do to them what we did to that damn tax collector!”

 

Gerard grimaced at the unpleasant memory of the shameful debacle with the taxman, but Meris would not let him give voice to his doubts. “Exactly!” she nearly yelled, her gaze boring into his. “My lord, surely you are not having second thoughts about our course? Remember, we have justice on our side! There is nothing to fear! By standing against the grasping of the fat, greedy noble wretches, we are standing up for every common Etrurian chafing under their yoke! The royalist scum deserve the worst we can offer, for it is small repayment for the pain they’ve inflicted on innocents like you! If they dare return, we shall slaughter them like the beasts they are!”

 

Even though he was the mayor of Scirocco, Gerard could not help but shrink before the verbal onslaught of a young girl considerably less than half his age. “O-Of course!” he stammered, drawing back. “Y…you’re quite right. I mean, we have the Pegasus Knights here with us, do we not? Surely no harm will come to us?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“Ah, excellent, excellent!” Gerard smiled, but it was less because he honestly believed her and more because he desperately wanted the reassurance that would come with believing her. That, and his grandson was firmly behind the newcomer, and Gerard was even less able to stand up to the young firebrand. “In that case, I see no reason we should not enjoy ourselves! Let us fill our bellies with a great meal and our hearts with good cheer!”

 

“Yeah!” Altor pumped his fist into the air. “Now you’re talkin’, gramps! Meris, you go get the women together to start cooking. Me, I’m gonna help these ladies get their horsies set up in these stables here.”

 

Fontina blinked. “Er, excuse me? Sir, that’s truly not necessary.”

 

Altor grinned and winked good-naturedly at her. “’Course it is! After all, nobody wants you girls t’ be late to the festivities, right?”

 

One of the younger knights in Fontina’s wing gasped audibly. “Oh, is that true? Are we really invited?”

 

“Yep. You helped defend our town, after all! We owe you one.”

 

Fontina had no idea of what to say—never before had any of her employers treated her knights with such kindness and genuine camaderie. She could only smile and hesitantly accept the generous young man’s offer, which resulted in a great cheer arising from the rest of her troops.

 

The commander’s good cheer quickly evaporated, however, as she turned to regard Kasha, furtively dismounting from her own Pegasus. “Except you!” she scolded angrily. “As penalty for your insubordination, after the Pegasi are set in their stables, you shall stay behind to organize all our equipment and set it properly in the armory!” She narrowed her eyes. “And I swear, if this is not masterfully done, you will hate your next assignment far, far more.”

 

Kasha could only gape in dismay. “Aw, captain—“

 

Altor could only chuckle and shrug helplessly, and another of Kasha’s comrades simply laughed. “Face it, Kasha, you earned it. Disobeying the captain like that, what were you thinking?” She laughed again and tossed her spear to the feet of the unhappy young knight. “I’d get started if I were you.”

 

“Sound advice, girl,” Fontina said grimly. “That won’t be the last chore I have for you today.”

 

The expression of indignation on Kasha’s face was such that the rest of her wing laughed uproariously, and Altor could only cast her another shrug and a sympathetic look as he moved to assist her compatriots with their mounts. Meris chuckled to herself as she departed to help the villagers begin preparation for today’s feast, and Gerard, finally, was left alone to stew in his own doubts.

 

Sighing heavily, the old man hobbled away from the hubbub to a modest bench nestled outside a nearby house, but just far enough out of the way that Altor, Meris, or any of the Pegasus Knights, busy as they were with their own duties, would not notice him. He sat down unsteadily, his knees aching and his limbs trembling ever so slightly. With another sigh and a frown upon his face, he ran a gnarled, liver-spotted hand through what remained of his frazzled white hair, trying to banish the fears, miseries, and doubts which had plagued him ever since Meris had arrived bearing her Pegasus Knights, a fortune virtually unimaginable to the residents of his poor town, and the terrible siren’s song of revolt.

 

Of course, he had to admit, his problems had really started when Altor had worked up that mob to lynch that tax collector a few weeks ago. What had been his name, Revil? Gerard leaned back against the wall of the house—whose occupants he knew and liked quite well, as was the case with virtually all the other inhabitants of this small town—and shut his eyes, his frown deepening into a pained grimace.

 

What kind of mayor was he? What kind of grandfather was he? He had forgotten much in his old age, but those horrid memories remained as vivid in his mind as if they occurred yesterday. The rage on Altor’s face when he saw the taxpayer bullying his poor old grandfather, trying to stick the crown’s greedy fingers even deeper into the coffers of a town which had so little to start with. The ferocity in Altor’s voice when he rallied the other townspeople to drive out the tax collector. The hatred etched on their faces as they gripped makeshift clubs and kitchen knives, fully prepared to exact what they considered to be righteous vengeance on a man they thought responsible for much of their poverty and privation.

 

All Gerard could do was watch helplessly as the people of his town, led by his own grandson, mobbed and murdered a man who, unpleasant as he was, only tried to do his job.

 

And yet, deep down inside, he truly agreed with what the mob had did.

 

Only a few months before Revil had arrived, Gerard’s daughter and her husband—Altor’s parents—had passed away. This year’s winter had been exceedingly harsh, and several other townsfolk had also perished. Perhaps if the crown had lent them some assistance—even a little extra money to buy food and warm clothing—his beautiful daughter might have survived, and Altor would not have found himself an orphan.

 

But, of course, the nobility had done nothing. Nothing to help his people or ease their plight. In response to Scirocco’s poverty, the crown simply taxed them even harder than before!

 

Thus, when Revil came to call that fateful summer day, it was all Gerard could do to restrain his anger. The taxman didn’t care that the townspeople barely had enough to survive, showed not even the slightest concern that the mayor’s teenaged grandson had had to bury his own parents during the winter. Instead of sympathy for their situation, the tax collector had threatened to turn them into serfs if they did not deliver a tithe of gold as well as crops to the crown! As he cowered before Revil’s threats, all Gerard could think about was how much he hated the man and the government he represented.

 

Of course, the old man had not acted upon those emotions, unlike Altor. No matter how much he sympathized with his grandson’s anger, Gerard could not possibly condone the suffering he had inflicted upon the tax collector, a fellow human being, albeit a greedy, heartless one.

 

It had been well within Gerard’s power to stop the madness. He was the mayor of Scirocco, and Altor’s grandfather, no less! He could have stopped the mob and negotiated with the taxcollector. He could have ordered Altor to stand down and reign himself in. But, of course, he could not find the strength or the courage to do so. He simply stood to the side with a horrified expression on his face, his feeble attempts to calm the mob buried under the far louder voice of his grandson. The only one with the courage to resist the gang had been Father Valentius, the town priest, and as a result of his efforts he had only barely managed to avoid sharing Revil’s fate.

 

In the end, Gerard had been unable even to do his job as a grandfather and properly discipline his grandson. By the time Altor and his mob returned from their bloody deed, the true scope of their crime had just begun to dawn on them. They realized that there was no going back now. The king’s men would arrive quite soon, since everyone knew Valentius would carry word of the atrocity with him when he fled Scirocco a day later. Thus, no words had passed between Altor and his grandfather regarding the crime he committed—fully realizing that Altor, the light of his life, the only memento left of his darling daughter, would soon be taken to Aquleia in chains and brutally executed, Gerard was simply too heartbroken to offer even the smallest rebuke to his doomed grandson.

 

Thus, when a mysterious red-headed stranger showed up at the gates of Scirocco two weeks ago upon the wings of an entire wing of Ilian Pegasus Knights, Gerard thought that the Almighty himself had granted his most fervent wish.

 

The old man was so desperate to protect his grandson and his town that he accepted Meris’ offer of aid with barely a second thought. And at the time, it seemed like a good decision—the only decision, really. No longer would Gerard be woken from his nighttime slumber by dark visions of his grandson’s head upon a pole at Aquleia. No longer would the people of Scirocco have to bear the predations of Etruria’s greedy, merciless taxmen. And yet…

 

Gerard knew that his misgivings about Meris were unfounded, knew that she deserved her place in the hearts of his townspeople even though she had been here for such a short time. It was as if she had been the answer to the silent prayers of so many. The Pegasus Knights she offered for the defense of the town would be enough to keep them more than secure, at least for now. She had reassured him that assistance would be forthcoming if the Etrurian crown decided to send greater forces to suppress their town, for their grievances were echoed by many of the common folk of Etruria. In addition to her mercenaries, she had also brought several bags full of more gold than anyone in Scirocco had ever seen in their lives, ensuring that they’d have enough to eat for years to come.

 

A cynical man would claim that the young woman was simply trying to exploit the innocent people of Scirocco by bribing them to love her. Gerard, however, could honestly say that wasn’t the case. The flame-haired firebrand was a genuine, dyed in the wool revolutionary—no one who did not truly believe in their cause could have delivered the scathing attack upon the nobility she gave before the entire town the very day she arrived. She had instantly made a friend in Altor, for she wholly vindicated him for his attack on the taxman, claiming the mob had been on the side of justice. Her lurid depictions of the total disregard the nobility felt towards their “lessers” infuriated the townfolk, and her glowing praise for the work ethic, honesty, and “inherent nobility” of the common man enamored her to them. And if those words alone were not enough to convince anyone of her sincerity, her actions over the proceeding weeks certainly were. Despite the entire town being in her debt, she had selflessly offered her time and effort to her people, helping out with chores and cooking and inserting herself into the fabric of small-town life almost as if she had been born in Scirocco. And even though she did not like talking about her past, from what little Gerard had been able to glean from her, he had good reason to believe she genuinely sympathized with their plight. She never described exactly where she had been born, but the recollections of poverty and especially of abuse at the hands of the upper classes resonated deeply with Gerard. Nobody who hadn’t experienced such things personally could describe them like she had.

 

Still, though, despite his best efforts to suppress them, and despite the fact that he never, ever voiced them, nagging doubts still clamored insistently in the back of his head. How, for instance, had she come into possession of such a grand fortune? The Ilian mercenaries were expensive enough on their own, and in addition to the gold she had given to the town, it was very unlikely she was just a simple commoner, no matter how well she understood a commoner’s troubles. He had questioned her on this very matter several times before, but the answers he received had always been evasive. All he knew was that young Meris was acting on behalf of not an organization or a group of people, but a single man she referred to glowingly as “Master.” “My master is a great man and a friend of the common people!” she always claimed. She would not divulge much more than that—the only thing Gerard knew was that her “Master” was of extremely high social status, but secretly sympathized with the plight of the lower classes and quietly worked to right the wrongs his fellows in the nobility perpetrated upon their people. Absolute secrecy was required for her master’s plans, Meris claimed, lest he be exposed and the wrath of the nobility fall upon him. Gerard was quite happy to accept this explanation, but a wiser, more cautious part of him, one he tried to ignore for the first time in his long life, told him that darker forces might very well be the true backing of Scirocco’s impromptu “savior.”

 

Even more than that, as silly as it sounded even to him, Gerard had to admit he was both jealous and somewhat of the newcomer’s popularity and influence. He was supposed to be the mayor of Scirocco, yet it seemed as if Meris was the one truly pulling the strings in his little town. She had come up with the idea for a feast today, not he, and despite his misgivings, he had ended up giving in to her suggestion, both because it was easier and more reassuring to go along with her energy and optimism and also, more ominously, because he could not bring himself to truly stand against her.

 

Despite his age and wisdom, despite all he had done for Scirocco, Gerard found that he was quite easily cowed by this fiery young newcomer. She possessed vibrancy, a strength of personality that simply overwhelmed his meeker disposition. When she gave a speech, he could do naught but listen, and when she made a suggestion, even though she would couch her words in the respectful formalities she owed when addressing the leader of a settlement, the intensity of her eyes, the firm undercurrent in her voice told Gerard that she was giving out orders, not suggestions, and no dissent would be tolerated. And, God help him, Gerard could offer none.

 

He sighed heavily and rested his head against the cold wooden side of the house beside his bench. “Enough of this nonsense, you old fool,” he scolded himself. “You’re close enough to the grave as it is, and these black thoughts are only driving you closer to it! Meris is a wonderful girl who has saved your grandchild from the gallows and saved your town from the wrath of those high-born bastards! You have no right to speak ill of someone who’s done so much good for you! Banish these doubts from your mind!”

 

And yet they remained.

 

“Sir, are you alright?”

 

Gerard’s eyes flew open and his elderly heart skipped a beat as he snapped to attention at the sound of this unexpected voice. When he looked up, though, he saw only the clean, pretty face of young Meris, brushing stray locks of red hair away from eyes that were quite clearly and sincerely concerned for his well-being.

 

“Sir, are you feeling alright?” she repeated. “You look pale. Is something the matter? Shall I fetch an apothecary? If you need it, I can begin making some herbal tea just now—“

 

Gerard quickly shook his head. “Ah, no, no, please forgive me! I…I’m fine. Just a bit tired, is all.”

 

“Are you sure? I thought you were mumbling something to yourself just now.”

 

“O-oh, that? Pay it no heed. Just the ramblings of an old man, nothing more.” He winked unsteadily at her, trying to dispel her fears—or her suspicions. “Be grateful you’re still so young, m’dear. When you get to be my age, you’ll find that the mind fares little better than my weak old bones.”

 

Meris smiled, and again, the relief on her face seemed to be genuine. “That may be so, sir, but I’d consider it a small price to pay for the wisdom you possess. Now, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the town square? The celebration is just about to begin!”

 

“Ah, the celebration? Oh, yes, yes, I suppose I should join you, shouldn’t I…”

 

“Should? Why, you must! You are the mayor, after all. Come, come! Everyone’s waiting! Here, take my hand.”

 

Without a moment’s hesitation, the young woman took one of Gerard’s arms and helped him to his feet. She remained arm-in-arm with him even as he stood and gently but insistently led him to the town square, giggling with childlike anticipation.

 

To any outsider watching that happy scene, it might have seemed to be nothing more than an eager and adoring granddaughter helping along her elderly grandsire. Yet though he had no reason to be gloomy, Gerard could not help but note the bitter irony of him hobbling just a step behind his young companion, who was already moving as slowly as she could to accommodate him.

 

“Yet again,” he said under his breath, too quietly for Meris to hear, “the mayor of Scirocco is not leading but following.”

 

-X-

 

“Master, where are we going?”

 

If Khyron heard his apprentice’s query, he gave no sign. He simply kept his gaze locked straight ahead, hands on the reigns of his wagon’s horses. Frustrated, Rosamia repeated her question.

 

“Khyron, where are we—“

 

“I don’t know!” he snapped at her.

 

Rosamia was not deterred. “Sir, we need a plan,” she said. “If we’re returning to Aquleia, we need—“

 

“Never!” he shouted, loud enough to catch the attention of the rest of his troop. “I could expect such a suggestion from a cowardly girl, but I am a man! I shall not allow this low-born scum to get away with their crimes! We shall return, and when we do, Scirocco will pay for its defiance!”

 

The young woman gritted her teeth in irritation, but as usual, did not allow her master’s jabs to get under her skin. “In that case, master, we require a plan even more urgently. We can’t just go right back to the town and ask to be let in. We’ll need to find a secure place to rest, make preparations, and discuss strategies for breaking the defenses of our enemies. You need to stop and think, sir.”

 

Now it was Khyron’s turn to grit his teeth, for as much as he hated to admit it, his apprentice was exactly right. Realizing that another apt suggestion from his apprentice would infuriate the man further, it was Tassar who voiced a sensible proposition for the party’s next move.

 

“Sir, we’re heading away from Scirocco on the exact same path we originally came to it, are we not?” he asked. “Thus, we ought to be reaching that abandoned castle we passed by on our way here. I’d say that would make a good base of operations for us to discuss our next move. We’ll have shelter for the night, and we’ll be better able to defend ourselves in a castle rather than out in the open.”

 

Even the prideful Khyron realized that Tassar’s far greater experience with warfare represented the party’s best hope of triumphing over their enemies. “Very well,” he nodded. Looking over his shoulder, he shouted to the rest of his troops, “Listen well! We’ll continue our march south as fast as we can go until we reach the former chateau of the Count of Nerinheit. There, we shall rest for the night and discuss what our next strategy will be! Are there any objections?”

 

His mercenaries, fearful and utterly demoralized, did not raise even one.

 

The miserable troop marched onwards in silence until they once again saw the decrepit spires of the abandoned castle. Moving forward up to the empty front gate of the building (its portcullis had long since rusted away), Tassar held a hand up to stop the party and motioned for Braddock to stand at his side by the great, rotted oak doors.

 

“I doubt anything’s waiting for us inside,” Tassar said, “but there’s no point taking risks. Braddock and I will scout out the immediate interior. The rest of you wait out here. If it’s safe, we’ll come and get you.”

 

Carefully prying open one of the old doors, the two men carefully peered inside. Seeing nothing that seemed threatening (at least at a glance), they proceeded to enter the great entrance hall.

 

The doors slammed shut ominously behind them.

 

As they waited, the entire troop was understandably anxious, but one in particular even more so than the others. Despite how silly he realized his fears to be, Renault was honestly quite worried for Braddock. In the short time he had known him, the Ostian had proved to be a better friend than virtually anyone he’d known back at Thagaste, and, of course, there was the not-so-small matter that he owed the man his life. Renault felt that he should have accompanied Braddock, been there to back him up as he headed into the unknown.

 

Then again, Renault bitterly admitted to himself, judging by his “success” against the Pegasus Knight, he probably wouldn’t be much help.

 

Thus, he watched and waited, counting away minutes that felt like hours to his worried mind. Finally (and so unexpectedly that Renault nearly screamed and Yulia actually did) the great doors opened with a terrific creaking and Braddock and Tassar stepped into the afternoon sun. They were both quite dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

 

“Throne room’s clear, at least,” Tassar said. “Yulia, keep the horses and the wagon out here. If someone tries to attack this way, at least the animals will give us some warning. The rest of you, start moving the wagon’s supplies to the throne room. That’s where we’ll spend the night.”

 

Yulia looked more than a little dismayed to expose her beloved mare to danger, but realized the wisdom of Tassar’s command. She obediently tethered the animals to the nearby gate and began assisting her companions with unloading the wagons. After they and the rest of their troop had slung all they could carry, Braddock and Tassar re-entered that decrepit, forbidding doorway, and this time, their companions followed them.

 

-x-

 

The moment Renault set foot inside the abandoned castle, he let out a great sneeze that seemed to echo forever through its empty halls. He almost dropped the rations he was carrying and would have felt even more embarrassed than he already was if Yulia, Roberto, and Apolli did not do the exact same thing as they entered.

 

Braddock glanced over his shoulder in amusement at the unhappy newcomers. “Hey, c’mon, this castle’s been abandoned for years,” he said mischievously. “Shoulda been expecting a little dust, my friends.”

 

“Man, I’d take sleeping outside to this,” Renault began to grumble, but then stopped himself when he saw that Braddock had taken to this impromptu home without complaint. Renault sure didn’t like the situation he was in, but the least he could do for the man who saved his life was emulate his stoicism.

 

That pursuit was not made any easier by the sheer gloominess of their surroundings. Perhaps the castle of Nerinheit might have proved more inviting in better days, but presently the interior was even less appealing than the building’s dingy face. Despite the broad daylight outside, the entrance hall was dark and grey, sunbeams only managing to filter in through small holes cut into the walls. If there had been carpeting on the floor at one point, the Nerinheit family had taken it with them when they’d left, leaving only the moldy stone floor beneath the interlopers’ feet. Things looked a little better once they arrived at the throne room, but not by much. It was certainly airier and more well-lit thanks to the larger holes cut into the stone wall. These may have once held beautiful stained-glass windows, but if they ever did, such works had long since been broken or stolen. The throne itself had remained, but it was a miserable, decrepit thing, little more than rotted wood kept together by the crusty remnants of what had once been impressive gilding.

 

“Alright, then, this is where we’ll stay,” commanded Tassar. “Everybody, keep the rations and equipment here for now. Roll out some sleeping mats near the throne." After that had been done, the mercenary leader sat down on his and motioned for the others to do the same.

 

"Now," he ordered, "It's time for us to talk about just what the hell we're going to do from here on out. It's obvious that this job won't be anything like what we expected or prepared for. We may be dealing with outright rebellion instead of a mere mob. Personally, I think we should call off the operation. Let's head back to Aquleia and notify the king of what's going on. If necessary, we'll come back with reinforcements and better equipment. Khyron, how does that sound?"

 

The noble shook his head vociferously. "Unacceptable. I shall not accept the dishonor of fleeing back to Aquleia like a coward! Can you imagine how foolish I would look if I returned to the king unable to take of such a small matter? I shall not give up so easily!"

 

"Commander, I'm not sure that's a wise decision," Rosamia insisted. "Retreating in the face of odds like these is not cowardice, it is prudence! The court would praise your wisdom in not wasting your life!"

 

Khyron shook his head. "You don't know the court as well as I. Justifiably or not, they will scorn me and laugh at me if I return to them in failure. I shan't give them the pleasure!"

 

"You're kidding me, right?" Braddock said incredulously. "You're going to have us risk our lives just to save your damn pride? What the hell's wrong with you? Just like a typical noble. You don't care one bit that all of us could die just so you don't look stupid!"

 

Khyron's face reddened and he looked about ready to burst, but Tassar quickly cut off the brewing argument. "Braddock, enough!" he said sharply. To Khyron, he simply stated, "If that is your command, then I will obey. As a mercenary, I am prepared to lay down my life for employer." He turned back to his group. "However, in good conscience, I cannot make that decision for the rest of my men. I will allow each of you to decide whether you want to remain with us or go back home."

 

Renault looked at the mercenary leader's eyes and thought he saw something there that looked less than sincere. The thought faded soon enough, however, as Tassar turned to Braddock.

 

"Well?" Tassar asked, "Are you going to stick with me? You know how much I've relied on your assistance over the time we've known each other, but I won't hold it against you if you decide now's the time we should part ways."

 

Braddock looked at Khyron resentfully, then back to Tassar. "If you're sticking with this guy, then so will I," the Ostian grinned. "We've been through worse than this. Hell, it's not as if I have anything better to do!"

 

Tassar nodded. "Glad to hear that, my friend. What about you, Apolli? And you, Roberto? What are you two going to do?"

 

"Me?" Roberto looked bewildered. "Look, mate, this sure's not what we signed up for. I thought we'd just be knocking a few heads together, but now we're fighting against Pegasus Knights! Buggered if I'm sticking around! Apolli, y'feel the same way, eh?"

 

The young man nodded. "Aye, y'got that right. Look, Tassar, I'm real sorry 'bout this. We won't ask for our pay, 'twouldn't be right. But we're just not up to this! C'mon, Roberto, Yulia. Let's go home."

 

Khyron shot them a venomous look, then turned to Yulia. "Are you sure you want to follow them, girl?" he said menacingly. "Know that if you do, your position in the royal court shall be forfeit."

 

Apolli and Roberto stopped in their tracks, and Yulia stared at the noble in horror. "W-what do you mean?" she stammered.

 

"Your brother and your fiancée are mercenaries, but you are not," Khyron stated. "You are a servant of the crown, and the king has declared that you are to serve me in this undertaking. If you've not the steel for it, then leave, but when the court hears of your disloyalty, you will never, ever become a royal Troubadour."

 

"That's not fair!" Apolli protested. "How can y' blame her for not wanting to stick around? Didn't you get a look at those Pegasus Knights?" His voice became harder, firmer. "How can you ask a girl like her to put herself in front of those vultures? It's not right!"

 

"The king has no need for cowards!" Khyron retorted. "If Yulia is not willing to lay down her life for the kingdom, it does not need her as a servant! It is as simple as that!"

 

"Bah! Hogwash!" Roberto declared. "I think you're confusing good sense for weak will! Those Ilians outnumber us more'n two to one at my count. It's just plain stupid to try and smash the town!"

 

"Hmph. I should have expected such spinelessness from a commoner. It's always your lot to give up at the first sign of difficulty, is not? No wonder you remain so low."

 

Roberto's face reddened, and he looked just about ready to take a swing at the arrogant, condescending noble, but it was Yulia who finally put an end to the whole argument.

 

"STOP!" she cried out, silencing everyone else in the great room.

 

"Please, stop fighting," she said, very quiet now. "It...it's all right. I...I am a servant of the crown now, right? Haha...I'm just doing my duty, right? I'll stay. I'll stay and fight."

 

"Yulia, what are y' saying?" Apolli asked, shocked. "What if y' get hurt? What if...ah, dammit! I can't think of it! Yulia, please don't do this! Come home with us!"

 

"I can't!" she retorted tearfully. "Everyone back home's depending on me! If I become a royal Troubadour, you can't imagine how much our village'll benefit! We might be able to get a market, a blacksmith...maybe even a real school! I...I can't just let all of that go!"

 

"Sis, all that isn't important!" Roberto declared. "What matters is you! Y', y'cant expect us to just let y' go like this."

 

"Brother, Apolli," Yulia wiped away a stray tear, "Oh, y'cant imagine how much this means to me. But this is exactly why I have to go through with this. You've both given me so much...I have to...this way, I'll be able to give you everything you've always deserved!"

 

"Well, that seems to settle it!" said Khyron triumphantly. "You two can leave, but the girl shall remain. Your courage is admirable, Yulia. Seems as if you may indeed have what it takes to join our ranks!"

 

"Th-thank you, sir," the girl stammered. Turning back to her companions, she tried to smile. "See? I'll be alright. Don't worry about me, Roberto, Apolli. Please...just go on home."

 

Roberto looked at his sister helplessly, then at Khyron in rage. Before he could say anything, however, Apolli interrupted him.

 

"There's nothin' we can say to sway your course, Yulia?" he asked. "You won't leave no matter what?"

 

She shook her head. "I have to do this. For you, for Roberto, for everybody--"

 

"Well then, it's settled," said Apolli with a grimace. "I don't like it, but I'm not leavin' you alone. Khyron, you've got y'self another mercenary. I'm staying with Yulia."

 

Shock spread across the girl's face. "Apolli, no! Y--y' don't have to--"

 

"Oh, yes I do. I'm not gonna run back home while my love puts herself afore danger's mouth. I go where you go." He smiled grimly. "And don't think you'll be changin' my mind any more than I'll be changin' yours! My word's final!"

 

"Argh, y'fools!" Roberto looked at both Apolli and Yulia in dismay. "You're not leavin' me with any choice!"

 

"Roberto, you don't have to--" Apolli began, but the big man was quick to interrupt him.

 

"Like hell I don't!" he roared. "I'm not leavin' my sister or my best friend! If you guys're stayin', so am I!"

 

"This isn't going to be easy," Tassar cautioned. "Ilian Pegasus Knights are some of the best-trained warriors on the continent. Are you sure you want to do this?"

 

Both Apolli and Roberto nodded their assent without hesitation. "I sure don't like it," Roberto said, "but if my sister's determined to stay, then I'm gonna hafta protect her, eh? Apolli feels the same way, am I right?"

 

"You got it." Apolli grinned nervously. "I've heard that flyers don't like bows too much. I figure I oughta come in handy, huh?"

 

Yulia looked just about ready to break into tears. "Oh...oh, you two," she sniffed, "I don't...I don't deserve..."

 

Before she could get too distraught, Khyron interrupted them jovially. "Well, that's good to hear!" he exclaimed. "Seems like the peasantry's made of sterner stuff than I gave you credit for. If you two perform well in this venture, I shall be sure to speak for you before the court when we return victorious to Aquleia. Perhaps the king may even elect to make you nobles!"

 

"Nobles? Us?" Roberto stammered, his anger at Khyron dissipating at the prospect of such a reward.

 

"Only if you do well, of course!" Khyron cautioned. "Anyways, it seems as if there's only one person here who's yet undecided. Renault, what is your decision?"

 

Whatever emotions the mercenaries were feeling at that moment were overwhelmed by curiosity as they turned as one to regard to teal-haired young man sitting quietly to their rear. In the heat of their discussion, they had all forgotten that he was the only one who not said a single word.

 

He sat with his knees bent and hugged close to his chest, his arms dangling loosely over them, and his eyes turned lazily towards the floor below him--yet his indifferent gaze seemed to be turned inwards rather than towards anything on the cold stone.

 

"Renault?" Khyron asked again, more insistently this time. "Well? Will you be accompanying us?"

 

The bishop's son did not look up; he simply nodded his head. "Yeah, I'm staying," he stated flatly.

 

With those words, everyone's attention soon passed away from him--except for one person. Braddock continued to stare long and hard at his friend, wondering what, exactly, had brought on his sudden bout of quiet--and why he'd even agreed to tag along on this venture at all.

 

There would be no time for the Ostian to spend on these questions, however. Upon seeing that everyone in the party was willing to continue onwards, Tassar got to his feet and clapped his hands. "Alright!" he exclaimed, "Seems like all of us are on board here. To start things off, I think it'd be smart to explore this castle. It'll probably be our base of operations while we're out here, so we ought to familiarize ourselves with it. I highly doubt there's anything waiting for us in here, but there's no point in taking risks. Khyron, Rosamia, you two should stay here to guard the throne in case anyone comes knocking. Roberto, Apolli, and Yulia, you three stick together to look around the keep grounds and the lower floors. Renault, Braddock, and I will give the upper floors a look. We'll all meet here at sunset. Does that sound acceptable, Khyron?"

 

The sage nodded. "I have no objections. Rosamia, stay close to me and keep an eye out for any intruders. The rest of you, get moving and earn your keep!"

 

The country villagers wasted no time carrying out their orders, leaving the throne room to make their rounds about the castle's perimeter. The other mercenaries were just as quick; Renault and Braddock immediately followed their leader to a stairwell leading to the castle's living quarters and chapel.

 

Quietly stepping into the damp, nearly lightless confines of the narrow stairwell, Renault said not a word.

 

-X-

 

"Huh. Take a look at this!"

 

It was quite late in the day, and Renault and Braddock stood side-by-side looking at a rusty old iron ballista which sat on the roof of the former Castle Nerinheit, looking over the town of Scirocco. The two of them, along with Tassar, had spent hours searching through the keep's armory, chapel, and library (Nerinheit was apparently very-well read) but aside from from a few forgotten pieces of armor and an iron spear none of them could use, the ballista on the roof was the first piece of equipment they'd found that might prove to be useful.

 

"What do you think, Renault?" asked Braddock. "Is it still operational?"

 

Renault nodded. "I'm not a metalworker, but it doesn't seem to be rusted too badly. It's got a few bolts left, too--guess Nerinheit couldn't be bothered to remove it when he left this castle. It could come in handy if we need to defend ourselves."

 

Braddock again looked curiously at his friend. Renault seemed to be taking on a mercenary's mindset suspiciously quickly, and the Ostian resolved to figure out why. Tassar was not around--the man had left the two of them to examine the ballista while he looked through the living quarters close by--so Braddock saw his chance and took it.

 

"Hey, Renault," he asked cautiously, "Uh...listen, are you all right?"

 

The young man blinked. "Huh? Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks to you, at least."

 

"What? Oh, yeah, when that crazy pegasus knight attacked you. But, I mean...Renault, you seem to be...well, I dunno. Look, I'll be blunt. Renault, what are you doing here?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Aw, damn. How I can say this...look, Renault, you're risking your life here. Those Pegasus Knights don't play around. Why didn't you just leave, man? Go on back home to Thagaste?"

 

"That's not an option," Renault said bluntly. "I don't know how to hunt or trap, and since I won't get paid unless this job ends in success, it's not as if I'll be able to buy food or lodging on the road back to Thagaste. I'm stuck here."

 

"Really? Well, yeah, I see that. Still, that's a pretty tough deal, isn’t it? I thought...well, I thought you'd be complaining about this a lot more."

 

"Heh, heh. I have to admit you're right. The reason I'm not making much of a fuss, is...well, I wanted to tag along. Even if I could, I wouldn't go back home."

 

Braddock was taken aback for a moment, quite surprised. "Are you serious? Why?"

 

Renault smiled slightly. "I wanted to stay with you. Why else?"

 

This surprised Braddock even more. "With me? Why?"

 

"You saved my life, Braddock. Back there at Scirocco. Nobody...nobody's ever really done anything like that for me before."

 

The Ostian responded only with silence. He had no idea what to say.

 

"That's why I'm staying here!" Renault looked into Braddock's eyes, and the latter could see the fierce sincerity burning in his friend's eyes. "You saved my life, and I'm going to repay the favor!"

 

"Uh, Renault," Braddock shifted his feet in embarrassment. "Look, it's really not that big of a deal. I mean, you're a friend, right? I just didn't want to see you die. It's not as if I did much, anyways. Just blocked one attack, that's all."

 

"It's a big deal to me!" Renault protested. He sighed heavily, looked at the ground, then back up at Braddok. "Look...I...I never really had too many friends back at Thagaste. My mom hates me, my boss and I parted on...pretty bad terms, my best friend from when I was a kid is too religious for me, and the one girl I talked to a lot was a wreck. So when I say nobody's ever done anything for me like you did...I mean it."

 

"Renault," Braddock looked genuinely touched. "I...I don't know what to say, man."

 

The city boy looked down, somewhat embarrassed after that confession. "Yeah, well...don't worry about it."

 

"Well, I mean, I appreciate it, I really do, but..." Braddock sighed heavily, knowing that Renault had to hear what was coming next. "Look...I'm still not sure you should be here. I have to be honest, Renault, but I don't think you're ready for this. You barely know how to hold a sword! I'm sorry, but I think you may be more of a liability than a help to me on the battlefield."

 

The Ostian winced, expecting his short-tempered friend to grow angry, but instead, the cast of Renault's face seemed more...determined than anything else.

 

"I know," he said resolutely. "That just means I have to improve, doesn't it? It's not as if Roberto or Apolli are that far ahead of me, anyways. They're better with their weapons than I am, but they're still not soldiers! I...I have to pay you back, man. And if that means I have to train day and night with this sword to be good enough to back you up, then...then fine! I'm not running back to my mother like a coward! I'm going to become a mercenary!"

 

Braddock looked into Renault's eyes and said nothing for a long moment.

 

"Well?" asked Renault, meeting and keeping his gaze.

 

Braddock drew back then, chuckling amiably. "Looks like you really mean it, Renault. The look in your eyes...that's not one I see often. I think you really might be serious about this." His good cheer evaporated suddenly. "Even so...plain swordsmanship isn't the only thing that makes a mercenary. Your job is going to revolve around killing other human beings, Renault. Are you ready for that? It's not an easy thing."

 

The young man grimaced and answered with more speed and certainty than Braddock had expected. "Oh yeah, I'm ready," Renault said grimly. "Death isn't anything new to me."

 

Braddock looked at the hardness in his friend's eyes, the genuine pain etched into his features, and needed no further confirmation of his sincerity.

 

No more words were necessary between them. Braddock simply nodded and motioned for Renault to follow him back inside, where Tassar would be waiting.

 

And indeed he was. Standing cloaked within the shadows of the doorway leading to the roof, a wide smile spread over the mercenary leader's face as he watched the two men tramp towards him, blissfully unaware that he had been listening to all of their conversation.

 

Renault would make a fine mercenary indeed.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Two notes:

The constant reference to the Ilian Pegasus Knights as 'vultures' comes from Zealot and Noah's B-Support in FE6, where they note that Ilian mercenaries are commonly referred to as 'vultures' across Elibe.

 

Also, a note about rank—Fontina is the “commander” of the Dawnwings, but it is Ilian custom to refer to their commanding officer as “captain," according to Thany in her B support with Dieck in FE6.

 

As always, thanks so much for reading :)

 


	6. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both the people of Scirocco and the mercenaries sent to subdue them get ready for the coming conflict.

Wayward Son

6: Preparations

“Not bad. Your technique could still use a little polishing, but at least you seem to know how to swing a sword.”

Tassar’s party had been staying in Nerinheit’s decrepit abode for the better part of three days since their encounter with the Pegasus Knights, and thus far it was Renault who had been kept the busiest. While his companions had been occupied with tasks such as refurbishing what defenses the castle had (Apolli could make use of the ballista Renault and Braddock had found) and scouting the immediate area, Tassar had decreed the youth from Thagaste would undergo an intensive crash course in the art of swordsmanship.

Bare-chested and sweating under the heat of Etruria’s summer sun, Renault grunted as he hacked away at the training dummy on the broad, flat roof of Castle Nerinheit. The wooden training sword he wielded (he found it in the castle armory along with the dummy) was quite light, but he had been working without rest for hours and was nearly exhausted. He did his best to hide it, however.

After all, he was fully aware that a mercenary’s life was not an easy one.

Panting heavily, Renault took a step back away from the dummy to steady his feet and his grip on his weapon. “You’re doing well,” said Tassar. “Now, try a few of the overhead swings I taught you.”

Renault nodded, beads of sweat dropping from his brow, took a deep breath, and launched the attack routine Tassar had taught him, two different strikes where his blade descended in a clean sweep from above his head to the dummy’s neck and shoulders. His execution wasn’t perfect, but from the expression on his leader’s face he could tell he was doing a very good job for a beginner, so he decided to try a feint Tassar had described to him, though never demonstrated.

Starting from the same position he had launched his previous two attacks, Renault brought his sword down as if he would once again target the dummy’s head or shoulders, but when the blade was about halfway to its destination, he quickly swept it to the right, where it ended up behind him rather than embedded in its target’s upper torso, and took a small, swift hop backwards. Renault then turned the blade forward and stabbed with it, poking the dummy ferociously in its lower torso. The feint would have proven a nasty surprise for an unsuspecting enemy in a real battle—a swordsman expecting an attack aimed at his upper body would often keep his guard high enough that his lower body was exposed; Renault’s feint tricking him into leaving himself wide open for an attack aimed at his belly.

Renault was very winded now, but his elation at seeing the mixture of surprise, pride, and pleasure on Tassar’s face made him too blind to recognize it. “Excellent work, Renault!” the mercenary leader explained. “I saw you stumble just a bit on your backstep, but otherwise your feint was excellently done.” A sly smile crept across his face, which his young protégé was too tired to notice. “Now, my friend, would you like to take a break, or can you show me a bit more of that impressive skill?”

Contrary to the seasoned veteran’s expectations, however, Renault declined. Breathing heavily and wiping his brow, the young man shook his head. “If you really want me to, I’ll keep going,” Renault panted, “but a break sounds pretty nice right now. We’ve been training all day, after all.”

“Hmph.” The sly smile on Tassar’s face turned into a sly sneer. “Are you sure you’re not just lazy?”

An angry grimace spread across Renault’s face and he gripped his training sword hard enough to whiten his knuckles, but he was intelligent enough to restrain his temper, at least on this occasion. “Look, I said I’d keep going if you really wanted me to, but if you’re offering me a break I’ll take it. I’m getting pretty tired, and I’ll probably get sloppier and start making stupid mistakes. If I stop for a while to rest and eat, I’ll be more ready to learn when we start training again.”

“True.” Tassar nodded. “You’d best keep in mind you won’t always have that luxury, though. A soldier’s life is much different than the one you knew as a rich city boy. Sometimes rations will run low, and sometimes your enemy will keep pushing you until you’re ready to break, attacking while you’re sleeping, ambushing you after you’ve marched for miles. You’d better get ready for fighting on an empty stomach and on the verge of exhaustion. Otherwise you’ll never be tough enough to cut it as a mercenary.”

Renault’s anger receded somewhat in the face of such sound advice, though it was easy to tell he was still quite irritated. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “If you think I absolutely need to keep working, I’ll do so. But we do have food and we’re not in any hurry, so I thought it’d be smarter to take advantage of our luxuries while we have them and rest up while I have the chance. That way I’d be better able to train and more likely to survive when things really do get bad.”

Tassar’s face was unreadable for a moment. Then he broke into a wide smile—a genuine one. “Excellent response, Renault,” he said, clapping his surprised protégé on the back. “I thought my first compliments to you would have made your ego outweigh your good sense, but you proved smarter than I thought, and your answer just now proved you’re pretty perceptive when you want to be. You passed my little test with flying colors.”

“Huh?” Irritation was now mixed with confusion on the young man’s face. “What do you mean?”

“I was testing your judgment, my friend. After all, strength and skill alone don’t make a mercenary—it’s how he uses his head that really keeps him alive. Knowing when you’ve hit your limits can mean the difference between life and death on a real battlefield. Rookies who take stupid risks and don’t know when to retreat end up getting killed pretty quickly. I’m glad to see you’re aware of that, at least.”

Renault’s grip on his weapon loosened, and he grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, you’d have to give the credit to my old boss. He taught me the importance of working hard, but he also told me you can’t do your best work when you’re too tired or hungry. ‘A quick break for lunch in the afternoon’s much preferable to working nonstop and doing a poor job,’ he’d always say.”

“Is that so? Your boss sounds like a pretty smart man.”

Renault grunted, and a sour look appeared on his face. “Yeah, right.” He promptly headed off for the entrance to the stairwell that led back down to the castle interior. Tassar, seeing that the youth had managed to disquiet himself by recalling his former employer, said nothing in reply and simply followed him inside.

It seemed that Renault still had quite a bit to learn.

-X-

Rabbit stew again.

They were not the only things Apolli had managed to catch in the three days his troop had been bunking in this abandoned castle—he’d managed to fletch a pheasant yesterday, much to his friends’ delight—but they were the most common animals in the area, and tasted better than the hardtack rations they’d been supplied with. Not that it made much difference—Tassar had made it clear that they’d rely on what they could glean from the land as much as possible. While the company was not ill-supplied, Khyron had clearly anticipated receiving hospitality from the contrite, submissive citizens of Scirocco. The provisions he had bought were more than enough to last them for the week they took to get to Scirocco from Thagaste, but there wasn’t enough to feed everyone over the course of an extended campaign—Apolli had found nothing but a forgotten, rotting bag of grain in the castle’s stores. He estimated there was enough game in the castle’s immediate vicinity to sustain the mercenaries for another week, but after that they’d be having a lot of trouble keeping their bellies full when they ran out of rations.

Of course, that sure wasn’t the only reason he hoped this job would be over as soon as possible.

In an attempt to stave off these gloomy thoughts, Apolli concentrated as hard as he could on watching the stew boil. The Nerinheits had taken most of their cooking implements with them when they left, but in a stroke of good fortune (Yuria might have given God the credit) he’d managed to find a very large cauldron in decent condition that had apparently been forgotten by its owners, and it had enough room to hold all of the catches he’d made today—quite a few, seeing as he’d managed to find a litter of rabbits after getting a hold of their mother and (presumably) father. He tossed a spare dry branch into the fire beneath the pot and stirred its contents with his trusty ladle, trying to draw his mind from the unpleasant thoughts concerning the likely fate of their little expedition to the more cheery matter of today’s success with the hunt.

He met with little success, just as usual. But so intense was his attempt that it was not until the owner of the soft, timid voice that had already called his name twice tapped on his shoulder that he took note of his newfound company.

“Eh? Who’s there?” he cried, jumping up and nearly dropping his ladle into the stew. When he whirled around, however, he saw it was only his beloved fiancée standing behind him with a troubled expression on her pretty face.

“Y-Yulia!” he stammered, his face softening immediately. “Sorry f’r scarin’ you. Guess I was a bit zoned out there, huh?”

She smiled and giggled, and her boyfriend was greatly relieved to see that at least his startled reaction hadn’t hurt her. “So what’s up, hon?” he asked. “Getting’ hungry? Stew’ll take a bit longer, I’m sorry to say.”

She shook her head. “Nah, that’s alright. I hadn’t seen you around, so when I saw steam comin’ out of the kitchen I thought I’d be able t’ find you.”

“Really, now? Well, I was just getting’ lonely, so I’m glad you did.” He scooted over on his bench and invited Yulia to take a seat next to him, which she happily did. “Say, Yulia,” he grinned, “Y’wanna help me out with this stew a bit? All you need to do is keep stirring it for a little bit.”

“Really? Well, you know I’m not so good with cookin’.”

“Aw, don’t worry about that. Like I said, just stir it a little. Not hard at all! B’sides, when we get back after this job’s done, I’ll probably have enough time to teach you how to be a real cook, so gettin’ a bit of practice now couldn’t hurt, right?”

She looked delighted. “You mean it?”

He held a hand to his chest and intoned “Swear to to the Saint” with great solemnity, and it was a moment before he joined his girlfriend in a small bout of chuckling. “Really, though, I think you’d make a great cook, a lot better than me for sure. I know you’re a quick study, so all y’need is a good teacher, right? So how ‘bout givin’ it a try?”

He held out the ladle to her, and she accepted it with a smile. “Now, don’t stir it too quickly,” he warned. “Nice and easy’s the trick. You could burn yourself if some of the boilin’ water spills on you, and Roberto’d kill me if I let ya get hurt!”

“I’ll be careful, hon. Don’t need to tell me that!”

She took his instructions to the letter, and stirred the stew with an amusing degree of precision, creating slow, concentric circles of floating pieces of meat and vegetables as she worked. Grinning, Apolli gently placed a hand over hers to push the ladle downwards and upwards, ensuring that everything in the pot was moved about a bit. She got the hang of it soon enough, and her fiancé was then content to just sit back and watch her work.

After a few minutes, Apolli glanced at the meat in the cauldron. “Yulia, I think it’s just about done.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s been about an hour since I put it on the fire, so it oughtn’t take much longer than that. Besides, check to see if the meat’s brown and tender. Then you can be sure it’s ready.”

She scooped up a couple small pieces of rabbit and saw that they were indeed brown and tender. “Well, let’s get it off the fire, then,” Apolli said. “Don’t wanna burn it. Could y’ help me with this big ol’ pot, dear?”

Apolli took hold of its handle on the right side and Yulia did the same to its left, and on the count of three they both lifted it up and away, careful not to get too close to the fire or allowing any of the cauldron’s contents to spill. They set the pot down near the entrance to the kitchen and far away from the fire, which would burn down soon enough if no more fuel was given to it.

Apolli sighed in satisfaction. “There, you see? Not too hard at all. Just set it there and let it cool for a bit. I’m sure the rest of our friends’ll love it!”

“Heh, yeah, I hope so.” A shadow seemed to have passed over her face, and Apolli was suddenly struck by the distinct impression that Yulia had not come to him simply to check up on him.

“Uh…Yulia, you, uh, wanna talk about something?” He couldn’t read the expression on Yulia’s face. Had he sounded too insensitive? “It’s just been a while, is all!” he stammered clumsily. “We’ve all been pretty busy lately. This is the first time we’ve had a spot of spare time in a coupla days, so I thought—“

“I-I’d really like that, Apolli.”

They went back over to the bench in front of the firepit, which was still burning but beginning to recede. Once again sitting beside his wife-to-be, the young man asked, “So what’s on your mind?”

“Apolli.” Yulia bit her lip, looking so sad and timid that Apolli’s heart ached.

“Say whatever y’need to say, dear. It won’t leave this room, and I sure won’t hold it against you, no matter what.”

“Apolli, I want you to tell me the truth. D’you think me a fool for keepin’ on with this job, even after the Pegasus Knights and, and Revil?”

The young man drew in a deep breath. He wasn’t too smart, but he’d have to be as clever as he could be in his response. “Like I said the other day, Yulia, it’s Khyron’s fault more’n anybody else’s. If he wasn’t so damn stubborn—“

“But I’m still the one who agreed to stay with him. So I still ought to bear some o’ the responsibility, eh?”

Apolli sighed. “Look, Yulia, I gotta be honest with ya. I really think y’ shouldn’t have taken this job. It’s not that I think all the stuff you talked about—a school, a blacksmith, gettin’ into the nobles’ good books—it’s not that I think it’s unimportant. But you’re so much more important than all of that, sweet. We could get by without all that stuff, but we sure couldn’t get by without you.”

“Really?”

Apolli looked a little hurt. “Of course, hon. Roberto’s your brother, and I don’t know a brother in the world who’d choose some money over his own kin. And me…well, Yulia, if you weren’t somethin’ special I wouldn’t be willing to face down a whole flight of Pegasus Knights because of ya. So it goes without sayin’ that I’d choose you over a school or a blacksmith or whatever.

“That’s why I’m not too fond of you bein’ here, Yulia. Not one bit. If we just went home, then I—“ he looked down. “Then I wouldn’t have to be scared half to death of you getting’ hurt, or—“

“Apolli.” Yulia reached out and took his hand in hers, and that gesture combined with the sweet smile on her face made his heart ache even more. “My sweet, I can’t begin to tell you how much y’mean to me, how sorry I am to put y’ through this, how my heart would break if something happened to you—“

“So then why’re we still here?” Apolli’s voice trembled. “It’s not too late, Yulia. Let’s just take Roberto, pack up our stuff, and get movin’ home? To hell with the money! To hell with the nobility! All of it’s just garbage if we’re dead!”

She drew away from her fiancé and folded her arms, once again biting her lip. “Apolli, I can’t.”

“But why? Why not?”

“Apolli, it’s not just you and Roberto!” she cried. “I’m thinkin’ of the entire village. How could I ever live with m’self if I let everyone down? How could I look my father in the eye ever again if I came back to him a failure?”

“Yulia, is this what it’s all about? Come on, hon. You’re y’r father’s daughter! You can’t tell he thinks some money or some noble title is worth your life! The whole village loves you as much as he does. Nobody’s gonna shame you if y’ tell them a flight of blasted Pegasus Knights threw a wrench into your plans!”

“Apolli, oh, Apolli, it’s not that simple.” Her eyes glistened “Have I ever told you about my mother, Apolli?”

“Just a little bit, Yulia. She died givin’ birth to you, but that’s all I know, and that’s all anyone’s ever told me. I-I’m sorry if I shoulda known more. I really am. I never asked because…well, because I didn’t want to touch things in your heart you’d rather let be.”

She chuckled slightly. “Were you always this sensitive, Apolli? I always thought so, but maybe nostalgia’s cloudin’ my vision.”

He merely blushed at that, so Yulia smiled and continued. “My own pa and Roberto never talked too much about it either. Not directly, f’r sure. But sometimes, when dad had just a bit too much to drink, or Roberto was thinkin’ clear enough to actually remember things from his youth—a pretty rare occasion, mind you!—I’d hear a few things.

“She was pretty and talented, my ma was. Even smarter than pa, and that’s sayin’ something. She wasn’t a noble—far from it—but she was higher, I guess you could say, than most of us. She was the daughter of this wealthy travelin’ peddler. Pretty famous, he was. He stopped by our town on his way to Thagaste, bringin’ Ma along with him, and he just wanted to bed in for the night, but Mom met Dad and, well, things went from there, I guess.

“On his way back from the big city, Grandad had to stop by the village again, and by that time ma’d made up her mind. She wanted to stay with pa. Gramps was furious for a little bit—said a lot of stuff about how some country boy wasn’t good enough for his daughter—but eventually came to see mom’s point of view.

“He even promised to set up shop permanently in our village if things worked out between Mom and Dad for a few years, and believe me, Apolli, that meant a whole lot. He was a pretty famous merchant, especially among mages. If he’d settled down, it woulda been really, really good for us.

“But then Ma had me, and,” Yulia stuttered a bit, “she didn’t make it.

“Granddad was furious. He blamed Pa. They had a big row, though I was sure too young at the time to make anything out of it, so all I know is what Roberto told me. We never heard from Gramps again, and I guess the village lost the best opportunity it’d ever have.”

“But-but that’s a load of bollocks!” Apolli angrily declared. “How th’ hell could he blame your pa? It wasn’t his fault!”

Yulia just shrugged sadly. “Wish m’ dad’s dad believed that.”

“So then what’s that to do with you? The old man’s gone, right? Why does that mean you have to stick around and risk y’r neck for this noble popinjay?”

“Because everyone _expects_ me to!” Yulia cried. “Apolli, you say everyone loves me, and you say my dad loves me, but, but that’s only part true. They care for me, yes, but underneath that, whenever they look at me, they look at my mother, and think what could have been, and ask themselves if it was worth it. They treasure me because I’m the only thing left of my mother, but at the same time I need to _prove_ myself to them, to give them a better life like my mom wanted to, to show ‘em that it—it’s—even if she’s gone, I can still help!”

“Yulia.” The look of stark contrition on Apolli’s face matched what he felt, and he tried to apologize as best he could. “I’m so sorry, Yulia. I shoulda kept my mouth shut, I shouldn’t have—“

“Apolli, it’s alright. I really wanted to talk about this with you sometime, and now that I have, I really—“

“No, I mean I’m really sorry!” The intensity of Apolli’s voice startled Yuria, and she looked up to see him staring directly into her eyes. “Yulia, I never knew any of this ‘til now. I never thought about it, not even a little bit, and God I’m so stupid, not thinking of how you must have felt all these years—“

“Apolli—“

“Yulia, I never thought of—oh, God, let me be honest. I was always jealous of you, Yulia. I was just the son of a tanner and a seamstress, and I thought you must have had it easy as the magistrate’s daughter. Both m’ parents were gone, but you still had your dad, at least…I was jealous. Stupid and jealous! I-I…that never changed how I felt about ya, not in the least…I never let it. But it was always there, Yulia, far behind me, yes, but always there, but now, now I see, how could I have been so stupid, how could I feel that way when nobody expected anything fr’m me, when you had to grow up with _that_ hanging over you—“

Yulia said nothing, remaining very quiet and still before her distraught fiancé.

“I’m sorry, Yulia.” Apolli sighed, his excitement quickly turning to resigned sadness. “Like I said, I was a fool. A damned rat bastard. I can’t blame ya if you, well—“

“Apolli, it’s alright.” She once again reached out to take his hand. “A lot of people probably felt the same way you did. I can’t blame you.”

“But I still hurt ya, Yulia. I can see it in your face, and it kills me. I’m so sorry.”

She let go of his hand and looked away. “Well, now y’ know better,” she said quietly. “And now that you do, y’see why I can’t run away from this. I’m scared, Apolli, scared to death. But I can’t run away now, or else I’ll betray my father, everyone in the village, everyone’s expectations of me, and most of all the memory of my mother.”

“Then I’ll stay with you, Yulia,” Apolli said resolutely. “It’s the least I could do to make things up to you, and if you’re brave to go through with something like this, I ought to be too.”

“Apolli,” she sniffled, “Thank you. I honestly can’t tell you how lucky I am to have someone like you.”

“And it’s not just me.” The young man grinned. “I’ll bet Roberto feels just the same, eh? So you know you can count on both of us!”

“Yeah. Yeah, I sure can.”

“That settles that, then.” Apolli’s grin turned into a smile, and he reached out to brush a stray lock of Yulia’s soft orange hair away from her eyes. “Well, the stew’s probably cold by now, and I’ll wager we’ll be seein’ some hungry people pretty soon. Wanna help me bring it over to the dining hall?”

She nodded her assent, but promptly turned her eyes to the kitchen’s doorway when she heard two pairs of boots tromping towards their location. Soon enough, Renault popped his head through the door, with Tassar standing behind him. “Yo, Apolli!” he called, “Lunch ready yet? I’m starving!”

“Yep, you’re just in time. We’ll just bring it over to—“

He was interrupted by the staccato tramp of another pair of boots rushing frantically towards the kitchen, and as everyone turned to get a look at the source of the noise, the owner of those boots nearly barreled straight into Renault in an attempt to keep himself from overshooting his destination.

“R-Roberto!” Renault sputtered angrily. “The hell’s your problem?”

His irritation quickly disappeared as he saw the frightened expression on the big man’s face. He was breathing heavily, and not just from the exertion of running to get his friends. “We’re in one hell of a mess, mates,” he panted. “Braddock and I were out choppin’ wood when we saw one of those Pegasus Knights flyin’ over us. I think she saw us as good as we saw her.”

Tassar walked over to him and placed both hands firmly and reassuringly on his shoulders. “Roberto, calm down. You only saw one, right?”

“Y, yeah, but—“

“She was just a scout. If they were really planning for an all-out attack, they obviously wouldn’t send out a single knight.”

Roberto breathing evened out and he seemed greatly relieved. “Y-you’re sure? Last we saw her she was headin’ for the castle, so I thought—“

“No. She was probably ordered to get a good look at the castle itself, to see if we hadn’t left yet and if we’d enhanced its defenses in any way. She was just lucky to have come across you two over the course of her mission, that’s all. Now, where’s Braddock?”

“H-He’s with Khyron and the rest, explainin’ things to ‘em,” stammered Roberto. “He sent me t’ find you.”

“Alright, good.” Tassar turned to the rest of his team. “Get this pot of stew over to the dining hall. We’re all hungry, but we also don’t have much time. We’ll discuss what our next move should be over our meal.”

“B-but sir,” Apolli asked hesitantly, “I thought you said that one Pegasus Knight was just a scout?”

“She was, I’m sure of it. But depending on what she tells her commander, they may send a larger force against us soon. It’ll take them some time to organize, though, and we’d better use that time well.” Tassar looked over at Renault. “Help Apolli with the stew, and make it quick. Like I said, we don’t have much time.”

Renault, despite being quite tired, offered no complaint, and while the rest of their troop filtered over to the dining hall (where Braddock, Rosamia, and Khyron were already waiting for them), Renault and Apolli followed closely behind, lugging their pot as quickly as they could.

“Say, Renault,” Apolli whispered to his comrade, low enough so no-one else could hear. “You think what Tassar said was true? Might we be fightin’ for real pretty soon?”

The young man grunted in response. “I sure hope not,” he answered. “I may be new to this whole mercenary business, but even I’ve heard of the Pegasus Knights of Ilia before. They’re unshakably loyal to their employer, and they never give up on their assignment until it’s complete or every last one of them is dead. I’m not sure we stand much of a chance against them, man.”

Renault, preoccupied with holding the pot steady, did not notice the crestfallen look on his companion’s face, nor did he note that neither of them traded another word until they’d reached the dining room. From Apolli’s perspective, that was a very good thing.

He was already much more convinced than he ever needed to be that this “easy” job would not end well at all.

-X-

“I’ll be blunt,” Tassar began after they had all sat down and started digging into their stew. “We’re at a severe disadvantage. We wouldn’t be if we could retreat back to Aquleia,” and at this he gave Khyron a piercing look, “but since we can’t, our only alternative is to achieve victory as quickly as possible. From what Apolli’s told me, we can’t survive only on hunting the local game, and our rations won’t last forever.

“So we have to come up with a very good plan, because it won’t be easy launching an assault on a walled village that’s defended by Pegasus Knights. Judging by the fact they sent out that scout earlier today, I’d say our friends in Scirocco might be thinking the same things we are. If their leader’s even a remotely competent tactician, she’ll want to stay inside the village. Maybe she’ll get impatient and try to attack us first, in which case we’ll have an easier time of it, but I doubt it.

“More likely she’ll try and wait us out, and we can’t afford to let her do that. I think the only way we can win is through sabotage. Khyron, you and Rosamia can cast flame spells, can’t you? From what I saw of Scirocco, it’s mainly timber and thatch. If we could set fire to an important building, like their stable or armory, we might be able to deal them a pretty crippling blow.”

“Such underhanded tactics!” Khyron declared, spitting out flecks of rabbit. “The Mage Knights of Etruria do not fight in such a shameful and cowardly fashion!”

“Then I hope this Mage Knight is prepared to die,” retorted Tassar, “and fail his country to boot. I don’t like fighting dirty either, but the simple fact of the matter is, we don’t have any other choice. When we’re outnumbered this heavily, and when we’re this low on supplies, there’s no way we could win in a fair fight.”

“What’s more shameful, sir,” Braddock drawled sarcastically, forcing Renault, who was sitting next to him, to staunch a chuckle, “getting us all killed or burning a few buildings?”

Khyron seemed as if he was prepared with an angry riposte, but Tassar would allow none of it. “Like it or not, Braddock is right. If you know how we could take out an entire wing of Pegasus Knights—and possibly support from the village as well—all by ourselves, I’d love to hear it.”

The noble’s face was contorted into a furious grimace, causing a bit of the stew to dribble down from the side of his mouth, but he could not refute Tassar’s argument. He gulped and conceded the argument with a dour, “Fine. We will do as we must.”

Tassar grinned. “Good. Then we’ll launch our first attack tomorrow night, under cover of darkness. If we can sneak near it without anyone noticing, we may be able to do a good deal of damage to the village before the Pegasus Knights have time to fully mobilize, meaning we’ll be able to beat a hasty retreat back to this castle before they know what hit them.

“However, you never know. They may decide to attack us first, to surprise us like we plan to surprise them. We’ll have to set up a watch. Each of us will take shifts patrolling the castle roof and keeping an eye out for any nasty surprises, flying or otherwise. Does that seem reasonable?”

“I have no complaints,” Khyron replied.

“All right. I’ll take the first watch.” Tassar stood up. “Then Braddock, then Renault, then you, Khyron, and then Rosamia, Apolli, Roberto, and lastly, Yulia. Any problems with this?”

No-one said anything.

“That settles that, though. After you finish your meals, start getting your equipment ready, and be sure to get a lot of rest. I don’t want any of you falling asleep when it’s your turn to take the watch, and we’ve got a big night coming up. Let’s get ready for it.”

Tassar stood up and left the dining hall, taking his bowl of stew with him.

His absence did not break the grim silence that had fallen over the rest of his troop. Over the course of their lunch and their duties throughout the day afterwards, few words passed between any of them.

Very soon, they all knew, it would be time to live up to their description as mercenaries.

-X-

Meris’ house certainly wasn’t on the outskirts of town or anything like that, but it was far away enough from his family’s that Altor needed to jog in order to reach it within a reasonable timeframe. A dwelling of her own was all the young woman requested in return for the protection of the Pegasus Knight she had hired—as Altor recalled, she had said something about mages needing a degree of solitude in order to study and meditate. Fortunately, it had not been a particularly imposing demand, as the small, slightly dilapidated building that now served as her home had already been abandoned for about a month or so, when its owner, a bachelor named Fordham, had set off for the Western Isles to become a mercenary.

Altor was sincerely glad that none of the mercenaries the scout had seen near Nerinheit’s fortress matched his description.

In any case, however, Meris had a right to know that the king’s lapdogs were still lurking in the area, and she would be a part of the discussion about how they could deal with Castle Nerinheit’s newest guests.

As he neared the house’s thin wooden doorway and prepared to knock, Altor could have sworn he heard Meris speaking in low, hushed, yet agitated tones to an unfamiliar, masculine voice. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. His curiosity piqued, Altor put an ear to the door and in an attempt to see if he could recognize the owner of that unfamiliar voice, but as he did so it abruptly cut off. All he heard was a strange whooshing sound, what seemed to be a small flash of light that could be seen from underneath the doorjamb, and oddly enough, a hint of ozone in the air that stung his nose ever so slightly. He stepped back from the door to sneeze, and was absolutely mortified when Meris ran up to it and flung it open.

“Who goes there?” She demanded, and in response Altor could only provide a loud “AH-CHOO!”

“Uh, sorry,” he said, sniffling sheepishly.

Meris stared at him coldly. “Eavesdropping is more than a bit impolite, you know. People who can’t mind their own business often find themselves in more trouble than they can get out of.”

“Hey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to pry, really. I just heard somebody talkin’ in there and it didn’t sound like anybody I knew, and I know everybody in this town. Thought maybe I was hearin’ things or something. Like I said, I’m sorry.” He winked rakishly at her. “Trust me, I know full well that snoopin’ in a lady’s affairs is a bad idea. Hard experience and all that.”

She didn’t seem to be too angry and his little joke seemed to mollify her, although the smile she gave him seemed to be more troubled than happy. “Well, as you can see, there’s nobody here.” She gestured towards the room behind her, and Altor could see it really was empty. “So what brings you all the way here, friend? Would you like to come inside?”

“Thanks, but I gotta decline. I came to get you, actually. The scout just came back with her report, and it’s only fair you get to hear it too, right?”

“Oh, of course! I’ll be right there. Please hold a moment, let me get my cloak.”

She stepped back into her house and closed the door, then reappeared a few seconds later with her fine black cloak draped nicely about her shoulders. It was not at all a cold day, but she wore it for modesty’s sake more than anything else—the thin white shirt she was wearing was comfortable and not particularly revealing, but it did cling to her chest more than she liked, so she often donned that cloak whenever she didn’t want to flaunt her assets.

Altor managed to keep his disappointment from making itself too obvious.

After she shut the door behind her, Meris and her brown-haired friend began their brisk walk to his grandfather’s house. He offered her his arm, but she chose not to take it, folding her hands behind her back and looking down to the ground.

“Aw, c’mon, Meris! You’re not mad at me, are ya?” Truth be told, Altor had the distinct impression that Meris was not angry, but he really had no idea what else could be troubling her. “I said I was sorry. I really didn’t mean to pry, honest!”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. I’m just feeling somewhat—somewhat unwell, is all. Please don’t worry about it. It’ll pass soon enough.”

“Well, okay, if you say so. Uh, it doesn’t have anything to do with that voice I heard, did it?”

“No! Not at all!” Her response was sharp and somewhat loud, and Altor held up his hands apologetically, hoping he didn’t offend her again. “It’s really nothing,” she said, more quietly this time. “I’m sincerely grateful for your concern, but it’s really nothing.”

“Alright, alright, I got ya. Still, Meris,” and he looked at her with great seriousness, “As the mayor’s grandson, the stuff that goes on in this town really is my business. Not the kind of stuff you do by yourself in your own home, obviously, but if there’s an out-of-towner you’re dealing with—especially someone we haven’t seen pass through the gates—you’re gonna have to tell somebody. If not me, then my grandpa, at least.”

She whirled to face him. “Of course I know that! Don’t you trust me?”

“O-Of course I do! Look, Meris, I know more than anybody how much you’ve done for us, and believe me, I really appreciate it. I’m just sayin’—“

The young woman sighed deeply, calming herself down. “No, you’re right. I understand. It—it really was nothing, though, what you heard. I was just—just—it had to do with my magic, you see. I-I’m not sure how to explain it—“

“Was it ‘communing with the spirits’ or something like that?” Altor had a quizzical expression on his face. “I remember you sayin’ something like that a while ago, when you were talkin’ about your magic or something. I don’t know much about that stuff, but I got the impression that you had to spend a few hours a day actually talkin’ to spirits or fairies or somethin’ like that to make your magic work. Was that what you were doin’?”

Meris’ face lit up. “Y-Yes! That’s exactly it! I-it’s something we mages have to be very careful about, you know. We—“

Alto chuckled and held up a hand. “Don’t try to explain it, that’s all I needed to hear. I don’t think I’d be able to understand any of that complicated magic stuff. Heh, now I really am sorry, Meris. You must have been concentrating something fierce and I had to wander along and disturb you. Hope I didn’t offend whichever spirit you were talkin’ to.”

“No, not at all.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “Like I said, don’t worry about it. I’m just a bit tired, is all—even successful communes can be draining. I’ll be alright soon.”

For the slightest fraction of a moment, Altor was struck by the impression that she wasn’t being completely honest with him. He immediately cast the thought from his mind—“Enough of that nonsense,” he scolded himself under his breath, “You don’t know the first thing about magic anyways, there’s no reason to think she’s lyin’.” Turning to Meris, he simply gave her a smile and said, “Glad to hear it.”

He did not offer her an arm again, but their conversation took a more amiable turn after that, and both of them were in very good spirits by the time they reached Gerard’s home.

-X-

When he heard the knock at his door that could only be his grandson returning with Meris, Gerard almost did not want to answer it. He had been having a pleasant conversation with Fontina and her scout, Naria, over the tea he had brewed for them when they had come to his door bearing Naria’s report. Altor had promptly set off to fetch Meris, since Fontina maintained that it would be best if her employer was privy to discussions of strategy as well. While they waited for Meris to arrive, Gerard invited the Pegasus Knights to rest for a while in his home, where he prepared for them some tea and a small meal and regaled them with a few tales of his town’s history. Much to his surprise, neither of them found an old man’s ramblings to be at all boring. Naria seemed genuinely interested in his account of the town’s founding, and the older Fontina was happy listening even to mundane stories of everyday life in Etruria, so different from her experiences in frozen Ilia.

Although he certainly wasn’t a great storyteller, Gerard greatly enjoyed passing the time quietly like this.

It was far, far preferable to the talk of war and killing that would dominate his home once Altor and Meris arrived, demanding to hear Naria’s report.

Thus, it was with the greatest reluctance that the old man hobbled over and opened his door, letting in his grandson and his red-haired friend.

He led them to the chairs in front of his hearth, where Naria and Fontina were prepared to meet them. After they were all settled, Gerard invited the Pegasus Knights to tell them what the king’s mercenaries were up to.

“As you know, sir,” Naria said, looking at Gerard, “Fontina sent me to examine the abandoned castle of Glaesal Nerinheit earlier this afternoon. As I neared my destination, I came across two axemen. I recognized them both as belonging to the troop we drove away three days ago.”

“Did you see anyone else?” Meris asked.

“No. However, I believe it’s likely that the rest of the mercenaries have stationed themselves inside that building. When they saw me, the two men fled inside as quickly as they could. Also, when I flew in closer to the castle to get a better look at it, I saw that the ballista and rooftop had apparently been repaired and rearmed.” She shuddered. “I immediately turned back to give my report to Commander Fontina before someone came out to operate it.”

Altor nodded sympathetically. “You made the right choice, miss. Ballistae and flyers don’t mix.”

“I agree,” Fontina said. “Don’t feel as if you are a coward, Naria.” She looked towards her subordinate, who seemed very embarrassed at mentioning how she had fled back to Scirocco upon seeing a ballista. “There is a difference between bravery and foolishness. The two axemen who saw you probably notified the rest of their group immediately, and you would almost certainly have been killed if you had not left before they could mount an organized attack.”

“Th-thank you, ma’am.”

Fontina turned back to Gerard and Meris. “This is not pleasing news,” she said gravely. “I had hoped that we had sent those mercenaries running back to Aquleia, but it seems they are more persistent that I had given them credit for. That castle is not far from this village, and if they have spent the past three days there, I would wager they spent most of their time scouring the building for any weapons and supplies that might have been left behind by its former inhabitants. They seem to have met with some degree of success, judging by the ballista on the rooftop.”

“So what does this mean?” Gerard asked timidly.

Fontina sighed heavily. “It means they have not given up on their mission. I would wager they will return to this village fairly soon. Probably within the week, possibly as early as tomorrow.”

The old man blanched. “Y-you’re saying they’ll attack the village? What will we do then?”

“The first thing we should do is set up a steady schedule of patrols around the village’s perimeter.” Fontina looked steadily at Altor. “You’re not the only able-bodied young man in this village, are you? Even if there aren’t many other archers living here, anyone who can pick up an axe or a pitchfork can do their part by keeping an eye out for intruders.”

“Yeah. I got a few friends who can take care of themselves in a tussle, and a few who like to stay up late. It shouldn’t be too hard to get people on watch during the day and at night.”

“We’ll help too, of course,” Naria added.

“Aside from that,” Fontina said, “I don’t think we’ll have to do much. If that castle has been abandoned for as long as you say it has, Gerard, they shouldn’t have been able to find much food. If they stay here too long, they’ll starve eventually. Scirocco obviously doesn’t have that problem, especially since the money Meris brought with her is more than enough to cover the expenses of the town and the Pegasus Knight wing for quite a while. If we’re patient, it’s entirely possible we can simply wait out our enemies.”

“And what if they attack?” Gerard asked. “Will my town be in danger?”

“I must be honest with you, sir. Yes, it might be. However, from a tactical standpoint, we are much better off conserving our strength here. My knights are much better able to defend a walled settlement than fighting out in the open or assaulting a fortress. If we fight near Scirocco, we will have the advantage rather than the mercenaries, and it will be easier to drive them off.”

“I am not sure that is acceptable,” said Meris, who had previously been silent over the course of this discussion. Everyone turned towards her as she said her piece. “Commander, while your skill as a tactician is certainly admirable, you must also think of the people of Scirocco. They have already had to deal with so much over the past few years, from crushing taxes to the King’s unjust decrees. Can we truly ask them to endure the horrors of war as well?”

She stood up. “Rather than waiting for the king’s lapdogs to come to us, I think we should take the fight to them. Let’s launch an all-out assault on Nerinheit’s fortress! We outnumber the mercenaries by more than two to one. If we exterminate them now before they have a chance to move, the beleaguered people of this town will not run the risk of being attacked.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Fontina said coolly. “As a soldier, I cannot in good conscience ask civilians to take the same risks myself and my subordinates are obligated to. However, I am convinced that attacking the castle hastily would be playing right into our enemy’s hands. They will find it much easier to defend their fortified position than they would attacking ours, especially with the aid of their ballista. We will simply be giving them the advantages that should have been ours.”

“Not every battle can be easy, Commander. The knights of Ilia are said to be the bravest mercenaries on the continent. That is why I hired you. Perhaps the tales I heard of your skill were exaggerated?”

“We are not cowards!” Naria insisted. “It’s just that—“

“Naria! That is enough.” Fontina turned back to Meris, and her voice was quite calm. “If Gerard agrees, milady, then we will do as you ask.

“However, I am simply pointing out that from a military standpoint, we would be extremely ill-advised to embark on a hasty offensive against an entrenched opponent. We Ilians are more than willing to take risks, but we do not like taking stupid ones. Like I said, there is a difference between bravery and foolishness.”

“That is certainly true, good knight. I apologize for insulting the honor of your wing and your country. However, I believe we do have pressing reasons for dealing with these intruders as soon as possible. If we allow them to escape, Commander, most likely they will run back to Aquleia, telling the king what they have seen. Then they will probably return with reinforcements, will they not?”

“You are correct,” Fontina admitted. “Still, reinforcements will probably come anyways, even if we were to eliminate every last one of the mercenaries today. If they do not return soon, their employers will figure out something happened to them, and the Crown will likely send a larger detachment—perhaps even some of its Mage Knights—to find out what went wrong. Going on the offensive would only delay the inevitable at most. Like I said, they will have to abandon the fortress eventually. My flying troops would be able to ambush them as they leave, and that would—“

“But do we have that sort of time?” Gerard interjected. “They could attack very soon, yes? So that means the village might be in danger as early as tomorrow?”

“Possibly.”

Gerarad clenched his hands into fists and looked down at his lap. “I-I hate fighting,” he whimpered. “I just want this to be over as soon as possible.” He stared right into Fontina’s eyes, and his were glistening. “Milady, I know it is much to ask of you, but please, I beseech you, drive those accursed mercenaries away as soon as possible! Th-this town has already seen too much d-death. I could not bear it if even more people died at the hands of those sellswords. Please—“

“But, sir,” Fontina seemed to almost deflate in the face of the old man’s sniffling.”It’s too—I can’t—“

Meris clinched her victory. “The mayor of Scirocco agrees with me, Commander. Let’s smite the loyalist scum while we still have the chance! Justice is on our side. Even if they have a castle, they aren’t fighting for what they believe in. If we strike with the force of our convictions, we are sure to prevail!”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Altor. “You saw those mercenaries when they first came here, they sure don’t look so tough. Hell, that one kid nearly wet himself when Kasha attacked him! I don’t like the idea of them skulking around here anyways. Let’s kick their asses!”

Fontina did not look dismayed, but she did look very, very tired, and while Meris and Altor did not notice, Gerard did, and a wave of regret washed over him as he realized what he was sending this woman out to do. She did not complain, however. She merely nodded courteously. “If that is your decision, I accept. Naria, come with me. We must notify the rest of our wing of our new orders. Gerard, I think attacking early next morning would be best. We will be able to move out by sunrise if we spend tonight preparing. Is that acceptable?”

“Y-yes,” he said, very careful not to allow his eyes to meet hers.

“Very well. Let’s go, Naria.”

The two women thanked him for his hospitality and took their leave, Naria slamming the door perhaps a bit harder than Fontina would have liked. “Isn’t this great?” Meris exclaimed. “Your troubles are almost at an end, good sir! Once Fontina attacks the castle tomorrow morning, you’ll never have to worry about those wretched mercenaries again!”

“She’s right, Gramps!” Altor gleefully wrapped his arms around both his grandsire and his friend, much to Meris’ pleased surprise and Gerard’s resignation. “Those scumbags are no match for our Ilians! That’ll really show those damn nobles who’s boss!”

As his young companions celebrated, Gerard tried his best to put on a smile. He failed miserably—all he managed to do was set his lips in a quavering, slightly upturned line. He begged to be excused, claiming to be very tired and sleepy, and told Altor he should probably escort his friend back to her house before it got too dark. After they had both made their exit, the elderly mayor of Scirocco laboriously made his way to his bedroom, his old bones giving him even more trouble than they usually did. He collapsed onto his bed, trying vainly to fall asleep, but could do nothing more than toss and turn until Altor returned home. He promptly fell very still and pretended to be out cold, which was good enough to fool his grandson.

After the meddling youngster wandered off, Gerard sighed and buried his head into his pillow. He was definitely not going to sleep well tonight. In fact, he wasn’t sure he would be able to sleep peacefully for a very long time.

He was absolutely certain, however, that sleep would be the least of his problems over the next few days.

_::Linear Notes::_

Nothing much to note here; though the next chapter will certainly be explosive in its own way.

 


	7. First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The residents of Scirocco and the mercenaries sent to subdue them finally engage in battle. Neither side will ever be the same again.

Wayward Son

 

Chapter 7: First Time

 

“THEY’RE COMING!”

 

Renault blinked groggily as he was rudely awakened from his fitful sleep. Apolli screamed again, closer this time. His voice echoed through the small cot in the former guard’s dormitories Braddock and Renault shared, and could be heard across the hallway in the rooms the rest of their troop occupied.

 

Braddock groaned, and Renault stood up and stumbled to the cot’s doorway, where Apolli was still shouting frantically. “What the hell’s the problem? Can’t you see we’re trying to—“

 

“Th-the Pegasus Knights! I could see them from the roof! They’re coming!”

 

That woke Renault up quite quickly. “Are you kidding? But Tassar said they probably wouldn’t attack us!”

 

“Seems like I was wrong,” called Tassar, standing by the doorway of his own quarters. “Apolli, how far away are they?”

 

“Uh, I think they’ll be here in a little over ten minutes, sir. The Pegasus Knights weren’t flying too quickly, I saw about five guys who weren’t mounted on anything heading this way too.”

 

“All right. Seems as if they scrounged up a bit of support from the village itself as well. You did well, Apolli; you’ve got good eyes if you could see them from that far away.”

 

He clapped his hands and turned to the rest of his troop, who by now were standing in the hallway in various states of undress, waiting for their orders. “Don’t just stand there, get moving!” the mercenary leader barked. “Get your equipment ready as quickly as possible. Apolli, get back up to the roof and get the ballista ready. Khyron, Yulia, and Braddock, after you’ve gotten your stuff, I want you three to accompany me to roof. Apolli’s going to need a few people to protect him.

 

“Rosamia, Renault, and Roberto, I want you to go down and protect the castle’s entrance on the ground. I know you’re not as experienced as the rest of us, but those thugs from the village definitely aren’t either. You ought to be able to take care of them.” He raised his voice. “Any questions?”

 

Renault just shook his head wordlessly, and judging by the fact that his comrades all reacted the same way (even Khyron didn’t seem eager to assert his authority, at least not enough to do anything but obey Tassar’s command), he had the distinct impression that they all had as many butterflies in their stomachs as he did.

 

After hastily putting on his shirt, Renault jogged alongside Braddock and Roberto to the armory—Tassar kept his weapons within close reach and was already prepared, and Rosamia, Khyron, and Yulia had gone off to the library where the books and staves necessary for their spells had been stored.

 

“Will you guys be all right?” Braddock asked as they neared their destination.

 

“Aye, I’ve got nothin’ to worry about.” Roberto laughed. “I’ve been in a few fights b’fore, you know? I’ll send those blokes from Scirocco cryin’ right back to their mas!”

 

Both Braddock and Renault realized that the big man’s bluster was merely a thin mask for his fear, but neither saw any reason to belabor that point.“What about you, Renault?” Braddock asked.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

“I sure hope so,” Braddock replied as they stepped into the armory. “Roberto, take any of the iron axes you see, but the big fancy one’s mine. Renault, could you do me a favor and help me get this armor on? Just buckle up my cuirass.” His friend was happy to do so, and as he fiddled with the straps of Braddock’s chestplate, Roberto picked up a pair of sturdy-looking axes from a rack on the wall. “You’re good to go,” Braddock called. “Get down to the castle gate, Rosamia ought to be there by now. Renault’ll be coming soon.”

 

Roberto jogged off just as Renault managed to get the buckles of the cuirass together. His friend thumped his chest a couple of times, and the armor seemed securely fitted. “Thanks, Renault.” Braddock smiled. “Time to get you fitted out as well. One of the iron swords on the wall over there ought to be good for you. Oh, and take these too.” He opened up a small chest by his feet and invited Renault to take a look at the contents. The young man took out a pair of leather gloves and the cheap leather armor he’d been wearing when he first came to Scirocco.

 

“It’s the best that’s available for you,” Braddock said apologetically. “Nothing else seems quite your size. I really wish we had a nice suit of chain mail, but you’ll have to make do with this. It’ll give you a bit of protection, at least.”

 

“Better than nothing.” He donned the equipment and took one of the swords. “I gotta get down to the gate, and you have to defend the ballista, right? I’ll see you later, I guess.”

 

“Renault, wait a second.” Braddock walked up to him, sincere concern evident on his face. “You sure you’re okay, man?”

 

“Can’t fool you, huh?” Renault gave him a quavering smile. “All right, you got me. I’m scared. But I gotta do what I gotta do. If you’re going to be out there fighting for your life, least I can do is go out there myself. I still owe you for saving my hide back at Scirocco. And—“

 

Braddock put a reassuring hand on Renault’s shoulder. “Don’t need to say any more. I know what you mean, bud. But don’t feel too bad about it. Everybody’s scared the first time they head out to the battlefield. Hell, I nearly wet my pants the first time I went out. You’re already doing better than I did, apparently.”

 

Renault couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Seriously?”

 

His friend looked more than a little embarrassed. “Uh, yeah. But anyways, if you’re that scared, just think about it for a second. You’ll only really be facing about five country bumpkins at most. Tassar’s been training you, so you’ve got a leg up on those guys anyways. You’ll be fine, buddy. Just keep ‘em out of our little home here, eh? Don’t disappoint me!”

 

Renault grinned, already feeling more confident. “I won’t. I definitely won’t, Braddock.”

 

He was treated to a hard clap on the back as Braddock rushed past him, out the armory’s entrance, and towards the stairwell that led to the roof. “Better get going, then!” he called. “Rosamia and Roberto are waiting for you!”

 

The mercenary wasted no time heeding his friend’s instruction. Rushing the opposite way Braddock had gone, Renault headed towards his first battle.

 

-X-

 

“How far away are they?”

 

“J-Just a bit more. I’ll be able to shoot at’ em in a minute, judgin’ by how fast they’re goin’.”

 

Apolli and Tassar stood by the refurbished ballista on the roof, the veteran keeping a close eye on the Pegasus Knights flying towards them and the archer keeping his sweaty hands trembling over the weapon’s firing lever. Khyron stood silently behind Apolli, nervously thumbing through the pages of his Elfire tome. Braddock had taken up his position behind them all, right in front of the staircase that led to the castle interior. His job was to protect Yulia, cloistered within the small doorway, who was to head out onto the roof only when one of her comrades was hurt and in need of healing. She nervously peeked out from behind Braddock to check on her fiancé, both because she was worried about him and because she had never seen anything like a ballista before.

 

The weapon was essentially a giant, reinforced crossbow, and the lever Apolli was nervously holding commanded its firing mechanism. The gigantic steel bolts which the ballista used as ammunition were too large to be handled and loaded properly by a single man, much less fired, but the ingenuity of Etruria’s engineers had circumvented that problem by forcing the machine itself to do most of the work. The ballista itself was mounted on a pintle on the castle’s roof, allowing its crew to rotate it for easy aiming. A complex series of hooks and pulleys within the ballista’s body were attached to the lever, keeping the thick, heavy rope that served as its bowstring drawn and taut. When the lever was pushed down, the system would release and fire the bolt, and when the lever was again pushed back up (a difficult job), the motion of the rope triggered a spring within the huge (half as large as a man) magazine adjacent to the weapon’s body, which loaded a bolt onto the ballista’s stock, ready to be discharged. This complex, clever mechanism allowed a single archer to load and fire a weapon it would otherwise take a small crew to operate.

 

Apolli naturally thought of the power of such a weapon, and the pain it was capable of inflicting, and immediately gulped and tried to banish the images from his mind.

 

“Well? Apolli?”

 

The young man’s attention was drawn back to the world around him, and he blinked. “Huh?”

 

“The Pegasus Knights!” Tassar did not even try to hide his impatience. “Are they within range?”

 

“Y, yeah, I think so—“

 

“Then fire!”

 

Breath coming in short, fearful gasps, Apolli gripped the firing lever as tightly as he could—

 

And froze.

 

“Is there a problem?” Khyron asked. “Why aren’t you shooting?”

 

“We don’t have all day, man,” Braddock warned.

 

Yulia, hiding within the stairwell, whimpered fearfully, and perhaps that was what finally spurred Apolli to action.

 

“I’M SORRY!” he cried, shutting his eyes and pushing the lever down as hard as he could. He had not bothered to aim the ballista, and the bolt soared harmlessly through the air, flying safely over the approaching Pegasus Knights. Fortunately, it was enough to scare several of the most inexperienced recruits into breaking formation, and their commander wasted a few valuable moments restoring order. It was clear, however, that they would not be driven off by a panicked, empty barrage, even if it came from a ballista.

 

“Where the hell are you aiming?” Tassar was now angry rather than merely impatient. “If you don’t pick off a few of them soon, we’re all as good as dead!”  


“I-I can’t do it,” Apolli whimpered, and when he looked up at Tassar there were tears in his eyes. “It’s n-not like huntin’ deer or rabbits, sir. I-I just can’t shoot at another person! I don’t want to be a murderer!”

 

“Murderer?” Khyron sneered. “They’re only Ilians! Are you peasants truly so cowardly that you can’t—“

 

Tassar quickly cut him off, and spoke to the terrified, conscience-stricken archer in tones of absolute calm and control. “Apolli, listen to me. Those Pegasus Knights are coming to kill us all. If you don’t do your job, you will die. Do you understand that?”

 

“B-But—“

 

“And not just you, Apolli. They don’t want any of us to get back to Aquleia for reinforcements. They’re going to kill Yulia as well. Is that something you can live with? Can you stand by and watch her die?”

 

“No! NO!” Apolli drew back and stood ramrod straight, anger replacing tears in his eyes. “I won’t let ‘em hurt my Yulia! No matter what!”

 

“Then fight, boy. Fight to save your woman’s life and your own. There’s no other way.” Tassar holstered his hand axe and grabbed the ballista’s lever, pushing it upwards with all his strength. Apolli quickly grabbed it as well to assist, and soon enough the string was pulled back and another bolt was loaded. “Good work,” said the mercenary. “Are you ready to do this?”

 

“Y-yeah.” Fear, trepidation, and guilt were all evident in the young man’s voice, but his resolve to protect his beloved much more so.

 

“Good.” Tassar clapped him on the back. “Everyone’s first time in battle is hard, and it’s understandable if you’re not yet ready to take life. You can still aim for the Pegasi, though. Kill the mounts and the riders will have to break off their attacks. They’re just animals, so you can do that, right?”

 

“Yeah! That’s not so much different from hunting!”

 

“Whatever you’re gonna do, do it quickly,” Braddock called. “They’re almost here!”

 

They were indeed. At this point Apolli could clearly make out seventeen of them in total, with their commander at the head of their V-shaped formation. He knew he wouldn’t have much time before they flew too close for the ballista to fire at.

 

But he could still get one good shot in.

 

Grimacing, Apolli quickly turned the ballista slightly to his left and slammed down the firing lever, sending another heavy bolt soaring towards one of the knights flying next to the commander. His aim was true, and the bolt smashed into one of the Pegasi’s wings, tearing it straight off and sending both rider and mount spiraling towards the ground. The Ilian formation did not break this time, but another knight at the one of the tips of its V peeled away and dove to assist her fallen comrade.

 

“Good job, Apolli!” Braddock cheered. “That’s two fewer Ilians we’ll have to worry about, at least for now!”

 

The young man smiled wanly in response, but even as he did so, he silently and nervously hoped that the girl he’d shot down hadn’t been hurt too badly.

 

She had apparently been hurt badly enough that her comrades sought revenge. “Pay them back for what they did to Sochie!” the commander shouted. “ATTACK!” Her battle cry was repeated by the rest of her warriors, and in unison they pointed their lances downwards and spurred their mounts into a ferocious aerial charge.

 

“Damn!” Tassar quickly brandished his shield and hand axe. “Everyone, get ready and remember your roles. Apolli, they’re moving in, the ballista won’t be able to hit them this close. Pick up your bow.”

 

The young man barely had time to assent before he saw Tassar’s axe whirling out over the rooftop, a gout of flame erupting from Khyron’s hands, and an enraged Ilian’s javelin scything towards him.

 

The battle had begun.

 

-X-

 

Renault stared at the sky above him with great worry, watching the Pegasus Knights descend onto the rooftop and listening to the screams and clashes of metal that accompanied their charge. Next to him, Roberto looked up with many of the same emotions, although his fears were for Apolli and Yuria rather than Braddock.

 

“Don’t worry about them,” said Rosamia, standing calmly behind Renault. “They’ll be alright. Khyron is one of the most capable mages I’ve seen, and Tassar is an experienced veteran. Don’t allow their struggle on the roof to be in vain. Concentrate on your duties here.”

 

Renault nodded, heeding the wise advice, and turned his attention to the threat that was rapidly approaching. Just as Apolli had said, five young men were tramping up the road to the castle’s gate, all of them armed with makeshift weapons. Two carried small hatchets, another two had long, rusty pitchforks, and the brown-haired youth who seemed to be their leader (and who Renault remembered from his first trip to Scirocco) held his sturdy hunting bow with the same easy familiarity Apolli held his.

 

“Hey, they don’t look so tough!” Roberto exclaimed. Renault grinned in agreement, but Rosamia swiftly stamped out their complacency.

 

“Underestimating one’s foes can be a fatal error,” she said grimly. “Stand aside and allow me the first strike.”

 

Realizing she was the only one who could attack from a distance, both Renault and Roberto allowed her to step out in front of them. Rosamia held out her Fire tome in one hand and began chanting, and both her allies and her approaching enemies stopped to regard the tiny sparks that were beginning to emanate from its glowing pages. Her chanting reached a crescendo, and with her free hand she pointed towards the villagers.

 

Up to this point in his life, Renault had never seen any magic more impressive than a staff his mother used to heal a few minor injuries over the course of her work. His first experience with an offensive spell did not disappoint. A small burst of flame erupted from Rosamia’s outstretched finger and streamed towards the ground in front of one of the axemen, who yelped and hastily jumped back, staring fearfully at the scorched circle of earth he had been standing on just a moment ago.

 

“A-Altor,” he stammered, “Th-they’ve got a magician with them! We’re not ready for this!”

 

“Hah! Y’see that?” Roberto smiled viciously. “Better run while y’ got the chance, boys! Rosamia’ll burn you to a crisp before you c’n even step through this gate!”

 

Judging by the frightened expression on the faces of the villagers it seemed as if they believed Roberto’s boasting, and for a moment the castle’s defenders thought their enemies would run away without a fight. Their hopes were promptly dashed by a few well-chosen words from the youth who was apparently the leader of this group.

 

“Don’t listen to ‘em!” Altor sneered. “You’ve seen the kind of stuff Meris can do back home. That was just a cheap parlor trick compared to her magic. Hell, these mercenaries are so weak she didn’t even need to come out here and help us!”

 

“Weak?” Rosamia’s eyes burned with anger. “You insolent fool! I’ll show you which one of us is weak!”

 

She held out her tome and began chanting once again, but fell back with a cry and slumped to the ground, an arrow embedded in her shoulder.

 

“Rosamia! Rosamia, get up!” Roberto and Renault immediately rushed over to her, standing protectively in front of the woman as she staggered back to her feet.

 

“Hah! What’d I tell ya!” Altor pulled another arrow from his quiver. “These dogs are nothing, and we outnumber ‘em anyways! So stop bein’ cowards and kill ‘em all!”

 

“Yeah!” The boy with the axe was no longer frightened. “You sellswords don’t scare me!”

 

“What are we waitin’ for?” Another hooligan with a pitchfork pumped his arm in the air. “Let’s tear ‘em up!”

 

Shouting and hooting, the four young men surged towards Roberto and Renault, who already had their hands full dodging the arrows Altor sent flying towards them. Tassar had taught Renault a little bit about dealing with archers, and the inexperienced swordsman had managed to avoid most of them, albeit with some difficulty. The same could not be said of Roberto, who grimaced in pain as an arrow grazed his cheek after he lunged clumsily to the side just a moment too slow.

 

He had no time to dwell upon his wound, for the thugs with pitchforks had set upon him. Fortunately for him, their farm implements were flimsy and not suited for real combat; a single, panicked sweep of his iron axe managed to deflect both of their stabs, and the two men nearly crashed into each other as they stumbled back, attempting to maintain both their balance and their hold on their weapons.

 

Roberto grinned, feeling more confident as he advanced towards the clumsy ruffians, but that confidence was quickly demolished as he hastily brought the flat of his axe’s blade in front of his face to stop an arrow that would have otherwise driven itself straight into his skull.

 

Now he was the one stumbling back, and Roberto saw that his pitchfork-wielding friends had righted themselves and were once again advancing towards him with considerably more caution. Once again, the swinging of his heavy axe was enough to repel their clumsy stabs and jabs, but Roberto knew he couldn’t keep them away forever, especially as he ducked to avoid yet another arrow. He looked up just in time to see two pitchforks rushing towards him, and once again he managed to drive both of them aside with a hasty swing of his axe. Panic setting in, he looked to his comrades for assistance. “Oy, Renault! Help me out!”

 

Renault grimaced as he hopped away from the heavy downwards chop of one woodcutter’s axe, and swore loudly as he ducked under a swipe from another. He could only call out, “Little busy here!” before bringing up his sword to ward off another series of attacks.

 

The pair of axemen had moved at the same time as their pitchfork-wielding comrades, ganging up on Renault as their friends ganged up on Roberto. The mercenaries were indeed fortunate that their opponents were even more unskilled than they were, as Renault realized he and his friends would likely have been cut to ribbons had the spearmen attacked him and the axemen attacked Roberto rather than the other way around. As it was, while Roberto’s heavy, powerful axe did a good job swatting aside weak jabs from a pair of pitchforks, and Renault found that Tassar’s lessons in swordsmanship over the past three days were now serving him quite well—the veteran mercenary had taught him a few moves that would help him avoid attacks that focused more on power than speed and accuracy, and he found that his iron sword was light and balanced enough to allow him to pull most of them off.

 

Thus, he managed to dodge one thug’s lunge by darting to his left, and quickly hopped backwards while brandishing his sword, bringing him out of the way of a heavy overhead chop that would have otherwise split his head like a melon. The man had invested just a bit too much in that attack and extended himself just a bit too far, and Renault saw an opening Tassar had taught him to look out for. Just as his enemy regained his footing, Renault took a step forward and swung his sword upwards. The boy jerked his head back, but not quickly enough to clear the sword’s path entirely, and he fell screaming to the ground, clutching the bloody gash on his face that split his left eye as his friend stared in horror.

 

Renault spared no time gloating over this minor victory. “Roberto, we have to fall back!” he shouted. “We can’t hold them off like this!”

 

“Where th’ hell do we go?” Roberto responded, driving one of his attackers back with a fierce swipe of his axe. “There’s no—“

 

He was interrupted by the sound of rushing flames, and the pair of hooligans in front of them winced and shut their eyes as a wave of heat rushed over them, following in the wake of the fireball that had exploded above their heads. Roberto looked back to see Rosamia, who had managed to limp back to the castle entrance, judging by the trail of blood she’d left behind her. She held her glowing Fire tome in one hand while her other arm hung limply by her side.

 

“The entrance!” she called, and her strained voice was evidence of how much pain she was in. “Get inside!”

 

Neither Renault nor Roberto took even a moment to question her order, for their enemies were quickly regaining their footing. One of the axemen was helping his friend with the wounded eye get back on his feet, and the two boys with pitchforks had realized they were unhurt by Rosamia’s blast.

 

“Don’t just stand there!” Altor yelled. “Let’s go after them! We’ve already got them on the run! There’s nothing to be afraid of!” He looked at his bleeding friend. “Derek, you can hang back for this one. Head back to the village to get your eye fixed up. We’ll take care of the guy who did this to you, don’t worry.”

 

Derek, however, did not take his friend’s advice to heart. With his one remaining eye, he stared at the fleeing Renault in pure, unadulterated rage. “My eye!” he cried. “YOU TOOK MY EYE! I’LL KILL YOU!”

 

He didn’t even stop to pick up his fallen axe as he pursued his enemy. Altor shouted at him to wait, and his three friends tried to catch up to him, but they couldn’t keep up with his anger-fueled charge. And Renault, fleeing towards the castle entrance where Rosamia waited, could not outpace him either. Listening to the incoherent shouts of rage rapidly closing in behind him, Renault spun around to ready himself for Derek’s attack, but it was too little and too late. Roberto called out to him, Rosamia desperately tried to ready another spell, but their efforts could not save Renault as the full force of Derek’s large body crashed into him.

 

The young mercenary saw stars for a moment as his head slammed to the ground, and by pure instinct he immediately twisted over so he was lying on his back rather than his belly. His attempts at escape were immediately put to an end when Derek slammed a knee into his stomach.

 

Roberto tried to assist his fallen comrade, but fell back as the two men with pitchforks advanced on him. Rosamia tried to blow the axeman away with another Fire spell, but her casting was interrupted as she jerked painfully away from another of Altor’s shots.

 

And, of course, Braddock, fighting on the roof, would not be coming to his friend’s rescue this time.

 

Renault could do nothing but stare at his assailant’s bloody face as Derek straddled him, bringing his strong hands over the mercenary’s neck and squeezing. Renault coughed and sputtered, and for what seemed like an eternity, he could only concentrate on the words Derek spat out through his psychotic, exultant grin.

 

“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

 

-X-

 

“Get the hell out of the way!”

 

Apolli could only offer a surprised grunt as someone forcefully shoved him to the side. He was far too grateful to be angry, for the javelin that would have skewered him now bounced harmlessly off the cold stone of the rooftop.

 

Tassar, his grudging savior, quickly threw his hand axe at the javelin’s owner, sending the Pegasus knight tumbling off of her mount as blood spurted from a gash in her neck. “Get up and get your bow!” he shouted at the young archer as soon as the axe returned to him. “If you can’t kill any of them, at least keep them away!”

 

Apolli still sat frozen for a moment, horrified by the sight of the young woman Tassar had just killed lying crumpled and bleeding a few feet in front of him. Her mount looked ready to avenge its fallen mistress, and Apolli thought he could see the anger in its eyes as it huffed and prepared to charge at Tassar, who was already distracted with a single knight who seemed much stronger than the others. Braddock and Khyron were occupied on the east side of the rooftop with keeping the rest of the Ilian wing from landing, and Apolli realized that if he didn’t do something, the man who saved his life was as good as dead. Without even thinking (or waiting to aim), he quickly stood up and fired an arrow right at the enraged Pegasus.

 

He silently thanked God as his arrow sunk deep into the beast’s headb, sending it toppling over next to its mistress.

 

“Keep it up!” Tassar said approvingly—he could offer no more praise, for his opponent, whom Apolli recognized as the leader of these Pegasus knights, was keeping him very hard pressed. Watching the mercenary parry blow after lightning-quick blow from the woman’s sword, Apolli saw that his leader was far too busy to elaborate on those orders.

 

The archer fearfully turned his attention to the undefended west side of the roof, where several Pegasus knights were attempting to sneak in, coming up behind Braddock and Khyron’s valiant defense of the east. “S-stay away!” Apolli cried, and he reached to his quiver and fired off several arrows, aiming for the Pegasi rather than their riders. None of his shots hit their mark, but they were enough to drive off the encroaching fliers, all of whom quickly veered away from their course before the archer could get a solid bead on them.

 

It was a good thing they did, for Braddock and Khyron had all they could handle on their side of the roof. The Pegasus knights recognized Khyron as a very dangerous magic user from the moment they reached the castle and had committed several of their warriors to taking him down. Braddock realized that his employer wouldn’t last long against a concerted assault and headed over to his side of the roof to assist him, after telling the horrified Yulia to stay hidden and quiet in the stairwell until someone called for her.

 

The two men had spent most of the battle fighting side by side, and their abilities complemented each other well—Khyron’s potent spells battered his enemies from afar, and any knights who managed to get close would have to contend with Braddock’s powerful axe. And while neither of them remarked on it, they both fought with steady confidence, knowing that Apolli was keeping their backs firmly secured.

 

Chanting forcefully and holding his Elfire tome close in front of his chest, Khyron turned his gaze towards a pair of knights who had soared far above the roof and were now bearing down on him at breakneck speed. He raised a hand towards them and prepared to unleash the magical energy coalescing at the tips of his fingers, but gritted his teeth and attempted to restrain his gathered power when, just as the riders came into range, one of them screamed, “BREAK!”

 

Their feint had been expertly performed, and a lesser mage might have been taken in. Rather than falling upon him simultaneously, as Khyron expected them to do, they suddenly peeled away from each other, pushing their mounts to their limits as they both changed courses to fly to Khyron’s right and left.

 

They had expected the sage to launch his spell at them the moment they flew in too close, and had parted at exactly the right moment—if Khyron had hastily launched his attack, it would have flown harmlessly into the air between the separating Pegasi, and he would have been left wide open for an attack from his sides.

 

But Khyron had maintained his control, and saved up the energy for his spell rather than wasting it. It was a terrible exertion, and he snarled angrily as he fought to stave off the pain building in his head. He knew he’d be able to release it very soon, though, and his snarl turned into a brutal victory cry as he turned to the Pegasus knight who had landed to his left. Her companion screamed, “NARIA!” but it was already far too late. With his now-smoking tome held in one hand, the sage flicked out his other, faster than the eye could see. The distinctive three-pointed sigil of Anima flared briefly in the air before Khyron raised his hand to his forehead and absorbed it. He then pointed towards Naria, who had ignored her compatriot’s warning and was in the midst of a charge intended to bring a swift end to Khyron’s life.

 

She never even got close. Two gouts of fire erupted from beneath Khyron’s feet and coalesced into a burning red sphere above his head. The sphere then blazed towards the charging Pegasus knight, and a look of horrified comprehension dawned upon her face in the split second the spell took to reach her.

 

The orb slammed into her with a terrific explosion, and if the woman had time to scream, her voice was lost in the blast. A terrible wreathe of eldritch flame engulfed both rider and mount, and when it suddenly dissipated, there was nothing left but burn marks on the stones of the rooftop, a few charred feathers, and the sickening smell of roasted flesh.

 

All of this happened within the blink of an eye, and Naria’s companion called out her name a second time before she realized her friend was now quite dead. Screaming in rage, she pointed her slim lance at her friend’s killer and started her own charge, not caring whether she lived or died as long as she had a chance to exact vengeance.

 

The effort it took to maintain that spell had taken quite a bit out of Khyron, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, leaving him quite vulnerable, for the moment at least. The Pegasus Knight was certain she’d be able to avenge her friend’s death.

 

She did not expect the heavily armored Braddock to move as quickly as he did. She did not expect to feel such pain as the Wolf Beil sliced cleanly through her arm, sending the limb to the ground with a sickening thud.

 

Braddock, however, greatly underestimated the strength of the girl’s anger. He’d expected his attack to at least delay her, if not stop her entirely, but even with one arm gone she held on to her weapon with her other, hell-bent on killing Khyron. The astonished sage managed to stumble out of the way, but not far enough to avoid her charge entirely. Her weapon still managed to score a deep gash on his hip, and Khyron crumpled to the ground, holding his wounded leg.

 

“Damn you!” he cursed through gritted teeth, and with speed enhanced by desperation he managed to call up another devastating Elfire spell. The Pegasus knight, already feeling the effects of blood loss, was in no condition to evade the deadly magic, and Khyron allowed a vicious grin to spread across his face as the young woman disappeared under a blazing inferno and joined her friend Naria as scattered ashes floating across the wind.

 

His wound was serious, however, and everyone on the battlefield, friend and foe, knew that the mercenaries were now at a distinct disadvantage. Braddock rushed to his side, unlimbering a small healing potion—a vulnerary—from his belt, but immediately saw that the minor salve would do little good for such a deep wound. The sage needed magical healing, and soon.

 

“Khyron!” Tassar called, but immediately jumped back and held out his shield just in time to block another masterful strike from his opponent. “Your comrade will have to fend for himself,” Fontina said grimly, and spurring the sides of her mount, she dove upon the mercenary with another flurry of stabs and slashes, keeping him far too occupied to lend his wounded employer any assistance.

 

Of the sixteen Pegasus Knights who had accompanied Fontina on her attack, six had been disabled or killed so far. Five were on Apolli’s side of the roof, attempting to find an opening in the panicked hail of arrows he sent flying at them, while the remaining five were busy harassing Khyron and Braddock on the eastern edge.

 

Upon seeing the sage collapse to the ground, holding his leg, the remaining members of Fontina’s wing saw an opportunity they could not resist. Over the dismayed cries of Apolli, the warriors on his side veered away and around the castle walls to join up with their comrades hovering on the east, where all ten remaining knights grouped together in preparation for an all-out assault on the disabled magician.

 

Although Apolli hastily joined Braddock in front of the wounded Khyron, as they looked upon the nearly dozen Pegasus Knights flying menacingly before them, they both realized they were as good as dead if they were outnumbered five to one. Fontina was still viciously dueling with Tassar, meaning that bringing Khyron back into the fight was their only remaining hope.

 

Thus, Braddock desperately called out to his troop’s designated healer. “Yulia! Yulia, get out here! We need you!”

 

Apolli stuttered and gave Braddock a shocked look. “Y’ can’t call her out! I won’t allow it! It’s too dangerous!”

 

“If she doesn’t get herself out there, we’re all as good as dead!” Braddock snapped in response. “Damn it! Yulia, hurry up!”

 

The Pegasus Knights hesitated for a moment when they heard their opponent calling out a woman’s name. Even Fontina drew back, breaking off her fight with Tassar and soaring off to join with the rest of her remaining warriors.

 

“Commander, who is he calling for?” one of them asked. “Do they have an ace up their sleeve?”

 

“Maybe. I know for a fact we haven’t been fighting all of them—there were eight who arrived at Scirocco several days ago. Keep your guard up and don’t press the attack. They may have been holding forces in reserve.”

 

When Yulia poked her head out, the knights immediately suspected their fears had been unwarranted. The young woman’s face blanched momentarily when she saw the carnage on the rooftop, and she looked as if she was on the verge of running back into the castle to hide under one of its beds. Only a shouted order from her leader salvaged what little courage she had.

 

“Yulia! Stop wasting time!” Tassar barked as he joined his comrades near Khyron. “If you ever want to prove yourself worthy of the Etrurian nobility, now is your chance!”

 

The appeal to her dream was perhaps the one thing that could have strengthened her resolve, and though she was on the verge of tears, though every fiber of her body screamed at her to flee as quickly as she could from the castle rooftop, she gripped her Mend staff tightly enough to whiten her knuckles, as if to drive back the fear which almost consumed her consciousness, and started off on an unsteady, trembling run towards her injured benefactor.

 

Upon seeing the frightened young staff-user, one of Fontina’s warriors laughed out loud. “She’s just a healer! Nothing to be afraid of!”

 

Fontina, however, was much less blasé. “Damn it,” she swore, “I was too cautious, we should have pressed the attack! Everyone, charge! Kill the sage before the girl has a chance to heal his injury!”

 

As one, the Pegasus Knights swooped down upon the beleaguered defenders of Castle Nerinheit. And both sides knew that this charge would be the last.

-X-

 

_I don’t want to die._

 

Those words repeated themselves over and over in Renault’s head as Derek slowly choked the life out of him.

 

_Nothing is worse than death._

 

Renault had dropped his sword, during his fall, and while one hand desperately tried to loosen the hold of Derek’s enraged grip, his other hand frantically searched the dirt around him, attempting to find his fallen weapon.

 

_No matter what, I won’t die._

 

Luck was with him. As his vision began to blur, Renault’s hand closed upon the hilt of a sword.

 

_He’s trying to kill me._

The mad rage in Derek’s eyes indicated he was paying attention to absolutely nothing but crushing the neck of the mercenary under him. He didn’t even notice as Renault tightened his grip on his newfound weapon.

 

_I’m going to do whatever it takes to stay alive._

Without thinking, Renault thrust his sword upwards with all of his strength.

 

For a few moments, time itself seemed to slow down.

 

Renault himself didn’t understand what he had just done, at least not immediately. He saw his sharp, sturdy blade slide through the stomach of the man strangling him, he saw its bloodied tip poke through the man’s back, and he saw an expression of pain and shock replace anger on Derek’s face as his hands slipped away from his neck.

 

Still, even as he felt a wave of warm, sticky crimson stain his blade and wash over his hands, even as he watched his assailant topple over like so much dead weight, he did not yet understand.

 

The battle seemed to stop for a moment as all the participants turned their eyes towards the mercenary from Thagaste and his first kill.

 

“Derek?” The remaining axeman stammered incredulously. “Derek, are you alright?”

 

No answer came from the corpse lying on its side at the center of a widening pool of blood.

 

“DEREK!” he screamed, and he looked at Renault in unadulterated shock. “YOU KILLED DEREK!”

 

Finally comprehending what he had done, Renault got to his feet as quickly as he could and backed away from the corpse. He looked at Derek’s body, then back at Derek’s friend.

 

“He…he’s really dead? A, Altor, is he really dead?” One of the young men with pitchforks took a step away from Roberto and looked at Altor desperately.

 

“You killed him,” the band’s leader said in disbelief, staring at Renault. “You son of a bitch, you really killed him!”

 

“I had to!” Renault shouted in reply. “If, if you bastards hadn’t come here, this wouldn’t have happened!” He held his bloody sword out before him angrily, as if attempting to drive away his own doubt and the nagging sense of guilt he felt. “And if you idiots don’t leave now, I’ll…I’ll kill all of you too!”

 

Despite how fearful he actually felt, Renault apparently sounded ferocious enough to crush the resolve of the thugs from Scirocco, who had not expected things to go this badly at all. “I…I don’t wanna die!” Derek’s axe-wielding friend stuttered, and promptly turned tail and started running back to Scirocco.

 

The two men with pitchforks looked at their fleeing friend, looked at each other, and ran off to join him.

 

Roberto and Renault made no move to pursue, and Rosamia, cradling her wounded arm, did not attempt to hinder their retreat with magic.

 

“Damn it! Get back here, you cowards!” Altor shouted. His terrified comrades paid him no heed, so he glared angrily at the defenders of the castle, who now outnumbered him rather than the other way around. “I won’t forget this, you scumbags,” he hissed. “Mark my words, you’ll pay for killing Derek.”

 

Firing off one last shot (which Renault easily dodged), the young archer ran off, joining his friends in their flight to Scirocco and leaving the defenders of Castle Nerinheit to enjoy their victory—to the extent that they could, at least.

 

-X-

 

The mercenaries realized they had to defend their wounded employer or it was all over for them. Crowding defensively around Kyron, Apolli, Braddock, and Tassar each worked their hardest to fend off the incoming charge. Calling upon every ounce of skill he had, the archer managed to send an arrow straight into the arm of one of the knights, causing her to drop her weapon to the ground far below and removing her from battle. Tassar finally scored a hit against his newfound rival, as Fontina veered her mount to the side just in time to avoid being decapitated by a throw of Tassar’s axe, but not quickly enough to avoid a deep gash on her cheek.

 

What really broke the Ilian assault, however, was the massive fireball that exploded directly in the center of their formation. Although Khyron did not score a single kill, he did send the Pegasus Knights flying off in every direction as they attempted to evade the spell.

“How the hell can he keep throwing his magic like that?” asked one knight, singed and cursing.

 

“We Etrurians are the greatest mages on this continent,” Khyron said through gritted teeth as he held his glowing Elfire tome. “If you thought I was going to be easy prey, then you’re even dumber than I expected.”

 

Khyron’s attack was not a complete success, however. One knight had evaded his spell by flying upwards and over it, clearing the defenders and landing behind them. Apolli was the first to notice, and he shouted out a warning to his teammates. The second thing he shouted was his fiancée’s name the moment he noticed what the Ilian was planning.

 

Yulia was still making her away across the castle rooftop, running as quickly as a girl on the verge of panic could be expected. So intent was she on reaching Khyron, on proving that she was indeed worthy to be a royal Troubadour, that she did not notice the Pegasus Knight who had landed near her.

 

The Ilian saw an opportunity she could not resist. Her comrades may not have been able to dispatch the sage, but if the healer was killed, Khyron would stay wounded. She raised her javelin and prepared to strike.

 

Khyron and Tassar were occupied with keeping the other Pegasus Knights away, and Braddock would not reach the Ilian on the roof before it was too late. Apolli realized he was the only one who could save Yulia’s life.

 

“No! Y’ won’t take Yulia! YOU WON’T TAKE YULIA!”

 

Upon hearing her fiancé desperately screaming her name, Yulia finally regained the presence of mind required to look behind her. Shocked, she stumbled to the ground and gasped in fear as she saw the Pegasus Knight preparing to skewer her with that vicious javelin.

 

Her horror did not diminish when she saw the javelin fall from the warrior’s hand as an arrow implanted itself into her neck with a sickening squelch.

 

A pained gurgle came from the Ilian’s mouth, accompanied by a spurt of blood that stained her face as she toppled off her mount. She was dead before she hit the ground.

 

“Dammit, Yulia! Get moving!” Braddock shouted as he rushed past her, jumping up and slaughtering the remaining Pegasus before it could cause them any trouble. Yulia paid him no need. She stared at her fiancé in shock and horror, and his white, stricken face indicated that he felt the same way she did about the fact that he had killed another human being.

 

Fortunately for them, there would be no more killing today. “Everyone, fall back and regroup!” Fontina yelled. “Get back in formation!”

 

As the scattered Pegasus Knights withdrew a fair distance from the western face of the castle roof, one of them glanced downwards and saw the four young men who had accompanied them from Scirocco running back to their village.

 

The fact that the fifth man was not with them indicated something went very wrong.

 

“Commander, the villagers are retreating,” the warrior said. “I think something happened to one of them. What should we do?”

 

“We’ve already suffered heavy casualties,” Fontina replied. “We also have a responsibility to protect the men who accompanied us. We can’t continue.”

 

She turned to the remaining members of her wing and raised her spear. “Everyone, the attack is a failure! Our friends from the village are in full retreat. We’ll have to escort them back to Scirocco and protect them from any pursuit. Move!”

 

With those words, the battle ended. To the infinite relief of the castle’s defenders, the Pegasus Knights swooped downwards and away to unite with Altor’s group.

 

They were far too exhausted to celebrate, though. The first words Khyron said were, “Are you going to sit there and let me bleed to death, Yulia?”

 

The young woman looked at the corpse of the Pegasus Knight in front of her, back to Apolli, and then to Khyron. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but the sage’s angry expression—and the widening stain of red on his leg—silenced whatever she was going to say. She hastily got to her feet and finally made her way to the wounded sage, holding her staff over his leg and whispering the words of power that staunched the bleeding and mended the wound.

 

Tassar took a deep breath and sighed heavily. “Damn, that was a close one. Braddock, are you alright?”

 

The Ostian strode up to him, shaking his axe to get some of the blood off of it. “Yeah, I’m fine. I got a few bruises, but nothing too bad. Khyron’s the only one who got really hurt, and Yulia’s tending to him now.” He looked at Apolli worriedly, who had slumped down to the ground and dropped his weapon by his side, staring speechlessly at the woman he’d killed. “I don’t think Apolli was injured either, but from the looks of him his wounds are mental rather than physical.”

 

Tassar nodded. “I thought so. Well, we can deal with that later, there are more important things to take care of right now. I heard that Pegasus Knight say the guys from the village are in full retreat. Seems like our friends downstairs did their job well enough. Let’s check up on them, eh?”

 

“That sounds prudent,” said Khyron, taking a hand from Yulia and unsteadily getting to his feet. He looked at his wound in surprise—it seemed to be almost fully healed, although a nasty scar still remained. “Very good work, girl. It seems we did not over-estimate your skill with the staff. Now, let’s go to see how your brother and his friends fared.”

 

Together, the tired defenders of Castle Nerinheit marched off to the stairwell—all except Apolli, who remained on his knees for several more moments before Braddock jogged back to him and hauled him to his feet.

 

“Apolli,” he asked, “What’s with you? You alright?”

 

“I-I killed someone…Braddock, I really—“

 

“Look, I understand. Battle isn’t an easy thing, y’know? To be honest, I’m glad you feel the way you do. If you could kill someone and not feel anything at all, you’d be a pretty lousy person, right?” He chuckled, almost sadly. “If you feel bad, you’re a better person than me, at least. But look, you can’t let it stop you like this. What’s done is done, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You just have to deal with it.”

 

The guilt-stricken young man looked at his friend square in the eye. “How?”

 

“You did what you had to do. If you hadn’t taken that shot, Yulia might have died. Just remember that killing wasn’t the only thing you did today. You also saved your fiancee’s life. I…it’s not much, but keep that in mind.”

 

He patted Apolli’s shoulder. “And look, we’re not done yet. You have to keep protecting her. And your buddy Roberto. So don’t be too hard on yourself, alright? Guilt yourself up all you want when we get back to Aquleia after we’ve finished this job, but for now, you’re gonna have to get it together and do what you’re being paid to do. It’s the only way you and your friends will be able to go back home alive. So, can you do it?”

 

Apolli took one last look at the first human being he’d ever killed, turned his eyes back to Braddock’s, and then took a long, deep, breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I can do it.

 

“Good man.”

 

Together, the two men followed their comrades down the darkened stairwell and back to the castle gate. For the time being, it seemed, they could all enjoy at least a brief reprieve.

 

For just a moment, though, Apolli got the distinct sense that the castle was not yet entirely free of visitors. As he stepped down the stairs, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched.

 

When he turned his head to look around him, though, he saw nothing but the shadows of the dimly-lit stairwell, broken only by the sunlight that filtered through the doorway and a few small windows cut into the stone.

 

Shrugging and sighing, he dismissed his suspicions and continued down.

 

He did not notice the darkness itself twisting and bending behind him, almost as if it had a will of its own.

 

-X-

 

“It’s over. Just as I expected, the Pegasus Knights have been driven off.”

 

Meris had been standing by one of her home’s small windows, nervously gazing outside for any sign of the returning Pegasus knights. Although she should have been expecting her master’s arrival, she still let out a small yelp of surprise as she heard his voice echoing behind her. “M-master!” she stammered. “When did you—“

 

“Just now.” Although his heavy black robes still obscured his face, she could still see his mouth upturned in a concerned smile. “I apologize if I startled you, my dear, but I wanted to inform you of our progress as soon as possible. I hope I didn’t scare you too badly?”

 

“N-no.” She attempted to straighten out a few strands of unruly hair she’d forgotten to brush in her anxiousness to see the fate of the knights she had sent off to battle. “I just wish I had more time to—“

 

The robed man reached out affectionately and patted down her hair. “Don’t worry about it. You know I don’t mind, so long as you’re in good health whenever I see you. We have more important things to discuss, anyways. May I take a seat?”

 

“Of course!”

 

She pulled up a pair of chairs a small distance away from the window, away from the sun and within the shade, as her guest preferred. They sat across from each other, and the man told her what he had seen.

 

“The battle went very poorly for the villagers. Nearly half of the warriors that came out with Fontina were wounded or killed, and Altor’s band…hmph. The people of the north are more spineless than I’d hoped, I suppose. They ran off when Derek was killed.”

 

Meris’s eyes widened. “D…Derek?”

 

“Yes. One of Altor’s little hooligan friends.” The man looked at Meris sternly. “You don’t seem to be taking this news well, Meris. I understand your feelings and sympathize deeply. But remember what I told you yesterday. I fear you’re growing too close to these people.

 

“Like I said, I sympathize, I really do. They’re decent, honest people, as good as I remember them to be. They’ve been abused and exploited by the clergy and the nobility, just like you and I. But for our plan to work—for us to liberate Etruria, and perhaps the entire continent, from the greedy clutches of kings and priests—they must all die.”

 

“Must they?” Meris blurted out. “Is there truly no other way?”

 

The man sighed. “There isn’t, Meris. We’ve been over this. I wish there was, but the simple fact of the matter is that sacrificing this little town would be the easiest, most efficient way of putting everything in place for our eventual uprising. When the king hears of how well Khyron managed to fight off a wing of Pegasus Knights with only his hired sellswords, he will be so impressed that he’ll rely upon mercenaries to an even greater extent. At the same time, the total destruction of this little town will drive a wedge between the king and his people, particularly in the north. They will grow to hate and fear the crown, and in a few years they will be ready to rebel.

 

“All this, of course, relies on there being no living witnesses who can testify to what truly happened here. If a few Pegasus Knights survive, that’s of little concern—the Etrurian court would not believe what they have to say, or anything a foreigner says, for that matter. If any of the native-born citizens of Scirocco are taken prisoner, however, that would be very troublesome for us indeed. Therefore, none must be allowed to live.”

 

“I…but, master!” Meris seemed to be almost pleading. “It’s…it’s not right! How can we just sacrifice these people, as if their lives didn’t matter? Aren’t we supposed to be helping them?”

 

“Meris, you’re being emotional.” The man’s voice was perfectly calm and controlled—if he was at all disturbed by his servant’s doubts, he did not display it. “I don’t wish to demean your sense of compassion. Far from it! However, you are allowing your attachment to this village to cloud your better judgment. Think of the greater scheme of things, my dear. The destruction of this single village will set in motion the liberation of not only many towns just like it, but all of Etruria, perhaps even the entire continent someday! Is it not a small price to pay?”

 

His voice grew harder. “And as lamentable as it may be, destroying Scirocco will very likely be the least of the evils we must commit. If everything goes as planned, all of Etruria will be embroiled in war within a few years. Thus, you should not be so distraught over what we are doing here. If you do not have the stomach to witness the death of a single village, you will certainly not be able to endure the trials that await us in the future.”

 

Meris said nothing. She nodded to acknowledge she heard and understood, but her eyes remained troubled and apprehensive. Her guest leaned over to pat her shoulder comfortingly. “Again, I understand how you feel, my dear. To be perfectly honest with you, I have often felt the same way.” She looked up at him, somewhat surprised, and he chuckled knowingly. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? But it’s true. Many times over the course of the preceding weeks, I have been plagued with doubts. I have lost count of how many nights I have been unable to sleep because of the questions running through my mind—‘am I doing the right thing? Is this really worth it?

 

“And yet, Meris, I know the answer to both questions is an unqualified ‘yes.’ We must think rationally rather than emotionally when we contemplate what our decisions should be. As horrible as what we’re doing may seem right now, think of what we may be able to accomplish in the future! If all goes as planned, we will overthrow the Etrurian government and create a new order, one without religion or aristocracy! We will create a country where all are equal, and where every citizen can enjoy his or her life freed from the lies of the clergy and the nobility!”

 

He looked Meris straight in the eye. “In such a country, the misfortune that will soon befall Scirocco will never happen again. In fact, none of the problems Etruria is facing now will ever concern us again. The poor of this land will never have to tithe for parasitic priests or hand over the fruits of their labors to the gangsters of some inbred monarch. We will finally lift the veil of ignorance and superstition that has hung over Etruria since the end of the Scouring, and we will usher in a new age of reason!”

 

“I…you’re right, master.” Despite the fact that her heart was screaming at her, telling her that betraying the town she had grown to love was utterly abhorrent, she could not find any rational counter to the arguments her master so deftly advocated. And as always—as she had always been taught, as she believed was the way all human beings ought to think—she allowed her head to win over her heart, and shut everything else out of her mind but an objective, disinterested appraisal of her master’s words on their logical merits.

 

And she could not refute them.

 

Knowing he had won her over, the man once again smiled from beneath his heavy black robes. “Sometimes a small evil can be justified if it results in a much greater good, can it not? And in this case, the destruction of this single village, along with the civil war it will eventually precipitate, is a very small evil compared to the good that will come out of overthrowing the monarchy and instituting a more rational form of government.”

 

Meris nodded dutifully. By this point, her resolve had strengthened beyond her regret and guilt. “Yes, master. I understand.”

 

“Excellent.” The man got up and brandished the instrument that had originally brought him to his servant—an ornate staff with a colorful, double-headed gilded design surrounding the bright ruby set at its tip. “I apologize, but I must take my leave.”

 

“I know.” Meris looked a bit sad. “I wish you could stay a bit longer, though.”

 

Her guest laughed and bent down to give her a light kiss on the cheek. “As do I, my dear. But alas, the duties my farce requires of me are calling.” He straightened up and stood tall. “Now, I know I can trust you. You have already convinced the villagers and the knights to attack the fortress head-on, just as I instructed you to, and just as I expected, they were driven back. After such heavy losses, I do not believe they’ll be willing to attack again, no matter how eloquently you argue the case. Do you know what you must do now?”

 

“I believe so. I will simply go along with the course of action Fontina already suggested—remaining within the town’s gates and defending against any incursions the royalists may launch. I will even participate in battle directly if necessary, just in case the townsfolk begin to grow suspicious of me.”

 

“Very good, Meris. You catch on quickly. The mercenaries ought to be launching a counterattack very soon—Khyron is a hasty and impetuous fool, and I doubt he will waste much time seeking revenge. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, and I’ll drop by again after the mercenaries have been driven off. Stay well.”

 

Those were his last words to her. He held his staff in front of him and chanted a few words of power. Meris felt a brief surge of magic flare up from the jewel on the staff’s tip, and with a bright flash of light, her master disappeared, Warped off back to his hideout.

 

She sighed heavily and turned back to the window. She noted something of a commotion—many townsfolk had exited their dwellings and were congregating near the south entrance of the village, and when she looked up, she could see figures in the sky that looked as if they could be approaching Pegasus Knights.

 

Meris quickly fetched her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She would have to be among the first to greet the Pegasus Knights, after all, and she would have to act very surprised when she heard of their defeat.

 

As she reached out to open her door, she hesitated for just a moment.

 

But only a moment. She knew what she was doing was worth it, after all.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Not much to say about this chapter either--I hope you liked the battle scene!


	8. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and the rest of Khyron's hired mercenaries deal with the trauma of what, for several of them, had been their first taste of combat. The residents of Scirocco do the same, but dark plans are afoot...

Wayward Son

 

Chapter 8: Aftershocks

 

The small cubbies in which Lord Nerinheit's guards had resided were not large, comfortable, or well-lighted, especially at night. Despite that, the young girl needed nothing more than her small cot and the flickering glow of a cheap tallow candle to pursue her interests, even when neither moonlight nor starlight filtered in from the room's single window. They were not her duties, of course--Tassar had made it very clear he expected everyone to get a very good night's sleep, particularly when some of them had wounds to recover from.

                                                                                                                                

Yulia, however, had not been hurt, at least not physically. The pain was in her heart, and a good night's sleep would do little to help that.

 

She had turned to her faith to provide some degree of solace. She had been sitting there through the night, flipping through the pages of the Journey her priest had given her before she left on her own. Her reading did indeed provide her with answers to her questions, and those answers left her more troubled than when she began.

 

"The road to God's country passes through not a single mountain or valley, nor can it be found in all the kingdoms of East and West," Elimine had said, "yet it is trod daily by the humble and the righteous, the penitent and the just. It is those who shed innocent blood, by word or deed, who will never see the path or walk with the Godly."

 

_Is he a murderer?_

 

The events of yesterday’s battle remained burned into her mind as vividly as if they had occurred a moment ago. The feel of the cold stone roof beneath her as she stumbled and fell. The way the sunlight glinted off the razor-sharp tip of the Ilian javelin. The anger in the Pegasus Knight’s eyes as she held the weapon aloft, prepared to strike.

 

And the way that anger had turned to shock and horror when Apolli’s arrow had pierced her neck.

 

Yulia shut her eyes as tightly as she could, attempting unsuccessfully to deny that awful memory. Even now she still hoped it had been nothing more than some sort of nightmare. How could Apolli have killed someone? Her dear, gentle Apolli, who had never once raised his voice against her in anger?

 

_Yet he had taken a human life all the same._

 

She dropped the holy text in her lap and buried her face in her hands, stifling a sob so as not to wake her sleeping roommate. Was her beloved Apolli a murderer? Would he be cursed by God?

 

“Ilians aren’t innocent, are they?” she muttered to herself. “They’re mercenaries, they deserve—“

 

_Roberto and Apolli are mercenaries as well._

 

“But…but he…he just wanted to protect me, right?” she muttered to herself. “If I hadn’t been so stubborn…if I’d just left when--”

 

She sobbed out loud this time, and Rosamia, lying on the cot across from her, furrowed her brow restlessly and turned over. Yulia did not know how long she sat weeping quietly upon her makeshift bed, but her crying stopped and her red eyes widened when she heard heavy footsteps outside the hallway leading to her dormitory. She was not surprised when her older brother popped his head through her door.

 

“Yulia!” he hissed, trying and failing to be stealthy. He had bags under his eyes and was clearly tired, but something had agitated his considerably, judging by the tone of his voice. “Have y’ seen Apolli?”

 

“What?” Yulia blinked away her tears, concern for her sweetheart outweighing her sadness and guilt. “N-no. Roberto, I thought you were with ‘im. Did something happen?”

 

Roberto was about to answer when a sharp female voice cut him off. “Who’s there?” Rosamia asked suspiciously, sitting up and glaring at the doorway. Roberto flinched and scurried backwards.

 

“S-sorry, ma’am!” he stammered. “I-uh, I just needed to talk t’ my sis, was all.”

 

Rosamia’s eyes narrowed. “This late at night?”

 

“Y-yeah,” came the apologetic reply. “It’s, uh—“

 

“It’s Ap--,” Yulia started to say, but Roberto quickly cut her off. “Shush, girl!” he said, and turned back to Rosamia. “Uh, y’ wouldn’t mind if I borrowed her t’ just chat in private, would ye?”

 

She blinked, then stared at him for a moment. “Fine.” She then attempted to settle back down onto her cot, but winced noticeably as she put some weight on her injured arm.

 

“Rosamia!” Yulia cried, remembering how she had tended to the woman’s wound after yesterday’s battle. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine. You did a good job with that staff, Yulia. I just need to be more careful with this shoulder, is all.” She yawned pointedly. “Some rest wouldn’t hurt either.”

 

“Oh! O-of course,” Yulia quietly slid off of her cot. “I’m sorry, Rosamia. We’ll be quick, we promise!”

 

“Mmm.” The mage turned over on her side, taking care not to lie on her troubled shoulder, and pulled her thin covers over her head as she endeavored to fall back to sleep. Yulia surreptitiously tiptoed out into the hallway, where Roberto was waiting for her.

 

“What d’ye mean, ‘Where’s Apolli?’” she asked. “You two’re roomin’ together, aren’t ya?”

 

“Well, yeah, I thought we were.” He looked down sheepishly. “But I just woke up a lil’ while ago t’ pay a visit to the john, ‘n I saw Apolli’s bed was empty! I’ve been lookin’ round the castle for him, but no luck. So I thought he might be…”

 

“Roberto, this is serious. I sure haven’t seen ‘im anywhere. If he’s not with you, I don’t know where he could be. Don’t y’ think we should tell the others!”

 

“No!” Roberto quickly lowered his voice as his sister angrily put a finger to her lips. “I mean, he couldn’ta gone far, right? Not like he left us or anythin’! We shouldn’t make a big fuss over this.”

 

“Then what should we do?”

 

“Come along and help me look? You’ve got better eyes’n me.”

 

Yulia looked at her older brother’s face and saw that he was truly as worried about Apolli as she was.

 

She nodded. “Let’s go.”

 

-X-

 

If Renault had not been so absorbed in his own thoughts, he might have noticed the brother and sister slipping past his door through the darkened corridors of Castle Nerinheit. However, he was much too busy tossing and turning in his bed to pay much attention to his surroundings. His concerns were not too different from Yulia’s, and he was finding it equally difficult to get to sleep. Unlike Yulia, however, Renault was much less quiet about his unrest, and his incessant fidgeting upon his bed finally succeeded in waking his roommate.

 

“Yo, Renault, you all right?” Braddock asked groggily. “Can’t get a decent sleep with all your fussing around over there.”

 

“Braddock! Aw, hell, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—“

 

“Couldn’t get to sleep, I know. Well, don’t worry about it.” The Ostian sat up, surprising Renault. “I actually understand, least I think so. I heard about your fight at the gate yesterday. I mean…look, you need somebody to talk to?”

 

Renault stared at his friend, and a long moment of silence stood between them. The young man from Thagaste still had bitter memories of the last man he had had a heart-to-heart with, although the pain from Henken’s punches had long since faded away.

 

Looking at Braddock, though, Renault couldn’t help thinking he was different. He didn’t know how, but something told him that his new friend wouldn’t turn on him like Henken did.

 

He sighed heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, I don’t think it could hurt.” Braddock nodded, and Renault took another deep breath.

 

“I…I killed somebody today, Braddock.”

 

“I know. Like I said, I heard all about it. You did good, man, especially for your first time. A lot of other beginners probably would have gotten themselves killed in that sort of situation.”

 

“Thanks.” Renault blushed slightly at the compliment. “But…still. I’ve gotten into some fights before, but I’ve never…”

 

“Killed anybody before?” There was a great deal of sympathy in Braddock’s voice. “I heard the same thing from Apolli, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. Never easy the first time, my friend. Killing’s not something that comes naturally to most people.”

 

“That’s the thing, though.” Renault looked disturbed. “I heard about your fight on the rooftop too, and how Apolli killed that one Pegasus Knight with a shot to the neck. He was pretty broken up about it, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Renault sighed again and rubbed at his forehead. “When I think back on yesterday’s battle, when I remember how it felt to have that guy’s blood running all over my hands…I found that…Braddock, I don’t really care.”

 

Another long moment of silence passed between the two men.

 

“I mean,” he continued hastily, “I felt glad that I was alive, happy that I wasn’t the one who died. But I killed a man and I don’t feel sorry, or sad, or anything. I…Braddock, am I…what does that mean?”

 

Braddock blinked, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity to his troubled friend. Renault began to think he had made a mistake. Perhaps Braddock really wouldn’t be able to understand him at all. He wished he had kept his mouth shut, wished he had never come on this trip at all…until Braddock finally lowered his gaze and looked back at him. There was no judgment or condemnation in the man’s eyes, although there was not acceptance either. Renault couldn’t read the expression on his friend’s face, but he could understand the words he said.

 

“I really don’t know, Renault.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Braddock chuckled. “Hah. What’d you think I was going to say? That you were a bad person or something? Call you crazy?”

 

“Well…I hoped you wouldn’t, but I was kind of expecting it.”

 

“Yeah, well…Renault, maybe you are. But who knows? I sure don’t.” Braddock laughed this time, and there was bitterness in that laughter. “I’m really the last person in the world who’s got any business passing moral judgments on anybody, one way or the other.”

 

Renault was more than a little confused. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well…Renault, I don’t really wanna talk about this too much, but…I feel I can trust you. Look, I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life. I’ve killed a hell of a lot more people than you have, that’s for sure.”

 

“That comes with the territory, doesn’t it? You are a mercenary, after all.”

 

“Not just from when I was a mercenary,” Braddock said with more than a tinge of anger, and Renault saw something in his eyes that reminded him of Henken’s. “But…look, that’s getting away from things. I’m just saying that if you want someone to tell you whether or not you’re a bad person or whatever…I’m really not the guy to ask.”

 

“So…so then there’s nothing you can really tell me?” Renault made no attempt to hide his disappoint.

 

“I’m sorry, my friend.” Braddock looked as if he really was. “I…I guess all I can say is this. You killed that guy in self-defense, right? It’s not as if he was running away or anything like that, right?”

 

“Yeah, of course. He went crazy after I took out his eye. He would have stuck me like a pig if I didn’t do anything, so I just did the only thing I could.”

 

“That’s something, at least. Killing is one thing, but in a fair fight, and for self defense…I guess you’ve just got a stronger stomach than Apolli, then. That’s all. At least in my view.”

 

Renault smiled, feeling visibly relieved. “Whoa, hey, don’t take anything I said too seriously,” Braddock hastily added, looking at the expression on his friend’s face. “I told you, I’m really not the kind of guy who has any business calling people good or bad. I’m just telling you what I see, based on my own experience. I’m no philosopher, and I’m sure as hell no priest, though I doubt those greedy pigs would be able to cure anybody’s sins. I’m just a mercenary.”

 

His friend didn’t stop smiling. “Well, that’s good enough for me. Thanks, Braddock. I…I think I’ll finally be able to get some sleep now.”

 

“Glad to hear it.” As Renault started to lay himself down once again, however, Braddock stopped him with one more request.”

 

“Hey, Renault, hold on a moment.”

 

“Huh? Sure, but what is it?”

 

“This is gonna sound weird, but hear me out for a second.” Renault looked back at his friend, unsure of what to make of the earnest expression on his face. “Renault, you plan on stickin’ around, right? We’re not done yet here. You’re definitely gonna see battle again unless you go home real soon.”

 

“No way, man! I’m stickin’ with you. I still haven’t paid you back for saving me, and there’s no place I can go, either.”

 

“You’ll probably have to kill someone again, then. War is no game. If you’re not willing to end another person’s life, they’ll end yours.”

 

“I…I know. I learned that when the punk from Scirocco was ready to split my head open. I’ll fight, and even if I’m not as good as you, I’ll kill if I have to.”

 

“Alright, I thought so. I have to tell you, then…look, I’ll just say it. Renault, a lot of times your first kill is your hardest. The more you fight, the more you kill…the easier it gets.

 

Braddock ran a hand through his frazzled blue hair. “I’m obviously no pacifist or anything like that. As long as people live they’ll fight, and I doubt the world could really do without warriors. But…it’s really not the best world I could think of, either. Renault…don’t…don’t fall in love with violence, alright? Just keep that in mind, even as death impacts you less the more of it you see. I’ve seen a lot of people become murderers because they forgot that.”

 

Renault blinked. “A…alright, man. I’ll remember that.”

 

“Thanks. Really…thanks, bud.”

 

Braddock lay down once again, and not long after he closed his eyes he was snoring. Renault quickly followed, and though he was no longer smiling, he still felt much more content than he had before.

 

It would be years before he forgot what Braddock had said to him this night. It would be even longer before he remembered it again.

 

-X-

“Your mind is made up, then?”

 

“Yes, absolutely!” Gerard’s voice was as forceful as his tired old body could make it. "Meris, the attack was a complete failure! We lost five good Illians without inflicting a single casualty upon the royalists! A-and D-Derek..." The old man's eyes began to water as he remembered what he had been told of the youth's death, and how his body had not even been recovered for a proper burial.

 

"THAT'S EXACTLY WHY WE SHOULD GO BACK AND KILL 'EM ALL!" Altor slammed a fist into the wall of his grandfather's modest living room as hard as he could, drawing shocked looks from Gerard, Meris, and a bandaged Fontina. "Gramps, they killed Derek! They killed one of our own! We can't let 'em get away with that! The whole village is up in arms! We'll round up every fit man in here, storm that castle with the help of the knights, and pay those bastards back for what they did to us!"

 

"Altor," Gerard stammered as he seemed to shrink back from the force of his grandson's anger, "If we do that, more people would die!"

 

"So what?" The young man's face was contorted in rage. "We're all dead anyways, right? Sometime 'r other the king'll send a whole bunch of goons to burn this place down to ashes, won't he? So what's the harm in taking at least a couple of his lapdogs down with us? If we just had a few more men with us, we would've won that last battle! C'mon, gramps. We'll get the whole village together, all of the Illians, march straight back to that damn castle and slaughter everybody we find inside!"

 

"I understand your anger, sir, and after losing five of my knights I share it." Fontina's voice evinced nothing but absolute calm and self-control, even as it came out slightly slurred thanks to the wound on her cheek Tassar had given her in yesterday's battle. "However, I don't think it will be that easy. The royalists and their mercenaries seem to be much stronger than we initially gave them credit for. The sage and the mercenary with the shield, in particular, seemed to be very capable. The other members of their troop also do not appear to be as inept as we first thought. If we launch another attack, I am not sure we will meet with much more success."

 

"Come on!" Altor made no attempt to conceal his disappointment. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now! What the hell are we paying you for, huh?"

 

Fontina's mouth tightened, but she prudently declined to mention that it was the red-haired lady sitting quietly across from her that was paying their bills, not the town of Scirocco. "We are being paid to defend the town, not to kill ourselves. Again, I understand and share your anger, but for the good of the entire village, you must stay calm and use your better judgment to guide your next action, not your passion."

 

"Calm? CALM? How the hell d'you expect me to stay calm? Derek is...was my friend, and his murderers 're sitting pretty while we sit around doing nothing! You think I'm just gonna let 'em get away with what they did?"

 

"Not at all. I simply believe we should wait for a better opportunity to attack. If they leave the castle and attempt to return to Aquleia, we will ambush them on the road, where they will be vulnerable. If they decide to press the attack, we will defend this village, where we have the advantage. Prudence is not the same as cowardice, my friend."

 

"Dammit, how can you be so sure? They've got a sage with them, right? Maybe he'll use some magic or something to send them back in a day! And then we'll never have a chance to get back at 'em!" He looked at Meris, who was still sitting quietly. "What do you think, huh? You agree with me, right? Let's give it one more shot!"

 

She looked down at her lap, where her hands lay folded. "I was the one who first suggested the attack, and so it's my fault those people died," she said. "I cannot undo my mistake, but there's no need for me to make another one. This time, I will side with Gerard and Fontina."

 

"Meris, not you too!" Shaking his head in anger and disgust, Altor started towards the door. "If you're all too cowardly to do anything, fine! Not everybody here's the same. I'll get some friends together and--"

 

"NO!" Gerard literally shouted, his old, frail body shaking from the exertion. Even Altor had to stop and take note of his grandfather for once. "Enough blood has been spilled already! You will NOT sacrifice any more lives!"

 

"W-what?" Altor stammered, clearly unprepared for Gerard's sudden display of force. "You can't stop--"

 

"I can, and I will! I am your grandfather, and the mayor of this town. I am the final authority here, not you! If you wish to avenge your friend's death, you will do so alone. Do I make myself clear?"

 

For the first time in a very long time, Altor could not stand up to the old man. Despite the fact that his strong, fit grandson stood a full foot over his bowed, aged frame, Gerard had summoned up what reserves of anger and strength he could muster, and anyone watching the scene would think he was the bigger man.

 

"D-Dammit!" Altor swore, but did not attempt to challenge his grandfather again. "Cowards, all of you!" He spun on his heels and stormed out the door, slamming it behind him as he made his exit.

 

Gerard remained standing for a moment, still shaking. Then just as suddenly as he had began his outburst, he collapsed back into his chair. "Meris, Meris," he gasped, "G-go after Altor, would you? Calm him down before he does something--"

 

"Of course, sir." She shot him a concerned look as she stood up. "Ah...Gerard, are you alright?"

 

He dismissed her concerns with a tired wave of his hand. "Y-yes, I'm fine. Just calm him down, would you? Please..."

 

"All right." As she left to pursue his grandson, Gerard sighed heavily, reclined further back in his chair, and closed his eyes. It took him a few moments to note the soft, almost motherly hand which rested itself upon his forehead. He jerked away, startled. "W-who? Fontina?"

 

The Falcon Knight looked back at him, and he might have said she almost looked sad. "My apologies, sir. It's just...you really did look unwell. Your face is red, you're breathing heavily, and--"

 

"I know, I know." Gerard chuckled out of self-pity. "I haven't exerted myself like that in years. Old age does that to you. I just need a bit of rest, though. Perhaps a bit of sleep..."

 

"That sounds like a good idea. You won't have a very good rest on that chair, though. Perhaps setting yourself to bed would be prudent?"

 

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it would." Gerard laboriously leaned forward and placed his feet firmly on the floor as he prepared to get up, but found the task to be surprisingly easier than he expected when his guest lent him a pair of strong, steady arms to assist. "Fontina!" he stammered. "You needn't"

 

She merely smiled. "Think nothing of it, sir. Take your time." Allowing him to lean on her, they made their way to his bedroom steadily, if not quickly. He sighed heavily as he laid himself upon his bed, and as he did so Fontina handed him a small, light pouch made out of some fabric he couldn't immediately identify.

 

"What is this?" he asked, somewhat puzzled. The only remarkable characteristic of the pouch seemed to be its scent--he could not identify it either, but it struck him as pleasantly sweet, and almost soothing at the same time.

 

"Lie down and place it on your chest," Fontina instructed. "Let the vapors air out, and be sure to breath them in."

 

Gerard did as she instructed, and much to his surprise almost immediately he began to feel better. His breathing evened out, his limbs stopped their trembling, and his mind felt much more settled. "Fontina...what did you do?"

 

She smiled again. "You could call that pouch there one of Illia's little secret treasures. It's a form of herbal medicine made from several plants which grow only on certain mountains in the far reaches of my country. We grind them up thoroughly, mix them together, and place them into pouches like that. They can't heal wounds like vulneraries or staves can, but they can ward off minor illnesses as well as calm the mind, body, and soul. They maintain their potency for years, aren't much affected by great heat or cold, and you can keep them wet or dry. Almost every Pegasus Knight carries at least one with her wherever she travels."

 

"Ah, I see. Thank you, Fontina." A flush went across Gerard's face; this time out of embarrassment rather than anger or exhaustion. "I truly am sorry, forcing you to go through all this trouble. Having a guest take care of me rather than the opposite...what a terrible host I am!"

 

"As I said before, think nothing of it. We are obligated to protect our employers, after all."

 

"Well, we certainly aren't making it easy for you, and I apologize for that as well," Gerard said sadly. "That shameful display with my grandson...please forgive me. It's so hard to control him. I was already past my prime when his parents passed away, and I fear I hadn't the energy left in me to raise him properly. If only I'd disciplined him better..."

 

The look on Fontina's face was profoundly sympathetic. "I suppose I would agree, but after the way my own children turned out, I don't think I have any right to critique anyone else's parenting."

 

Gerard glanced at her in surprise. "You are a mother?"

 

"Yes, of three daughters. My eldest is a full-fledged Pegasus Knight, the middle is in training, and it seems my youngest will follow their path when she is of age. Their father...is no longer with us, so some of my elder, retired comrades have helped me raise them." She sighed. "I love all three, of course, but...I cannot say they have turned out as I may have hoped."

 

"I certainly understand the feeling. I wonder if every parent feels the same way?"

 

"I would be surprised if they didn't. Still, so long as your children are alive, there is always hope. As we say in Ilia, 'A wayward son may come home someday, but the dead never will."

 

A pall spread over both their faces. "That certainly is true, Fontina. And I suppose Derek's parents learned the hard truth of that today...as well as those your fallen Pegasus Knights left behind. I am sorry...perhaps if I was a better leader, they wouldn't have--"

 

"There's no need to apologize, Gerard. All of us serving in Illia's wings know the risks we take."

 

"Even so, I...surely the money we--I mean, Meris has paid you is not worth your lives. You're human beings just like we are. We shouldn't treat you as if you were expendable."

 

Fontina laughed at that, but there was more sadness than humor in her voice. "You truly surprise me, Gerard of Scirocco. In all my time as a Pegasus Knight, you are the first person who has ever said anything like that to me."

 

"T-truly?"

 

"We are mercenaries, Gerard. Most of our employers see us as nothing more than tools that they paid for, which can be thrown away if they've earned their money's worth."

 

"Ah, that...that is terrible. I suppose powerful men in every nation look at those below them only as tools. I...I have often felt like that is how the king of Etruria sees his subjects"

 

Fontina raised an eyebrow in response. "You believe your lot is comparable to ours?"

 

"Well, I...no, we aren't forced to fight and kill, but," and here a distinct note of bitterness entered Gerard's voice, "our rulers certainly do not care about us. We work ourselves to death in the fields, through the coldest winters or hottest summers, through drought or blizzard, and yet we aren't even allowed to reap the fruits of our labors! Almost everything we have is taken away by the crown, for a king who never so much as lifts a finger to put food on his own plate! He wastes everything we give him on his silly games with other nations and fancy palaces for his nobility, and as we starve to death we are told that we should be honored to serve him, that this order was ordained by God! Yet the Elimineans always told me that God was just. How is this just?"

 

Gerard had become agitated again, and sweat reappeared on his brow. "I apologize, sir," Fontina said. "Please calm yourself. I shouldn't have brought up the subject, especially when you need your rest."

 

He sighed and rested himself back on his bed. "No, no, it's alright. Forgive me for getting so emotional...I suppose I've lost some of my self-control in my old age.

 

But still...I hope you can see why we have embarked upon the course we've chosen." Images of Revil, of Derek, and of the dead Pegasus Knights flitted through Gerard's mind, and despite the speech he had just given his resolve faltered and gave way once again. "Although even now I wonder if it was worth it anyways...so many people have died already. I...in the end, it...really is my fault. God help me, Fontina your knights...Naria, the others...they died because of us, because of our dispute with the crown, they had nothing to do with it! Please forgive me, forgive me..."

 

"Gerard, Gerard," Fontina said soothingly, running her hand over his forehead again, "I told you before, and I shall repeat what I said. We know the risks we take, and we know our duty. You have nothing to apologize for. And in any case," she looked down on him and smiled, "to be honest, after what you've told me, I am proud to have fought for your people, and I think my fallen comrades would feel the same way.

 

"Even though we are foreigners, even though we are mercenaries, you, your grandson, and the people of this village have accepted us and treated us like equals. That is something not even our wealthiest patrons have done for us. And after watching the behavior of your country's nobles, and comparing how they live to your village's poverty, I do not believe I have pledged my lance and sword to an unjust cause. So rest easy, Gerard. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

 

"I...Fontina, thank you." That was all Gerard could say as he nestled back into his bed, visibly relieved.

 

"Of course." She smiled affectionately at him as she took a step back from the bed. "I enjoyed this time with you, truly. But I have to be on my way, it's my duty to relieve the girls who are on patrol right now. Is there anything else you need, sir?"

 

"N-no, I'll be fine. I...again, I thank you."

 

She nodded and turned to leave. Before she could, though, Gerard raised his head and called to her. "W-wait, Fontina! This medicinal--"

 

"Consider it yours, Gerard. I...I would like you to have it. Whatever happens, keep it as a memento of us."

 

"Fontina, I...I don't know what to say--"

 

"There's no need to say anything, my friend. Stay well."

 

With that, she turned her back on the mayor of Scirocco and left him alone to rest. He soon fell asleep with a smile on his face, and for the first time in days his dreams were not marred by nightmares.

 

-X-

 

“Apolli? Are y’there? Aw, dammit,” Roberto hissed, “Not in here, either.” He had plumbed into the musty, shadowy depths of Castle Nerinheit’s small library (tripping over himself several times in the process—only a miracle could explain how he had avoided waking anyone else up) to no avail. Yulia was checking the chapel at the moment, but between them, they had had absolutely no luck in the search for their missing companion.

 

“Dammit, Apolli,” his friend grumbled to himself, exiting from the library and into the outside hallway. “Don’t tell me y’…” His voice trailed off as he passed by one of the hallway’s small slat windows. It was a dark night, but he could see a small orange light flickering faintly outside—a light which looked as if it came from one of the small lanterns Tassar had thought to keep in the supply wagon.

 

“Apolli! It’s gotta be!” Roberto immediately rushed to the nearest stairwell and headed downstairs as quickly as he was able, heedless of both the possibility it was an enemy or a spy and the dangers of rushing around an old castle in nearly pitch-black night. Luck was with him this night, though, for he reached the great castle gate without falling over and cracking his head open, and as he neared the faint lamplight he saw that it was indeed his missing friend.

 

Yet something was amiss. Aside from the fact that Apolli did not usually wander around at night, he was standing straight and still, with a rusty shovel (one which the original inhabitants of Castle Nerinheit deemed not worth the trouble of taking with them when they abandoned the place) held weakly in one of his dirt-caked hands. He was staring at three strange mounds in front of him, and Roberto did not know what to make of the tortured expression on his tear-stained face.

 

“A…Apolli,” he stammered, hesitantly walking up to his friend. The young man took no notice of his approach, confusing him even further. “Apolli…what’re…what in the world are y’doin?” He reached out to grab his shoulder, and that finally snapped the young man out of his trance.

 

Apolli shrieked and jumped back as he dropped his shovel. “W-who’s there?”

 

“Apolli, it’s me!” said Roberto, almost as surprised and scared as his friend. “I’ve been lookin’ for ya! Me n’ Yulia were worried! We thought you’d run off or something!”

 

At this, Apolli calmed down, though he seemed even sadder than before. “Is…is that all? Aw, Roberto, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t’…Agh, and I caused y’ all this trouble, too! I really am a damned fool!”

 

“Uh…d, don’t worry ‘bout it, mate. Really! I mean, I’m just glad you’re okay and didn’t run out on us or anythin’. But…what in the world are ya doin’?”

 

Apolli sniffled and wiped at his face with one of his dirty hands, succeeding only in smearing mud over his cheeks. He looked more ashamed than Roberto had ever seen him. He didn’t respond, but merely stepped aside to allow Roberto a good view of the freshly-dug mound he had been standing in front of.

 

When Roberto looked down and saw a pale, grey, feminine hand jutting out of the crudely piled dirt, he realized it was a grave.

 

“It…it’s th’ girl I killed yesterday,” Apolli said with the same sad, distant look in his eyes. “The other two graves are another Pegasus knight and the boy from Scirocco. The others who died…there wasn’t enough of ‘em to bury.”

 

He sunk down to his knees, still staring at the Ilian’s grave. “Th-they’re not so different from us, are they, Roberto? I’ve h-heard stories about Ilia. Frozen year-round, can’t farm, nothin’ to sell…mercenary work’s the only way they can make a livin’.

 

“Wonder if she had someone waitin’ for her at home. Mom, dad, maybe a boyfriend…never see ‘em again now, will she?”

 

Roberto sighed heavily, empathizing more than a little with his friend’s pain. “Ah, shoulda known y’d be like this. Haven’t changed a bit, have ya? Not since we were kids. Never could abide hurtin’ anyone else, eh? But…but, look. Y’ did what y’ had to do, right? I know what happened up there. You hadn’t made the shot you did, and Yulia’d be in that grave right now, not the Ilian. You’re a hero! Yulia…Yulia n’ me, we both owe you a hell of a lot f’r what you’ve done for us.”

 

“Hero? Hero, y’say?” Apolli let out a chuckle that sounded more like a sob. “Roberto, did y’ see that girl? She…she ain’t much older than Yulia. They don’t call men who hit women heroes. Y’ think they’d call somebody a hero who killed one?”

 

“C’mon, Apolli, that’s silly. Illians’re different, you cant--”

 

“They’re human, just like you n’ me. You oughta know better, Roberto.”

 

“Yulia?” Both Roberto and Apolli turned to look at the girl standing behind them in surprise. “Where’d you—when’d you—“

 

“I was lookin’ for you in the chapel, Apolli. I couldn’t find ya there, but when I heard somebody runnin’ down the stairs as quick as they could, I figured Roberto musta had more luck. So I came down here m’self.” She walked up to the mounds her companions were standing in front of, the expression on her face unreadable. “You dug these, didn’t you?”

 

Apolli simply nodded. He blinked in confusion and stepped aside as Yulia knelt in front of the graves. “Unmarked graves’re no good,” she said. “Apolli, you couldn’t find anything to use as a headstone?”

 

“I didn’t thi…n, no. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s alright. Y’ never thought you’d be an undertaker, did you? O-of course not. Roberto, could y’ fetch a couple spare pieces of firewood from the supply?”

 

He nodded his assent and ran off once again, returning quite quickly carrying several pieces of the unremarkable wood.

 

“I’ll do it,” murmured Apolli, taking what is friend had brought. “’s my responsibility.”

 

The light from the lantern was beginning to dim, but there was still enough for the companions to complete the job they set out to do. Roberto and Yulia stood by and silently watched Apolli set the small pieces of wood into the soft ground at the head of the graves he had made. It was a makeshift job, and the markers would obviously not last very long, but Apolli had been careful enough in his work that his ersatz tombstones would not just fall over after an hour or so, either.

 

“Is it good enough?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” came Yulia’s reply.

 

The three of them said nothing more and simply stood together in front of the graves for a moment that seemed to stretch on for ages.

 

It was Apolli who finally broke the silence. “Yulia…should you say the rites?”

 

She shook her head. “Ilians have their own gods, and the boy from the village…don’t think he’d want my rites, anyways.”

 

“Then…the Rite of Contrition. Would you hear it from me?”

 

“Apolli?” Yulia took a step back, confused and perhaps even a little frightened, as her fiancé collapsed to his hands and knees before her.

 

“We…I…I killed somebody, Yulia. I didn’t wanna, but…but I did anyways! I didn’t want…I didn’t think any of this would happen! Yulia, I feel…it, it’s tearing me up inside! Take it away from me, Yulia! Please! Can’t you? Can’t God? Please?”

 

“Apolli, I told y—“ Roberto began, but an upraised hand from his sister stopped him in his tracks.

 

“I can’t undo what y’ did, Apolli,” she said quietly. “But if you need it…I’ll listen to it.” She placed one hand on his downturned head, and he began to solemnly recite the ancient words, at least as best as he could.

 

“God, Lord, I sinned, and now I repent. I…I trans…Lord, forgive me!” He was crying again. “I destroyed a life just like mine, like Yulia’s…a life that you gave. Please, forgive me! Forgive…”

 

He could say no more, and he didn’t need to. At seeing the depth of his guilt, Yulia was brought nearly to tears as well, and her hand slipped from his head as she knelt down herself to embrace him.

 

“Apolli, hush,” she murmured as she stroked his hair. “It’s…it’s alright.”

 

“Is it? Or…or will I be cursed? Like…like what the priest…what Dad said happened to bad people?”

 

“You’ll be forgiven, Apolli.” Yet even as the words passed through her mouth, a small part of Yulia continued to recite the words she had read.

 

_Those who shed innocent blood, by word or deed, who will never see the path or walk with the Godly…_

But would her dear Apolli be punished for something he did not want, had not even thought he would do?

 

“No,” she said, this time with conviction. “If…if God’s as good as th’ Scriptures say…y’ won’t be cursed.” Now Yulia really was crying as well. “If I…if I hadn’t decided t’ come, you wouldn’t even be here in the first place. I…don’t blame yourself, it’s…”

 

“Yulia, no!” Roberto, who had managed to keep himself quiet as he watched this impromptu confession, could no longer hold his peace. “I told y’ again and again. Khyron’s the one who brought us along on this damned expedition anyways!”

 

“But…but I—“

 

“But nothin’! I kept tellin’ ya you didn’t have t’ do this. I kept tellin’ ya that nobility, money, we don’t care about any of that! All we care ‘bout is that you’re safe and happy. Ain’t that right, Apolli?”

 

His friend had stopped crying, and wiped at his face (again) with his sleeve. “Exactly.”

 

“So then we don’t have to do it! Yulia, f’rget about this nobility business, and let that popinjay and his damned mercenaries have the rest of this stupid fight! Tomorrow, we’ll just pack our stuff n’ go home! Even if we’re not t’ be rich, we won’t be killed or have to kill anybody else! Nothin’s worth that, not even all the money in the king’s coffers!”

 

Apolli seemed to forget his earlier guilt and despair, and his face positively lit up. “Y—y’ mean it? Yulia, he’s right! Let’s just get out of here! Forget about all this!”

 

“I…I’m not sure…”

 

Roberto snorted. “C’mon, what’re they gonna do? Kill us if we don’t come along? At worst we’ll just have to give back their money or somethin’. There’s no reason not to dump this stupid job!”

 

Yulia paused for a moment. A hint of indecisiveness remained on her face, but it was washed away as she looked at the pleading faces of her brother and fiancé.

“A…Alright. Oh, lord…Both of you were right. It…I was so dumb, foolish…Tomorrow we’ll go home. Straight home.”

 

At this, both Apolli and Roberto let out a cheer, heedless of the time of night, not caring if they woke anyone else up. “Well then, let’s get back to bed, eh?” Roberto clapped his best friend jovially on the back. “We got a big journey to start tomorrow, right?” He then looked at Apolli’s lantern, which by now was giving off only a faint, dim glow. “That, and looks like it’s gonna get real dark for us b’fore it gets light.”

 

Both Apolli and Yulia heartily agreed. The three of them went back to the castle together—not as happy and cheerful as they were when they started their journey, but much better off than they had been for the last several days.

 

It would be a long time before any of them recovered from the wounds struck to their consciences over the course of this journey, but at least now they could start.

 

-X-

 

Meris was not expecting a knock at her door, especially this late at night.

 

Altor had left his grandfather’s house in a rage, and he was still angry when she managed to catch up to him. What little calm he had managed to regain was blasted apart again when she attempted to convince him that she had indeed been wrong and his grandfather right, and it had taken hours (and more than a bit of manipulative flirting on her part) to calm the young man down once more. After escorting him back to his grandfather’s so they could make up, Meris had headed straight back to her little cottage on the far side of town, fully intending to crash straight onto her bed and fall right asleep.

 

She had just completed the last phase of her plan when the knock came.

 

“Altor, this better not be you,” she grumbled as she headed down to the entrance of her small home. “Who is it?”

 

“It’s me, Meris,” came the dulcet-toned reply.

 

“M-Master!” she cried in shock, rushing over and throwing the door open as quickly as she could. Before her stood her benefactor, clad from head to toe in pitch-black robes and carrying a trio of very large, ominous-looking bags in one gloved hand.“W-What are you doing out here?”

 

“I do apologize for my unexpected arrival, but I’ve been keeping tabs on our friends in Nerinheit’s castle, and I’ve decided that it would be best to speed up our plan I dropped by to inform you of the changes.”

 

“I understand that, but what are you doing outside?”

 

“Oh, this? I remember giving you quite a scare the last time I just warped into your house. I thought it’d be nicer to give you a bit of advance warning this time.”

 

“But what if someone sees you? Standing out in the open like that—“

 

He waved a hand in the air to dismiss her concerns. “This late at night? Everybody’s asleep. Yes, I suppose it was a risk, but it was such a minimal one I didn’t give it much thought. Still, I suppose you’re right…always irrational to take unnecessary risks, no matter how small. I’ll dispense with the pleasantries next time, although I do hate the idea of surprising you…”

 

“It’s fine, Master. It’s such a small thing…and it’s my fault for being so jumpy more than anything else.”

 

He chuckled. “If you say so. Anyways, may I come in?”

 

“O-Of course!” Just as she had done the last time he visited, she directed him to the pair of chairs secluded from the windows of her home, although in this dark night the advantage of shade was somewhat unnecessary.

 

As they both sat down, the black-robed man gently laid the bags he carried to the floor with a satisfied grunt. He then began his discourse on what he had seen and what he thought they should do next. “The performance and ultimate capabilities of both the mercenaries and their royalist masters are remarkably uneven, in my view. Khyron seems to be as obstinate and thick-headed as ever, but he acquitted himself quite well in yesterday’s battle. If he ends up as a tactician rather than on the front lines in the upcoming war, I’ll be very pleased. His apprentice…she’s a hardworking girl, but doesn’t seem to have Khyron’s natural talent. Nothing of note there.

 

“The children from the village are useless. The girl has quite a bit of potential and her fiancé seems to be a good shot, but they just don’t have the mettle to be good warriors. The shadows tell me they’re planning to give up and go home. Regardless of what they actually end up doing, it doesn’t really matter.

 

“Tassar, Braddock, and Renault…now those are the interesting ones. Tassar’s reputation preceded him, but he proved himself to be even more capable than I expected. His companion…where did he learn to fight like that? There aren’t many people who can wield the Wolf Beil. He might have been one of Ostia’s famous Huscarls in the past. Yes, he would definitely be an asset to us. And Renault…yes, what a fascinating young man. He doesn’t have much experience, and doesn’t seem to be any sort of prodigy, but he did manage to score a kill himself. Best of all, he doesn’t seem to be suffering from any guilt. A sociopath…we’d probably have to dispose of him in the ideal world we seek to create, but until then, we can make use of him.”

 

“So what does all this mean?” asked Meris, growing more and more unsettled by her master’s dispassionate analysis of this group of hired thugs.

 

“It means, my dear, that we are essentially done here. My first objective in this venture was to gauge the strength and potential of the mercenaries we might find in Etruria, and I have gathered enough information on this group. If I know Tassar and Khyron, they’re going to launch a counterattack against this place very soon. Now it’s time to move on to the second objective, and I told you last time what that is.”

 

“N-no,” she whispered, eyes widening. “Master, please—“

 

“Enough!” he said, a distinct note of irritation creeping into his voice. “I have told you over and over again that this is necessary. I’ll brook no dissent at this point, not now!”

 

“But they’re my friends!” Meris pleaded. “Altor, Gerard, and the Ilians as well…everyone here has been so kind to me. I-I can’t just let—“

 

The robed murderer sighed, his irritation having softened to a pitying sort of exasperation. “I said it once, and I’ll say it again. I understand and sympathize with you. But this is not the time for sentimentality, no matter how admirable it may be in different circumstances. Scirocco is going to be destroyed, and you are going home. That is final!”

 

“Wait, please! I beg of you! Let me at least—“

 

“What, say goodbye?” He rolled his eyes under his hood. “Weren’t you just telling me not to take unnecessary risks? I grow weary of arguing with you, Meris. I will apologize to you when I get back, but for now…farewell!”

 

Meris only had time to raise her hand and let out a strangled cry before her guest brandished the Warp staff he had been hiding under his robes. Quickly whispering the Words of activation, he held in his mind an image of his far-away lair, and with a flash of light (still harsh on his eyes, despite the many, many times he had used that spell), Meris was instantly transported to that location.

 

The man stood alone in the empty house for a couple of moments before collapsing back into the chair he had just left. He gave the sacks he had brought with him a piercing look, sighed heavily, then brought up one hand to his face as his closed his eyes.

 

“I…I really oughtn’t have been so hard on the girl,” he muttered to himself. “This is…indeed harder than I thought.”

 

He stayed in his chair, alone in an empty home, for several minutes. Then he gave another tired-sounding sigh and dragged himself almost laboriously from his seat. He looked at the burlap sacks once more, frowned slightly, then picked them up and headed outside. He would have to be quick—the sun would be rising soon, and with it the people of Scirocco.

 

As hard as it was, he still had a job to do. For the greater good, after all.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

A couple of brief notes—as I’ve mentioned earlier, the religion of Elimine seems to be loosely based on Catholicism, based on things such as Bartre’s support with Renault (“You may say Mass on Sundays…”), references to ‘vows of chastity’ and stuff like that. Now, people have told me it may have relations/been based on other religions as well, and I think you’ll see that in later chapters :D For now, though, I just note that the ‘Rite of Contrition’ in this chapter is (very) loosely based on the Catholic ‘Act of Contrition.’ Unfortunately, I must confess that much of my knowledge of Catholicism comes from the “Idiot’s Guide to Catholicism” I bought a few years back…D: If any Catholic readers of this fic could direct me to any better/more reliable resources on Catholicism (and other religions, actually) I would be *immensely* obliged :D

 

Secondly, just a small note: The ‘Huscarl’ is an actual term, referring to the ‘Housecarl.’ This was originally a Scandanvian term meaning ‘household servant,’ but when it entered the English language it was used to refer to the personal guard/elite forces of a lord. Although they were proficient with many weapons, they were most known for fighting with large and vicious two-handed axes. Seemed fitting for an Ostian elite guard, given the preponderance of axe-wielders and special axes they had in FE7 (Hector, the Wolf Beil, etc.)

 

Anyways, hope you enjoy!


	9. The End of Scirocco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The excursion to subdue Scirocco ends...but not in a way anyone could have ever imagined.

Wayward Son

 

Chapter 9: The End of Scirocco

 

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

 

Apolli had not expected his employer to take their request well. He just hoped the man wouldn’t end up blowing the entire castle to pieces out of anger. Lamentably, his best friend seemed intent on egging the enraged magic-user on.

 

“T’ hell with you!” sneered Roberto. “There’s nothin’ y’ can do to make us stay. We’ve had enough of this! We’re goin’ home and that’s that. Ain’t that right, Yulia?”

 

The young girl stepped hesitantly forward, trembling under the force of both Khyron’s glare and the surprised looks she was receiving from her fellows, listening in on this impromptu argument in the castle’s throne room. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” she began, “but it’s our decision. We’ll give you back the money you paid us, and we’re awful sorry f’r the trouble. But please, let us go home!”

 

“Do you know what you’re saying, girl?” Khyron sputtered incredulously. “This is dereliction of duty! You’ll forever give up any chance you had of earning a title of nobility, or even bettering the lot of your pathetic little village! Is that what you want!”

 

Yulia seemed to shrink before his verbal assault for a moment, but only a moment. She gathered up her courage and determination flashed in her eyes as she stood up to the arrogant noble. “I’ve thought about it, m’lord, and it’s still my decision. I’d love to help out my hometown, but…that…even that isn’t worth…this! I don’t want to see my brother and fiancé hurt! I don’t want to them t’ have blood on their hands! So…so we just can’t go on like this! It was a mistake even coming here at all, and we’re sorry! Please, let us go!”

 

“You gutless cowards!” Khyron’s face had gone quite red, but fortunately for the trio, his arrogance won over his anger. “Hah! I suppose it was foolish of me to expect anything better from you wretched commoners. Leave, then! Leave and rot, for all I care! I’ll ensure your names are tarred from one end of Etruria to the other! But if you’ve not the steel for serving the crown, then so be it! Go home, and never let me see your faces again!”

 

Although he took care not to show it, Apolli heaved a massive sigh of relief inwardly. Unfortunately, his hopes were completely dashed by a very unexpected source.

 

“Hold on a moment,” said Tassar, who had been quietly listening to the exchange along with the rest of his troop as they pretended to busy themselves with organizing the supplies for tonight’s raid. “Khyron, splitting up is the worst thing we can do now. We can’t afford even a slight loss in battle strength. If they go, the rest of us go with them. If we stay, they’ll have to stay.”

“Hey, all right then!” cheered Braddock, “Let’s dump attacking the town and get outta here! Let’s go back to Aquleia for reinforcements or something, we’ll have a better chance then.”

 

“No! Again, absolutely not!” Khyron would not budge on this point. “Are even experienced mercenaries this cowardly? My king gave me a job to do, and I will do it! I hired you people to assist me, and you will do so! I can excuse cowardice from some country bumpkins, but from a real mercenary? You run out on me, Tassar, and I will make it my personal mission to ensure that you’ll never find work again!”

 

Braddock was angered by the noble’s obnoxious (and stupid) threats, and stood up to defend Tassar’s judgment, but he was stopped merely by nothing more than a heavy sigh from the experienced mercenary.

 

“Very well,” said Tassar. “If that’s your decision, so be it. All of us are staying here, and we attack Scirocco come this nightfall. Sorry, you three,” he motioned towards the country trio, “but you won’t be able to leave.”

 

“What? What d’you mean?” asked Apolli incredulously. “C’mon, the decision’s been made! We’re leaving!”

 

“No, you’re not,” came Tassar’s even reply, and everyone in the room was struck by the sudden chill in his voice.

 

“Like hell we aren’t!” Roberto was fuming, almost as angry at Tassar as he was at Khyron. “You can’t keep us here! What th’ hell are you gonna do!”

 

“You’d be smart to think of what our friends in Scirocco will do, Roberto. Remember, they do not want anyone running back to Aquleia to beg for reinforcements. If they defeat us—as they probably will without an archer’s support and a healer’s staff—they’ll know that three of their opponents did not show up for the battle, and they will go hunting for you. Even on Yulia’s horse, you cannot hope to match a flier’s speed. They will overtake you and they will kill you.”

 

“B-But we’re not going back to Aquleia,” Apolli protested, “we just wanna go straight home!”

 

“They don’t know that. Will you tell them? Ilians aren’t known for their love of conversation. I doubt they’ll stop to ask you questions before they skewer you.”

 

“Fine, then! Fine,” Roberto said, “We’ll take our chances! But one thing’s for sure, we’re not stayin’ here! We’re leavin’, one way or the other, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us!”

 

“Maybe I can’t,” and a sardonic grin spread across Tassar’s face, “but perhaps there’s more you have to worry about from Khyron here.”

 

“Eh?” Ironically enough, the sage didn’t know what Tassar was talking about either.

 

“Simple, really. He knows what town you three are from, and he’s quite influential himself—the younger son of the noble house of Caerleon, and the Mage General’s brother. It wouldn’t be particularly difficult for him to demolish not only your reputations, but that of your hometown. I know how poor and troubled it is—not so different from Scirocco. If it becomes known as a nest of cowards, its problems will only increase. People will be less willing to trade with it, and the crown will definitely be less charitable towards it when it comes time to exact taxes. I could very well see your entire little village being starved to the ground if you three fail in your duties here. And that’d be such a pity, right, Khyron?”

 

“Hmph! Although I don’t take pleasure in it, it is every Etrurian’s duty to assist the crown in times of need. If you and the people of your town are unwilling to do so, I have little sympathy for you!”

 

“Y…you can’t be serious!” pleaded Apolli. “That’s…it’s inhuman! Please, show us some mercy! Please!!”

 

“A battlefield is no place for mercy,” said Tassar. “I’m sorry, but you only have two choices. Stay with us, where you have at least a chance at survival, however slim. Or go your own way, where you’ll almost certainly be slaughtered by the Pegasus Knights. Even assuming they don’t kill you, you’ll still be condemning your hometown to a slow death anyways once news of your cowardice gets out, one way or another.” He shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

 

“D…Damn you!” Roberto’s face seemed caught between pure rage and abject despair. “DAMN YOU ALL!” He turned and stomped away, thoroughly defeated. Yulia quickly rushed off after him, hoping to calm him down, and Apolli, after a moment’s hesitation, hastily followed.

 

Before he left the throne room, though, he cast one last glance at the people he knew he would be fighting for later this night, no matter how much he didn’t want to. Renault was singularly unconcerned, having shrugged his shoulders and gone back to checking his equipment. Whatever Rosamia was feeling, he could not discern under the professional, impassive mask she made a point to wear. Braddock was staring at him sympathetically, and even Khyron looked more perturbed by what he had said than pleased with himself.

 

Yet it was the wry grin on Tassar’s face that gave him the most pause.

 

 

-X-

 

It was not often that the commander of a Pegasus Knight wing found time to relax while on a mission, but for Fontina, this warm summer evening was one such occasion. The Pegasi had been fed and watered early this afternoon, the townsfolk were willing to take on many of the patrols, everyone’s equipment was in good order, and for the most part the chores had been taken care of. Even better, it had not been only the horses that had been well-fed—Fontina and her troops had been given a sizable repast also, courtesy of Gerard and his fellow townspeople. It had not been particularly luxurious--a poor town like Scirocco could give them little else but bread, stew, a bit of meat, and water from the well. That last was perhaps one of the only things Scirocco had going for it; the settlement had been built atop an underground spring, and the water from those depths had acquired a small degree of renown in the surrounding area for its freshness and good taste. Fontina could see how it got its reputation, although it couldn’t even compare to the purity of Ilian mountain water, much less the water from the Spring of Pyrene.

 

It did have appeals of its own, though. Although she couldn’t recall tasting it when she had first arrived, the water she had with today’s breakfast (and lunch) seemed oddly…sweet.

 

A few of the townspeople had commented on that as well, though both Fontina and her knights had made it a point to keep their mouths clasped firmly shut. It may have been left unsaid, but Fontina knew that the comparatively opulent (for such an unremarkable village) meal they had been given was a symbol of solidarity from the people of Scirocco. The Pegasus Knights were not the only ones who lost friends in yesterday’s ill-fated battle—the townspeople had lost one of their own as well, and shared in the Ilians’ grief.

 

 _Perhaps it was that grief meddling with our senses_ , Fontina thought to herself. Upon hearing mention of an odd taste, Gerard merely laughed it off, saying the spring was fed by many sources aboveground. A slight sweetness, if it really was there, was probably due to the season—a bit of pollen finding its way into a stream which emptied out under the area, for instance. Thus, Fontina could only conclude that whatever trepidations she felt about today’s meal could only be chalked up to an overactive imagination and paranoia brought on by the deaths of so many of her soldiers.

 

She sighed and leaned back on the small bench she sat upon, closing her eyes and allowing the sun to beam brightly upon her face. “I really am getting old,” she muttered to herself. Soldiers die in battle. That was a very basic truth of warfare. There had not been a single commander who had not lost a few of her wings over the course of her career in all of Ilia’s history, except perhaps for a few legends. She should not have been so distraught over the deaths of the knights who had accompanied her yesterday. They knew the risks they were taking, and they died in the service of both their country and, she was convinced, a good cause.

 

All the same, though, she had known those girls, and although genuine friendship between soldiers and their commanding officers was not common or even very often well-advised, they had been something more to her than simply nameless, disposable goons.

 

“Old and sentimental,” she muttered to herself. She stayed like that for several minutes at least, quite alone with nothing but the sunlight and her own unhappy thoughts to keep her company. Only the appearance of a certain young man seeking her advice brought her out of her semi-seclusion.

 

“Hey, Fontina!” The woman opened her eyes, and turned her head to see Altor jogging up to her, waving cordially. “Uh, sorry to trouble you…Hope I didn’t interrupt your rest or anythin’ like that.”

 

“No, no, I’m fine. What do you need?”

 

He sheepishly put a hand to the back of his head. “Uh, just wonderin’, but have you seen Meris anytime today?”

 

Fontina furrowed her brow, somewhat perturbed. “Now that you mention it, I haven’t. She wasn’t at breakfast this morning, and I haven’t seen her anytime after, either. I wonder if…”

 

“Er, yeah, about that,” Altor began, looking even more sheepish, “I, uh, wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to stay in today. I, er, kinda gave her some trouble last night.”

 

“Aah.” A sardonic grin spread across the older woman’s face. “I remember you leaving your grandfather’s house in a rather…ah, bad temper. We sent Meris after you to calm you down. I take it you said something…ill-advised to her?”

 

His expression shifted. “Well, I don’t think so…I mean, I was pretty angry, but Meris calmed me down right quick. You and Gerard were totally right…as much as I hate those royalist bastards, we’ve gotta wait for the right opportunity to strike back at them. Derek’d laugh me all the way out of hell if I got myself killed tryin’ to avenge him!

 

“Still, yeah, maybe I was more of a jerk to her than I thought I was…that’s why I was wonderin’ if you’d seen her anyplace. If not, maybe I oughta go over to her house and apologize personally…”

 

Fontina smiled and stood up. “That sounds like a good idea, Altor. Perhaps I should accompany you?”

 

“Whoah, really? Uh, you don’t have to, I mean…”

 

“Don’t worry about it. She’ll probably take any apology you have to offer more seriously if she knows I’m not mad at you either, given last night’s discussion.”

 

“You think so? In that case, thanks! Oh, one more thing…where’s Kasha? I haven’t seen her around either…should we look for her as well?”

 

Fontina waved a hand in the air dismissively. “No, no, not at all. She was furious that she wasn’t allowed to participate in the attack on the castle, though I’m quite glad I didn’t bring her along. If she’d been there her lack of discipline would have made things even worse, probably.

 

“Still, she gets rather…hard to handle if she doesn’t have anything to do, so I sent her on a scouting mission. Although you people have lived here your entire lives, this area is still new to us, so I thought it would be prudent to send her to survey our surroundings, especially from the air. I also told her to see if she could find any game to hunt. Although we’ve got enough food for now, news of this rebellion will get out one way or the other, and when that day comes we won’t be able to trade with the other settlements in this area, most likely. Spending a couple of days hunting game would keep her occupied and ease things on our supplies later on.”

 

“Whoah, that’s pretty smart of you. No wonder you’re a commander!”

 

Fontina simply smiled. “Well then, let’s go.”

 

Together, the two of them started on their trek to Meris’ house. They exchanged few words, perhaps because Altor wasn’t quite so comfortable with women more than a few years older than he was. Still, Fontina quite liked the boy, and she was more than willing to overlook his hotheaded temperament thanks to the genuine affection and camaraderie he had displayed towards herself and her knights. She got the distinct sense that Altor reciprocated her respect for him, and thus, even if the two of them didn’t say much, the silence between them was not at all an uncomfortable one.

 

That was one reason she found the odd sensation in her stomach so strange. It reminded her of how she had felt the first time she had went out into battle; a kind of twisting, churning sensation in her guts, but she didn’t recall it being slightly painful as well.

 

More troubling was the expression on Altor’s face. He was walking somewhat strangely, as if something was wrong. “Are you alright?” Fontina asked. “You don’t look well.”

 

“Uh, I’m fine,” he replied. “Stomach kinda hurts, is all.”

 

Fontina stopped in her tracks—now she was really worried. “A stomachache?”

 

“Yeah. Uh, sorry about that, musta—“

 

“My stomach’s began to ache as well,” Fontina said. “Altor, answer me honestly. Did you notice anything strange when you ate today? Lunch or breakfast? Anything at all? Particularly about the water?”  


“Huh…I dunno. Not really.”

 

“Did it seem sweet to you in any way? Taste different?”

 

“Not real…well, maybe. I really dunno, though, I don’t remember noticing anything.”

 

“Huh,” Fontina muttered to herself. “Coincidence? I hope so…”

 

“Hey, you look like something’s botherin’ you even more than our stomachs. What’s up?”

 

“Nothing, I hope,” she said in a tone significantly more commandeering than Altor expected. “Come on, let’s get to Meris’ place. Quickly!”

 

She broke into a light jog, ignoring the ache in her abdomen which had grown slightly to a dull throb. “Fontina, wait up!” Altor called, hobbling along behind her. It was a bit more than a dull ache for him now, which made running or even jogging more difficult for him, but Fontina slowed her pace only slightly, harboring a growing suspicion that time was now of an absolutely desperate essence.

 

Together they reached the front door of Meris’ home in Scirocco, with Altor breathing heavily as the pain in his stomach slowly but steadily increased. “Man, maybe it’s something going around,” he gasped. “I’ve heard of summer sicknesses before. Hope Meris is doin’ alright…”

 

Fontina paid him no heed. She knocked on the door, quite harder than she ordinarily would have—she did not feel the pain as keenly as Altor did, but it had grown to the point where she couldn’t ignore it either. “Meris!” she called. “Meris, are you in there?”

 

No response came forth.

 

Fontina didn’t even bother to knock again. She threw the door open, much to Altor’s surprise. “Hey, what’re you doing?” he stammered. “Meris might get—“

 

He needn’t have worried. The house was completely empty.

 

“Meris? MERIS!” Fontina was yelling now, but just as before, no response came forth.

 

“Hey, where is she?” asked Altor, clutching his stomach out of both sharp pain and growing worry.

 

“I don’t know,” Fontina grimaced, “But…wait, what is that?”

 

Her attention had been drawn to a trio of strange, empty sacks lying on the floor of the deserted house. She walked over to one cautiously and picked it up. When she opened it, she was struck by a distinctly sweet, sickly aroma—a less diluted version of what she had tasted when she drank the water from today’s meals.

 

She closed the sack and turned it over. Her eyes went wide and bile rose in her throat as she saw the distinctive Royal Crest of Etruria proudly woven into the material

 

“It-it can’t be,” she murmured, utterly shocked. “Were…were we betrayed? Meris…Meris…why? Why? How could this…”

 

Her reverie was interrupted by a small groan from Altor, who had slumped down in the small house’s open doorway. She rushed over to him, knowing she would very likely feel the same way sooner rather than later, but it was not concern for him alone which motivated her next words to the young man.

 

“Altor, get up! Quickly! We need to get an apothecary, and we need to tell Gerard about this! The whole town’s in danger!”

 

Altor tried to nod, but another spasm of pain rammed through his stomach. He rolled over to his side, his eyes bulging. He attempted to hold it in as best he could, but ultimately failed—turning his mouth as far away from Fontina as possible, Altor vomited out nearly everything he had eaten that day.

 

Only he didn’t quite remember consuming a great deal of bright red blood along with it as well.

 

“D…Dammit!” Fontina swore, feeling the pain in her belly increasing as well as the first waves of nausea rolling over her. Fortunately, her military training, discipline, and hardy Ilian constitution were enough to ward off the effects of what she realized was deadly poison, but she knew she would succumb eventually.

 

Grimacing, she grabbed Altor by the shoulder and lifted him up to his feet. “Lean on me,” she ordered. “If you do that, will you be able to walk?”

 

“Y-yeah,” he spat, heedless of the flecks of vomit and blood he was getting on Fontina’s pure-white uniform. “W-what’s going on?”

 

“Meris betrayed us,” Fontina stated, her matter-of-fact tone belying the anger she felt. “I found sacks of poison on the floor of her own, stamped with the seal of Etruria’s royal family. She must have sold us out.”

 

“N-NO!” Altor shouted, momentarily forgetting his pain. He struggled against Fontina, but she refused to let him go. “Dammit, that’s a load of shit! She was loyal to us! She believed in us! She helped us so much! S-she hired YOU! She couldn’t have…” He trailed off as he turned his head to retch.

 

“I hope there’s a different explanation,” Fontina said grimly as she began to drag Altor on their march back to Gerard’s house, “but if there is, I don’t know what it is. I only know what I saw.”

 

“C-Can’t be…” Altor muttered disconsolately, but by now he lacked the energy to say much else.

 

 _Either way,_ Fontina thought to herself, _It doesn’t really matter. We may all be dead already._

-X-

 

“Hope I haven’t come back too late or anything,” Kasha muttered irritably to herself as her Pegasus soared through the dark night sky. It was another moonless night, but she was a skilled enough rider—and saw well enough in the dark—that she didn’t worry too much about crashing. Although she was still slightly angry over being left out of the battle at Castle Nerinheit, the past day had been quite good to her. As she’d been commanded, she’d made a thorough assessment of Scirocco’s immediate environs and had even sketched out a rough map of the area on a spare piece of parchment she’d brought along. Even better, she carried on her Pegasus the corpses of a couple of fawns she’d speared just a few hours ago.

 

Watching their blood spatter on the ground and listening to their agonized squeals would be enough to cheer anybody up, at least in Kasha’s estimation.

 

Still, she did worry what her commander would think. “Old broad always had a stick up her ass, anyways,” she mumbled. “Probably gonna chew me out for taking too much time, flying at night, not bringing in enough, or whatever. Ah, well. ‘Least she ought to be happy with this little map I’ve made.”

 

She was flying north, not far off from the road that led from Castle Nerinheit to the town she was supposed to be defending. As caught up as she was in her own thoughts, she almost didn’t notice a few odd spots on the blackness of the night road that looked a bit out of place.

 

 

“Huh?” She lazily pulled back the reigns of her mount, her curiosity piqued. She zoomed back and low to get a better look at what was probably nothing, but her eyes widened when the indistinct shapes on the ground became just clear enough to make out what they were.

 

They were people. People heading towards Scirocco trying to be stealthy, but also trying to get there as quickly as possible. And even though she may not have been the smartest knight in Fontina’s wing, she didn’t have to think very hard to know who these interlopers almost certainly were.

 

They seemed to notice her as well, as even in the darkness she was able to make out distinct movement on the ground which indicated they had picked up their pace. Kasha immediately pulled on the reigns of her Pegasus to shift it back in the direction she was originally headed and spurred it on to fly as fast as it could.

 

“Sneaky bastards!” She grinned to herself. “Guess they’re smarter than I thought. Maybe this time we’ll have some real fun!”

 

Her mount was swift, and she arrived at her destination within a matter of minutes, easily outpacing her land-bound pursuers. But as her Pegasus alit onto the grounds of Scirocco and allowed her to dismount, she suddenly realized that apparently, a battle had already been fought. And her side had lost hard.

 

There were no guards atop the watchtowers at the edges of the town, and no-one manned the patrols. Not a single torch was lit to give even the slightest appearance the town was anything but dead.

 

What there were, however, were many motionless bodies collapsed onto the ground.

 

“W…what the hell happened here?” Kasha took a few tentative steps forward and nearly tripped over the form of a young woman—one of the villagers, she recalled, a seamstress who helped patch up some of their uniforms a couple of days ago. She knelt down and turned over the body—still warm—to get a better look at it.

 

The woman’s face was twisted into a rictus of stark agony, which was gruesomely enhanced by the mask of dried blood and vomit surrounding her mouth.

 

Kasha quickly stood back up, the grin she had came into town with having been transformed into a grimace. “Wonder if there’re any survivors,” she said quietly, and her question was quickly answered when she heard a tortured, retching cough echoing from a house nearby. She rushed over to find a very familiar figure on her knees, one hand grasping the side of the house she was leaning against for support.

 

 

“Captain!” Kasha yelped, rushing over to her superior officer’s side. “W-What’s going on?”

 

“Kasha…is that you?” Fontina gasped, and her subordinate could see a putrid line of blood-laced vomit dribbling down her chin as well. “G-get out of here. They’re coming, aren’t they?”

 

“Yeah, I managed to catch them as they were coming up the road. I came back as quickly as I could to warn you! But…”

 

She coughed again, and gave Kasha a twisted, bitter smile. “They planned this…they had us all in the bag. M-Meris…she was working with them. She had to have been, I-I found bags of poison in her home, marked with the Royal seal…” She managed to sit up and grasp Kasha by her shoulder. “Get out of here. Now!”

 

“No way! I can’t leave you! I gotta pay ‘em back for what they did!”

 

As if to punctuate her words, a loud BOOM echoed nearby, from the front gate of the town. The mercenaries had arrived, and they would soon go hunting.

 

“Don’t be…stupid!” Fontina was now growing quite desperate. “You’re the only one who can still fight. They’ll slaughter you! Leave. Get back to Ilia. And on your way, tell everyone you meet what happened here. They…they can’t be allowed to get away with this. If the world finds out about what the crown has done…maybe then…my…no, our deaths will have some meaning.”

 

Kasha’s face scrunched up in a combination of frustration and anger. “But…but if I let ‘em go now, I might never have a chance to get revenge!”

 

Fontina, now growing equally frustrated, summoned up the last of her strength to grasp Kasha firmly with one hand and slap her hard across the face with the other. As the young woman stared at her in shock, she coughed once again and spat out her last words.

 

“Kasha, this isn’t the time for stupid pride…or to give in to your damned bloodlust. I will NOT allow my eldest daughter to go off and kill herself here, like this…you, you have to go back to Ilia. Take care of your sisters…and tell them…that their mother did not die in battle…but from royalist…treachery.”

 

With that, Fontina could say no more. She coughed again, spat up a bit of blood, and leaned back against the wall of the house. Her eyes were closed, and Kasha thought it fitting that even on the verge of death, she did not look at peace—she almost never had in life, anyways.

 

Even so, Kasha still found her last orders to be binding. As she got back on her mount and spurred it into the air, the young Pegasus Knight cast one last glance at the unfortunate town and the mercenaries she knew would destroy it.

 

She tightened her grip on her lance, wanting desperately to enjoy the feeling of skewering at least one of the royalists. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, however, and with a frustrated snarl she turned her Pegasus to the north.

 

Away from Scirocco, away from the life she had known, and although she was unaware of it, rapidly towards a turning point in the history of Etruria.

 

-X-

 

Renault felt a combination of eagerness and trepidation as he and his friends neared the gate to Scirocco. On the one hand, he remembered his victory against the boy from the village the day before, and he was eager to prove himself to Braddock once again. On the other hand, he was well aware his success was due to luck as much as skill, and that tonight’s combat would not be easier than yesterday’s.

 

Especially since the single Pegasus Knight, soaring back towards the town, would likely obliterate the one advantage of surprise they had.

 

“We’ve been seen!” Roberto hissed at Tassar. “There’s no way we’ll be able to win now! C’mon, let’s just go back!”

 

“Sorry,” said Tassar grimly. “I wish we could. But we’re already too close to the town. If we turn back now those fliers’ll almost certainly be able to waylay us while we’re traveling. Even if that scout got the whole town awake, they won’t be able to get ready immediately. Our one chance is to do as much damage as possible while they’re still preparing. Khyron, do you have any fire magic ready?”

 

The sage nodded eagerly. “These rebels won’t be any match for my Elfire spells!”

 

“Good. Everyone, run! We have to engage them as quickly as we can! MOVE!”

 

The rest of his compatriots threw stealth to the wind and charged straight at the gates of Scirocco (though Yulia wisely chose not to spur on her horse, as not to outpace her friends). Renault, unwilling to be left behind, did not hesitate to follow along.

 

He was a strong young man, though not as athletic as Tassar, and it took a good deal of effort from him to keep up with the mercenary leader (and, surprisingly enough, Khyron). Despite his discomfort, though, he took a bit of solace in the fact that he was still doing better than others—Apolli apparently was even less fit than he was, and by now was gasping and red-faced.

 

Still, so distracted was he by the effort it took for him to keep up with the rest of his comrades that he was almost unaware they were nearing their destination. Admittedly, it wasn’t easy to tell in the dark night—for reasons he was too busy to worry about, no torches lit the town of Scirocco. But in any case, he was quickly brought back to a full awareness of his surroundings when he saw a red ball of light spark up into the air, briefly illuminating Khyron’s face. Without thinking, he dove to the side as a stream of fire rushed past him and blasted straight into the shoddy wood gates that served as an entrance to the town of Scirocco, obliterating it in a spectacular explosion that sent burning shards of timber raining to the earth.

 

The city boy didn’t even bother getting up to voice his indignation. “What the hell, Khyron,” he shouted angrily, “Are you trying to kill me?” Of course, his protests went unheeded.

 

“Renault, get up! NOW!” called Tassar ahead of him. “Move, move, move! Khyron, get another fire spell ready!”

 

The harsh, frantic tone of his voice was enough to spur Renault back into action, and the young man hastily got back and resumed his run, straight into the seemingly deserted town.

 

Only to bump straight into the back of an armored figure almost as soon as he started.

 

“Ow!” Once again, Renault fell squarely onto his behind. Clearly, his performance so far was well below what he had hoped. Above him stood Braddock, standing tall, straight, absolutely still, and probably less than impressed by his friend. “Hey, what’s up, man?” Renault said sheepishly. “S-sorry about that, I was just following Tassar’s orders—“

 

“I know. But I think those orders have just been rescinded.”

 

“What the hell?” Renault was now more than a little angry as he got up and dusted himself off. “First we gotta run, then we gotta stop…what the hell’s Tassar thinking? Is he playing games with us?”

 

“Renault, just calm down for a second. Look around you.”

 

He did so, and almost instantly his anger turned to surprise and confusion.

 

Scirocco was not merely deserted. It was _dead._

 

The only movement the mercenaries could see in the entire town was the faint swaying of the grass as it was blown by the wind. Renault had never prided himself on a good sense of smell, but he could almost swear he detected a faint, sickly-sweet scent that seemed to hang over the entire area almost as a tangible, grisly cloak.

 

What really gave it away, though, were the bodies strewn along the ground and against the houses.

 

The mercenaries, Khyron, all of them—they all stood dumbstruck, their excitement, fear, and battle-lust having entirely evaporated in the face of simple, dumbfounded confusion, and a growing sense of horror.

 

All of them, that is, except Tassar. “Seems like somebody got here before us,” he said impassively.

 

“B…but who? And how?” Rosamia was making a valiant effort to maintain her composure, but she ultimately failed. Shock and horror made themselves known both on her face and in her voice.

 

“I don’t know,” said Tassar, an edge suddenly apparent in his voice. “But I sure as hell don’t like it. Everyone, get out of the town, NOW! Retreat! Hurry!”

 

Renault barely had time to let out a startled “Huh?” before he was swept along with the rest of his friends and compatriots out of the entrance to Scirocco and a small distance away from the town.

 

“Hey, Tassar, what’s up?” Renault probably would have been incensed at this point if seeing all the death inside the gate had not replaced his anger with befuddlement.

 

“For our own good,” came the quick reply. “Like I said, something’s damn strange around here. For all we know this could be a trap. Wouldn’t surprise me…hell, I might do the same in this situation. If an enemy force is coming to a position like a town or something, rather than heading straight out to meet them you can hide your men in the homes and make it seem like the place is abandoned. The enemy is lulled into a false sense of security and drawn further in, where you can easily surround them and destroy them. Very effective tactic if you don’t want a single foe to escape and want to annihilate your enemy entirely.

 

“And even if that’s not the case—if things are as they appear—we have no idea what caused it. Even if the people of Scirocco aren’t lying in wait for an ambush, whatever killed them might be. It’s way too dangerous to stay in there long, at least while we don’t know what’s going on.” He turned to face the entire troop. “Alright, here’s what we’ll do. Me, Braddock, and Khyron are going to head inside Scirocco, do a quick search of the surrounding area. The rest of you, stay out here.”

 

“Eh?” Khyron sputtered. “What are you planning, Tassar?”

 

“We’re the best fighters in this expedition. The three of us have the best chances of surviving any nasty surprises we may find in there. On the other hand, Rosamia and the others will keep a watch out here, in case our enemies have something else planned. All of you, stay close, keep a sharp eye on your surroundings, and a closer eye on each other. If you see something strange—and I mean ANYTHING—holler as loud as you can. Rosamia, launch a fireball into the sky or something, where I’ll be able to notice it. Then get back to the castle as quickly as you can, we’ll be right behind you. Seems the safest way to deal with this while still accomplishing something. You think you can do that?”

 

The woman nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

 

“Good. Anyone else have something to say?”

 

Nobody saw fit to question his orders. “Seems like it’s settled, then,” he said. “Khyron, Braddock, let’s go.”

 

Even the normally abrasive Khyron was in no mood to argue. Together, the three of them wordlessly disappeared into the shadows of Scirocco, leaving their comrades alone outside with nothing but the whispering of the wind and their own fears keeping them company.

 

Renault had no idea how long they stood out there, watching, waiting, and worrying (for Braddock particularly, in Renault’s case). It seemed like hours to him, and he was more than faintly reminded of their brief introduction to Nerinheit’s castle. Yet, just as happened before, the person he had been waiting for returned, safe and sound, albeit with a very grim expression on his face he shared with his companions.

 

“We’ve performed a quick search of the immediate area,” announced Tassar. “Far as I can tell, there’s no immediate danger to us. If someone killed these people, they’re long gone now. It’s time to begin a more thorough search of this place. We have a duty to find out what the hell happened here.

 

“We’re going to split up into two groups. Braddock, Yulia, Apolli, and Roberto will be one, and I, Khyron, Renault, and Rosamia will be the other. Each group is going to canvass everything—the houses, the bodies, everything—on one half of the town.”

 

“S-Sir,” Apolli stammered, “Are y’ sure it’s really safe for us to split up like that?”

 

“I understand your concern, and it’s well-founded. We’re still not absolutely sure if this place is safe. However, time is of the essence. We need to get some idea of what happened here as quickly as possible. Depending on what killed these people, any evidence we have may disappear in a few hours. Khyron, you’ve got some ideas as to what went on, don’t you?”

 

“Y-yes!” The sage had finally managed to recover a bit of his old demeanor. “I…I can’t be certain at this early stage, but I’m very confident it wasn’t magic. If it was, it was like no spell I’ve ever seen. These…these people, there’re no wounds on them, but lots of blood around their mouth, mixed…mixed with vomit.” The prudish man’s face had gone a bit pale. “I don’t think even dark magic would do that…there are some spells that can poison people, with similar effects, but none that can infect a whole town in such a short period of time.

 

“Disease…that is another possibility. For all we know, the town might have been rotting away inside for a long time, and we just haven’t seen it. I’ve heard that Bramimond’s Warts, or even consumption, can eat up whole towns in a very short time.” At this, a look of horror spread almost collectively among the members of the troop. “I don’t think that’s the case here, though,” he added hastily. “Judging by what Renault told me, the townsfolk that assaulted our holdout yesterday seemed perfectly healthy, as were the Ilians. No illness I know of spreads—and kills—so quickly.

 

“That leaves one possibility, and I feel it is the most likely. Poison. I…I know there are such things. In previous wars, people have dumped offal into rivers flowing downstream, so their enemies would have no potable water to drink. There are toxins which are completely tasteless, undetectable…slipping even a bit of such substances into a nobleman’s meal or drink was a favored way of eliminating one’s rivals in the past. From what I understand, Scirocco slakes its thirst from a single aquifer underground. If someone tainted that water…especially with something potent…I could see this entire town succumbing within hours, not to mention days.”

 

“You heard the man,” Tassar said. “I trust all of you brought canteens of the good water we had at Castle Nerinheit and in our supplies? I don’t want any of you drinking from the well. Not a single sip.”

 

No-one argued with him, but Khyron was still engrossed in thought. “Still…still…I’ve read a bit about poisons over the course of my studies. It would take an extreme amount to cause this, even for a small town like Scirocco. Either something very, very potent, moreso than any other venom on record, or a great deal of it. And the potent concoctions are not easy to come by…if poison really did kill these people, someone with a great deal of money—and many shady connections—must have been behind it.”

 

“I hope we’ll be able to find out the answer to that question,” said Tassar. “We’ll have to learn more, much more, one way or the other. Alright, let’s all get started. Braddock, your group’ll take the right side of town, mine will take the left. Search every nook and cranny of every house you enter, and leave no stone unturned. I mean it! Even the smallest thing may be the key to solving this mystery. Who knows how much is riding on us?”

 

As Renault started off behind Tassar, he was stopped by a heavy yet comforting hand on his shoulder. It was Braddock.

 

“Eh?” he said. “Braddock, don’t you have to—“

 

“Yeah. But still…just before we get started, I wanna tell you. Be careful, Renault. Real careful. Stay close to Tassar at all times. It’s still dangerous around here, as far as we know. It’d be one hell of a shame to lose you now, especially after you managed to survive yesterday’s fight.”

 

Braddock’s concern for him cheered Renault, and a bit of the grim dread that had settled upon him after reaching the town seemed to dissipate. “Hey, man, I’ll be alright. No way I plan on dying here!”

 

“Glad to hear it. Good luck, my friend.”

 

With that, the two men went their separate ways. And as Braddock disappeared behind him, and Renault and his companions neared the first house they would examine, Renault found his confidence eroding and the old dread rapidly returning.

 

-X-

 

After the better part of an hour and three houses, Apolli, Braddock, Roberto, and Yulia had found nothing but corpses. Apolli did not have a strong stomach, and both he and Yulia had almost vomited themselves after examining the first few bodies. Their leader was quite patient and understanding, though, and under his guidance the entire team had finally achieved enough composure to do a satisfactory job of combing over the lifeless dwellings. Yulia, in particular, after a few words from Braddock, had taken to her duties with renewed aplomb—she had been convinced that there was still a chance, however small, that someone might have survived the poison attack or whatever it was, and she was very determined to help anyone she could.

 

Apolli deeply admired her selflessness, but he couldn’t share it. The town appeared to be dead—he should not have been afraid of corpses rising up to attack him and his friends. Yet try as he might, he could not shake his apprehensions that danger still lurked in Scirocco.

 

Even so, he felt a bit of hope rising in his heart as he and his friends arrived at the next house they would be searching. This building was somewhat larger than the rest, and he got the distinct impression that it belonged to whoever served as the town’s leader. Another corpse rested against one of its walls—a green-haired Ilian. Cautiously, and ready to attack if anything moved even slightly, Braddock moved a bit closer and knelt down to examine it.

 

“Nope,” he said, gripping the woman’s wrist and feeling for a pulse. “She’s dead too. I remember her…she was the leader of the Pegasus Knights we fought yesterday.” Sighing, he turned back towards his underlings. “Alright guys, you know the drill. I’ll go in first. Apolli, wait ‘till I’m clear of the doorway and keep your bow ready. I’ll holler if I find anything.”

 

Apolli gulped and nodded, nervously watching his leader disappear into the murky depths of the house. He only felt a bit better when Braddock called back to them, “All clear!”

 

Relieved, Apolli, Yulia, and Roberto entered the home. It was somewhat better furnished than the others they had seen, but in a town like Scirocco that was saying very little. They could see no overt signs of struggle, though a chair had been knocked over.

 

“Let’s get started,” said Braddock. “There are a couple of bodies upstairs. Yulia, take Apolli along with you and give ‘em a look. Roberto and I will keep looking for anything down here.” He shook his head. “Don’t think we’ll find much more, though. Nothing but corpses so far.”

 

The couple did as he said. Together, they walked up the rickety old stairs to the second floor of the dwelling, where they found very little of note besides the bedroom. There were the bodies Braddock had noted.

 

The first lay prone on the bed. It was an older man, with dull white hair and face full of wrinkles. Like most of the other townspeople, in death his face remained contorted with pain, which made him look even older. His face was turned to the side, and it adhered to the pillow beneath his head thanks to the dried pool of blood and vomit below it.

 

Apolli shuddered, but as horrid as it seemed, he was rapidly getting used to such sights. What interested him more was the odd pouch the old man held in one hand to his chest. Gently, reverently, Apolli lifted up the limp hand and examined the object. He had no idea what it was, except that it smelled nice. Perhaps it was poison? He hastily dropped the pouch, whatever it was, back onto the dead man’s chest and backed away, reminding himself to tell Tassar about it later.

 

Yulia was tending to the other body. She vaguely remembered it as belonging to the young sentry who had shouted at them from the lookout the first time they had came to Scirocco. He had collapsed on the floor, and judging by appearances it seemed as if he had been clutching the old man’s other hand.

 

As she knelt down to get a better look at him, she was struck by a sudden pang of sadness, even more so than she had been at the other bodies she had seen. The young man was apparently a hunter, like her Apolli. He didn’t have his bow with him, but she recognized the equipment he kept on his belt—a hunter’s horn and a small knife useful for skinning and cleaning game.

 

Sighing, she turned the body over—it was still warm. He had a handsome face, or might have, if he hadn’t vomited and bled all over it, though it did look somewhat thin. His eyes were closed, though he looked no more at peace than his elderly roommate.

 

What really surprised Yulia, though, was when he suddenly coughed.

 

She gasped and jumped back, spooking Apolli in the process. “W-what is it?” he asked, quickly running past the bed and to her side.

 

The ‘corpse’ coughed again and groaned faintly, and Apolli knew quite well what had spooked his fiancée.

 

“He’s alive,” said Yulia with a combination of happiness and surprise. “Apolli, we’ve got a live one!” Without thinking, almost by instinct, she rushed back over to him, unlimbering her Mend staff. Apolli, for once the more clear-headed, called for her to wait, but she paid him no need. She quickly began to recite the words of power, and the young man fluttered his eyes as a soft blue light washed over him. She knew that her magic was for mending wounds, not curing poisons, but she hoped it would buy the youth a little more time, or at least ease his pain.

 

“Uhh…huh?” he murmured groggily. “Who’re…”

 

“Hush,” said Yulia gently. “We’re here to help.”

 

“Where’re…you…from? Are you I…Ilians?”

 

She shook her head, and without thinking, replied, “No. The Crown sent us.”

 

The young man’s eyes flew wide open, his body tensed, and in the instant before everything went straight to hell, Yulia realized she had just said exactly the wrong thing.

 

-X-

 

“Eh? What’s this?”

 

Roberto was bored. Although perhaps it was better being bored than being terrified, a small part of him, he had to admit, was indeed itching for a fight, maybe because he had expected one. When he came to Scirocco and found nothing but dead bodies, after an initial bout with horror and fear—what could kill all those people, after all?—he had been overtaken by boredom when the actual work started. Flipping over bloody cadavers, rummaging through some empty houses that contained nothing better than chairs, beds, and maybe some cheap clothes…he hadn’t even managed to find any decent beer, though perhaps that was for the best—for all he knew, the bastards could have poisoned that too.

 

Thus, he was more than happy when he finally happened upon something slightly interesting.

 

He was looking under one of the small chairs in the room—Tassar had told him not to leave any stone unturned, after all—when he found a small sheaf of parchment lying on the floor under the seat, his interest was piqued. Picking it up, he saw three short entries written in progressively more unsteady, scrawled handwriting:

 

_\--Good breakfast today. Meris wasn’t there. Everyone still sad about yesterday’s battle, but spirits seem to be up a bit. Preparations for town defense going well. Some complaints about the water—probably nothing._

_\--Some complaints about stomachaches. Had some too. Too sudden to be summer fever._

And finally:

 

_THE KING IS A MURDERER_

“What’s this about, eh?” he wondered. “Hey, Braddock, c’mere and take a look at this!”

 

“What’d you find?” The armored man hurried over to Roberto, who promptly handed him the parchment for examination. Braddock’s eyes went wide. “Hey, good work, Roberto! This seems like a journal or record of some kind…if this really is the mayor’s house, he’d definitely be keeping one around if he was on top of things.

 

“Stomachaches, huh…Roberto, keep looking. There should be more like this somewhere in the house. If we can find them, maybe—“

 

Suddenly, he was cut off by a loud thud and a piercing scream from upstairs. Roberto reacted almost instantly. “YULIA!” he shouted, charging up the stairs with Braddock following right behind.

 

He arrived at the bedroom the scream had come from. What he saw was something straight out of a worst-case scenario they had all feared.

 

Apolli had been knocked to the floor, blubbering in panic, “Let her go! Let her go!” over and over again. Yulia herself was now a hostage, tears streaming down her face as her captor held her tightly in front of him, his hunting knife drawing a speck of blood from her throat.

 

He was breathing heavily, laboriously, and his eyes were wild and crazed. He had not cleaned up his face, and the plaster of blood and vomit around his contorted grinning mouth—and in his long, unkempt hair—only added to his lunatic appearance.

 

“Heh,” he slurred, “You scum finally arrived, huh? Pretty damn sneaky of you. P-pretty sneaky indeed. Couldn’t k…kill us in a fair fight, so you resorted to poison? Heh…heh! Should’ve expected as much from you worthless lapdogs.”

 

“We-we didn’t do anything,” Yulia whimpered. “Please, I just wanted to help—“

 

“SHUT UP!” The man grabbed one of Yulia’ arms with one hand and twisted it, causing her to squeal in terror and pain. Outraged, Roberto clutched his trusty axe angrily and advanced on the youth, but stopped in his tracks as Yulia’s captor edged his knife in even closer to her throat. “T-that’s right. Stay right there, scum. Now you know how it feels, huh? H-havin’ someone else hold your life in the palm of your hands. Ha…haha! I love the expression on your faces. Weren’t expectin’ this? Thought your poison did all your dirty work for you? Heheh…they’re all dead…everyone’s dead, even Fontina…’cept for me.” He seemed to be rapidly fading into delirium. “M-Meris…you had her too, didn’t you? Had her the whole damn time. G-God damn you…nothin’ too low for you t’ sink to, right?”

 

Calmly, impassively, Braddock took a step forward, out from behind Roberto. When the wild-eyed youth turned to look at him, he quickly put his weapon to the floor and held up his hands. “Look, cool down, man,” he said. “We’re not looking for a fight. We weren’t the ones who poisoned this place. We don’t even know who did it—that’s what we’re trying to find out. Let’s be reasonable, we really do wanna help. Nobody—none of us here—wanted things to turn out this way. Let the girl go, calm down, and we can help you.”

 

“No…N-NO!” Altor was shouting now, his panic and fury increased rather than eroded by Braddock’s attempt to soothe him. “Liars! God-damned liars! Y-you…you killed Derek! Gonna kill me too, right? Tryin’ t’ get me to let down my guard? To hell with you! To hell with all of you!” He tightened his grip on the sobbing Yulia, and his eyes flitted desperately across the other three men in the room. “I’m dead anyways, aren’t I? You bastards…gonna gut me like an animal th’ moment I listen to a word you say? Y-yeah…well, I got some bad news for you, you sons of bitches. Tear me to pieces if you want, but I’m gonna make you pay for it!”

 

“Aw, hell,” Braddock groaned in utter dismay, and he was drowned out by Apolli and Roberto simultaneously screaming “NO!!” at the top of their lungs. Together, the three of them rushed Altor, but it was already too late.

 

The knife went in.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

The disease referred to as “Bramimond’s Warts” is a reference to the famous Bubonic Plague, or the Black Death of the Middle Ages. Here, they get their name from the ugly black ‘buboes’ which characterize the swelling of the lymph nodes in people afflicted with the disease. Folks in Elibe, at least in this story, thought it looked similar to the black balls of dark force which characterize most dark magic spells, and named it after one of dark magic’s most notorious practitioners. None of this is canonical, of course, I just made it up for the story. I’ll probably explain it in-text sometime, but for now, this will do~


	10. A King And His Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and his friends return to the Capitol to report back on everything that happened during their quest. That turns out to be an ordeal in and of itself...

Wayward Son

10: A King and His Court

The huge flames leapt straight up into the air, almost as if they had a life of their own. They blazed brightly for a moment, flickered away the next, then came back up with twice as much vigor…Renault couldn’t help thinking that they had a will as well, and they desperately wanted to reach the sky. Lamentably, the churning pitch-black smoke they vomited towards the heavens obscured the beautiful dawn sky, a soft, azure curtain in which the nascent rays of the sun banished the clouds which had gathered during the night. Despite being a city boy, Renault had to admit there was something to be said for the country if it had skies like this.

Still, he wasn’t too perturbed about being unable to enjoy it. The great fire itself had its own beauty. Sparking, shifting, a voracious orange with flashes of angry white, Renault was almost entranced by its movements. If it were nothing but a bonfire, he probably would have greatly enjoyed the display.

Unfortunately, whenever his eyes were drawn to the grisly pile which served as its source of fuel, he was reminded he was watching not a bonfire but a funeral pyre.

Amidst the mass of kindling, oil, and tinder they had managed to filch from the paltry stores of Scirocco were its former inhabitants. A macabre congeries of men, women, Pegasi, and anything else having had the misfortune to have drunk water from the tainted well had been thrown together at the base of the blaze. All seven of Khyron’s little troop had to cover their faces to withstand the stench of roasting human flesh which emanated from the flames as strongly as their heat.

And the stench would only grow that much stronger when the last corpse was finally disposed of.

Apolli had started crying again, despite his best efforts to hide it. Khyron ignored him, lost in his own thoughts, Tassar paid him no heed, Renault and Rosamia had no idea what to say that would comfort him, and only Braddock even made an attempt, placing a hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

None of them bothered to say anything to his best friend—or perhaps former best friend, now. Roberto strode silently towards the blaze, hatred, anger, and sorrow still burning as brightly in his eyes as did the fires reflected in them. He carried his sister’s lifeless body surely, steadily towards its final destination. A desultory effort had been made to make her presentable, but they were unable to do much. Her white blouse was still stained red, and in her brother’s arms her head lolled back gruesomely; none of them had any means, magical or otherwise, to close the great gash in her throat. Her mad captor had shown her little mercy indeed.

Still (and Renault could not help shuddering at the thought), Roberto had showed him even less mercy. He still remembered the piercing scream which had brought on this whole affair—even far across the other side of town he could hear it. He, Tassar, Khyron, and Rosamia had rushed to the mayor’s house as quickly as they could, but they were all far too late anyways.

Roberto had gone completely berserk. Even Braddock, strong mercenary that he was, could not restrain him, and the crying, wailing wreck on the floor that was Apolli was no help either. Yulia was already quite dead by the time they got there, her young face frozen into an expression of shock and horror not at all dissimilar to those found on the poisoned corpses outside.

It was also much too late to save the survivor, whoever he was. Roberto had been pounding him relentlessly, shoving Braddock away every time the mercenary even came close. He hammered his strong fists into the townsman’s face, he slammed his head against the floor over and over. It had taken both Tassar and Braddock, with more than a little help from Renault, to pry the man off of his foe. Even then Roberto had not stopped, and it took a sharp, measured blow to the back of the head from Tassar to finally still him.

Renault had caught a glimpse of Yulia’s killer just before Tassar knocked Roberto out, and that was not an image he thought he would be forgetting anytime soon. It was impossible to tell who the man might have been—only later did he find out it was apparently the sentry who had greeted them their first day coming to Scirocco. The man’s face had been reduced to an unrecognizable bloody pulp and his skull itself seemed to have malformed slightly, resembling nothing so much as a ripe melon whose sides were beginning to split from a small fall.

When Roberto had woken up, he had been none too happy—he’d almost taken a swing at Apolli once he had regained his bearings, screaming and blaming the young man for allowing Yulia to die. His attention turned to Braddock as well, and only some sharp words from Tassar—and the implied threat of another nap—had managed to calm him down this time. “Your sister’s dead,” he had said, “and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do. I understand how you feel, but if you don’t want her sacrifice to be in vain, you’ll help us in our search for answers in this place. For all we know there may be more survivors like that lurking around, and if you don’t help us you may end up like your sister. If we manage to survive this, we may find out what happened to this place, and why your sister had to die. But if you don’t care about that, then go ahead and keep screaming. The rest of us will keep working.”

Renault was impressed—he didn’t know many people, except maybe his old boss, who could defuse that much anger with just a few carefully-chosen words and the force of their personality. Tassar was apparently one such man, for Roberto, after settling back down and taking several deep breaths, looked up again and spat a single word.

“Fine.”

With that, the survivors reformed into a single group, and they had spent the entire night—and more—continuing their quest. This time, they took no risks concerning the bodies they found. Tassar or Khyron carefully checked over each one, and if no life was to be found Renault or Braddock would be sent to dump it into a growing pile near the middle of town. They occasionally sent Tassar or Apolli to do that job, but whenever they did they always sent someone else to accompany the bumpkins. Roberto seemed as if he could go berserk again any minute, and though Apolli had managed to stop crying, there was a glazed look in his eyes which indicated something in his mind wasn’t quite right.

Fortunately, though, they were beset by no more significant problems for the remainder of their search of Scirocco. They had managed to find a couple of other unfortunates who were not quite dead—a young child and one of the Pegasus Knights—but since none of them could use a staff with much proficiency (the humiliated Khyron was forced to admit he was unable to use any staff more powerful than a simple Heal rod, which meant he couldn’t use the Mend staff Yulia had brought with her) both of the survivors had succumbed to the poison shortly after and joined their fellows in the great pile at the center of the town.

Even worse, despite their best efforts the mercenaries had been almost totally unable to find anything which might have explained what happened to the town or why or how it had been destroyed. Internally, Renault cursed Roberto for having killed the fellow in the mayor’s house—perhaps he might have been able to answer some questions. He knew that what was done was done, and Renault knew he probably would have done something similar in the same situation. Still, there were no missives detailing secret conspiracies to demolish the town, no hidden stores of toxins in any cellars…the only thing any of them had managed to find were the papers in the Mayor’s house. A closer search of his home had revealed more of his records stashed away in a corner of his bedroom. It had been the closest thing to a success their expedition had—Khyron would be all to happy to pore over the mayor’s ersatz journal and show it to his masters back in Aquleia. But even that wasn’t very much. For the most part, the old man’s ramblings were concerned with the prosaic details of everyday life. Only rarely did enticing tidbits of the Ilians’ mysterious employer come to light in his writings, and they were vague and raised more questions than answers. Who was Meris? How did she get enough money to pay for an entire Ilian wing? And why?

Renault shook his head. He doubted he’d ever learn the answers to those questions, and to be honest, he didn’t care much either. He just wanted this whole ordeal to be done with. Judging by the expressions of everyone except perhaps Khyron, they all felt the same way. Roberto, especially, probably had much more pressing concerns on his mind.

The big man stopped as he neared the giant blaze. He turned his head towards his comrades, tears rimming eyes set in a face still contorted with rage and pain.

“She deserves better’n this!” He choked, his tortured voice barely carrying across the air. “Better’n this…she…she oughtn’t be treated like…like a piece of damned firewood!”

“So what do you propose?” asked Tassar evenly.

“We oughta bury her! BURY HER!”

“Here?”

“No! NO! Not in this goddamned dead town! She ought to be buried back home, where…where our mother is!”

Nobody could read the expression on Tassar’s face. “Your hometown isn’t so far away, but it’ll still take days to reach it. We don’t have anything to preserve her body with, so unless you’re alright with lugging along a rotting corpse…”

“D…Damn it! Damn you! Damn all of y’ bastards!”

Tassar was sensitive enough not to shrug, but Renault got the distinct impression he wanted to. “Don’t blame us. You can either burn the body or bury it here. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

Roberto could no longer summon up the energy to offer any sort of retort. With the same piercing expression on his face, he looked at Tassar, then to Yulia’s body, to Tassar again, and finally the great flames he stood in front of.

He then turned his face towards the heavens and let out the most agonized, soul-shuddering wail Renault had yet heard in his short life.

It seemed to shake Apolli even more. He fell to his knees, clenching shut his teary eyes and wrapping his ears with quivering hands.

With a final, mighty heave, Roberto tossed his beloved sister onto the burning pyre. The flames seemed more than happy to accept this latest offering, sheathing and eating into her limp, lifeless form with what almost appeared to be eagerness.

It was a sight Roberto couldn’t bear. He let out something that might have been another scream, but came out as a choked, painful gasp, and ran away into the shadows of Scirocco, where the morning’s light had not yet banished the dark.

“Hey! Roberto!” Braddock called, but to no avail. “Tassar, don’t you think we should go after him?”

The man really did shrug this time. “If we did, what would we do? Nothing any of us would say could get through to him. Maybe Apolli could give it a shot?”

The young man had taken his hands away from his ears, though he was still on his knees. He turned towards Tassar and gave the mercenary such a piteous look that he could do little more than shrug again.

“Doesn’t look like Apolli will be much help either. Guess the only thing we can really do is wait for him to calm down, though I guess we’ll have to get him eventually if he doesn’t come back. Khyron,” he called, bringing the sage out of his reverie, “As far as I can tell we’re done here. Everyone who might have taken part in Revil’s murder is dead now, and I think we’ve searched this town top and bottom. We’ve learned all we can. What’s our next move?”

“I…well…” The sage was at a loss for words—seeing the death of one of his own had apparently sapped him of much of his typical arrogance and bluster. “We…we have to return to Aquleia. We must give our testimony to the king and his court.”

Renault blinked. “Wait, you said ‘we.’ You mean all of us have to go?”

“Yes. Like I said, we need to inform the king and his councilors of what has transpired here. If everything had gone as planned this would not be necessary, but you can obviously see that the situation is considerably graver than anyone foresaw. Our leaders must know as much as possible about our journey, so they will be able to make the best possible decision about how to deal with this situation and ascertain if there is a greater threat to Etruria as a whole. It is for that reason I must ask you to accompany me as I stand before the court. Even the smallest bit of information you could provide might turn out to be valuable.”

Braddock grunted. “Will we be compensated for our time?”

“You’ll have the honor of meeting the King of Etruria in person!” Khyron said indignantly. “That is more than enough ‘compensation’ for the likes of you!”

Braddock was about to respond with another of his angry, sarcastic jibes at the noble, but Tassar cut him off before he could say anything too offensive. “Braddock, this is another part of our mission. We do the job we get paid for, so if we’re required to do this, we’ll do it.”

The Ostian shrugged. “If you say so.”

“That settles it, then.” Tassar clapped his hands, silhouetted in the light of the steadily rising sun. “We’re leaving. No reason for us to stay in this place a moment longer than we have to. Somebody go get Roberto.”

“I’ll do it,” Braddock sighed. He cast Apolli a pleading look—the boy had gotten off of his knees, though his eyes were still turned towards the ground. When Roberto’s name was mentioned, though, he looked up, and manfully rose to Braddock’s challenge.

“I…I’ll come with you,” he said, the first coherent words that had came from his mouth for hours.

As the two of them started off for their wayward comrade, Renault asked Tassar, “Hey, you think we should go with them? Roberto, uh…doesn’t seem so stable right now. Maybe—“

Tassar shook his head. “No. We’d just get in the way, probably. Best to just allow those guys to hash out their differences by themselves.”

That was enough for Renault, and he fell silent along with his fellows. Although the morning skies were still clear, he could see clouds at the horizon, and wagered that they would have to deal with a rainy afternoon. Thus, he waited for the rain to fall and quench the burning of their impromptu pyre…but he hoped Braddock and Apolli would come back first.

-X-

It didn’t take long for Braddock and Apolli to find their quarry, although Braddock had to shout “Hey! Roberto!” a couple of times.

He gave no response to indicate his position. No, Braddock and Apolli found him when they heard loud crashes and angry shouts coming from the mayor’s house.

Cautiously, ever so cautiously, Braddock tip-toed up to the open door of the dwelling and peeked his head in just far enough to see what was going on.

Time had not been enough to quiet Roberto’s anger. He was now taking out his rage on the former mayor’s furnishings. The old man’s living room now looked like a war zone. His table had been overturned, a pair of windowpanes was broken from where Roberto had thrown a chair out of them, and he was currently busy slamming another chair into the house’s beaten walls, angrily cursing Scirocco, Etruria, and the entire damned expedition.

“H…Hey, Roberto,” said Braddock cautiously, venturing into the impromptu battlefield, “Uh, we gotta—WHOAH!” He ducked as quickly as he could to avoid being hit by the remains of a broken chair that was sent flying at him. Unfortunately, this led to him being all but unprepared when Roberto grabbed him by his collar and slammed him against a wall.

“SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP, Y’BASTARD!”

Braddock made no effort to defend himself, even though he was slightly larger than Roberto and obviously a good deal stronger and more experienced. He simply stared at his assailant with a combination of sadness, guilt, and regret. “Roberto, I—“

Roberto slammed him against the wall again, harder this time—his strength was greatly enhanced by the sheer force of his anger. “Damn you,” he said, flecks of spittle spraying Braddock’s weary face, “DAMN YOU! IT’S YOUR FAULT SHE’S DEAD! YOURS, Y’ SON OF A BITCH! YOU SENT HER UP THERE! YOU DID! AND…”

“Yeah. You’re right, Roberto. I…I messed up. A…again. And someone else is dead because of it this time, too. I…I’m sorry. Sorry…”

His apology seemed to provoke rather than mollify the enraged Roberto. “Sorry? SORRY? T’ HELL WITH YOU!” He roughly tossed Braddock to the floor before leaping on him again, pounding him as he did Altor. “You think a damned apology’ll make things better? NOW? IT WON’T BRING ‘ER BACK! IT WON’T, AND THAT’S WHAT I WANT, DAMMIT!”

“Roberto, stop!” Apolli rushed into the room, unable to watch Roberto hurt one of his comrades any more. “You’re gonna kill him!”

Roberto paid him no heed, continuing to pound away at a Braddock who made no effort to defend himself. Only when Apolli finally grabbed one of his arms did Roberto finally relent…or more accurately, turn his attention to someone else.

“GET OFFA ME!” He slammed the arm Apolli had grabbed into the youth’s stomach, sending him stumbling back and gasping for air. Roberto stood up and turned away from Braddock, advancing threateningly on his best friend. “What the hell were y’ doin’ when she died, huh? She was your fiancée! Your damned fiancée! And what were y’ doin? You just sat there and cried while that bastard slit her damned throat! She…she deserved better’n that…Better’n you, y’ useless WRETCH!”

He raised a fist to hammer into his best friend’s face, but was surprised to see it stop in midair, caught by a strong hand behind him. He looked back to see Braddock, bruised and bloody, but now looking less guilty than angry himself.

“Roberto, that’s enough. ENOUGH! What happened was my fault, not his. I was the leader, and I sent them up there. If you have to blame someone…blame me. Not him.”

The big man lashed out, shaking off Braddock’s hand from his wrist, but that was all he did. He stood there for a moment, torn and indecisive.

“W…who?” he muttered. “W…who? Who’s fault is it…who do I hafta…You? Apolli? God dammit to hell, tell me! I just want my sister back! What d’ I hafta do?”

“STOP IT, ROBERTO!” Once again, there were tears in Apolli’s eyes, but this time there was steel in his voice. “Yulia’s dead! She’s dead! Don’t y’ see? We can’t do anything! ANYTHING! It…it doesn’t matter. Not now…” He started sobbing. “So…so please. Just…stop, Roberto. J-just stop. She wouldn’t…she wouldn’t want this.”

“H…how th’ hell do you know what she woulda wanted, huh?” Despite his best efforts, Roberto found it increasingly difficult to hold on to his anger. “If…if we can’t bring ‘er back…then what? D…dammit, who’m I s’posed to hate?” He looked at Braddock. “I…it’s your fault! But it doesn’t matter, eh? I could pound your face in, but she’d still be dead, wouldn’t she? I…dammit, tell me! What in the name of the Saint should I do?”

He threw another punch at Braddock, but it was a weak, half-hearted one that only struck the cuirass on the man’s chest, probably hurting Roberto more. He stood before Braddock, eyes cast downward, and only looked up when the other man put a hand on his shoulder.

Even if he could, he couldn’t stay angry at Braddock when an expression like that was stamped onto his face. Whatever he was feeling right now, Roberto got the impression that the Ostian wasn’t feeling much better.

“R, Roberto,” he said through puffy, bloody lips, “I…look. There’s nothing I can do to make it up to you, there’s nothing I can do to bring her back…but our job’s not done yet, man. We don’t know who was behind these rebels, or why they were all poisoned, or anything. This could be serious, man. Might be the start of a bigger rebellion, or maybe even a foreign country’s attack…

“We gotta go to the capitol…go back to Aquleia. We have to tell the king and his court what went on here. If we can, maybe…maybe her death will have some meaning. We might be able to stop this madness from happening to anyone else. That…that’s something, isn’t it? That’s worth it.”

The two men stared at each other for moments that felt much, much longer than they actually were.

“Maybe,” said Roberto.

That was good enough for Braddock, and Apolli too. It had started to rain—a light drizzle which promised to become a heavy downpour. The three of them ignored. It. Together, they left the house of the mayor of Scirocco and started back towards their troop.

-X-

“Nice job, Renault!”

The city boy grinned back at Braddock, standing behind him with a smile of approval on his face. Although his snare had not been expertly set, Renault had prepared it skillfully enough that it had managed to catch something—a decently sized jackrabbit, which hung from the tree flailing about franticly and to no avail.

“Hah, thanks. Not bad for just my second try at this, eh?”

“Yep. C’mon, let’s go back to camp. I know you can skin it and prepare it, right?”

“This time, definitely!”

Renault had taken surprisingly quickly to some of the more mundane duties a mercenary often had to undertake. He had not given much thought to what he’d do after this job was done and he left Aquleia, nor had he discussed it with his friend. Still, Braddock didn’t see any harm in teaching him a few of the more practical skills a traveling sellsword needed. The city boy now knew how to keep a sword and a set of leather armor in good condition, how to tell time and bearing from the position of the sun in the sky, and how to catch and prepare wild game, among other things.

He had a bit of time to learn--it had been several days since Yulia’s death and their departure from Scirocco, and Renault and his companions had been making good time to Aquleia. The pace Khyron had set was not grueling, but it was perhaps a bit faster than any of them would have liked; he apparently thought that the crown urgently needed to learn of what had transpired in Scirocco as soon as possible, and no-one saw fit to refute him.

Truth be told, Renault didn’t really mind the quick pace, as he didn’t want to spend more time than he had to travelling. Although Thagaste was a large, respectable city, Aquleia was the greatest urban center in all of Elibe, and some said it represented the very height of human civilization and culture. Renault desperately wanted to see it with his own eyes.

That wasn’t the only reason he wanted to get off the road, though. As he and Braddock came back to their troop’s camp for the night and he began the business of killing and skinning his catch, Renault had to admit that he still wasn’t a very good cook. Braddock had taught him all he knew, of course, but the Ostian did not know much.

“Just between you and me,” Renault said as he finished preparing the animal and stuck it over the fire for roasting, “I gotta admit, I kinda miss Apolli’s cooking.”

Braddock nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean, my friend. I do too.”

Renault glanced furtively over at Apolli, who was lying on his back, staring at the sky, as he usually did these days. Renault remembered how, at the beginning of their journey, Apolli had spent most of his time hanging out with Roberto and Yulia, at least when he wasn’t out hunting or cooking. Now, of course, he obviously couldn’t spend any time with his fiancée, but to Renault’s surprise, he didn’t spend much with his best friend either; Roberto seemed to make it a point to stay away from everyone else as much as possible. It seemed as if the man had said barely a word to anybody over the course of their return trip, though he had been making himself useful by cutting firewood. A lot of firewood, actually, more than they really needed. Still, it was better than doing nothing, which was all Apolli seemed to be doing most of the time.

“Hmph,” grunted Renault, “come to think of it, I miss Apolli doing anything at all. Aside from the stuff you and me’ve caught, all we’ve been eating are those hardtack rations we brought along with us. How come he hasn’t been hunting or cooking? It’d be nice if he started pulling his weight again.”

“Cut him some slack.” Braddock looked at him reprovingly enough that even Renault had to feel a bit ashamed. “His fiancée died right in front of him. I think anybody would be out of it for a while if they saw something like that.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s not so bad anyways, at least I learned to cook for myself, huh?”

“There, that’s the spirit!” Braddock grinned, then winced a little bit as a small bolt of pain sliced its way through his still-healing lip.

Renault looked up at him, a bit concerned. “Braddock, I’ve told you before, but really, why didn’t you just take some vulneraries for your injuries? I remember when we first left your face was all banged up. I don’t see why you’re wasting time waiting for it to heal naturally.”

“Ah, it’s no big deal. Been hurt a lot worse before, so I didn’t think there was a point in wasting supplies.”

“Still…”

Braddock waved a hand in the air. “Renault, I told you, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” He looked away. “Can’t say I didn’t deserve it, either…”

“Deserved it? What do you mean?”

“Whoah, you heard that? Hehe, must have been louder thought…”

“I’ve got good ears, I guess. So what’d you mean by that, man?” Upon seeing the look on his friend’s face, Renault thought a bit better of his line of questioning. “Uh, I mean, only if you wanna tell me, of course. I mean, I’ve been wondering about it ever since we left Scirocco…I remember you going off with Apolli to search for Roberto, and when you came back with him he was all quiet and you looked like you’d been through another battle. Tassar just told us to get started and nobody said anything, so I didn’t either, but still, I’ve been curious…”

“Curious, huh? Hah. Ah, well…you’re a friend, so I guess there’s no reason for me not to tell you.” Braddock chuckled. “Not really much to tell, though. When I found him…well, Roberto was pretty pissed off. Certainly wasn’t in a mood to listen to anybody, least of all me. He jumped me and started pounding me before Apolli managed to get him to stop. You’d have to be there to believe it, but trust me, I’m pretty lucky to have gotten off with just a few bruises and a busted lip.”

“…I still don’t get it yet. Why was he mad at you? You didn’t kill his sister.”

“It’s as good as if I had. I sent her and Apolli up to the second floor of the mayor’s house. She found a guy who was still alive, and he killed her. If I’d done a better job of securing the area, she probably wouldn’t have died.” The regret in Braddock’s eyes shone as brightly as if all this had happened yesterday. “Ugh. Damn, I’m a failure. How many people have died because of me?”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself. Like I said, it’s not as if you killed her personally…”

“Hah. Thanks, Renault, but you don’t understand…this is what comes with being a mercenary, or hell, a soldier of any stripe. When you’re put in a position of leadership, you’re responsible for the people under your command. Just like I was responsible for Yulia.” He shook his head. “Man, I only wish this was the first time somebody died ‘cause I messed up. Another thing to keep me up at nights…”

“You’ve had this happen before?”

“Oh, yeah. Comes with being a mercenary, bud. Or, hell, being a soldier of any stripe. If you’ve been in this war business for even a short time, you’re bound to have seen a few of your friends buy it.”

“Well, I figured that, but I was wondering, how many people have died because of you directly? You always seemed…really competent to me, man. I mean, you’ve always been on top of things since the first time I saw you. You saved my life back there, when we first arrived at Scirocco! I have a hard time seeing you messing up with anything.”

At this, Braddock laughed out loud. “Aw, Renault…thanks. That’s probably the nicest thing anybody’s said about since…hell, for as long as I remember. I appreciate it, my friend, I really do.

“But the truth is, I’m nowhere near as good as you think I am. Tassar, maybe, but me? Nah. ‘Specially when I was first starting out as a mercenary. Remember when I told you I almost pissed myself the first time I went out in combat? Well, that wasn’t the worst of it. I barely even knew what I was doing! Tassar had to pull my ass out of the fire so many times back then I think I lost count. Hell of an inconvenience, I was…lotta good men probably died in that fight ‘cause Tassar was too busy looking after me instead of holding their backs.

“And that’s not even going into the few times I’ve lead. This was…I think the third time I had any authority over anybody else. The first time was I think after I’d spent a year under Tassar’s guidance. He’d gone off by himself to scout and left me and a couple of friends to guard the person we were supposed to be protecting. We got ambushed, but that didn’t turn out so bad…We killed all our assailants and our guy didn’t even get hurt, though I took an arrow in the shoulder.

“The next time…now that was worse. A few weeks after that we were hired to wipe out some bandits holed up in a cave not too far from here, actually. It was going well, but somehow in the battle I and a couple of allies got separated from Tassar. I tried to lead ‘em back to the entrance, even though we were pretty lost, but…guess I musta taken another wrong turn somewhere, because we managed to end up right where a couple of their mages were hiding. I jumped right in and managed to take out both of them, but when I looked back they’d roasted one of my buddies. Guess Yulia died for the same reason…ugh. I really gotta do a better job of keeping my eyes open.”

“Damn. Tough, man.” Renault had genuine sympathy in his eyes as he looked at his friend. “But…I mean, from what you’ve told me, that doesn’t seem so bad. I mean, I feel right over onto my ass the first time I tried swinging a sword! ‘Least you actually managed to get out and fight. And you said everybody’s lost a friend or an ally if they’ve been a mercenary for a while, right? Doesn’t seem like you were particularly incompetent, just seems like the kinda stuff that happens in war.”

“I guess. But still…”

“And you didn’t do anything that bad with Yulia, at least I don’t think so. I mean, the town was dead. We didn’t think there was a single survivor left. I bet anybody would have made the same mistake you did.”

“You really think so?” Braddock smiled. “Who knows, maybe you’re right. But…I mean, it’s not just that. Renault, a lot of people have died because of me, and I mean…a whole lot. Even beyond being a mercenary.”

“Huh? Now I really don’t get it.”

Something seemed to strike Braddock, as if he realized what he just said. “You know what? Forget I said that. Don’t worry about it, I’m just overthinking things. Hell, maybe what I saw in Scirocco messed me up more than I thought. I probably just need a good sleep.”

“Well, alright. If you say so, man.”

“Yea—whoah, Renault, look at your meal!”

“Hey!” Renault quickly grabbed the stick his roasted rabbit rested upon and hastily spirited away from the campfire—it had started to burn. “Heh, thanks, Braddock. Least I didn’t burn the whole thing.”

“Yeah. I can have the burned parts if you want, I don’t really mind so much.”

“Fine by me.”

“Oh yeah. One last thing, Renault.”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

-x-

The journey was proceeding quite well, in Tassar’s estimation. They were nearing Aquleia—only a couple of days away, judging by the amount of trade, travel, and military caravans passing them by on the road. A successful job and he’d only had to fight one battle!

Not that he was particularly surprised.

He’d also managed to finish the job without losing any of his potential prospects. Well, almost. He had been none too pleased to hear of Yulia’s death, of course, but at this point in his career he’d long since been inured to the experience of losing one of his own.

It wasn’t as if she’d been an experienced soldier, in which case it would have been a real loss. Of course, if she’d been experienced, she probably wouldn’t have gotten herself caught like she did. So he certainly wasn’t losing any sleep over her, though Braddock seemed to be taking it fairly hard.

Oh, well. He’d learn.

He was currently enjoying one of the troop’s rare rests—even though they were close, Khyron had refused to slow down, but the horses pulling along their wagon (Yulia’s now among them) had been looking noticeably haggard, so for this evening at least haste had to give way to prudence.

As he lay back on the ground, preparing to enjoy a light repast of hardtack rations, Tassar noticed a shadow behind him and turned around. “Eh? Who’s there?”

It was merely Roberto, apparently on his way to chop even more firewood. The man glanced at him for a moment with red, hooded eyes which seemed perpetually angry.

“So it’s just you, huh?” Tassar chuckled. “Been keeping yourself busy. I admire your work ethic, though really, we already have enough kindling. We’re almost there, anyways.”

He coolly appraised the man as he turned away from him and towards the nearest copse of trees, which he began hacking away at with heavy, angry strokes of his axe. Roberto no longer seemed as crazy as he was when Braddock had his little talk with him, but there was still definitely barely suppressed anger and hatred roiling around in his psyche.

Just as Tassar liked it.

He noticed another pair of shadows coming up behind him, and chuckled again. “Suppose I’m popular today. “ He turned his head and raised a hand. “Khyron, Rosamia. Need something?”

The sage nodded, his expression not exactly grim, but far from jovial. “I’ve something to discuss with you.”

“Well, go ahead and take a seat.” He shot a glance at Rosamia. “Does your student need to hear this as well?”

“It’s not a matter of the utmost secrecy,” the woman replied. “Since I am training as a member of Etruria’s Mage Corps under him, he thought it would be a good experience for me to see how an actual knight handles his affair.”

“Heh, I see. Khyron, you really think she’d be able to learn much? She’s just a girl, after all.”

Rosamia bristled at the insult—something Tassar took a small amount of pleasure in, though not much—but Khyron simply shrugged. “I am her teacher, and it is my duty. Anyways, shall we get down to business?”

“Go ahead.”

Both the sage and his still-angry companion took their seats on the ground next to Tassar, though Khyron, true to form, was sure to first spread out a small cloth beneath him as not to soil his expensive clothes.

“Let me be blunt, Tassar. I have decided to increase the payment you and your men will be receiving.”

Tassar rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, that’s a surp—wait, did you say INCREASE?”

Khyron nodded, as Tassar stared at him in shock as Rosamia looked on impassively. “Yes. I…I was not expecting any of this. Not the Ilian knights, nor the poisoning of the town. In light of the unforeseen difficulties we have encountered, I believe you and your men have performed very well. I had thought Yulia and perhaps Renault would run off…but the girl gave her life for our cause, and the boy did a job of defending Castle Nerinheit well enough. To recognize your achievements, I thought it fit to raise your compensations.”

“Huh. But how will you plan to pay for this? From what you told me the funds the crown gave you were already running low.”

“I know. Your new payment shall come from my own coffers. As a result, I cannot give you an exorbitant sum, but I believe an increase to six hundred gold from the original five hundred we agreed on represents an adequate assessment of your accomplishments.

“I will tell you know, though, that Roberto and Apolli will be receiving even more. Yulia gave her life in the line of duty, and her friends and her hometown deserve recognition for her sacrifice.”

 _An unwilling sacrifice,_ Tassar thought to himself. _Have you already forgotten how you threatened her to make her come along?_ He didn’t voice what was in his head, of course. He merely smiled wryly and said, “I appreciate your generosity, Sir Khyron. Thank you. Do we have more to discuss, or…?”

“No. That is all I wanted to tell you.” He got up, taking his little impromptu seat-cloth with him. “Come, Rosamia.”

“Wait a moment,” said Tassar. “Would you mind if I spoke to your apprentice privately for a moment?”

Khyron blinked. “Hmm…I don’t see why you’d need to, but if you so wish, go ahead. Do make it quick, though, I don’t want the girl wasting too much of her time. She needs to study.”

“It’ll be a moment, don’t worry.”

The moment Khyron was out of earshot, Tassar shot the apprentice a hard look. “I want an explanation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. When I think of Khyron, the first description that comes to my mind isn’t exactly generosity. What’s he playing at?”

“Nothing. Sir, I don’t know what you mean.” The expression on the woman’s face was troubled. “He sincerely believes your work was worth more than initially planned.”

“Hah. You’re joking, right? That kind of altruism exists only in fairy tales. I don’t like being toyed around with, woman. If he’s plotting to take advantage of me…”

To his surprise, Rosamia smirked. “Ah, I see. Well, given my master’s personality, I can’t blame you for thinking that. But in this case, what I said is the unvarnished truth. He is suffering a crisis of conscience, I believe.”

“Oh?”

“This was the first time Khyron saw actual combat.”

“Really?” Tassar was genuinely surprised. Khyron had performed far better than virtually any other first-timer he’d seen.

“Yes. This…this was also his first time actually leading anyone in battle. It was…not what he thought it would be. He does not know how it feels to lose someone under his command. He…I think he feels guilty for Yulia’s death. I don’t think he’s ever seen anyone die in battle before, actually. I believe this is his way of dealing with it.”

At this, Tassar laughed out loud. “Oh, really? Hah! That makes sense. Well, he’s doing better than Braddock, at least. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Er…excuse me?”

“Ah, never mind. But wait…you mean they gave command of this entire expedition to someone without a shred of real experience?”

“Well…yes. His brother wanted him to learn, actually, and thought this would be a good opportunity.”

“His brother…wait, you mean the Mage General, right? Yeah, that explains things. Someone with no qualifications whatsoever gets to lead because he’s got enough ‘peerage.’ Should have expected that from the nobility.” He cast Rosamia a quizzical look, looking her over. His gaze didn’t seem to have ignoble intentions, but for some reason the woman still felt uncomfortable—she looked away and crossed her arms over her chest. “How did you manage to become his apprentice, though? If he really is the Mage General’s little brother, you’d think they would have managed to find someone better.”

Rosamia’s pride flared, and she turned her head back towards Tassar, looking at him straight in the eyes. “I was the best they could find, sir. My scores were the highest out of all the students at the First Royal Academy.”

“If a woman was the best they could find, I guess it must have been a pretty bad crop that year.”

She clenched her fists at this remark, but said nothing beyond a terse, “Will that be all, sir?”

Tassar merely nodded and waved her away. She was all too happy to take her leave of him without another word, which he didn’t mind either. Smiling ever so slightly, he grabbed a hardtack ration from his pocket and bit into it cheerily.

Yes indeed. All things considered, this expedition was going quite well.

-X-

Despite everything he had heard about Aquleia, Renault still found himself wholly unprepared for the real thing.

The gates of the city were an impressive enough sight by themselves. The entrance to his hometown, Thagaste, was more functional than pleasing to the eye—a slate grey gatehouse overseeing an iron portcullis was what greeted travelers entering the city. The entrance they were about to pass through had the same basic design, but much more effort had been spent in making it beautiful. Aquleia’s northern gatehouse was not a dull gray but pearly white, almost seeming to shine in the bright noon sun. The iron of the portcullis was also white; however, not only was it much bigger than Thagaste’s but its bars had also been shaped to resemble the fangs of a dragon.

Braddock, on the other hand, seemed less than impressed. “White?” he muttered. “I wonder what all this is made out of. Sure hope the portcullis isn’t ivory or something. It’d be pretty easy to break, in that case!”

“Aw, c’mon, Braddock,” said Renault, feeling the need to educate his friend on why these gates were an architectural accomplishment. “Don’t they look amazing? I don’t think there’s anything like them anywhere else on Elibe!”

“Yeah, maybe. Still, even if something’s ‘unique,’ it might as well be worthless if it doesn’t do its job.”

“Hmph. Don’t you have any aesthetic sense at all?”

“Nope. I’m an Ostian. We care about how things function, not how they look.”

Renault’s troop had finally reached the gates, and his friendly banter was interrupted by a call from a singularly bored-looking sentry behind the white ‘dragon’s teeth.’

“Oy! What’s your business here?”

Khyron puffed himself up, and in the most commanding tone he could muster, blared “I am Khyron of the house of Caerleon! As commanded by my king, my men and I have completed the subjugation of Scirocco! I request entry into this city so that I may report to my liege what we have accomplished!”

“Oh, right, we were told to wait for you. You’re late, though, we expected you a few days ago. Alright, open it up!” The sentry lazily waved a hand in the air, and on cue the alabaster portcullis began to raise, allowing Khyron’s caravan to enter. The sage seemed somewhat annoyed by the guardsman’s lackadaisical demeanor, muttering to himself, “have these people no respect? Telling a member of the nobility he is late…what gall!”

Although he probably didn’t intend Renault and Braddock to hear that, it didn’t stop them from breaking out into a fit of snickering at the remark.

Their mirth was promptly replaced by awe when their caravan actually entered the city and got a good look at it. Renault was expecting something amazing, and Aquleia did not at all disappoint.

The metropolis was almost Arcadian in its beauty. A diverse collection of houses, storefronts, and schools seemed to stretch out to the very horizon, and what all these buildings had in common was an excellent sense of style and grace. Virtually all of them were white, with bright red shingles merrily decorating their roofs. They were all in excellent condition—no mold or cracks seemed to mar their walls, an indication of the Etrurian capitol’s immense affluence. The buildings were quite varied in size, with small houses containing one or two families snuggled comfortably next to huge academies which catered to the needs of hundreds of students and teachers. Sculptures and fountains decorated the largest of those institutions, and Renault noticed that some of them even had stained-glass windows which rivaled the great cathedrals of his home city.

It would seem easy to get lost in such a large, busy city, but Khyron knew the area quite well, and kept his troop on a straight course along a well-maintained road which ran directly alongside a great canal. That was yet another thing which impressed Renault—even though his Thagaste had been built at the intersection of two great rivers, Aquleia seemed to be much more advanced in terms of irrigation and plumbing. It had been built close to the sea, and a winding series of waterways and canals threaded their way through Aquleia, providing a plentiful source of magically purified drinking water, transportation, and for mages skilled in the manipulation of water, great entertainment. It was on a road by the side of the largest of these waterways Khyron kept them, telling his men that it led directly to the north side of the Royal Palace (actually its backside, as it faced the south).

Of course, much to Renault’s dismay, Aquleia had large crowds as well, even bigger than the throngs of people which clogged up the streets in his native Thagaste. Yet even the teeming masses seemed to possess their own glory. Young and old, proud and small (though Renault could curiously see few of the poor) seemed to mingle with each other to form a single swirling pastiche emblematic of the variety one could find all across Elibe. Great nobles sat comfortably in luxurious palanquins (carried, of course, by only the most well-dressed servants), fawning over exotic birds, cats, and other creatures they had the money to import from foreign lands. Powerful mages strode confidently alongside them; their ability to control the might of the elements the only justification they needed for the sumptuous display of wealth embodied in the gilded surcoats, violet fur-trimmed capes, and pearly-white pantaloons which might very well have cost even more than the aforementioned pets of the nobility. Alongside both those groups scurried the teeming masses: portly mothers with small children, young couples attempting to hide their trysts within the crowd, old merchants desperately hawking their wares…the list went on.

Of course, all that alone wouldn’t have made the crowds particularly cosmopolitan. What really added a bit of spice to the human stew was the amount of foreigners intermingled with the Etrurian nobles and mages. Renault thought he could make out a few Sacaean horsemen (regarded with great disdain by the nobles, although they disdained everybody), Lycian spearmen, and even a few Bernites here and there (who were sometimes given looks of outright hatred instead of just contempt).

Renault vaguely recollected something Henken had told him, about the King relying more and more on mercenaries to do his bidding. His old boss had apparently not been kidding.

“Damn, this _is_ nice,” Braddock said, gazing with something a bit more than respect at a rarity—a female mercenary, a sword mistress by the looks of it, whose dress allowed him a good look at her shapely legs. “I gotta admit I wouldn’t mind living here.”

“I grew up here,” said Rosamia, walking along behind the two men. “Trust me, it’s not as nice as it looks.”

“Huh, really? What makes you say that?”

“The hearts of the nobility are often as black as their dwellings are white, at least from what I have seen.”

That was a sentiment Braddock could more than agree with. “Hah! Doesn’t surprise me. The aristocracy’s the same wherever you go.”

Rosamia gave him something of a cold look. “Hmph. Are you sure you’re one to talk?”

Braddock winced. “Ouch. You got me there, I guess. A mercenary like me’s in no position to criticize anybody else, least not in matters of morality. S-sorry…hope I didn’t say anything too presumptuous.”

Her gaze softened. “No, forgive me. You don’t seem to be too much of a bad sort, though I admit I don’t know you too well. I…I’ve been under something of a distemper recently. Please pay me no heed.”

“Er…really? Sorry to hear that.” Braddock gave being friendly his best shot. “Anything any of us could help out with?”

“No, no, it’s just that…” She gave the Ostian a long, measured look, before something told her it couldn’t hurt to talk to him. “Your leader, Tassar. I thought my master was the only one who could use a lesson in manners, but it seems as if yours could as well.”

At this, Braddock chuckled in relief. “Ahhh, so that’s what it is. Lemme guess, he was being a jerk to you, right?”

“Ah, well…you could say that.”

“Don’t think about it too much. Tassar…he gets like that sometimes. Over the time I’ve known him, I think he has a problem talking to women or something. He can get awfully mean at times. Dunno why,” he shrugged, “but it’s best to just ignore him when he gets like that.”

“Really?” Renault piped in, curious. “I remember when we first met, he seemed to get along with Lisse just fine.”

“Like I said, it’s just sometimes he gets like that. Not always. In any case, I doubt it really matters…after we give our testimony to the king we’re gonna be going our separate ways, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, I suppose.”

“Perhaps,” said Rosamia, “but who knows, while Renault might be going back home, you mercenaries may—ah! I believe we are nearing our destination.”

Her two friends stopped their conversation and looked ahead. Rosamia was indeed correct—even though they were still a fair distance away, the Holy Royal Domains, which surrounded the palace itself, could be plainly seen. A gloriously verdant sea of trees which seemed deeper than even the vastest of Ilia’s snowblown forests, they were the personal hunting grounds for the king and those he deemed worthy of the honor. It was pierced only by the largest tributary of the city’s great waterways.

In the middle of this waterway was situated a large circular plaza which served as the starting point for what was called the “Holy Royal Road.” Allowing egress to it for those entering from the Domains was a pair of pearly-white bridges, sturdily built and anchored within the streams of the waterways.

As they neared one of those bridges, Braddock made clear he wasn’t impressed. “Ugh, they couldn’t even have gotten drawbridges to connect to this Holy Royal Road? Talk about impractical! This place sure doesn’t seem well-defended at all.”

Renault harrumphed and said, “Can’t you just forget about your Ostian heritage for a bit and enjoy some of the finer things in life?”

“Can’t you learn to look at things with an eye for pragmatism and practicality? You never struck me as one to be too fond of the kind of conspicuous consumption nobles and bigwigs from the Church seem to love so much.”

That struck a chord with Renault. “Alright, alright, maybe you’re right. Still, even if it’s impractical, it’s still some great architecture, isn’t it?”

“I guess I’ll have to defer to your expertise on that, my friend.”

The two men continued to banter as Khyron led them across the bridges and onto the Holy Road itself. So named because it was supposedly built upon a trail the Saint herself had once walked (and blessed) after the end of the Scouring, it was a magnificent sight, fitting for something (again, supposedly) so holy. The stones it was made out of were was white as opal, and seemed to glow slightly. Even Renault, staunch atheist though he was, had to admit he felt a twinge of something divine, looking at its reflection shimmering in the water as if it had been handed down by God.

“There’s an old legend about this road,” Rosamia remarked. “It says that anyone who walks it will be tested. Those with wisdom matching that of the Archsage will be blessed. Those who are found wanting, however, will suffer the flames of divine judgment.”

At this, Renault chuckled. “Man, I’m sure glad God doesn’t exist, in that case. Nobody could ever match old Athos in wits, least not if the history I read’s even half accurate. If we were really held up to those standards, we’d be sure to die the moment we got off this road!”

Almost on cue, as the troop neared the middle of the Road they saw Athos himself—or at the very least, his personal tower. Around them stood the Towers of the Eight Generals. Rising alongside the Holy Road from the depths of the waterway, eight columns composed of the same opaline material stood a silent watch over the travelers. They were connected by a thin walkway threading through each of them, hanging high over the heads of anyone who would travel along the Road. How it managed to stay in the air without crumbling or breaking was beyond Renault’s comprehension.

He and his friends had little time to marvel over these artistic triumphs for long, though, as they were soon met by another—the Royal Palace of Etruria itself.

The spires of the castle were beautiful enough—mighty towers which jutted out from the structure high into the air, the tops of which were capped with immensely ornate silver and golden gilding. The really remarkable things, though, at least in Renault’s estimation, were its sculptures. Overhanging the windows, strewn across the walls, leering down on them from the roofs were a seemingly endless parade of bas-reliefs, statues, and monuments depicting heroes and villains, animals and monsters from all across Etruria’s history. They were so detailed that they all looked almost alive—Renault could have sworn such quality could not be achieved by human hands. If the back of the royal palace was so impressive, Renault could only wonder how the front looked.

The guards at the back gate of the palace, of course, were hardly impressed with it. Their eyes went from bored resignation gazing at the scenery around them to sudden interest when they looked upon the travelers rapidly approaching.

“Who goes there?” One of the guards standing by the large silvery doorways raised a gloved hand and waved to them. Neither he nor his companion carried armor or spear—as was the case in Aquleia, they relied entirely on their immensely formidable magical skill to take care of their duties. “Ah, Khyron, is that you? You’re in luck. The king’s court is in session right now, I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to hear…hey,” his eyes narrowed suspiciously, “who’re those…people, with you?”

“They are the mercenaries I hired to assist me in bringing the murderers of Revil to justice,” Khyron replied. “Things…did not go as planned. I have asked them to provide their testimony to the king alongside myself. They can be trusted.”

The guards clearly weren’t expecting this. Their eyes went wide, but they acceded to the sage’s demands. “Alright, if you say so, m’lord. We’ll set your horses and the wagon up at the stable, though.”

Khyron nodded. “That’s fine.”

Respectfully, one guard stood aside and opened the great doors, while his companion commandeered the wagon and headed it off to its destination. Both of them bowed their heads to Khyron while shooting his associates suspicious glances.

None of the visitors cared, except for maybe Rosamia. They were too busy taking in the inside of the palace, which managed to be as impressive, if not more so than the exterior. Great windows—some of stained glass—filled the entire structure with gorgeous golden sunlight, highlighting the detailed sculpting as common in these rooms as it was on the outside. Upon the balusters of each stairwell cherubs danced merrily, and on the polished, multicolored stone ceilings—held up as they were by grand Doric columns exquisite in their detail—played out a variety of scenes from Etruria’s history, ranging from Tages creating the first code of law shortly after Elimine’s ascendance to scenes of a small Etrurian victory in a skirmish with Bern.

A castle so large and complex might seem more like a labyrinth to some people, but fortunately Khyron knew his way around quite well. It wasn’t long before he led his troop to a closed pair of massive oak doors guarded by a herald clad in bright courtier’s garb. Although they obviously couldn’t see what was going on in that room, everyone could hear muffled shouts which seemed as angry as they were loud. Renault thought he could almost make out some of what they were saying.

“Damn it, King Galahad,” said one angry voice, “haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been telling you? Scirocco is—WAS—under my jurisdiction! For your men to come in and slaughter—“

Khyron once again announced himself to the young herald, who seemed to be more than a bit perturbed at the proceedings going on behind him. He gulped nervously and abruptly opened the great doors, putting a sudden stop to the shouting going on.

“To the esteemed and venerable Lords of Etruria,” called the youth, “and most certainly to our majestic and accomplished King Galahad the Second, it is my honor to present before you Khyron of the House of Caerleon, brother of Mage General Exedol and loyal servant of the crown! Accompanying…uh, accompanying him is his retinue, hired swords brave and bold who have brought the crown’s justice to the rebellious citizens of Scirocco!”

Khyron and his six companions stepped nervously into the great court, all of them—even the sage himself—feeling more than a little intimidated by the size and grandeur of the room. Huge busts of each of the Eight Heroes stared down at them from the walls, and above them the ceiling roiled with sculpted depictions of the evil dragons of the Scouring—looking more like hellish demons than great earthly beasts—being banished to the darkness.

Around them, in front of a series of great stone tables, seated in cushioned, gilded chairs, were the most powerful men in the country. Ironically enough, they were the least impressive features of the room.

The king himself didn’t seem like much. A short, elderly man with a stocky build, it would have been easy to mistake him for an old shopkeeper had he not been wearing the gilded jeweled crown and beautiful crimson robes of Etrurian royalty. The nobles who served him were generally little better--some were fat, some looked skinny and weak, and a few looked as if they might have been respectable earlier in their lives, but by now age had taken away whatever strength they might have had. Only a scant number looked at all intelligent or vigorous. For the most part, the men seemed worth less than the expensive clothes they wore.

The singular exception to this was the great form that stood at the king’s side. Here was undoubtedly the largest man Renault had ever seen. Standing a head taller than Braddock and even more strongly muscled, he had straight purple hair which fell just below the nape of his thick strong neck. Despite the opulent robes of a royal advisor he wore, Renault thought he would have been better suited to be a gladiator or a mercenary—which he was, or at least used to be. This was Prime Minister Paptimus, one of the most famous men in perhaps not only Etruria but all of Elibe. His was a classic rags-to-riches story—born into obscurity as a gladiator fighting for his life in Aquleia’s great coliseums, he had managed to acquire a tome of spells and display a measure of magical aptitude, which led him to have been emancipated and taken under the wing of a noble impressed with his abilities. From there, his skill and intelligence had taken him to the position of Prime Minister, making him the most powerful man in the country except for the King and perhaps the Mage General.

For a moment Renault wondered how the arrogant nobles of Etruria would manage to tolerate the man’s rather coarse, low-born manner of speaking, not to mention his decidedly low-born origins, but if there was even a grain of truth in the stories of Paptimus’ magical prowess, he supposed that answered his question.

“Little brother, what’s this about?” called one comparatively young noble sitting near the king. Judging by the fact that he shared Khyron’s black hair, this seemed to be the Mage General Exedol himself. “Khyron, why did you bring this…rabble along with you?”

Renault chafed at that description, but he was smart enough to keep it to himself. Even Roberto—who had done little besides walk alongside the troop and glare at things over the course of their journey to the city—knew it would be a very bad idea to start a scene in front of the royal court.

Khyron quickly strode to the center of the room, where a small podium had been set up encircled by the benches the nobles sat upon, so that everyone in the room could adequately hear any report or testimony the crown saw fit to bring out. “My lords,” he began, “I sincerely apologize for the tardiness of my return and the fact that I have brought these mercenaries before you, but the events which took place over the course of my expedition require me to provide testimony from these warriors as well as from myself. I trust my gracious lords will not find this inconvenience to be impermissible, given the circumstances?”

“Not at all!” yelled another noble. His hair was stark white, though he looked as if he was only in his mid 50s. Renault recognized his voice as one of the shouters from earlier. “You may try and hide it all you like, but my messengers gave me the reports not even a fortnight after you destroyed that town! All of the north is aflame with rumors of your misdeeds! It is all too fitting your men should be held accountable to us for their crimes, after all!”

“What the hell?” Renault didn’t like being falsely accused, and his anger won over his good sense. “We didn’t even—“

He was stopped short by Rosamia jamming a fist into his ribs. “Renault, shut your mouth!” she hissed. “These men are not known for their patience or understanding. They’ll get angry at even the smallest sign of disrespect. If you so much as speak out of turn that will be more than enough to convince the King we really did do whatever they think we did!”

Thankfully, however, it was the Prime Minister who took up their cause. “Glaesal, calm down, buddy,” he said, in tones surprisingly common. His deep, rocky voice and accent sounded a bit more like Roberto and Apolli’s than an Aqueleian’s more refined brogue, though he did make an effort to sound more like the latter than the former. “Scirocco was a town in your countship, and you’ve got every right to be as angry as you are. Still, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions so hastily. Messengers can get things wrong, and rumors shouldn’t always be trusted. Khyron’s an honorable man, we all know that, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have hired a bunch o’murderers. Let’s at least hear ‘em out before we condemn them.”

“Hmph. We shall see.” Count Nerinheit seemed to have been mollified by the advisor’s words, at least enough to be willing to be quiet while the mercenaries gave their testimony. Renault couldn’t help but wonder if the count had it out for them because they were forced to use his old castle as a base of operations.

“Glad to hear that, friend,” said Paptimus. “Khyron, begin.”

The sage stood up as tall as he could, took a deep breath to settle himself, and started his story.

“All of you know the reasons I began this expedition, so I need not retell you the same things Father Valentius did. I will, however, tell you what I did immediately after I left this room, two months past. Accompanied by the men I hired, Tassar and Braddock, and my aides, Rosamia and Yulia—“

“Oh ho,” said one noble, a lascivious expression on his face, “I remember Yulia. That country girl, was she? A cute little thing she was. But she’s not here with you. What happened to her?”

“I…I will get to that, my lord. Please allow me to continue…”

“Of course, of course…”

“As soon as we left, we were accosted by Yulia’s fiancé and brother, Apolli and Roberto. You see them here standing behind me, and you will receive their testimony as well. In an admirable display of courage and loyalty to both their loved one and the crown,” and at this point both Roberto and Apolli had surprised looks on their faces from the unexpected praise, “they demanded to accompany me in order to protect the girl. The mercenary leader, Tassar,” he nodded towards the veteran, “thought it would be a good idea to have a few extra men along in case we ran into more than a small degree of resistance from Scirocco. Thanks to the generous stipend my lords provided me I had more than enough money to cover the expenses, and we began our journey north.

“Our first stop was the city of Thagaste, in order to rest before we reached the countryside proper and also to purchase any more provisions which may have been useful. It was here we recruited the last member of our troop, Renault. Tassar found him staying in the same inn he was. The fellow looked strong and he seemed to have a good fighting spirit, even though he had no previous military experience, so Tassar felt he might prove himself useful if he came along with us. The following day he chose to do so, and we set out to Scirocco.

“Our journey was quite uneventful. Our rations kept us well-fed, along with Apolli’s skillful hunting. The only thing I can see fit to note is that we buried Revil. They had hung his body on a tree not far from Lord Nerinheit’s former castle, and I could not allow a fellow servant of the Crown to simply rot under the sun. Yulia read him an Eliminean funeral liturgy, at least as best as she knew how. It was when we reached the gates of the town itself that the real trouble started.

“At this point, I would defer to the military experience of an experienced mercenary. Would my lords permit me to call up the swordsman Tassar to follow me?”

A low murmur of assent rippled through the assembly. Khyron bowed and stepped down from the podium, which was promptly taken up by Tassar.

He didn’t even bother with the same niceties Khyron did, instead cutting right to the chase. “The moment we showed up at the gates, we were greeted by a wing of Pegasus Knights.”

At this, the court seemed to explode. “What the devil is he talking about?”

“Pegasus Knights?”

“Nonsense! How could they afford—“

The noise was finally stopped by a loud shout of “ENOUGH!” The king sat straight in his chair—apparently mention of the Pegasus Knights had finally succeeded in piquing his interest. Galahad looked at Tassar, apparently eager to hear more of a great battle. “Proceed, mercenary! I wish to hear all about this!”

“There were about twenty of them. They outnumbered us more than two to one, plus they’d have support from the town itself. There was no way we could win, at least not as we were. I ordered a retreat, and fortunately they did not pursue.

“We fell back to the abandoned castle of Count Nerinheit. It would serve as both an easily defensible position and a place for us to rest and discuss what our next move ought to be. I thought we should have gone back to Aquleia and asked for reinforcements, but Khyron refused. I acceded to my employer’s orders, and deemed it best to go on the offensive soon, before our stores of food and game ran out.

“Luckily for us, the Pegasus Knights beat us to the punch. I don’t know why—it was in their best interest to stay in their defended position and wait for us to attack. Maybe they got impatient. In any case, accompanied by some of the villagers they launched an assault on the fortress. We had set up some defenses on the castle’s roof, as we managed to repair one of the castle’s old ballistas. Apolli was our only archer, so he also served as our ballistician.”

“Oh?” The king’s eyes seemed to light up. “Artillery has always fascinated me. I would like to hear this Apolli’s description of the battle and his use of the machine…come up to the stand. Now!”

“Heh.” Tassar muttered something to himself under his breath, but he stood aside as Apolli hesitantly made his way up to the small podium. Just like Roberto, he had said very little over the course of their trip, but now he had his chance to shine…much to his dismay.

Unfortunately, he seemed a bit too nervous to take advantage of this opportunity. He had never been in front of such a large or famous gathering before, and found himself not quite up to the occasion. His throat constricted, and beads of sweat trickled prominently down his brow.

The nobles began to titter amongst themselves, with hissed orders to “speak up!” and snide proclamations of “we don’t have all day!” filling the young man’s ears. Once again it was the Prime Minister to the rescue.

“Come, lad, don’t be afraid.” Paptimus smiled as comfortingly as he could at the youth, though coming from the former gladiator it was probably more intimidating. “All of us just want to know the truth. We’re not out to get you, we’re here to help you.”

Something in his voice struck a chord in the young man, and Apolli suddenly felt just a bit of his courage returning. “Th, thank you, m’lord,” he stammered, and then loudly, to the king and his court, he began his deposition.

“I…uh, m’names Apolli, sire. I’m from Sorveno, it’s a small village not too far and not too different from Sci—“

“Yes, yes, how interesting,” said the king impatiently. “Get to the ballista! I want to hear more about that!”

“Uh, o-of course, m’lord. The ballista…it’s a real masterpiece, sire. I’m just an archer, but I hafta admit the engineers did a great job with that machine. One bolt from it’s larger than I am, but that thing can load ‘em and fire ‘em off with not much more than a pull from a lever!

“It’s strong, too. Really, really strong.” At this point, Apolli’s voice faltered. “I…I missed with my first shot, but hit the mark with the second one. It…it tore the wing right off one of the Pegasi, and it an’ its rider fell straight to the earth.”

“Amazing!” The king laughed and clapped. “Good show, m’boy! That’s the ingenuity of Etruria for you! I bet Bern will think twice about starting trouble with us when it learns we’ve got machines like that on our side!”

“I-it’s not perfect, though. It…it has a minimum range. It seemed like just a moment, but before I knew it the Pegasus Knights had caught up to us, and I had to get off the ballista and take out the bow.

“It was terrifyin’, sire. Tassar was fightin’ their leader, I think, and they were comin’ at us from two sides. Khyron and Braddock were fightin’ really well, and they managed to take out a few, but then Khyron got wounded and called for my…my Yulia to come heal him. When she came out, they…they wanted to kill her. My fiancée! I…when one of them came at her with a javelin, I…” He couldn’t continue.

Low chuckles of disdain and contempt emanated from the gathered nobility. “What’s he so ashamed of? Isn’t he a mercenary? Surely the death of some Ilian vermin is nothing to cry over.”

Paptimus would have none of it. “Stop that! When’s the last time any of you fought in battle, eh? Takin’ a life’s never easy, at least not for the first time. This boy did as best as he could.” He cast a sympathetic glance at Apolli. “You think you can continue, lad? I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but we really need to hear the rest of what happened.”

He sniffled. “I…it’s alright, m’lord. I’ll do my best, but there really isn’t much to tell. After I…I killed the girl, Yulia managed to get to Khyron and heal ‘im up. After that, I guess the commander noticed the villagers who came with her were running away, and decided to run with ‘em.”

“Villagers?”

“Yeah. While the Pegasus Knights attacked us on the roof because we had a ballista, there were a few guys from Scirocco who tried to break into the castle from the ground. I dunno much about that. Roberto, Rosamia, and Renault had to take care of ‘em. I think Renault actually managed to kill one.”

“Hmm…interesting,” said King Galahad, who seemed excited by Apolli’s talk of battle and death, “I would like to hear more of this. Renault, I wish to listen to what you have to say.”

“Uh…huh?” Assisted by a hasty shove from Braddock, Renault hastily took Apolli’s position. Despite the contempt he had for the nobility, he had to admit they seemed much more intimidating in their own environment. At the very least, he realized it would be in his best interest to avoid angering them, or even drawing their contempt. “Uh…th-thanks for listening to me, all of you. It’s, uh, an honor to stand before the rulers of my country…right?”

Renault heard several low, pleased chuckles, and decided that his attempt at buttering up the aristocrats had worked. Feeling more confident, he continued. “I’m Renault, a stoneworker from Thagaste. I…I hadn’t picked up a sword before meeting Tassar, but I guess I’m a fast learner. He trained me while we were making our way to Scirocco, and by the time we were attacked I’d gotten good enough to at least take care of myself.

“There were five of them and three of us. Their leader was an archer, and they had a couple of axemen and a pair of spearmen. Rosamia…she cast a spell at them hoping to scare them off, but it didn’t work. The archer said they had a magician of their own…Meris or something was her name.

“I took on the axemen and Roberto took the spears. Rosamia took an arrow in the arm, but she was still strong enough to help us out with a bit of her magic. One of the axes charged me, and I managed to take out his eye with a trick Tassar taught me. He went crazy after that…bowled me over and was just about to split my head open when I saw a chance and drove my sword through his gut. I’d gotten into some fights before, but…that was my first time killing anybody too.”

“You did what you had to do,” said Paptimus. “Believe me, I know how that feels.”

“Thanks. Heh, yeah…now I know how the guys in the arena must feel. But…that ended the battle for me. Guess courage wasn’t the townies’ strong point, because when they saw that guy bite it, they ran off. That was the last we saw of ‘em, at least alive. By the time we got back to Scirocco they were corpses.”

“Tell us about that, Renault,” sneered Nerinheit. “I suppose you were more than pleased at that outcome, weren’t you?”

“Look, I didn’t do anything! I can’t speak for anybody else, but I sure as hell know I didn’t have anything to do with what we found there!”

“Well, tell us what you saw, then!”

“I…fine. It was at night, after the sun had set. Tassar thought our counterattack should be under the cover of darkness, so we’d have surprise on our side. On our way there I think we were seen…one of the Pegasus Knights flew over us and went back to the village. We didn’t see her again, though…I guess she was the only survivor.

“When we got to the town it was totally quiet. I don’t mean just nighttime quiet, I mean dead quiet. No torches were lit and nobody was manning the sentry post. We knew we had to find out what was going on, though, so we went in anyways, though I got a really bad feeling about it.

“The town was a damn tomb, Your Majesty. We stepped right through the gate to see dead bodies lying everywhere. And before you say something, Count, I want you to know that the bodies didn’t have a scratch on them. Not one. They all had blood in their mouths, though. Looked like they’d been vomiting. You think mercenaries like us could do something like that? No way. Khyron said it was poison. Scirocco got all its water from a single well, so if somebody got to that they would have poisoned pretty much every person in the town.”

“The rumors were right about that, at least,” murmured Paptimus, voicing the sentiments of the rest of the room. “So you didn’t come across any survivors at all?”

“Well, we got one. Aside from the Knight who saw us, there was one other survivor. He’s dead now, though…I didn’t see what happened, but I heard it. He managed to kill Yulia, and Roberto killed him for it.”

“How unfortunate,” said the king. “Perhaps he could have provided us with more answers than any of you did. Your friend Roberto is quite the disappointment.”

“Hey!” Renault didn’t like Roberto too much either, but he liked the king even less. “Yulia was his sister! You can’t blame—“

The monarch rolled his eyes dismissively. “We will let Roberto speak for himself, then. Leave the stand, Renault.”

Fuming, the former stoneworker did so, where an equally angry Roberto followed. Even the gravitas of the monarch and his assembled retinue did nothing to dim the man’s anger, and he simply stood there, glaring at the compassionless aristocrats.

Except for Paptimus, yet again. “Roberto,” he began, in tones as soothing as he could manage, “I understand the depth of your loss. Not even the combined riches of every man in this room would be enough to compensate you for the death of your sister. But like I told Apolli, we aren’t here to mock you. We just want to get to the truth of the matter. If you tell us what happened, we might be able to help you get revenge, or at least make sure nothing like this can happen to anyone else.”

Roberto shot an angry glance at the Prime Minister, but the words had gotten through to him.

“Yulia was my sister. We grew up together with Apolli in Sorveno. You…none of y’ know what it feels like, eh? To have your only lil’ sister killed b’fore your eyes? I bet—“

“Calm down, lad. Start at the beginning. Where did you find the man who…who did this? What happened with him, and why?”

“We were investigatin’ the village. Tassar wanted us to split into two groups, to get it over with quicker. Braddock, me, Yulia, and Apolli were one of ‘em, the rest of them took the other side of the town.

“We looked over two houses and didn’t find anything. Just dead bodies. It was when we got to the mayor’s house that…that it…happened. Me ‘n Braddock were looking over the first floor, and Apolli and Yulia went upstairs, to the mayor’s bedroom. That was where they found ‘im.

“He was barely clinging t’ life, I think…we didn’t have anything that could take care of poison, but Yulia used her staff to put a damper on its effects, at least a little bit.

“And how’d he repay her?” Roberto’s fists were clenched at his sides, their knuckles white. “He killed her! Got up, grabbed her, an’ jammed a knife straight into her neck!” He glared behind him, at Apolli, who was now staring at his feet miserably. “All while her fiancée was sittin’ there useless! Just blubberin’! Damn useless!”

“I see,” said Paptimus, “But why? Roberto, can you calm down for a moment and tell us why the town’s sole survivor tried to kill his benefactor?”

“What makes y’ think I know? He was crazy. Said somethin’ about poison, and how we had Meris too, or something. I don’t know, and I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” He stood up straight, and gave the nobles a twisted smile. “I killed the bastard. Smashed his head in with my own hands. Call me what y’ want, but at least none of y’ can say I let ‘im get away with it!”

“Such a shameful display,” drawled one noble near the back of the room. “Ugh, are all the residents of the north so barbaric?”

Paptimus again raised his hands to quiet the aristocrats, partially to restore order and partially to keep Roberto from getting too angry. “You mentioned Meris as well. You know anything else about this person? Apparently a spellcaster, going on what Renault said, but anything more than that?”

“Dunno. Don’t care much either. I found some of the mayor’s journal, but Braddock found the rest, and Tassar and Khyron went over all of it.”

“Very well. Thanks for your testimony, Roberto. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.” Paptimus turned to the king, who was now looking somewhat troubled instead of excited. “Braddock could probably explain a bit of what he found, then, if he managed to get a hold of the rest of the mayor’s journal.”

“I agree. Braddock, come forth.”

“H-hey,” whispered Renault nervously to his friend, “You gonna be alright? You’re not an native-born Etrurian, so…”

Braddock shrugged. “Yeah, well, what can you do? Just gotta go up there and tell the truth. Just wish me luck, alright?” He clapped Renault on the shoulder and proceeded to replace Roberto, who had stalked back to his place near the door with the others, angrily waiting the hearings to be done with.

“Not an Etrurian?” said one count, noticing Braddock’s hair and facial features. “What could he possibly have to tell us?”

The Ostian heard this, but he didn’t get angry. Instead, he simply bowed as low as he could. “Oh, venerable lords of Etruria,” he drawled, “Allow me to first begin by saying how honored—honored, I say!—I am that a humble Lycian such as myself would be allowed to even stand in the same room as such a vaunted group of heroes such as yourselves. I mean, none of you have probably picked up a sword or actually done a bit of actual work in your entire pampered lives! Truly, nobody from any foreign land could possibly meet your stellar expectations.”

Watching this from the back of the room, Renault was torn between absolute horror at his friend’s provocation of people who could order all of them killed on a whim and dissolving in laughter at his sarcasm (which probably would have gotten him sent to the guillotine as well). The nobles themselves seemed to be gravitating towards the guillotine—disgruntled calls of “cheeky bastard, isn’t he?” and “he can tell all the jokes he wants in the stockade!” echoing from various parts of the chamber. Still, his testimony would be too important to simply toss out.

“Dump the mockery, please,” said Paptimus, “and tell us what you read in the journal.”

“Not a problem with me if I can get outta here sooner,” smirked Braddock. “Anyways, I didn’t find as much as I’d hoped, unfortunately. For the most part, it’s just the standard crap you’d expect from a mayor’s records—meals, descriptions of town life, updates on the economy and the people, and so on. However, there were a few interesting entries that told us at least a little bit…

“He made an entry about Revil’s death on the eighth day of the Month of the Wyvern, a few months ago. A week after that, though, he wrote that a ‘red-haired angel of mercy arrived at this village, borne on the wings of Illians.’ The girl he was talking about was this Meris person.

“He doesn’t mention her much, but from what he wrote about her and the Ilians, I think it’s a pretty safe bet that she was the one who actually had the money to hire the mercenaries, not the villagers themselves. She apparently was a major influence in the town’s affairs as well, advising him on battle tactics and how best to plan their rebellion. Apparently the Pegasus Knights got sent off to our little fortress on her orders.”

“Was she among the bodies you discovered?”

“Nope, at least nobody matching her description. The last entries in the mayor’s journal mention how she didn’t show up for the Scirocco’s last breakfast. I get the feeling she knew what was gonna happen beforehand, and skipped town ahead of time.”

“Very interesting, Braddock,” and now Paptimus looked quite pleased. “You’ve done good work, this actually helps a lot. Did the journal mention where this girl might have come from?”

“No. I dunno if she kept quiet about it, but the mayor’s journal doesn’t mention it.”

“How convenient,” sneered Nerinheit. “Perhaps this girl was on Khyron’s pay? A spy hired to enter the town and kill everyone in it, saving him the trouble?”

“Hold on, Glaesal.” Exedol stood up, a scowl on his face. “That is my little brother you are accusing. You have neither evidence nor right to—“

“Hah, nonsense! If he really is your brother I’m sure he’d be all too happy to resort to such underhanded tactics! That’s what allowed you to take your position away from me, isn’t that right?”

“You believe so?” Exedol scowled angrily as he stood up, removing one of his white gloves. “I suppose you would call a fair fight underhanded? If not, I would be more than happy to defend my family’s honor with a—“

All the commotion in the room was stopped by an angry shout and the sound of a pair of fists crashing down on the table in front of the Prime Minister’s seat.

“Dammit, that’s enough, all of you!” Paptimus had grown weary of the court’s endless bickering, and let his annoyance make itself clear in his voice. That alone would have been scary enough, but when combined with the expression on his battle-hardened face it became downright terrifying. “Glaesal, listen to me. We’ve known each other for years, and you’re closer to me than any other man. I sympathize with you more than anyone else here can understand. But no matter what the circumstances, these people still deserve t’ have their side of the story told!”

“We’ve heard their side of the story, and we still don’t have any explanations! Who’s this ‘Meris’ person? Where’d the Pegasus Knights come from? Quite frankly all this sounds to me like a fantastic tale concocted to cover up their own guilt!”

“Glaesal, I’m not sure it’s even possible for them to have poisoned an entire town like Scirocco.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, let’s see what our final witness has to say. Rosamia, come up here, please.”

“M-me?” The woman was somewhat surprised that they would desire her testimony, as she was simply an apprentice, but she did as she was told.

“I apologize for asking this of you, girl,” said Paptimus kindly, “but rest assured, this ordeal is almost over for you and your friends. It’d be fine if I asked you a few questions, right?”

“O-of course, sir.” She was not expecting this level of courtesy from someone so much farther above her on the Etrurian social ladder.

“Excellent. Thanks. First off, how much time did you spend with Khyron over the course of this journey? I imagine he didn’t leave your sight for too long, yes?”

A few scattered snickers broke out among the aristocrats, and Rosamia felt her cheeks grow slightly warm, but she answered anyways. “No, sir. Being his apprentice, the duties he had for me occupied most of my time.”

“And what did these duties entail?”

“Assisting the mercenaries, mainly. Taking care of the supplies, helping to load and unload the wagon, that sort of thing. He was also insistent I devote some time to my studies, though, and he would often work with me to refine my skills with some of the lower-order spells. I was also to watch over him and ensure he was not disturbed while he was meditating.”

“I see. And what was he doing?”

“Aside from meditating and preparing his spells, he mainly studied his texts and scrolls on flame magic and gave orders to the mercenaries.”

“Flame magic. Is he skilled with anything else?”

“W-well, as I’m sure you know, he’s more than a capable combat magician. Blazing flames, chilling ice, and the raging winds all heed his beck and call..”

“I meant other forms of magic, not just Anima.”

“Ah…” she looked at the ground, embarrassed, “I-I’m not sure. He can use Heal staves quite well, but the higher orders are beyond him.”

At this, her face actually did grow quite red, and Khyron’s quite angry at the scattered chuckles breaking out among the rest of the nobles. The Prime Minister’s line of questioning was doing its work quite well, however. “So it seems impossible that he may have bewitched the town of Scirocco in some way?”

“Y-yes! Definitely, my lord! None of the bodies we found were burned, frozen, or seemed to have been affected by any external attack, magical or otherwise. If it truly was a spell that killed them, it was far beyond Khyron’s abilities.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” said Nerinheit, “he could have easily have snuck in some poison into the town! I know it’s fed by only a single aquifer. If he tainted that…”

“Well, Rosamia,” asked Scirocco, “since you handled the supplies, did you see anything suspicious in what Khyron decided to pack?”

“Not at all. Weapons, spellbooks, provisions for our animals and men…nothing out of the ordinary.” She shot a defiant glance at Nerinheit. “If you don’t believe what I have to say, that’s fine. But our caravan has been allowed to stay on the palace grounds for the duration of our visit. Ask one of the stablehands to go through it and he’ll verify what I have to stay.”

“What about infiltration, then?” Nerinheit would not budge from his position. “That young survivor you found—who’s no longer with us, how convenient, that!—mentioned something about this ‘Meris’ person being bought out. How do I know she wasn’t one of your master’s agents?”

“I know of no-one named Meris, my lord, and I have been keeping track of our expedition’s financial status. You furnished us with six thousand gold pieces. The crown agreed to support myself, my master, and Yulia, so out of that six thousand we spent about twenty-five hundred on the other mercenaries. The rest of our money was spent on equipment and provisions. If a single gold piece was spent on either poison of some sort or another hired hand I am unaware of it.”

“You see?” Paptimus smiled with satisfaction. “There’s not a single shred of evidence that this expedition was in any way responsible for the destruction of Scirocco. Rosamia, you may return to your companions.”

She scurried off, all too happy to do so, for the argument among the court was growing more heated, not less. “I’m still not convinced,” said Nerinheit. “Like I said, all this has still not brought us any closer to the answers. If Khyron and his men weren’t responsible for what happened, who was?”

“Oh, who cares,” called one noble from the back, a bearded man wider than he was tall, “Scirocco was a miserable, worthless little excuse for a village anyways! Let’s just call it an act of God and be done with it. We have better things to occupy ourselves with, don’t we?”

“It’s still important,” replied Paptimus. “What if this is foreign subterfuge? Perhaps—“

“Foreign, yes!” King Galahad had grown excited again, probably because he knew exactly who was behind the events at Scirocco—or rather, knew exactly who he wanted to believe was behind them. “It’s Bern! Bern! This would be the opening salvo in their war against us, correct? We must rally the troops and ready ourselves for glorious battle against our foe!”

“Uh, sire, hold on a second. We can’t really be sure of that yet, though it seems likely…”

“Likely? Likely? That’s good enough. We know those wretched Bernites are just looking for trouble, especially with them trying to take the Western Isles away from us!”

“Galahad,” said Count Nerinheit, and almost everyone in the room was taken aback by his lack of respect for his liege, “that’s absurd! We have no more concrete evidence that Bern was behind this attack than we do Khyron was, and yet you’d consider going to war with Bern because of it?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, _Count_. I am the ruler here, not you. If I see fit—“

“Milord,” said Paptimus, bowing slightly to indicate respect, “I don’t mean any disrespect, but my friend has a point, I think. We ought to launch a formal investigation of that town before jumping to any conclusions.”

King Galahad sunk back into his throne, quite disappointed. “Ugh, do you have any idea how long that will take? And it will be such a tiresome affair, as well! But if you think it’s a good idea…fine. You’ve served me quite well over the years. So who do you propose we send? Khyron and his little mercenaries again?”

“No, no, not at all. These guys’ve done enough work already. Khyron, you and your men can leave. You have all served your—well, this country very well, and you should be proud of yourselves. Now, please leave us, if you would. We’ve still got important matters to discuss amongst ourselves privately, you see.”

This caused Renault to smirk a little and mumble under his breath, “yeah, shouting matches. Real private. You nobles are a real class act, aren’t you?” Still, he—and his comrades—were more than eager to flee from the now-stuffy court chamber and back into the real world, away from the high nobility and their games. Khyron also had duties he wished to take care of.

“Come, follow me and Rosamia,” he told the mercenaries. “Apolli and Roberto, you may…may retrieve Yulia’s steed when you depart from this city, but before you leave, I’m to give you and the rest of this troop your payment.”

For the first time all day, Renault was given a task he could actually feel enthusiastic about.

-X-

The Caerleon manse wasn’t quite as nice as Renault expected. Although anything would be a step down from the Royal Palace, this building wasn’t even as flashy as some of the larger merchants’ houses they’d passed earlier in the day. A statue of a mage—presumably Khyron and Exedol’s father, or at least an ancestor of theirs—was set in front of the building, but other than the fact that it was well-maintained that was its most standout feature.

Even more surprising was the fact that he was here in the first place. Renault was expecting to have been taken to a bank or something similar. Still, he did as he was told, waiting patiently outside with the rest of his troop as Khyron and Rosamia disappeared into the manse for several minutes, both of them returning later with several large pouches (two considerably larger than the others), all jingling merrily.

Khyron handed the three smaller ones to Tassar, Braddock, and Renault. “You’ll find I increased your compensation to more than we originally agreed upon. I was not expecting any of you to perform as well as you did, and this is your reward for exceeding my expectations.”

“Oh, really?” Braddock was suspicious of his employer’s sudden generosity just like Tassar had been, but unlike his comrade he didn’t dwell on it too much. “Well, thanks. You know I don’t think much of you, Khyron, but at least you’ve got an eye for talent.”

The sage merely scowled in response. “Hm. I’m already beginning to regret treating you so well.” He then turned to Apolli and Roberto, nodding to Rosamia to hold out the larger sacks to them. “I hope you’ll be more grateful. Both of you are receiving two thousand gold each, and the pouches contain a pair of rubies worth more than that. They are symbols of your sister’s sacrifice. Keep them dear to you, or use the money they bring to benefit your hometown. If what she told me is true, she would want that.”

“S-Sir Khyron,” Apolli stammered, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Is that how commoners show their gratitude? I am doing this to honor Yulia’s sacrifice! Even if her courage wavered, in the end she still died in the line of duty, just like Revil. Anyone who has sacrificed their life for this country deserves the utmost respect! Thus, I am giving you this money to recognize that. I shall also inform any merchants and traders I meet that Sorveno was the home of a heroic young woman and—“

“You’re tryin’ to pay us off for her death, huh?” Venom was practically dripping from Roberto’s scowling mouth. “You think this money’s worth it? You think ANY ‘mount of money’s worth it? Y’ damned scumbag. It’s your fault she died, yours and this whole damned expedition! Y’ can keep this blood money. I’m goin’ back to the stables to get her horse—all that’s left of her ‘sides memories now, right?—and go straight back home. I don’t want y’r damned bribes, Khyron, and I never want to see your wretched face again!”

He tossed the bag of money on the ground, to Khyron’s sputtering, indignant disbelief, and stalked away, back to the palace to pick up his dead sister’s horse, and then back to Sorveno. Fortunately for the town, Apolli still seemed to have slightly better sense, as still clinging tightly to his own pouch, he hastily knelt down, apologized profusely to the sage, and then picked up Roberto’s prize and ran after him. He turned back to say one last thing to Khyron.

“T-thank you, milord! Yulia…Yulia, I’m sure she would have appreciated this! S-surely!”

Renault thought he saw the beginnings of tears show themselves in Apolli’s eyes once again, but didn’t really care. He thought it’d be the last time he’d see either of them.

“Unforgivable,” sputtered Khyron, “absolutely unforgivable!”

“Master, some patience might be in order,” Rosamia said. “No-one would be quite sane after watching their younger sister die like that. I’m sure that in time, when his mind has recovered, Roberto will understand what you did for him.”

“I certainly hope he does. In any case,” and now Khyron turned to his three remaining mercenaries, “your contract has been fulfilled. I have no further need of you, though perhaps you may find work elsewhere in the city. In any case, I bid you farewell!” He turned on his heel and stormed back into his manor, slamming the door behind him.

The mercenaries stared at each other in confusion, and Rosamia cast them a sympathetic look. “He can be an insufferable man,” she said. “Still, as the nobility goes, he’s not the worst I have ever seen, and this journey has been hard on him, as it’s been on all of us. Perhaps he will learn better because of it. And in any case,” she bowed low to the three of them, “I at least appreciate what you have done. I am glad to have met all of you, and to have fought beside you. May Eli—er, fortune smile upon you.”

“So…is it over?” asked Renault.

His friend gave him a charming grin. “Yeah, looks like it.”

“So what…what’s going to happen now?”

“Well, where are you going?”

“M-me?” Renault had actually not given this question any serious thought before this moment. “I…I dunno. I guess I’m gonna go back home. Back to Thagaste.”

“Really? How ‘bout we come with you? Tassar, is that okay?”

The veteran mercenary nodded. “Yes. We were going to head back up there anyways, it’s a stop on the way to our next destination. No reason we shouldn’t stick together for a little while longer.”

“Well, that’s great, eh?” Braddock clapped a hand on Renault’s shoulder. “Guess we don’t have to say goodbye just yet.”

“That’s great!” Odd as it sounded, Renault was actually happier about that prospect than he expected, given he hadn’t known Braddock for so long. But he still felt something for the man that wasn’t so easily dismissed. “Really great!”

“Looks like it’s settled, then,” Tassar chuckled jovially. “But if that’s the case, I hope you’re ready to keep up with us, Renault. We move quickly, and I’d like to get back to Thagaste and start on the next leg of my journey within a fortnight.” He regarded the young man curiously. “Renault…even if we part ways at your hometown, I am glad to have met you. I don’t if you’re planning on continuing being a mercenary, but I think you’ve got some potential.”

At this, Renault shrugged his shoulders sheepishly and looked at the ground, both out of embarrassment at the compliment and because he genuinely didn’t know what he’d be doing after he said goodbye to Braddock and Tassar—certainly not being a mercenary, but he probably couldn’t go back to working under Henken either. Thus, he just mumbled a quiet, “uh, thanks.”

This elicited another quiet chuckle from Braddock. “You’re more than welcome, I’m sure. Now c’mon, let’s get moving.”

Braddock and Tassar started off on their new journey, and once again Renault followed them.

_::Linear Notes::_

Miscellaneous notes: many of the translations and descriptions come from the fine Fire Emblem 6 manga, “Hasha no Tsurugi,” translated by the estimable The End! Particularly, the use of ‘Bernite’ to describe residents of Bern, from chapter 22, and the description of Etruria’s Royal Palace, the Holy Road, the old legend etc. is from chapter 29. Please go to the delightful Serenes Forest forums and check it out! :D :D

Also, thank you to Suludemora for your very kind comments! AO3 seems like a nice place :)

 


	11. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault returns to his hometown of Thagaste, but finds it may no longer really be his home.

Wayward Son

11: Homecoming

“See you around, bud.”

Braddock said these four words with a nonchalant grin on his handsome face. He wanted nothing more than to see his friend off with a few happy words, and neither intended nor anticipated the emotional storm he set off in the young man.

Renault, of course, made every effort to ensure his inner turmoil went completely unnoticed. For the most part, he was successful. He tried his best to put on a similar smile and managed to stammer “Y…yeah. I’ll see you around, Braddock.”

The Ostian gave him a small look for just a moment—the only indication that he had the slightest inkling of something being amiss—then simply smiled again and clapped Renault on the shoulder. With that, he turned and joined Tassar, waiting patiently by the one of the walls near Thagaste’s south gate, and the two of them disappeared into the city’s teeming crowds.

Renault could do nothing but stand there as the crowds surrounded and moved around him as well, some of its constituents giving him strange looks. He was far too overwhelmed by the whirling pastiche of emotions battling for control of his heart to notice.

The first of his feelings was a profound sense of displacement, in both time and place. The city of Thagaste should have been as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He had spent literally all of his twenty-three years of life within its confines, punctuated only by the brief few weeks he had spent as a ‘mercenary.’ Yet it seemed to him as if he had been away for a thousand years—and that time had not been kind to the city. The walls he had once worked on with Henken seemed strange and unfamiliar. The architecture he had so admired now seemed foreign and, compared to his vivid memories of Aquleia, somewhat disappointing.

He still hated the crowds, of course, but now even that hatred had changed—not only did the noise and commotion strike him as annoying, but after the time he had spent on the open, quiet road with only seven companions, somewhat ominous.

Renault shook his head to clear himself of such thoughts. He figured he’d get used to it eventually anyways, and things would return to normal soon, for a sense of gladness and relief was the second of the emotions whirling away inside of him. He was safe in Thagaste—at least, so he thought. For the first time in weeks, he no longer had to worry about Pegasus Knights out for his blood, corpses littering empty streets, or a cadre of corrupt, hypocritical nobles attempting to blame him and his friends for the deaths of an entire town.

He sighed heavily and finally snapped out of his trance. He couldn’t stand out here forever, after all. He had to get moving.

Moving to where, though?

Sighing heavily, Renault leaned against the closest wall. He was carrying a few things—the knapsack which contained his books, some vulneraries, and the other useful equipment he’d taken from his home when he first set out on his journey, as well as the pouch containing his six hundred pieces of gold. It was the sword that rested in the scabbard by his side that drew his attention, however. He put a hand to its hilt, and touching this keepsake of his journey, along with dwelling on the fact that he didn’t really have anyplace to go or anyone to meet in this city, reminded Renault of the third and perhaps most prominent of the emotions he was feeling at this particular moment.

The sword Renault still kept was perhaps emblematic of the camaderie which had grown between him, Braddock, and Tassar over the course of their journey. He remembered Tassar’s last words to him as they entered the city.

“I suppose this is where we part ways,” said the mercenary. “Braddock and I will be staying in this city for a couple of days—probably at the Ruby Tortoise again—but not for too long. We’ll just buy a few supplies and weapons, then head out again. Life of a mercenary and all that. Doubt we’ll be seeing much of each other after this.” He offered a hand to Renault. “Stay well.”

“Th-thanks,” came the youth’s hesitant reply, as he took the proffered hand in its own, gave it a strong shake, and then let it go. As Tassar turned to leave, that hand came to the hilt of the iron sword he still carried with him, which had saved his life at Scirocco, and which Tassar had seen fit to give him a bit of training in regards to its use. “Hey, wait a sec! Tassar, don’t you want your sword back?”

He simply grinned. “Don’t worry about it. You can keep it, it’s not as if it was that expensive. Just think of it as something to remember us by.”

With that, he turned away from Renault, waiting only for Braddock to say his last goodbyes to his friend before leaving the young man for good. And as they disappeared into the city, Renault realized that the closest thing he presently had to friendship disappeared as well.

The trip back to Thagaste from Aquleia had been one of the most pleasant experiences in Renault’s life. They’d bought enough food and supplies in the capitol to fit in the knapsacks each of them carried, which combined with Braddock and Renault’s (in the latter’s case, newly-found) skills in trapping was enough to sustain them over the course of their little-over-a-week-long journey. They just walked rather than hiring out horses or a caravan or wagon—a practical decision, since Thagaste was considerably closer to Aquleia than it was to Scirocco. Even then, Tassar and Braddock were in no real hurry, so at such a leisurely pace arriving at their destination in seven days was actually quicker than they expected.

For Renault, it was very enjoyable. His time had been spent mainly on merely relaxing with Braddock. The Ostian had taken more than a passing interest in some of the books Renault had initially brought with him. The clergyman’s son explained that they belonged to his deceased father, the former Bishop Sergion, and that he’d brought them along just in case he managed to find any spare time—which, at the end of his mercenary duties, he now had a surfeit of. He had four of them, none of them particularly large; the thickest was a quick overview of Etruria’s history written from an ecclesiastical viewpoint that Renault found particularly tiresome. Unfortunately, it was probably the best work of history available to anyone; since virtually all of Etruria’s historians (in fact, the most of the intelligentsia of Lycia and Bern as well—Sacae and Ilia had few enough literate people) were in the pay of either the aristocrats or the clergy or both, the ‘history’ they produced was really little more than propaganda. Braddock had actually stumbled upon it peeking out of Renault’s knapsack by accident and asked him about it, and afterwards the two men had a grand old time poring through the text in order to mock all the hypocrisies and distortions the author—a famous monk living about a century ago who acquired no small amount of notoriety for a lifestyle more sybaritic than ascetic—had committed.

Renault couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed as hard as he did listening to some of Braddock’s sarcastic jokes at the author’s expense. “Ah, King Pellinore the First was a shining exemplar of all the virtues Elimine preached, was he? Coming from a monk accused of impregnating two different girls on the same night, I’m actually inclined to believe that.”

He had also managed to build up something of a rapport with Tassar. Although he didn’t talk to the man as much as he did Braddock—Tassar was not known for being particularly gregarious—they did have some fun in friendly sparring matches about every evening over the course of their journey. Even though Renault wasn’t planning on returning to mercenary life, he did find swordplay pretty fun, and it was an entertaining way to pass the time, since after all, just walking along a humble dirt road staring at the scenery couldn’t keep someone occupied forever.

He’d been getting steadily better. Although Renault didn’t apparently have a particular natural talent for swordsmanship, he was far from hopeless as well, and under Tassar’s patient tutelage he had actually picked up a few skills here and there. Although he was still no match for the veteran mercenary, his play duels as they neared the end of their journey were not quite as short as they’d been when they had just set off from Aquleia. Indeed, during the last one they had had—an evening in which they were just a couple of miles away from the gates of Thagaste—Renault had actually come close to landing a blow on Tassar, and both he and Braddock had congratulated him profusely on his progress.

Renault had been getting quite a bit better at controlling his temper as well. The first duel he fought with Tassar had ended with a humiliating bump on his head. Renault, growing frustrated at his complete inability to even get close to the mercenary, spurred on by a sense that his opponent was secretly mocking him, had finally given in to anger and rushed at the man, swinging his sword wildly.

Tassar merely stepped aside, and with a sly grin on his face, brought the flat of his blade crashing down upon Renault’s temple.

He had waken up several hours later to Braddock staring down at him with an apologetic, sheepish grin on his face.

“Hey, man,” he had asked, “you alright?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Heh, glad to hear it.” Braddock’s expression grew a bit more sheepish at this point, though. “You, uh…kinda deserved it, though. I mean, getting angry like that? Never a good idea, my friend.”

“You’re one to talk,” Renault scowled. “You mean you’ve never gotten mad before?”

“Oh yeah. I definitely have.” And now, Braddock looked much more sad than remonstrative. “And a lot of people have died because of it.”

Renault had been reminded of his friend’s ruminations on the death of Yulia, and had started to ask him about it before being interrupted by Tassar.

“He’s got a point, Renault.” Tassar was sitting on a log across from him wearing an expression that was neither angry nor snide, but simply amused. “If that had been a real battle I would’ve skewered you as easily as you’d stick a pig. Even if you don’t plan on refining your skills with a sword, getting a hold of your temper will go a long way in keeping you out of trouble later in life.”

“Easier said than done,” Renault grumbled in response. “Anger’s natural, isn’t it? How’m I supposed to just stuff it down like that?”

Tassar chuckled. “No, no, you’re thinking of it in the wrong way. Don’t try to suppress or eliminate your anger, Renault. Instead, cultivate it. Focus it. Learn to control it.”

He blinked—he’d never heard anything like that before. “What do you mean?”

Tassar leaned forward, grinning, and Renault thought—perhaps it was a trick of memory—that he saw something wolfish in that grin as the purple light of sunset played over it. “Your problem, Renault, is that you allow your anger to control you instead of controlling it. But you see, anger is just a tool, something that can help you get what you want. Just like a sword. You know that just swinging a weapon around is no good at all—I’ve taught you better, and you killed one of the goons from Scirocco because you knew what they didn’t. It’s the same way with anger. Just letting it burn’s no good. Focus that flame, use it to your advantage, not your enemy’s.”

“H…how do you do that?”

“Heh. It’s a hard skill to learn, Renault, I have to admit, and not everyone can do it. Practice makes perfect, as they say. But I do this: Whenever I get angry, whenever I find myself really, really hating something or someone…whenever I feel the urge to shout or lash out at them is almost overwhelming, I wait for one moment. Just one moment.

“That moment’s all I need to think. And I think to myself, ‘if I hate this scum so much that I want to destroy it…what’s the most effective way to do so?’ Every time, the answer is never charging in with a half-assed attack, never giving full vent to my emotions. The answer’s always one of my swordsman’s techniques, a clever trick, or a witty repartee cutting enough to slice through my opponent’s words as easily as a blade through cloth. And I dedicate all my anger towards making those strategies work. So when my enemy’s a bleeding wreck at my feet—or utterly humiliated—I’ve won, and my anger is more than satisified.”

“Huh,” Renault said, quite contemplative. “You really think that works?”

“Well, given that Tassar’s kept himself alive for so long,” laughed Braddock, “I’d say so.”

It had indeed worked. The next day, Tassar had offered Renault a chance for a rematch, which he eagerly took. Once again, Renault felt himself getting frustrated by his lack of progress, and he was overtly egged on by Tassar, whispering a few snide mockeries of his performance as their blades clashed. As he felt the anger rising, overwhelming him, he reminded himself of what Tassar had said…

_Use it. Don’t let it use you._

For the second time, he charged screaming at Tassar, his face contorted in anger. Braddock put a hand to his embarrassed face, and Tassar laughed to himself, stepping aside and expecting to give the youth another painful smack on the head as the flat of his blade came rushing down.

But Renault wasn’t there.

He had instead charged to the side, knowing that Tassar would perform a sidestep and intending to tackle the man. Unfortunately, Tassar’s reflexes were quick enough that he managed to jump out of the way of that charge, and Renault ended up tumbling over himself and onto the ground with a resounding thump.

Yet when Tassar offered him a hand to help him up, there was not disappointment but pride on the man’s face, and Braddock was actually clapping. Renault felt his anger quickly evaporating.

“Good job!” Tassar was genuinely pleased. “That’s exactly what I was talking about yesterday. Instead of letting your anger make you do something stupid, you took a moment, anticipated my move, and used it to fool me instead. I’m pretty impressed, Renault.

“But here, your attempt at a tackle was better, but still not the best. Want to learn a few tricks that work well against fleet-footed foes?”

Renault was more than happy to. He may have hated learning about religion, but was more than a quick study when it came to most other things. And over the course of his ersatz lessons in swordsmanship, he came to realize that he had a great deal of genuine respect for Tassar. He may not have been as close to him as he was with Braddock, but the man’s experience and good sense, combined with his stoic demeanor, left a very favorable impression on the his young protégé. Renault saw many of the things he’d once admired about Henken in his present leader, though fortunately Tassar didn’t seem to have a burning, repressed anger concerning any subject in particular—although Renault had taken care not to mention either the nobility or women around him, going on what Braddock had told him.

Thus, when both of these men left him alone in the streets of Thagaste, Renault found himself lost in his own hometown. With whom did he belong? He didn’t even know the names of more than a dozen people in this metropolis of thousands. Henken? Renault had not forgiven or forgotten how the man had left him in their last encounter, and more worryingly, he had the distinct feeling that the master mason had not forgotten either. Serapino? The little fool grated on Renault’s nerves. Jerid? He and the gaoler had never exactly been friends.

That left his old mealtime companion, Lisse, and his mother. At that moment, Renault’s stomach growled, and he made up his mind to visit his mother first. It had been months since they’d seen each other, and he was in the mood for a good, home-cooked meal. He estimated there was no way she could still be mad at him; indeed, wouldn’t she be happy to see her son back after so long?

With something approaching purpose, he started off to his old home. It briefly occurred to him that his mother may have moved to a different home over his absence (though he very much doubted it, given the sentimental value that house had for her) or might be out of the city on ecclesiastical business (being such an influential prelate, she had to periodically attend the synods of the Supreme Church of Etruria, and since Renault neither remembered nor cared when those councils convened, for all he knew she could be in Aquleia right now), so he thought it would be prudent to make sure she was still actually at the destination he had in mind.

He had no idea how much trouble this would cause.

Walking along the streets to his mother’s house—he still remembered the way, even after all this time, although not so surely—he happened along another vaguely familiar face. Manning a kiosk near the intersection of two small roads was a short, plump baker from whom Renault had often purchased small pastries for breakfast before heading off for work. Raising a hand, Renault called out to him.

“Hey! Pastryman!”

The man looked up, squinting at him suspiciously. “Eh? Whaddya want? You buyin’?”

“Nah, not today. Maybe tomorrow. I was just wondering, you know where Bishop Monica lives?”

“Same place she always has, that nice house a ways from Zodian’s rest. What are ya, new here?”

“Just been out of town for a while. Is she in right now, or has she gone on a trip or something?”

The baker drew back, an irritated frown on his face. “Why should I tell ya, eh? I ain’t one o’ her students. If you ain’t buyin, get outta here!”

“Ugh,” sighed Renault. Still, his stomach growled once again, and he was growing impatient. He liked the man’s pastries, despite his ugly attitude, and figured he might as well eat now as his patience was running quite low. He unlimbered his pouch of gold (drawing impressed stares from both the baker and some passerby) and fished out five small coins. “Fine, fine, I’ll buy something. Gimme one of those apple tarts. You know the ones I liked, I used to buy ‘em all the time before I left.”

“Eh?” The man blinked. “Hey, yeah…I do remember ya. What was your name, Renaud? Renault?”

“Yep, that’s me.” Renault scowled, growing hungrier by the minute. “Now, I’m paying you. Can you give me the pastry, at least? I’ll see if the Bishop is home one way or another anyways, if it’s too much trouble for you.”

“Hold on a second.” Renault expected the pudgy baker to become friendlier once he remembered who his customer was, but quite to the contrary, the man seemed to grow even more suspicious. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen ya, kid. Where’ve you been?”

“Huh? How’s that any of your business? I…I’ve been working, that’s all.”

“That’s a nice sword ya got there. Where’d you get it? Don’t remember you needin’ one before.”

Now Renault was getting angry. “Why in the world do you care? I just wanted to buy a pastry. If you don’t wanna sell me one, fine. Go to hell.”

He turned and prepared to leave, heedless of the curious stares he was beginning to gather. His former friend wouldn’t let him go quite so easily, however. “I heard of a kid named Renault who went off a couple months ago to be some hired killer up in Scirocco. Sounded a lot like you, actually.”

At this, Renault stopped and turned back. “Eh? Where’d you—“

“People’ve been talking about it all over Etruria,” said the grimacing chef. “Whole town died up there. Poison, black magic…somethin’ killed ‘em all. And those mercenaries the crown sent up there were behind it. You know anything about that, kid?”

At this, the curious glances of the crowd had begun to escalate into angry glares and hissed whispers. “I heard about that!” “Hey, they said a teal-haired guy with a sword was with them!” “For all we know, he might have dumped the poison into the well himself!”

Renault’s eyes widened, and beads of sweat began dripping down his brow. He was starting to feel as he did before the Royal Court. “H…hey! Hey! Shut up!” he cried, vainly trying to stem the growing tide of hatred he felt rising from the massed people around him. “We didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything! What the hell’s wrong with you people?”

“Didn’t do nothin’?” One young man in the crowd now surrounding Renault sneered. “Didn’t do nothin’ to stop ‘em, I bet! Just stood by and cheered ‘em on when they butchered every man, woman, and child in Scirocco, eh?”

Someone threw something at him—a mushy, half-eaten apple by the looks of it. Renault was quick enough on his feet to dodge it, and he looked towards the person who’d sent it off. An elderly lady screeched at him, another apple held in her hand and a look of disgust on her wizened face. “I know him! I know him, oh yes I do! He punched his own mother in the face, he did! He’s a viper! A viper! He c’d kill a child without thinking twice, and he’s just waiting to kill again, he is, he is!”

“D-dammit!” stammered Renault, taking a step back away from the swelling crowd…only to be shoved forward by the baker, whose frown had been transformed into an angry, hateful scowl.

“Can’t get away from us!” crowed the old hag. “Justice, justice will be done!”

“Teach ‘im’ a lesson,” screamed one voice, but much more ominously, another cried, “kill ‘im! He a poisonin’ snake! Kill ‘im!”

“No…NO!” In a moment of pure panic, Renault put a hand to his scabbard and drew his sword.

Collectively, the crowd drew back, their courage and bloodthirstiness evaporating once they saw their quarry was at least somewhat well-armed.

“That’s more like it, eh?” Conversely, Renault’s confidence had increased immensely. He swung his blade in measured arcs as Tassar had taught him, keeping the mob at bay. “Hah! You damn thugs! You’re just a bunch of thugs! Not feeling so tough now, are you? Maybe if you had half a brain in between all of you, you’d realize that—“

He was cut off by a piercing scream—perhaps the old woman?” “The guards,” she yelped, “the town guard is coming!”

“Damn! Run!” Almost as one, the mob—including the angry baker—dispersed into a thousand directions simultaneously. Renault could only stand and stare in confusion at the onset of a wild stampede where everyone was trying to get as far away from him as possible, as quickly as possible.

Except, of course, for the pair of guardsmen advancing directly towards him. And since he was the only one holding a weapon, as opposed to the defenseless townies running away from him, he was the only one they had any interest in.

“What the hell’s going on here?” thundered one guard, a heavyset bearded man. “It’s against the law to brandish a weapon in city limits!”

“Come with us,” said the other gruffly.

“But…I didn’t do anything!” Renault’s voice was at once pleading and angry. “I swear, they were gonna kill me! Didn’t you see that mob out there? They were gonna have themselves a damn lynching! If I hadn’t—“

“Yeah, we saw that,” said the bearded guard. “Look, you’ll have your chance to have your story heard. Just give us your sword and—“

“Dammit, is everyone in this city stupid?” Renault’s anger was just beginning to overwhelm his good sense. “If you saw what happened, why’re you punishing me? You bastards—“

He was answered by the two guards tightening their grip on their spears. “Kid, you’re just making things worse for yourself. I won’t ask you again. Give us your sword and come with us.”

For a moment, Renault thought of lashing out at them, teaching them a lesson. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his sword, growing angrier and angrier…

Until Tassar’s voice floated into his mind, just as it had during their second duel

_Use it. Don’t let it use you._

Renault’s eye twitched, but that was all. With a small flourish, he put his sword safely back into its scabbard, removed it from his belt, and held it out to the guards.

“Well, good to see you have some sense, lad.” The bearded one’s eyes turned greedily to the pouch hanging at Renault’s side. “A bit of money, too…say—“

“Forget it, Lars,” the other one said. “Jerid’ll kick our asses if he heard of us taking bribes or helping ourselves to a scoundrel’s gains.” He turned to Renault. “Let’s just show you to the gaoler. He’ll know what to do with you.”

Renault nodded and with a sullen expression on his face, obediently followed the guardsmen. They thought of holding his hands behind his back, but he was so demonstrably compliant it seemed unnecessary to them. They just made sure to keep their spears pointed at him at all times.

Neither of them noticed what the youth said beneath his breath.

“You’ll get yours.”

-X-

“It’s been a while, Renault. A long, long while.”

Jerid—just as Renault always remembered him, though it had been months since they’d seen each other—was settled back comfortably in his chair (a new one, this time, though not much better than his old one), flanked by the two guardsmen who had brought Renault in. Renault, for once, was not languishing in one of the cells, but instead, sitting right across from Jerid in front of them, on the distinctly shabby, decrepit chair that the gaoler had used to favor.

Still, given the fact that the cells behind him seemed to be full, Renault didn’t make too much of that fact.

“Yeah.” That was all Renault said, the sullen grimace on his face refusing to dissipate.

Jerid just shrugged in response. “Well, all right, let’s get down to it. What happened this time, Renault?” He turned and motioned towards the bearded guard, who handed him Renault’s sword. “I was told you were throwin’ around a weapon in city limits. This’s true, I guess?”

“Dammit, Jerid!” Renault slammed his fists down on the table in front of him, surprising the gaoler and unnerving the guards, who clutched their weapons nervously. “Look, it wasn’t my fault! I know you won’t believe me, but just listen to me! It…I had to defend myself! A whole mob had ganged up on me! They were gonna lynch me!”

Jerid stared at Renault for a long moment, then looked to the guards behind him. “Lars. Is that right? Did this kid really have a mob after him?”

“I…I think so. We heard a big noise and shouting so we went over to the baker’s kiosk to investigate. The moment we got there somebody saw us and a whole bunch of people started running away, so the only person left on the street was this guy, wavin’ his sword around in the air. He was the only one with a weapon we saw, so we thought—“

“All right, all right. Don’t say any more.” Jerid sighed heavily and waved a hand in the air. “We’re pretty much done here.” He got up with Renault’s sword in his hand, drawing surprised glances from the guards and from Renault himself. “Lars, get my cloak, would you? I’m gonna see this guy home.”

“Huh?” Renault’s eyes were eager, and he almost leapt up from his chair. “You believe me? Jerid, you actually believe me?”

In response, the gaoler cast him a stern look. He tossed the cloak to Renault, who managed to grab it and stare at him in confusion. “Enough of that, Renault. Put on that cloak and let’s go. I don’t want anybody else seeing you and causing a stir like today.”

Silently, and still very confused, Renault did as he was told. He put on the grungy, somewhat smelly garment and followed Jerid outside.

-x-

“Jerid, what’s this all about?” asked Renault as he followed the man to Bishop Monica’s home. “I mean, why the cloak and stuff?”

“Keep your voice down, Renault,” replied Jerid. “Now, before I answer your question, I want you to answer one of mine. What was all that fuss earlier about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Mobs don’t just pop out of thin air. Unless you really did something to provoke them? Maybe I oughta put you back in there.”

“N-no!” Renault scowled, although Jerid couldn’t see it under the heavy cloak. “Dammit, I just wanted to buy something from the baker, and he went—“

“Okay, so what set him off?”

Renault was silent, and Jerid sighed in response. “Alright, lemme guess. It was about Scirocco, right?”

Renault almost tripped in his surprise. “Y-yeah. Yeah! Damn, how’d you know?”

Jerid sighed laconically once again. “Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain, Renault.” With a tired expression on his face that almost surprised his companion, he reached for his belt and undid a small canteen, from which he drank several great gulps. He sighed again, this time in satisfaction, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—and Renault knew by the telltale smell that he hadn’t been drinking water.

“Jerid, what is that? Whiskey? I didn’t know you drank.”

“I didn’t use to,” came the reply. “Nowadays, though, I kinda have to.

“Things haven’t been goin’ well, Renault. Not well at all. They were going bad enough, with the extra taxes and everything just a few months ago…folks were a lot angrier. Had to break up a lot more fights than I used to, even without you around.

“Then just a few weeks ago, we got news of what’d happened in Scirocco. And if I thought folks were angry before, they’re downright crazy now. Talk of sedition, mad government conspiracies, everything…Can’t remember the last week that went by without every blasted cell I have being filled to the brim.

“I’m just glad I don’t live up north. It’s not so bad in cities like these, but right near Scirocco? Things are pretty crazy. King’s had to send bunches of mercenaries just to keep order, but I’ve heard that’s just making things worse. And there’re those black riders showing up…vandalism of churches and manors…bad, bad stuff.”

“S…so? So what, Jerid? You think I’m responsible for all that? Do you?”

He received nothing but another long, hard stare in response.

“I dunno, Renault.”

“Jerid!” Renault made no effort to hide his dismay. “How could you possibly believe that?”

“I didn’t say I thought you were guilty, boy. I just said I didn’t know.

“I may not know much, but I have learned a few things over the years I’ve spent as a jailer. And one of those things is to never trust rumors. Yeah, I’ve heard the stories. Evil magic, poison, or just bloodthirsty mercenaries. All of them eventually boil down to the same thing—the king let a bunch of psychopaths loose after one tax collector got killed, and a lot of innocent people lost their lives because of it. But it’s weird, none of those stories seem to agree on much besides that. So I don’t trust them much either, you know?

“But…I wasn’t there, either, and every once in a while rumors have a grain of truth. What did happen at Scirocco, eh? A whole town’s dead, that much is true. Why? How?”

“Shit, Jerid, I don’t know! Nobody knows! It wasn’t our fault! We didn’t do anything! You want me to tell you, huh? Want me to tell you everything I saw? I’ll tell you the exact same things I told the Royal Court. When we got there—“

“Naw, Renault, you don’t have to tell me anything. ‘Cause there’s no guarantee I know it’s true.”

“Jerid, you think I’m a liar?”

“Yeah. I think anybody can be a liar. Especially when they’re accused of something. A man steals somebody, hurts somebody, kills somebody, nine times out of ten he won’t admit it. Why would he? He wants to get away with it. So how do I know you’re not the same way? I don’t.”

“Is that it?” Renault was getting angry once again. “So you think I did it? You think I’m a criminal? A murderer? Complicit in the deaths of a whole town? So why didn’t you lock me up, huh? Or better yet, throw me to the mob? I deserve it, don’t I?”

“Ugh. Renault, I told you. It’s because I don’t know. I don’t know if you’re innocent, but I don’t know if you’re guilty either. And by God, I’m not going to condemn anyone unless I think they’re guilty.

“We live in a society of laws, Renault. We don’t allow vigilante justice, we don’t have mob rule. There’s a reason the king has counts, who have barons and knights, who appoint people like me to uphold those laws. I don’t know what happened up there, but unless you’re put on a trial and proven guilty, I’m not going to treat you like a guilty man. And I’m not going to let a bunch of thugs lynch you, no matter how much they think you need it.

“That’s why, Renault. That’s why I didn’t lock you up, and that,” he motioned towards the door they were now standing in front of, “is why I took you home personally to your mother.”

It was now dark, but a dim, flickering light could be seen emanating from under the doorjamb. Renault’s mother was definitely still at home. The gaoler knocked heavily on the door, and a lump rose in Renault’s throat as he recognized his mother’s voice.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s Jerid. Your Excellency, I’ve got your son with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then the frantic patter of hurried footsteps could be heard growing closer and closer to the two men. Within moments, Bishop Monica threw open the door to her house.

The first thing Renault noticed was that she did not look well. Although it took him a moment to register—she didn’t seem to have suddenly lost weight, no overt injuries could be seen on her form, no wasting due to disease, and so on—he could see lines on her face that weren’t there a few months ago, and a slight scruffiness to her previously luxuriant hair that seemed to be new as well. His mother had always seemed to be a bit younger than she really was, but not quite so much so anymore.

“Jerid! Jerid,” she cried, eyes wide, “Oh, God help me, what has he done? H-has he killed someone? God have mercy, please—“

“Whoah, whoah, hold on, Your Excellency!” Jerid was more than a bit taken aback by this outburst. “He hasn’t done anything, don’t worry. He just got involved in a…a little misunderstanding, that’s all. A few folks thought he did something which…he didn’t, ah, necessarily do. They split the moment they saw a couple of my men coming their way, and Renault was a good boy and told ‘em everything that happened. He hasn’t been in this city for quite a while, so I thought I’d show him the way back here, just in case. Nothing at all to worry about.”

“Ah…Oh, the Saint has blessed us today!” She looked at Jerid with relief, but as her eyes fell on her son they clouded slightly. “Thank you, Jerid. Thank you…thank you for everything. Thank you so much.”

“Er, ah, no problem, ma’am. So I can leave him with you, then?

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you again, Jerid.”

“All right.” Jerid nodded towards the woman, then turned to Renault, handing him his sword in its scabbard, which Renault promptly took. “Now, in return, can you give me my cloak back?”

“I…Jerid. I—“

“Don’t drag this out, Renault.”

“…Alright.”

Renault shuffled off the garment and handed it back to the gaoler. Jerid nodded again to Monica and looked as if he was going to start off, but suddenly stopped and looked back at Renault.

“Renault,” he said, “your mother’s a good woman. Treat her right.”

“I…fine. Jerid, I’ll try.”

“Good.” Then, looking the youth straight in the eye, Jerid said to him the last words they would exchange for years.

“I don’t want to see you again, boy.”

With that, he finally turned away and made off into the murky depths at Thagaste at night.

Both Renault and Monica stood there for a long moment, watching him go. Then, together, wordlessly, son followed mother back into their home.

-x-

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

This question was a response to the first sound which actually came from Renault when his mother closed the door behind her—a loud, angry grumble from his stomach.

“Y-yeah,” he stammered. “I haven’t eaten anything all day. I—“

“I understand, Renault. Take a seat at the table. I’ll make you something quickly, though I don’t have much in the house at the moment.”

“Really? Uh…t-thanks, mom.”

She nodded at him and padded off to the home’s well-furnished hearth and kitchen, while he took a seat at the head of their large dining table—something he realized he hadn’t done for a very, very long time.

His mother was apparently not angry at him anymore—although judging by the fact that a smile had yet to appear on her face, she didn’t seem to be happy with him either. Still, the fact that she was actually cooking for him—again!—was a good sign, wasn’t it? Absence does make the heart fonder, after all. Against his better judgement, Renault couldn’t help but hope that somehow, his mother’s feelings towards him had softened enough that he could actually start living in his father’s house again.

After several minutes, when his mother brought him his meal—a succulent, herbed roasted slab of mutton—he didn’t think his hopes would be dashed.

He didn’t notice that his mother merely sat in the chair in front of him, expressionless, not eating anything of her own as she simply watched her son scarf down his late dinner.

Only when he had finally finished (sighing in satisfaction and wiping his face with the back of his hand—his time as a mercenary had done little for his manners) did Monica finally say anything to him.

“Did you enjoy that, Renault?”

“Yeah. It was great, mom! Best meal I’ve had in ages.”

“I…I’m glad, Renault. Really.” It seemed like she was trying to smile, but the expression on her face indicated that something was telling her just as strongly not to. Even Renault had to take note of this.

“Uh…mom?”

“Renault,” and she looked at him with a stricken gaze that reminded him of her reaction the first time he had hit her, “I…I want you to leave.”

He didn’t register this request right away. “Huh?”

“I’d like you to leave, Renault. I…I don’t want you staying in this house.”

“What the…you’re joking, right? This is a joke, isn’t it? We haven’t seen each other for over two months, I’ve just gotten home, and right after you cook me dinner you’re asking me to leave? A…aren’t you glad to see me again? I thought...mom, are you still angry at me for…”

“Renault—“

“I’m sorry, mom!” He was desperate now. “I’m sorry for hitting you, sorry for being such a bad son, sorry for everything! I…I’ll be better, I promise! Please—“

“It’s not that, Renault.” She bit her lip, as if she was telling a lie, or at least a half-truth. “Please…please try to understand my position. There…there’ve been so many rumors flying around in the last month, I can’t—“

“What do you mean, mom?”

“You know, Renault! Please, don’t act stupid! I know where you set off for two months ago, and I don’t know what happened there, but…I do know for sure an entire town is dead. And people…people are talking. About the Mage General and his brother, about the court…but also about the mercenaries who came along on the expedition…and about you, Renault.

“I…I don’t want to say this, but it’s true. Do you know how much trouble it’ll cause me if word gets out you’re living with me? People will start asking questions, and they’ll more likely than not supply their own answers. They…they might get angry at me for sheltering a murderer, think I had something to do with the town, or—“

“Dammit,” Renault yelled, standing up and slamming his fists on the table, “God DAMMIT! I could take this garbage from Jerid, from even the damn Royal Court, but from you? From my own mother? What the hell do I have to do, huh? How many times do I have to say it? We never did anything! ANYTHING! When we got there, everybody was dead! We didn’t have anything to do with it? How the hell could we? Dammit, why don’t you believe me? Why doesn’t anybody believe me? What the—“

“Renault, stop!” The angry young man looked at his mother, and immediately felt ashamed. She had taken a few steps back, and her eyes were wide in fear of her own son. She was trembling slightly, and that was enough to calm him down, at least somewhat.

“Mom, I’m sorry, I—“

“Stop, please. Renault, that’s enough. I believe you.”

“W—huh? R-really?” For the first time all day, Renault’s face lit up in an expression of genuine happiness. Finally, at least one person to whom he wasn’t guilty before proven innocent!

“Yes. Yes, Renault. I…I don’t know Mage General Exedol or his brother personally, and I don’t have much experience with the royal court, but I can’t believe either you or your employer or your comrades could be responsible for…for whatever happened at Scirocco. I know the nobility isn’t as…compassionate as I would like, but as out of touch and callous as they can be, they wouldn’t slaughter their own citizens. It’s just not in their self-interest. They may not be kind, but they’re not insane.”

“Yeah! That’s exactly it! You get it, mom! Finally, somebody understands!” Renault made no effort to hide his gladness and relief. “So you’re not angry with me, right? I can stay, right?”

“N-no.” She looked away from him, just as he felt his hopes crumbling away once again. “Renault, even if I believe you when you say you’re innocent, there are many in this city who don’t. And I don’t think I’ll be able to convince them otherwise, no matter how hard I try. If they see me with you, they may think I’m guilty of something as well, or they’ll try to slander my name and reputation, or—“

“So what?” Renault was growing angry and disappointed yet again. “So what, mom? I’m your son! Your only son! So what if a few idiots think I did something I didn’t? To hell with them! You should stand by me, shouldn’t you? You’re my mother, for—“

“Renault, think of me for once, can’t you? Please?” She was begging, and there were tears in her eyes. “I have a responsibility to my flock and to God. I have to preach, minister to those who need it, and take care of the needs of everyone in this diocese, spiritually and physically. I…I can’t do that if you’re around me! I can’t do my duty if people are spreading rumors about me and my son, being suspicious because I’m taking care of someone they think is a murderer, or—“

“Duty? DUTY?” Renault was on the verge of exploding again. “Don’t you have a duty to your own son? It’s always been like this, hasn’t it? Always! Always God before people, always religion before your own family! You can’t deal with it? Can’t deal with a few gossipy rumormongers, can’t deal with even the slightest smudge on your precious, pious reputation?”

He took a step towards her, and she took a step back. His fists were clenched at his sides, and through the haze of red in his mind he thought about slamming those fists into her face, just as he had done once before, teaching her a lesson, showing her how powerless her God was, reminding her that at least he was a real person, not—

And yet, for the second time in less than a couple of hours, Tassar’s advice floated to the forefront of his consciousness.

_Use it. Don’t let it use you._

He stopped, the knuckles of his fists now white. He gritted his teeth, and his face contorted into an ugly rictus of hate, but he took not another step towards his mother, and made not a single move to hurt her.

Instead, he looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and sighed heavily. When he looked back at his mother, the grin he wore was full of spite and anger, but not uncontrolled rage.

“You know what, mom? That’s fine,” he spat. “Just fine. I don’t need you. Not anymore. If you don’t want me…that’s alright. I don’t want you either.”

He picked up his sword and scabbard and made his way to the door, his mother staring at him in a combination of surprise and dismay. As he prepared to step outside, he turned back for the moment.

“Thanks for the meal, mom. Really was the best I’ve had in a while. It’s also the last thing I’ll ever thank you for.”

It was now quite dark outside, with only the sparse light of a few torches illuminating Thagaste’s streets. Renault didn’t care, though—in fact, he was thankful for it, as it made him considerably less likely to be noticed by the now-unfriendly inhabitants of his hometown. He stepped out of Monica’s home. The bishop, as if suddenly changing her mind, ran after him, begging him to stop, begging him to wait just a moment, but her entreaties were cut straight off as her son slammed the door loudly behind him.

With that, he was gone.

-x-

He wasn’t ordinarily much of a night owl, but for this one time Renault found himself almost overwhelmingly grateful for the cover of darkness. Not a single person even noticed him as he hurried through the shadowy streets—and after the incident with his former friend the baker, he was more than grateful for the obscurity.

Unfortunately, he was very sure he’d soon be throwing away the single advantage he currently had by banging on the closed and locked door of the Ruby Tortoise, shouting for its proprietor.

“Lisse! Lisse,” he shouted as he pounded on the door, “Damn it, I know it’s late, but I need you! I don’t have anyplace else to go!”

That really was more or less true. He obviously couldn’t stay at his mother’s for the night, not after their last exchange. And though he could try looking for better lodgings (with an extra six hundred gold on him, he could certainly afford it), something told him he might very well be risking a repeat of today’s debacle if he attempted to get a room at virtually any inn or lodge with a clientele larger than Lisse’s.

In fact, he knew he was taking something of a risk even attempting to see Lisse again, because for all he knew, she might have bought into the same crazy rumors as well. Still, he remembered how sad she was to see him go, as well as the slightly-more-than-slightly-awkward time she had propositioned him. If there was anybody in this city he could rely on, it was her.

At least he hoped so. And he knew that hope would be tested when he heard a sleepy female voice call out from behind the door, “W-who is it? I’m sorry, but we keep our doors closed and don’t admit visitors when it’s more than three hours before midnight. There are too many criminals and—“

“Lisse, it’s me. It’s Renault. You…you remember, don’t you?”

For a moment, there was silence, and Renault was afraid that she would end up abandoning him as well.

Then, for the first time since he had entered Thagaste’s gates, Renault found for once that his fears wouldn’t come to pass. With a squeal, Lisse threw the door open and threw herself straight into Renault’s surprised arms.

“Renault,” she sniffled, “I m-missed you! It’s been so long, and, and—“

“Er, I, uh, missed you too, Lisse,” he replied, somewhat insincerely. “Now, uh, can we get back inside? I don’t wanna stand out here all night.” He looked around furtively, and indeed he caught a pair of curious children looking at him from an open window in a room on the second floor of a house. Lisse was a bit too busy clinging to him and making odd, weepy noises, however, so he had to take the initiative and sort of lead her back inside, taking care to close and lock the door behind him.

He was more than a little surprised to see who else greeted him the moment he stepped inside.

“Hey, what the hell’s all this racket?” Braddock asked this as he descended the stairs leading to the second floor of the Ruby Tortoise, where its dingy guest suites were situated. He was wearing just a pair of pants and a light shirt, indicating he had been sleeping and was none too happy about being woken up. His irritation gave way to an emotion which apparently mirrored Renault’s surprise when he caught sight of his friend.

“Renault? What are you doing here?” He bounded down the stairs to give the man a good-natured clap on the shoulder. Renault responded with a happy grin while Lisse grew confused enough to detach herself from Renault and look at the two of them with a puzzled expression on her face.

“I could ask you the same thing, man. I didn’t think I’d see you again after we parted ways at the gate!”

“Heh, yeah. Small world, huh? Well, Tassar liked this place the last time we came to Thagaste, so we figured we’d stay the night here before heading to our next destination.”

“Really? Where’re you going?”

“Sacae. Both me and Tassar wanna stay out of Etruria, at least for a little while.”

“Seriously? Why?”

The good cheer slipped right off Braddock’s face as his mind turned to the reasons he wanted to get out of the country. “Scirocco, my friend. There’re all kinds of crazy rumors floating around this city about what happened there, and I heard my name—and Tassar’s, and Khyron’s, and yours, for that matter—whispered in ugly tones more than a few times as we made our way around. It was so bad that we decided to just get our business done as quickly as possible and then head to this place to rest for a bit. Another reason we like the Ruby Tortoise—nice, quiet, and out of the way, so nobody’ll try to pick a fight with us.”

“It’s true!” sobbed Lisse, drawing a surprised look from Renault, because she looked on the verge of tears. “Oh, Renault, it’s been so horrible these past few weeks…I just kept hearing these nasty rumors over and over again…th-they said mercenaries slaughtered the entire town, with poison and dark magic and everything!”

“But you didn’t believe ‘em, right, Lisse?” Braddock looked at her suspiciously.

“O-Of course not! Renault was with you, wasn’t he? And I know he’s not a murderer.” She looked at her crush almost pleadingly. “Right? Right?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” yelled Renault, and Lisse squeaked and took a step back in fear of the anger in his voice. “Dammit, I dunno how many times I’ve had to say it over and over again! The Royal Court didn’t believe me, my own MOTHER didn’t believe me, but it’s true! I didn’t do anything to those people! Nobody knows what happened, it’s—“

“Easy, easy, Renault,” Braddock said, trying to calm down his friend. “Look, that’s what rumors do. They’re always stupid, and they always freak out the people dumb enough to believe them. The important thing is that we know the truth. Isn’t that right, Lisse?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, “yes! I didn’t believe any of those silly rumors, Renault! I had faith in you!”

“Well, that’s one person who believes us, at least. Just wish my mom felt the same way.”

“What about your mom, Renault?” Braddock noticed the young man’s angry expression, and immediately regretted asking. “Uh, sorry, man…didn’t mean to be intrusive. If you don’t wanna talk about it—“

“Nah, it’s alright. Essentially, my mom kicked me out.”

“Really? Is she still mad at you?”

“Kind of, I guess, but the main thing is all those rumors, like you said. She says she doesn’t believe ‘em, but…because so many people in this city do, she thought it might make her look bad. So she told me to get lost ‘cause she didn’t want to deal with that.”

“Ugh, that’s awful! You’re her son, and she’s more concerned with what a bunch of stupid gossips think than you?” He rolled his eyes. “Well, I know how that feels. My own parents weren’t too fond of me either. Guess it’s just as well I haven’t seen ‘em since I became a mercenary, eh?

“Still, this is pretty weird. Rumor gets around fast, but I never thought it ran this fast. For our names to get marked even in Thagaste so soon…something…ah, nevermind. I’m probably just being paranoid. Anyways, are you gonna stay here for the night?”

“Y-yeah.” Renault took out his pouch of gold and fished around in it for a few spare coins. “Lisse, could I have a room? I definitely have more than enough to pay…”

“Of course!” She eagerly accepted the money Renault held out to her. “Pick whichever one you like.”

“Braddock, are there any rooms next to yours?”

“Yeah, they’re all free. Only one other guest is around at the moment, and he’s bunked in the far end of the floor.”

“Sounds good, then. I’m just about ready to hit the sack, today’s been pretty damned tiring for me.” He looked at Braddock apologetically. “Guess you must feel the same, huh? Sorry for waking you up…”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal. We’re leaving early in the morning tomorrow, but there’s still enough time to get a good sleep. Let’s just go.”

Together, the two men said goodnight to Lisse and ascended the stairs to their respective rooms. As they neared Braddock’s (from which Renault could still hear Tassar’s quiet snoring), though, Renault stopped suddenly.

“Hey,” Braddock asked, “what’s wrong?”

“Uh…Braddock, this is gonna seem really sudden, but do you think I could ask you something?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“You…you think I can come with you guys?”

Now this really took Braddock by surprise, and it took him a moment to digest Renault’s question and the ideal response to it. “Renault…look. I like you, and I can honestly say you’re one of the best friends I’ve had in…damn, a real long time. But…I mean, are do you really know what you’re asking? We’re mercenaries, me and Tassar. Is that really the kind of life you want to lead?”

“Yeah. I’m not dumb, Braddock, I—“

“I know that, trust me. I didn’t mean to insult you or anything. But I’m just saying…me and Tassar do this for a living. This isn’t going to be something quick, like we thought Scirocco was going to be. We’re gonna be out of the country for a couple of years, at least. Tassar thinks it might take that long for people to forget about us and what happened at Scirocco. You won’t be able to set foot in this city for a real long time, at least if you plan on hanging around with us. Is that okay with you?”

“It’s more than okay with me, man. It’s what I want. There’s absolutely nothing left for me here. A lot of people in this place think I’m a murderer, and my mom doesn’t care enough about me to try and stand up to them. I sure won’t be able to find any decent work in this situation, especially not with my old boss. I’m definitely gonna be leaving this city eventually, so I might as well have a friend by my side, right?”

This brought a smile to Braddock’s face. “Thanks, Renault. You’re definitely right about that. Still, being a mercenary’s a pretty risky business. Are you ready to take those risks?”

“Yeah. I won’t die. I’m confident of it.” And he looked at Braddock with a driven, determined glare. “And I won’t let anything happen to you, either! I still haven’t paid you back for saving my life back in Scirocco, against those Pegasus Knights!”

“Hey, look I keep tellin’ you—“

“I know, but that’s still how I feel. I don’t forget stuff like that, and for that alone I’d be willing to follow you wherever you go, just until I made things up to you. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re my kinda guy, either. I get along with you a hell of a lot better than I remember getting along with most people.”

At this, Braddock could only chuckle and widen his happy smile, feeling somewhat embarrassed that anyone else could feel so loyal towards him. “Alright, I guess I can’t argue with that. Still, I’m gonna have to talk this over with Tassar. There’s no guarantee he’ll let you tag along with us, and since he’s the boss, what he says goes. You alright with that?”

“Yeah.”

“Great.” He held out a hand to Renault, and they shook on it. “I’ll see you early tomorrow, then. Here’s hoping for the best.”

“Thanks, man.”

This ended their conversation, and Renault entered his darkened room as Braddock snuck into his own, taking care not to wake up his sleeping companion.

Renault yawned prominently as he crashed down upon the room’s single, somewhat dirty bed, already feeling very tired. As he drifted off to sleep, it occurred to him that he should actually be feeling a bit more restless. After all, tomorrow would almost certainly mark a great turning point in his short life. If Tassar said yes, he’d be leaving not only his hometown but his home country for the very first time. And if he said no…well, in that case, Renault had no idea what he’d do.

Still, at the end of the day there was nothing else he could really do. He’d asked Braddock, who seemed to be fairly amenable to the idea, and now all that was left was to wait for his friend to convince Tassar. So with that in mind, Renault shrugged, yawned again, and closed his eyes. Whatever happened tomorrow, it made sense to face it after a good night’s sleep.

-X-

“Renault, get up. We’re going.”

These words, spoken in a calm, deadpan tone that was very familiar, were the first things Renault heard upon waking up. He opened his eyes, groaned and blinked as the sunlight filtering in through his room’s single small window hit them, and then sat up to get a better look at the person who had addressed him.

Tassar stood in his doorway, with Braddock right behind him, grinning cheerfully. This was enough to jar him wholly out of his sleep. “T-Tassar! Does this mean—“

“Yep. You’re in. You’ve learned a lot over the course of the time you spent with us, you seem to pick things up quickly, and even though you’re still new at it you’re not totally hopeless with a sword. I think we’ll be well-served by having you along with us. Now come on, let’s go. I want to get out of this place before it gets too light out.”

With that, he and Braddock disappeared downstairs, leaving Renault just enough time to hastily grab his sword and his pouches of gold and supplies before following them.

They were seated at one of the small tables in the corner of the tavern, and judging by the three bowls of stew in front of them, Lisse was already up as well. They’d already started digging into their meals, so Renault took his seat in front of the third bowl and joined them.

“Tassar,” he said between mouthfuls of stew, “Braddock told me we’d be goin’ to Sacae. Any particular reason why?”

The mercenary shrugged. “Well, there was a big war there about thirty years ago. It started off as a conflict between the Djute and the Kutolah clans, but then Bern got involved. Their military suffered some really crushing defeats, which they still haven’t fully recovered from yet, but not before hurting the Sacaens pretty badly too.

Even after all this time, the plains still aren’t doing very well. Although the Djute are now the most powerful amongst all the clans, all the smaller ones are constantly seeking to undermine it, and the others for that matter. Add to that all the bandits who’ve flocked to the area seeking to take advantage of the weakened, weary tribes, and, well…it doesn’t take a genius to see why mercenaries like us would find a lot of work in Sacae.”

“Makes sense,” Renault grunted. “Still, what about Ilia or Bern?”

“Ilians don’t really like foreign mercenaries, given how much their economy relies on selling out their own. Bern…they’re not really hiring. They lost a lot of experienced veterans in the Sacaen war, so they’re using their own recruits and conscripts as much as possible, in order to rebuild a force of hardened, battle-ready crack troopers.”

“Well, how ‘bout Lycia? There was a civil war there just a few years ago. We’d be sure to find a lot of work there. And it’s Braddock’s homeland, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tassar nodded, “and that’s exactly why we’re not going. Braddock really doesn’t want to see it again.”

Renault turned to look at his friend, who seemed to be concentrating as hard as possible on simply continuing to eat his stew. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “It…it wouldn’t be good for me.”

Renault then looked back at Tassar, who simply shrugged. “It’s Braddock’s business,” he said. “When we first got together, I learned early on not to pry too much. That’s another piece of good advice if you want to live long in the mercenary business, my friend.”

“Ah, I get it.” Renault smiled as reassuringly as he could at Braddock. “Well, that’s alright. Sacae it is, then! Still,” and at this his smile became something of a petulant frown, “that place is really worthless, isn’t it? The Sacaens are just a bunch of nomadic barbarians, without any half-decent culture of their own or anything!”

Braddock didn’t look too pleased. “Well, it’s not as if we’re forcing you to come along. You sure you don’t wanna stay in Etruria?”

“Whoa, I didn’t say that. I mean, you’ll be with me, right? That’s all the culture I need.”

Both Braddock and Tassar chuckled merrily at this, the former vainly trying to keep flecks of his stew from spraying the table, and with that it seemed their course had been set. After a little more jovial conversation all three of their bowls were completely empty, and they were ready to leave.

“Lisse,” Tassar called, “we’re just about finished here. We have to get moving, so could you come out here for your payment?”

The sound of money was always more than enough to get the indigent woman’s attention, and she came bounding out of the kitchen and right up to Tassar. “Thank you,” she exclaimed, very happy at the extra cash she was receiving thanks to the patronage of these mercenaries. “Will you guys be coming back again sometime?”

“Heh, sorry, miss. We’re going to be out of the country for a real long time. If you ever see us again, it probably won’t be for quite a while.”

Her face fell. “Ah…I…I see. Well, then, please take care. I wish you the best of luck!”

“Thanks. Alright, Braddock, Renault, let’s go.” He started off for the door, and Renault and Braddock started to follow him, but they were all stopped by a sharp shriek emanating from Lisse.

“W-Wait!” she cried, and all of them turned back in surprise to look at her. She ran up to Renault, her eyes wet. “Renault, that’s not true, is it? Y-you’re not leaving, right?”

“Well, yeah, I am,” he replied, more than a little perplexed. “I’m joining up with them. There’s no reason for me to stay in this city, so I figured I might as well make a living as a mercenary, like them.”

“N-no reason to stay?” Now it seemed as if she actually would start to cry. “Renault, w-what about me? Y-you just got back, after I hadn’t seen you in months, and now y-you’re leaving me again?”

“Aw, hell.” Renault was more than a bit dismayed at this display. “Look, what do you mean leaving you? We’re not husband and wife, for God’s sake. I’m not obligated to—“

“Renault.” He glanced behind him to see Braddock, looking at him with a combination of sadness and reproach. “I…not that it’s any of my business, but don’t be so harsh, man.” He turned to the distraught Lisse. “Look, miss…I really am sorry about this, I don’t think anybody here meant to hurt your feelings. Right, Renault?” He was rewarded with a fervent nod, so he continued. “But…it’s for the best, y’know? I mean, it’s good you’re smart enough that you don’t believe any of those stupid rumors, but a lot of people in this city do. If Renault hung around here too much it might hurt business for you, and that’d definitely be bad. So if he leaves with us for a while it’ll be better for everybody, won’t it?”

She wiped at her eyes. “I…I don’t care about the rumors! R-Renault’s my best friend…I don’t have anybody else!”

Braddock and Renault exchanged helpless looks, not knowing how to respond to that. They both knew they had to say something, though, because Tassar was growing quite impatient. Suddenly, Braddock had a bright idea. “He’ll write to you! Renault can send you a letter every now and then. That’d work, right?”

Renault looked at Braddock with a combination of shock and dismay, but this was quickly eclipsed by the sudden brightening of Lisse’s mood. “R-really?” she sniffled, “Would you really do that, Renault?”

He seemed to be trapped. “Yeah, yeah. Every now and then. That’d give you something to look forward to.”

“But still…Renault…if you stayed here with me, you’d be safe. Being a mercenary…it’s so dangerous! What if you died? Then I’d really be all alone.”

“Hah! Don’t worry about it. There’s no way I’ll let myself die. No way I’ll let my friend die, either. I don’t care what it takes, but I’ll never let death touch me again. No matter what!”

At this, a smile finally manage to creep onto Lisse’s face. “A…alright. If you promise. But you have to remember to write, okay? I…if I don’t have you, at least if I have something from you, I—“

“Alright, alright.” Renault held up his hands. “I’ll write to you, okay?”

“Every week?”

“Hey, that’s a little—“

Braddock laughed. “He’ll do what he can. Right, Renault?”

“He’ll have to, because he’s leaving,” said Tassar. “We’re late enough as it is. If you two keep on with this I’ll leave you behind.”

“Damn! Hey, Tassar, wait!” Both Braddock and Renault abruptly ended their conversation with Lisse as they charged out the door, rushing to catch up to their leader. The young woman was left with nothing to do but watch them as they disappeared into Thagaste’s early morning, desperately and tearfully calling for Renault to remember his promise.

For a time, he did.

-X-

“Um…hey, Renault.”

It was now early afternoon, and the three of them were walking along one of the dirt roads which led to northern Sacae. They’d manage to get to the city’s gates and exit without any incident, something they were all thankful for, but even with that success, little conversation had passed between the three men. Braddock got the distinct impression his friend was a bit angry at him, so he figured he had to do something about.

“Huh? What is it?”

“Uh…you’re not mad at me, are you?”

Renault blinked. “What? Not really. Why?”

Braddock smiled, greatly relieved. “Ah, I’m glad. Sorry, I was just wondering if I went a bit overboard back at Lisse’s place. I knew it was none of my business, but still…ah, it’s just me being stupid. I just can’t really stand to see a woman cry, is all.“

Renault laughed out loud. “Hah! Braddock, were you a knight or something? I never figured you to be big on all that chivalry stuff.”

The Ostian looked a bit hurt, but he figured he deserved it. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. Like I said, it was just stupid of me, I’m so—“

“Nah, don’t worry about it. She’s so damn clingy. If I hadn’t promised to write her those letters she probably would have tried to lock me in or something. So really, you saved me a lot of trouble.”

“Well…you will write to her, won’t you?”

“Aw, man. What’s the point?”

“C’mon, it couldn’t hurt. She’s a friend, right? It’d make her happy.”

“Trust me, Renault, there’s no point even trying to make a woman happy.” Both Braddock and Renault turned to look at Tassar in surprise. “All she really cared about was your money,” he continued. “Once she finds another customer as reliable as you, she’ll forget all about you.”

“Hey, that’s not really fair, Tassar,” said Braddock, “I mean, she looked really broken up to see Renault go. He must have meant something to her, right?”

“Maybe. Well, do whatever you want. So long as it doesn’t take too much time away from your training, I don’t really care.”

“Well, that settles it!” Braddock had a large, somewhat goofy grin on his face. “Maybe when we get to Sacae you can write to her and tell ‘er we’re all doing well, huh?”

“Fine, fine. Later, though.”

With that, any tension that may have lain between the two men dissipated, and they continued on their journey. Laughing and joking with his friend, for the first time in a long time, Renault felt happy. He felt as if he belonged. And alongside Braddock, he felt the warmth of companionship. And at the moment, that was all he cared about.

As he and his companions continued along to Sacae, the thought that he had started his march into the pages of history—and towards his own damnation—never crossed his mind.

_::Linear Notes::_

This chapter ends the first story arc of Wayward Son.

 


	12. Jobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault begins his life as a mercenary.

Wayward Son

Intermission: Jobs

_-X-A Job on the Plains-X-_

Renault’s second and third kills were much less memorable than his first. In fact, they didn’t even register until well after his battle had finished.

He and his two companions had found work almost as soon as they’d reached Sacae, or at least the closest thing it had to a capitol, the city of Bulgar. Inside one of the smelly, dirty bars built very close to the gates of that smelly, dirty, and crowded city was a pair of bawling Sacaens begging frantically for assistance from some strong, proud mercenaries. Renault had always thought Sacaens were a pathetic, barbaric people, and the sight of the two of them (along with the general look of the land he had seen as he traveled and Bulgar itself) confirmed his prejudices. Judging how virtually all of the other sellswords, vagabonds, and drifters passing through the establishment ignored the pair, he wasn’t sure if they shared his dim view of Sacaens in general, but they certainly didn’t deem the unfortunate couple to be worthy of much note, or at least capable of paying them any fee worth mentioning.

Tassar, however, apparently thought differently—though Renault was certain mercy was not on the man’s mind. He’d gone right up to the wailing couple and asked them what their problem was. They were members of what was apparently one of Sacae’s most insignificant tribes, a mangy group of less than fifty people with virtually no skilled horsemen of their own (a bitter comparison to tribes such as the Djute and the Kutolah, whose mounted warriors were so skilled and numerous that the sun was said to have been blotted out by arrows whenever they went to war). The tribe had been attacked by a small group of bandits who had killed the couple’s son and daughter. The rest of their tribe was content to have simply driven them off, but these grieving parents wanted more—they wanted revenge.

The veteran mercenary had asked them what they had to offer in return—as it turned out, virtually nothing, just a small jewel and a couple of old books. For some reason, that had been enough for him, and he’d ordered both Braddock and Renault to follow the couple’s directions to the small cave near the outskirts of Bulgar which served as the hideout for the band of thieves.

Prudently, they’d spent a couple of days on reconnaissance before launching their attack. The trio had hidden among the bushes and thickets nearby, which was enough to hide them completely from the less than sharp eyes of the outlaws. It didn’t take long to discern that their quarry wasn’t even close to particularly threatening—this ‘horde of bandits’ consisted of maybe a dozen unskilled thugs armed with ungainly iron axes and a pair of bows, with their leader possessing a worn steel sword.

Even so, Renault didn’t let his guard down as he, Tassar, and Braddock prepared their attack. They were waiting until the dead of night for the bandits to leave their lair—the brigands expected to surprise another group of unfortunate victims, but tonight they would be the ones getting ambushed.

The mercenaries were not planning to leave any of the thieves alive. Tassar jumped straight out of his hiding place within a nearby copse of trees, and the sword-wielding bandit leader only had time to let out a single shocked cry before the mercenary’s gleaming silver sword cleanly separated his head from his shoulders.

Everyone could see than bandit leader’s death under the clear, moonlit skies of Sacae, and Renault and Braddock knew it was their cue to play their part in what was destined to be a very quick battle. Both of them jumped from their hiding places; some bushes behind the enemy instead of right in front of them. The bandits were well trapped; Tassar ahead of them and Braddock and Renault to their backs.

The two men didn’t waste any time, knowing that they had to fully exploit their advantage of surprise before the bandits recovered from the shock of watching their leader die. The pair of bowmen were their first target. Braddock dispatched one, his vicious Wolf Beil splitting open the archer’s head like a tomato under a butcher’s knife. Renault was not much more merciful to his foe—Tassar had told him to kill the archers, not just incapacitate them, and in the heat of battle he thought of nothing else but following his leader’s orders. His iron sword flashed out in a wide arc towards the remaining archer’s midsection, and the man was left on his knees, holding both hands to his stomach in a futile attempt to keep his intestines from spilling out onto the bloodstained ground.

The grisly sight kept Renault occupied for a moment, but only for a moment—he may have been new to the gory delights of battle, but an observer wouldn’t have been able to tell by how quickly he focused himself on the fights he still had to deal with. By this point, Tassar had already dispatched two more of the bandits, and a shout that abruptly cut off into a tortured gurgle indicated he’d finished off a third. The brigands were no longer surprised, but after seeing half their number cut down in a matter of moments they were now in a state of utter panic. One tried to run off when he thought Tassar wasn’t looking; his hopes were grotesquely dashed by a well-aimed throw of a hand axe. A trio rushed Braddock from three different directions; a quick swing of his axe and a deft step to the side left one of them dead and gutted and the other two groaning on the ground, having clumsily crashed into each other.

One of the few remaining bandits thought Renault would be much easier prey, and he would shortly find out how wrong he was. The panicked brigand screamed and rushed at Renault, holding his axe above his head, intending to split the youth’s skull with a single overhead swing.

Renault barely thought about what happened next—he acted almost purely on instinct, allowing the tactics Tassar had sedulously drilled into him to carry him through. He ducked, darted forward, and then rose up before the bandit had a chance to swing, slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest. The bandit was a big, well-muscled man, but so was Renault, and the former dropped his weapon to the ground and stumbled backwards with a surprised ‘Oof!’

He would not regain his footing, not this night or ever again. Tassar had made sure to drill several maxims straight into his protégé’s heart, and one of them was to never waste an opportunity to end a fight in victory. After weeks of training this came naturally to Renault, and he did not give it a second thought when he whipped his sword forward and drove it straight into the brigand’s chest.

The dying man coughed up a spurt of blood, looked incredulously at his killer, and then slumped to the ground. Sighing in relief, Renault removed his blade from the bandit’s chest, knelt and wiped it on the grass, and turned back towards his companions. They were already more than finished—all the bandits were dead, their corpses strewn haphazardly across the area.

“Man, these guys were terrible,” Renault said, jogging up to Braddock as his friend jerked his fine axe out of the back of his last foe. “I thought Sacaens were supposed to be good fighters. How’d this tribe have so much trouble with this bunch?”

“Aw, Renault, don’t be like that. You’ve been training with Tassar, after all. ‘Course they wouldn’t seem too tough.”

“He’s right, you know,” said Tassar, sheathing his weapons and walking up to the pair. “Remember what I taught you, Renault, never underestimate your enemies. We managed to win so easily because we got the drop on them. Things might have turned out very differently had it been the other way around.

“Anyways, let’s head back to that bar. We got what we came for, and once we show it to that couple they’ll have to give us what little they can.” At this, he lifted up the object he was talking about in one hand—the bloody head of the bandit leader. He then turned and headed away from the small, now-quiet battlefield, back towards the road (well, in Sacae, even near Bulgar the closest things they had to roads were more like trails) that headed to the city.

Renault stood still for a moment, before a friendly hand clapped him on the shoulder, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Hey, bud,” said Braddock, a reassuring yet concerned smile on his face. “You alright?”

“Huh? Yeah. Thanks, but don’t worry about it.”

“Heh, okay. Just thought you might have been a little…well, you know. I mean, this was only your second real battle, and only the second time you actually killed anybody, too.”

“Huh?” Renault blinked, lost in thought as the truth of his friend’s statement finally registered to him. “Hey…hey, you’re right.” He looked over to the cooling corpse of the archer, facedown in a pool of blood and entrails. “I…I really killed somebody. Two people.”

“Yep. I mean, I’m glad you fought with me, you did help out and all, but still…I mean, look at that guy, and look at what Tassar’s carryin’ with him back to Bulgar. War’s pretty nasty stuff, my friend. You okay with it?”

Renault stared at his friend for a long moment, neither man interrupting the wind that blew between them. Finally, he gave his answer. “You know…I’m thinking about it, and…nah. I can’t say I’m too…well, perturbed, I guess. That’s the word for it, right?”

“Huh? Y-yeah…least I think so.”

“I mean, I’ve seen worse, or at least just as bad. Remember Revil, with the maggots in his crotch and all? And my own father…yeah. Yeah. This doesn’t faze me too much. And, I mean, they were gonna kill us, right? Look at that guy who rushed me. They’re thieves and murderers anyways. The world’s better off without them, right?”

Braddock smiled again, though this time it seemed a bit more sad than concerned. “Heh. I guess you’re right.”

“Besides…” Renault looked his friend in the eye, a smile spreading across his face as well. “I still haven’t paid you back for saving my life back there in Scirocco!”

“Hah, hah, Renault, I keep tellin’ you—“

“And I keep saying the same thing. Now c’mon, let’s move it. I think I’ve lost sight of Tassar!”

“What? Aw, hell!”

With that, the two men hastily broke into a run, struggling to catch up to single-minded comrade. Once they did, they managed to reach the city in relatively short order. The couple was still there at the bar, waiting for them, and were positively elated when Tassar presented to them his grisly trophy. Renault wondered why they’d gone through all the trouble when the only thing the husband and wife could provide to them was a small ruby and a dusty old tome, but the grin on Tassar’s face as he held the book told him otherwise. Even though the couple themselves had no idea what it was, the veteran mercenary had recognized it immediately. The yellow color and decorations in its front and back, along with its title written in a very old dialect of Etrurian called Etruscan, told him it was one of the legendary ‘Books of Skill’—or, as they were sometimes called, _Fechtbuchs,_ written by master swordsmen and heroic warriors in days of yore detailing a wide variety of secret techniques and attacks which would strengthen the repertoire of virtually any soldier. Whereas virtually everyone else in the bar had ignored the possible treasure they could have gained, Tassar’s hunches had led him true once again.

Thus, as he and his companions retired to their inn (the gold they gained from selling the ruby more than enough to get them a fine room, with a great deal left over), Renault found himself more than happy. He hopped right into bed and soon fell asleep, the events of the previous night—and the deaths he had caused--leaving almost no mark at all on his psyche or his conscience.

It had been two weeks since he’d arrived in Sacae. Death was something a mercenary had to get used to, and Renault was more than a quick study.

_-X-A Job in Sorveno-X-_

Yazan the mercenary wasn’t even sitting in the saddle of his ebony-scaled mount—no, he was so bored that it was more like he was leaning back in it. He didn’t even bother to stifle a yawn, and his wyvern, similarly uninterested, took this as tacit permission to let out a loud, unseemly belch and make a fastidious show of scratching an itchy spot on his belly.

Neither the mercenary nor his best friend found much excitement in anything except battle, but man, negotiations were particularly tiresome.

Unfortunately, most of his companions didn’t seem to agree. “Dammit, Yazan,” said the young man in front of him whose heated conversation with their enemies had just been interrupted, “can’t you and your mount keep quiet? We’re making progress here!”

Yazan simply sneered and leaned forward to look down on his fellow mercenary. The youth’s skin was about the same light brown shade as Yazan’s (and just as weathered, though apparently from the desert rather than the harsh, mountainous environments of Yazan’s native Bern), and his hair was similarly blond (though quite straight, well-maintained, and long enough to reach down to his back; starkly opposed to Yazan’s poofy, unkempt mane). That was about where the physical resemblances ended, though. One could tell from Yazan’s face that he was definitely the older one, and though his was not horridly ugly, it could hardly be described as well-formed. On the other hand, the impromptu negotiator’s face was more than handsome—it was almost beautiful. While Yazan was quite muscular and well-built, the person below him was much more slender, almost frail. And while Yazan girded himself in a fine suit of plate mail, the other guy simply wore some good boots, fine white pants, and a loose, flowing robe over his upper body. It didn’t provide much protection, and the Wyvern Lord wondered how he could bear the cold and snow surrounding them at the moment (while Etrurian winters weren’t as harsh as those in Illia, they were nothing to sniff at either, especially in the north), but it didn’t inhibit his swordplay either.

And even Yazan had to admit that his swordplay really was good. Galahad had hired them both out on the same missions a few times before, and he had seen enough of the desert-dweller in combat to agree that he really did deserve the title of ‘Sword Master.’ Perhaps not as much as Yazan deserved to be called Wyvern Lord (well, before the military of Bern had rescinded his knighthood and convicted him of treason and murder), but still, for a twenty-year-old from some podunk hovel in Nabata he resolutely refused to name, he was quite accomplished. It was no accident that the two of them were the de facto leaders of the small band of about twenty mercenaries the king had hired to put down this latest uprising in Sorveno.

That was why Yazan just couldn’t comprehend why the Nabatan always tried to negotiate with his opponents instead of just getting right to the slaughter. He’d always prattle on about the same fuzzy-headed claptrap too, like “rational self-interest,” “working together for the common good,” and, of course, “justice.” Fortunately, though, the last two times he’d tried this ended in abject failure, and Yazan intended to ensure that the third time would not be the charm.

“Oh, come off it, Dougram,” he grinned. “You’re just wasting time. We’ve been here an hour and we haven’t ‘accomplished’ shit.” He fondly scratched his wyvern behind the hardened, squamous crest over its eyes and forehead. “Even Hambrabi here’s smart enough to realize that.”

“Yazan, I told you, shut—“

“Fearin’ he may be right, mercenary!” All eyes turned towards the speaker of those words—the leader of the ragtag band of about fifty indigent peasants with whom Dougram was desperately trying to reason with. “Y’ve given us a lotta promises, but how’re we t’ know you’ll keep any of ‘em?”

Dougram shot Yazan a venomous glare, than earnestly resumed his efforts to resolve the situation peacefully. “Look, friends,” he began, “I’ve told you again and again that I understand and sympathize with your situation. However, it’s not as if you received nothing at all in recompense for your sacrifices, yes? I’ve heard the two mercenaries from your town were handsomely rewarded for…uh…the girl, the mayor’s daughter, her sacrifices.”

“Fat lot of good that did us!” called one ruffian from the back of the crowd. “We did a lot of tradin’ with Scirocco. Can’t do much now that it’s dead. We wanted t’ spend the money on gettin’ a school an’ a blacksmith, but nobody wants t’ come up here ‘cause they’re afraid what happened to Scirocco might happen t’ us too! Hell, almost ev’ry settlement up here’s sufferin’ because no merchants want to risk comin’ more north than Thagaste! We’re runnin’ out o’ that money the Crown gave us, and it hasn’t done a thing to help us!”

“I…but one of your own died at the hands of whatever destroyed Scirocco! My friends, this is no time for civil war! You all have to stick together to defend yourselves against whatever enemies of justice are still lurking out there, waiting for their next move. That’s what we all have to do!”

He was met by more mocking laughter from several of insurgents. “Stick together against the guys who killed Yulia? F’r all we know, she ‘ight’ve been the one who killed ev’rybody in Scirocco, and then ended up getting’ what she deserved!” One of Dougram’s mercenaries called for them to shut up, but the angry hecklers were joined by a chorus of other voices, who blamed the king for allowing mercenaries to poison his own people and cheered the subsequent departure of the former mayor and his good-for-nothing would-be son-in-law from Sorveno.

The master swordsman ignored all this. “Look, look, I dunno what happened at Scirocco, though for what it’s worth I think you’re probably right. And I sure don’t like the king any better.” This prompted scornful jeers of “why are you working for him, then?” but Dougram ignored those as well. “Dammit, just listen! Senseless violence won’t solve anything. I know you think your little rebellion can change something. I know you think calling yourselves the ‘Liberation Army of Sorveno’ and going around trying to get your other neighbors to join you will work. But let me tell you, it won’t! If you keep going on this course, you’ll just force the nobles to send the Mage Corps after you, and then it’ll all be over. They’ll crush you, and then how will justice triumph? If you just work with us, we can figure out a way—“

“Dammit, we don’t want to find a way!” groaned Yazan. “Don’t you remember what the court said our terms of agreement were? Our orders were to put these people down, not help them. We get paid by the number of heads we bring in. If we just let ‘em go, we won’t get paid at all! And I for one sure don’t want to starve just for some stupid ideals. Ain’t that right, boys?”

There were a few mutters of dissent from his subordinates behind him, but for the most part the rest of the troop seemed to agree with Yazan rather than Dougram. “That settles it,” said the Wyvern Knight, spurring his now-eager mount into action, “no more empty words! Let’s kick some ass!”

“No, please!” Dougram held his hands out in front of him, beseeching Yazan to act rationally for once. Unfortunately, it was far too late.

“Damned traitors,” yelled the self-styled leader of the Liberation Army, “we’ll get ya for this!” He rushed forward and attempted to skewer Dougram with his cheap iron spear; a clumsy strike the swordmaster easily dodged. He slapped at his new opponent with the flat of his blade, still holding on to the tiny sliver of hope that there was some way to salvage the situation, but as he saw several more angry ‘Liberators’ rush at him, his fellow mercenaries rush by him with blood on the blades, and that damnable Yazan and his equally crazy wyvern tearing through the helpless peasants with spear, sword, fang, and claw, he knew that the point of no return had long since been breached.

“Dammit! DAMMIT!” he shouted, and with a pained grimace on his face he drove his sword straight into the heart of the man he had initially hoped to win over.

-x-

The battle did not last long—at all—and its outcome was never in doubt. The hungry, untrained, poorly equipped residents of Sorveno were no match for the well-armed mercenaries, even though they outnumbered the latter more than two to one. Still, the royalists had not gotten away unscathed either, and about five of their number would have to be buried.

When Dougram brought this up to Yazan, of course, the Bernite was singularly unconcerned.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he laughed, wiping blood off his blade as his wyvern noisily swallowed a chunk of flesh it had torn away from one of its unfortunate victims. “The fewer of us that report back to the king, the more each of us gets paid. Not bad at all.”

For Dougram, this was the last straw. “You psychotic scumbag,” he yelled, face contorting in anger as he drew his sword, “what the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any empathy? Any compassion?”

Yazan shrugged apathetically and replied, “Nope, I guess not.” When he saw Dougram get even angrier, he just laughed. “Geez, what’s your problem? Don’t tell me you’re one of those Eliminean cretins. What, is God gonna curse me because I’m not a simpering, weak-willed little ninny?”

“You shut up,” came the reply, the Nabatan’s eyes narrowing in fury. “You know I don’t believe in any gods, and you know how much I hate Eliminism.”

“So again, what’s your problem?”

“Are you stupid? Do you think you need God to be good? God may not exist, but I know justice, fairness, and compassion definitely do. And what you’ve done here today isn’t justice! Not at all! You killed these people for no good reason! All…All this bloodshed was completely meaningless!”

“No it wasn’t. We get paid better if we kill ‘em instead of letting ‘em go. God doesn’t exist, but money definitely does. That’s what you’d say, right?”

“You selfish bastard.” Dougram tightened his grip on his sword. “I’ll teach you a lesson!”

Once again, Yazan simply laughed in response. “Kid, if you wanna take me on, I’ll be more than happy to provide. There’s nothing I love more than fighting, and it’s been a while since I fought someone who isn’t a weakling. But look, we’re supposed to be on the same side, remember? You take a swing at me, you’ll be a traitor.”

“Maybe it’s worth it.”

“Yeah, maybe. But then again, think of who’s really responsible for all this, huh? I—and the rest of our troop, for that matter--was just following orders. If the king had told us we’d get paid for bringing ‘em in alive, or making nice with ‘em, well, I woulda done that, even if it wouldn’t be as fun. And it’s not as if other mercenaries all across Etruria aren’t doing the same thing, either.” Yazan shrugged again, and his mount shot Dougram what almost seemed to be a smug look, if wyverns could possibly be smug. “Heh. If you’re mad at me, that’s fine. I don’t care. But I’m just a cog in the machine—a cog who sure loves his job, but a cog nonetheless. You wanna get mad at someone, get mad at King Galahad. He’s the bastard who hired me, after all.”

Dougram desperately wanted a biting retort to this, but truth be told the Bernite had a point. No matter how much he wanted to condemn the man, he still remembered what the king had told them—take no prisoners, show no quarter. Yazan really was just following orders.

Growing bored with the conversation, the wyvern knight turned to look behind him. His fellow mercenaries were about done looting the corpses (there was very little to find) and were now heading down the road, back to Aquleia with entire bagfuls of heads to call their own. “Well, it seems like most of our guys are done. I’m heading back too, doesn’t seem like there’s much more fun to be had around here. See ya later, desert boy.”

He roughly kicked the wyvern in his sides, convincing him to let out an annoyed grunt and break into a run, away from Dougram. Before the swordsman could say anything more, Hambrabi had begun flapping his wings and soared off into the sky, both rider and mount blissfully heedless of the febrile imprecations hurled at them from below.

It was the twenty-fifth day of the first month of the year, the Sun, seven hundred and two years after the Scouring. The Bernese mercenary named Yazan thought very little of the massacre he had caused, considering it merely a fun romp in the snow that ended up paying quite well to boot. But word spread very quickly of the massacre the King’s mercenaries had precipitated, and very soon the destruction of Sorveno’s ‘Liberation Army’ joined—and then eclipsed—the unhappy fate of Scirocco in the minds of the Etrurian people.

Discontent, distrust, and hatred of the crown were spreading like wildfire across the land. Yazan didn’t know, at the time, that he had just kicked this country a few steps closer to civil war. But if he did, he would have been more than well-pleased.

_-X-A Job at the Palace-X-_

“DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT!”

Between his best friend shouting to himself right in front of him and the chorus of angry, outraged yells still going on in the court the two of them had just left, Prime Minister Paptimus was almost confident the end of the day would see him deaf.

“Worthless, sniveling popinjays!” Glaesal blustered. “That’s all the court is made of, all of them! And curse their wretched leader! Curse that incompetent, ill-bred excuse for a king! If I were—“

“Glaesal, we’re still in the palace,” said Paptimus bluntly, noting the shocked and curious stares of the guards standing by the court’s doors and watching them leave, not expecting anyone to depart before the King dismissed the aristocrats. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to insult the King so loudly in his own home. Then again,” he mumbled to himself, “it probably wasn’t a good idea to get yourself so worked up that you just stormed out of the Great Chamber in a huff.”

Much to his chagrin, his friend heard that. “What the devil do you expect, eh? None of my peers show me the least sympathy! None! The new mayor of Sorveno gets a stupid idea and gets some of his destitute friends—destitute because of the king’s taxes, I might add—to start up some silly ‘Liberation Army.’ This nonsense took place in my territory, it should have been within my jurisdiction! My men and I could have taken care of the whole affair without any trouble at all!

“But no, the king had to send in those mercenaries. Those damnable mercenaries. And what happened? A slaughter! A damned massacre! On MY land! And what does the court tell me? Not to take it so seriously? What does the King tell me? That those ‘uppity peasants’ needed to be taught a lesson! Do you think I can reason with those people, Paptimus? No! Not at all! So why even bother? Why waste another moment of my time with them?”

“Alright, alright!” The bigger man threw up his hands in defeat. “But let’s at least talk about this somewhere in private, eh? Y’ really don’t think we have to let the whole world hear all this right now, huh?”

Despite his anger, Count Nerinheit could still see that his old friend was right. “Fine, fine, fine. Let’s go back to your suite here. Will that give you all the privacy you need?”

Paptimus was sure it would.

-x-

“Paptimus, do you have any wine?” Nerinheit grumped, plopping his fit but still fifty-four year old frame into one of the comfortable but hardly opulent sofas adorning the Prime Minister’s oddly humble palace suite. Although given his position, he surely could have acquired a much more sumptuous place to stay on the grounds, he preferred a considerably smaller, less conspicuous room in the great palace’s east wing. After living much of his life as a gladiator, Paptimus still wasn’t entirely easy with ostentatious displays of wealth and excess.

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t want you to get drunk, though. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes, yes, I know! Don’t patronize me, Paptimus! I just need something to calm me down, that’s all. That’s what you want, right?”

“Okay, okay! Glaesal, we’re friends, right? Don’t get so mad at me. Meris!” he called, and in response a pretty young redhead in a fetching maid’s outfit popped out of the bedroom she had been dusting. “Glaesal need something to wind him down. Pay a visit to the palace wine cellar, would you?”

“As you wish.” She turned to Count Nerinheit, smiling fondly. “Is there anything in particular you want, Lord Glaesal?”

Despite his churlish mood, a grin managed to find itself on the older man’s face as well—even in the worst of tempers, pretty girls always softened Count Nerinheit’s moods, particularly when they were dressed in black skirts and white frills, and especially when they were young and red-haired. “Ah, don’t trouble yourself, my dear. You know the vintages I prefer…I place my faith in whatever you choose.”

“Of course!” She smiled and bowed, then promptly exited the suite’s parlor to fulfill her charge. Nerinheit shot her a glance as she left, attempting to surreptitiously enjoy the view of her shapely backside, and of course his old friend did not fail to notice this.

“You’ve always been a lil’…ah…fond of my maid, haven’t you?” Paptimus had a one eye quirked upwards and a wide, wry grin on his face.

“Well, yes, I am,” replied Nerinheit, not defensive at all. “She’s a pretty girl, and smart, too! Just seeing her brightens up my day. Why, I’m feeling better and more levelheaded already! That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Heh heh, I suppose so. Still, your wife sure wouldn’t like--”

Nerinheit’s expression darkened. “Ugh, don’t talk to me about that woman, Paptimus. When I’m with you, I want to forget all about her. You know that! Just the two of us, happy as we were during the old days, without her interminable nagging, gossiping, and of course, cuckolding.”

“Aw, Glaesal, that's not really—“

“Nice? NICE? Was that what you were going to say?”

"W-well, not quite, but--"

"DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT 'NICE!' DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT 'PROPER!' NOT UNTIL YOU'VE TALKED TO THAT WOMAN FIRST!" Nerinheit slammed his fists down on the table in front of him. “I’m not blind, deaf, or stupid, Paptimus! I know where she goes when she thinks I’m not looking, I know what she does when she thinks I can’t hear! With Exedol, Exedol, always with Exedol! Always with that slimy, backstabbing, filthy little bastard! And the King? He knew, he knew! He knew Exedol’s subterfuge cost me my rightful position! He knows what the man does with my wife! And he winks at it! So does his court! No, no, no…you see, Paptimus? You see why I can’t trust them? I can’t trust the court? I can’t trust the king! They’re against me! They’re all against me!”

“Glaesal, I think you may be—“

“Oh, you’d say that, wouldn’t you?” Nerinheit was glaring at Paptimus, his anger now directed at his old friend. “How do I know you’re not in cahoots with them, eh? Eh? After all, it’s you who’s telling the king to hire all these mercenaries, isn’t it? In a way, it’s your fault all this happened! Maybe you’re after me as well!”

“Glaesal.” The Prime Minister looked at Count Nerinheit with such a sad expression on his face that the noble couldn’t help but feel ashamed of what he had just said. “Glaesal, you saved me from a life of slavery in the fighting pit. I owe my life to you. You’re almost like a father to me. Do you really think I’m out to get you?”

Glaesal sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple with one hand. “No, no, no…Paptimus, old friend, you’re right. Can you forgive me?”

“Always.”

“Good, good. I—“

Just then, Meris popped into the room, carrying some of Etruria’s finest. “Lord Glaesal, I brought you a bottle from Reglay, vintaged exactly a hundred years as of today. Is it to your liking?”

“Of course, of course! In fact, it’s just what I need. Set out the glasses, would you, dear? One for me, one for Paptimus, and of course, one for you—“

“L-Lord Glaesal,” she stammered, “I don’t really think—“

“She has a point, my friend,” said Paptimus. “I’m pretty sure that’s not, uh, proper.”

“Fine, fine. Just get some for the Prime Minster and I.”

She quickly did so, fetching two of the statesman’s glasses and carefully pouring a good portion of the red liquid into both of them. After she finished fastidiously placing the cork back into the bottle, she turned to Paptimus and bowed. “Is there anything else you need, Lord Minister?”

“No. You’ve done a good job, thank you, Meris. You may leave.”

She bowed again. “As you wish.”

Once she had left, their conversation once again turned to the subject of the king, though after downing all of his glass in one gulp, Glaesal Nerinheit did indeed seem to be considerably more level-headed. “Alright, Paptimus, I know you’re just trying to do your job. You want the best for me, and you want the best for your country.”

“I do. This is why I’m placing so much emphasis on the mercenaries. The Mage Corps can’t be everywhere at once, you know. Most of our forces are busy patrolling the borders with both Lycia and Bern—for the former, because the civil war there has allowed bandit groups and gangs of thugs to flourish, and for the latter, because our colonists keep getting into trouble with theirs on the Western Isles. Our forces are stretched thinly enough as it is. How else can we make up the difference except for relying on those sellswords?”

“I know that. But, dammit, Paptimus, why do we even have to have this military buildup? All it does is make the people suffer! These mercenaries aren’t cheap. But instead of paying for them with gold from their own pockets, the King and his damned court are fleecing the commoners! For them, it’s easy, especially if they preside over great cities or ports. But what about me? My countship isn’t rich, and it’s home mainly to farmers and small craftsmen. My namesake city alone had trouble keeping up with the new taxes, so of course people in Scirocco and Sorveno wouldn’t be able to. What is the King thinking?”

“Well, Bern is—“

“You already told me about Bern! I know that! I can understand stepping up patrols with the border of Lycia, given the troubles there. But Bern? Is there no way we can come to a peaceful settlement with them?”

Now it was the Prime Minister’s turn to sigh. “I…I really wish so, but according to King Galahad…no, there isn’t. He believes colonies are a measure of a nation’s strength, and that war is an exciting, invigorating endeavor. The nobles of the court view it as a way they can profit. I’d like peace as well, but with our rulers the way they are now…”

“Hm. I thought as much. Yes, I remember…even though you suggested he hire mercenaries, it was King Galahad who gave them the order to kill anyone they met, yes?”

“Well, the actual words he used were ‘take no prisoners and show no quarter,’ but…more or less, yeah.”

“Tell me, Paptimus. Do you think Galahad truly cares for his people?”

The Prime Minister’s expression was blank. “I’d like to say he does, but…Galahad has never once set foot outside of Aquleia. He barely even leaves the palace either, preferring to spend his time hunting on the royal grounds.”

“Yes, you see! Some ruler! Look at me, on the other hand! I make it a point to visit all the towns in my jurisdiction—which included places like Scirocco and Sorveno—on a yearly basis! I was close to my people! You will note, Paptimus,” and here there was some pride in his voice, “that in both Scirocco and the recent ‘Liberation Army’ business in Sorveno, no one took arms against me. It was the King and the rest of the nobility they hated! They may have laid siege to my family’s old castle, but only when it was occupied by the King’s mercenaries! They never raised so much as a single weapon against me! They knew I was on their side!”

“On their side? Glaesal, you sound like you support what they were doing.”

The Count said nothing, keeping his lips tightly pressed together. Then, finally, after half a minute of silence, he finally spoke.

“Paptimus, why do you think the nobility exists?”

“Well…to protect the people, and to lead them.”

“Do you think they’re doing a good job of that?”

“Honestly…no.”

“So then perhaps they deserve to be deposed. Perhaps the nobility ought to be destroyed. Perhaps the people ought to take the reins of power for themselves.”

“Do you understand what you’re saying? This is treason, Glaesal. You wouldn’t just lose your title for this. You’d be executed.”

“Perhaps. But only if anyone else hears of what we have discussed today. They won’t, will they?”

“…No.”

Nerinheit smiled. “I thought so.”

“Even so…you’re a noble yourself, Glaesal. Why would you seek to destroy your own position?”

“My position? Hah! I would be sacrificing little. I already told you of how the King and his court are against me, and even if you don’t believe me, you still can’t deny that they are more than derelict in their duties of leading the people. I, for one, still believe that my obligations are to the people of Etruria. If smashing down our present society—even if it has granted me my prestige and privilege—is necessary to give the people of Etruria a better life, then I will be more than glad to make that sacrifice!”

“…I see. What about the Church, then? I wouldn’t bet on the shepherds of Elimine’s flock standing by silently while the King is overthrown.”

“Hah! Of course. You know I never had much use for religion, Paptimus. I tolerate the churches, but only so long as they don’t get out of line. Do you know how annoying it is to run a countship while having to deal with all those meddlesome bishops constantly trying to get the better of you? They don’t care about the people either. Think how much money could be given back to the people if the Church decided to help with national defense! But no, they are ‘the voice of God.’ If such a being truly existed, I doubt He—or She, or whatever—would need a gaggle of busybodies to do His work for Him!”

“Ah…maybe. I guess irreverence is something I inherited from you, my friend.”

“So it’s settled, then. Paptimus…I don’t know when, or how, or even if things will come to that. Maybe Galahad will shape up and finally start running this country the right way. But if not…will you stand with me, Paptimus?”

“I…I don’t know. It isn’t something I can agree to lightly, Glaesal, not even for you.”

“I…see. I understand, Paptimus. But…will you think about it?”

“…I will.”

Two simple words, spoken without much fanfare or even forethought. But they would have immense repercussions for not only the country of Etruria, but the entire continent of Elibe as well.

_-X-A Job in Bulgar-X-_

Pain was another thing mercenaries had to get used to. Renault definitely found it less easy to get the hang of than killing.

He lay on his side in one of the many dark, dingy alleys seemingly omnipresent in nighttime Bulgar, screaming in pain as he leaned against a wall, clutching the bloody wound in his stomach. No-one paid the least attention to his cries, of course. The buildings in this area of town had been abandoned for quite some time. And even if they weren’t, given that such scenes were commonplace in a city like this, its residents had long learned to ignore any strange noises they heard in the night and mind their own business.

He never thought this job would go so wrong, nor that he’d end up dying like this. It was supposed to be easy—some stupid merchant had burst out of the rooms of the inn next to theirs just as they were about to turn in for the night. He was yelling about a pair of thieves who had stolen some of his valuables right out from his room, and the moment he mentioned something about a reward Braddock, Tassar, and Renault were on the case. Working very fast, they’d managed to track down the thieves, who had promptly split up. Braddock and Tassar had taken one, leaving Renault to chase after the other.

He’d succeeded in cornering his quarry up against a dead end, and since the cutpurse had nowhere else to go (except maybe up) Renault thought that his job was as good as done.

He hadn’t expected the thief to move so quickly. So quickly he couldn’t even see the cloaked man’s hands, so quickly that he didn’t even see the small knife fly through the air, so quickly that he didn’t even know what hit him until pain flared in his belly as he dropped his sword, staggered back, and put his hands to the blade in his gut.

He’d never experienced anything like this before. He tried to think, tried to do something, anything, but the agony burning through him would permit nothing. He could only groan and gasp as he slouched against the nearest wall, watching as the man he thought he’d kill came forward to finish him off.

“Sorry, kid,” the thief muttered. Renault’s vision was getting too blurry—and he was in too much pain—to make out any of the man’s physical characteristics. He certainly couldn't make out the thief's face, covered by a black mask as it was. “I just wanted some easy money, but I don’t want anybody else coming after me. I dunno if they caught my buddy, but if so, he might’ve already squealed. Don’t want any more trouble. Gonna have to do you in. Say goodnight.”

He took a step forward, and Renault slumped down to his knees. In desperation, he called out. “Braddock! T-Tassar! Help me!”

Nobody answered.

“Somebody! ANYBODY!”

No answer.

“Looks like your luck’s run out.” said Renault’s would-be murderer. His left hand flicked out to the sheath on his left hip—like any skilled cutpurse, he always had a spare weapon if the first wasn’t available. With that in hand, he strode even closer and prepared for the killing blow.

 _I don’t want to die_.

Renault’s pain-clouded mind, once again, drifted back to the most important lesson Tassar had taught him.

“Remember, Renault. Use your hatred, don’t let it use you. Turn it into a tool, and turn it against your foe.”

_Nothing is worse than death._

Why couldn’t the same be said of pain?

_I’m not going to die. No matter what._

Renault’s eyes, previously clenched shut, snapped open. He still couldn’t see clearly, but he saw enough to know that his opponent was standing over him, preparing to open up his neck with the other knife.

And even through the agony, Renault knew that it was that thief—that wretched, lowlife cutpurse—who had caused his pain. And he knew one thing: He wanted payback, even if he died doing it. He wanted to inflict the same pain on the man standing before him.

Renault let out a strained, wounded, primal growl. It was enough to make the thief pause for a moment. Just a moment.

And that was all Renault needed.

His hands gripped the knife in his belly, and he grimaced as he tore it straight out. That increased the pain a thousandfold, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was inflicting the same pain on his enemy. And that was all he was going to do.

The thief, too late, realized his mistake. He raised his knife above his head, preparing to strike, but for once in his life, he was too slow. Screaming, Renault rushed forward, and with all his strength drove the thief’s own knife into his groin.

Now it was the robber’s time to scream, and scream he did, loudly, almost like a woman. In a credit to his skill and discipline, he did not drop his own weapon. No, he completed his strike, bringing his remaining knife down as quickly as he could. But alas, he was too shocked and distracted and the blade missed its mark, sinking into Renault’s shoulder instead of his neck.

Even more pain shot through Renault’s body, and his vision swam—he was sure he’d black out. But he wouldn’t let himself. No, not at all. He no longer just wanted to hurt the man before him—now, he wanted to kill.

Still screaming, Renault jerked the knife out of the man’s crotch, and sent it upwards. Now, the blade slid neatly just under the thief’s mask, slicing through his throat.

He had no words—or if he did, they were lost in the gout of blood that escaped from his mouth as he collapsed, his frantic grasping at his throat an exercise in futility. He stumbled backwards and then fell on his back. His chest moved up once, twice, and then no more.

Renault stood still for a moment, realizing what he had done.

He didn’t care about that, of course—by this point, killing came easily to him. No, what really stopped him was the blood spurting out of his belly. He groaned and collapsed to the ground right beside the man he had killed. He had accomplished his goal—the person who had caused his pain was now dead. But now, Renault didn’t want to kill, or even inflict pain. He just wanted to live.

_I don’t want to die._

What was it the merchant said they had stole?

_Nothing is worse than death._

“Th-they took my most valuable possessions! My icon of Ajora, a bag of fine jewels, and…and even a Elixir! They took everything!!

_I’m not going to die. No matter what._

Groaning, his vision dimming, through pure willpower Renault dragged himself forward, leaving a thick streak of blood behind him. There had been two thieves—if this one didn’t have what he was looking for, he was dead, no doubt about it.

Desperately, he grabbed at the corpse before him. Pants, a belt, the sheath of a knife…nothing. But just as he began to despair, Renault managed to catch sight of an odd fold in the man’s cloak beneath him. Groping through it, Renault’s hand closed around something.

He lifted it up, and found his salvation.

The bright blue flask seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, but Renault didn’t care at all for its beauty. He only knew that he had to ingest his contents as quickly as possible, or he would be seeing his father very soon.

He knocked off the cap with a flick of his thumb, spilling some of the immensely precious drink onto the ground, and even more of it when he held the flask up to his mouth with trembling hands. He didn’t care.

The grimy, ichorous substance was perhaps the vilest thing he had ever tasted, but he didn’t care about that, either.

The only thing he was concerned about was how the pain in his stomach seemed to disappear almost the moment the liquid went down his throat.

Blinking in surprise, Renault stood up, and found he could do so with a bare minimum of trouble. He looked down, saw his shirt bright red and soaking wet with blood, but…no more was gushing out, and it seemed the wound had closed and healed without so much as a scab—though he would have to wash it over to make sure. His stomach still hurt, in fact ached terribly, but no longer was he in fear of blacking out from the pain and blood loss.

When he tried to move his arms, he winced visibly as another bolt of pain lanced its way through his upper body. He glanced at his shoulder, surprised, and found the thief’s other knife still embedded there. He reached over, grabbed it, and yanked it right out, watching in fascination as the hole it left behind shrunk and disappeared almost as if it had never been there. Much like his stomach, it still left behind a sizable ache, but nothing unbearable—at least not now.

Damn. It may have tasted like garbage, but that Elixir was apparently pretty potent stuff.

Renault bent down (gingerly—he still hurt quite a bit) and looked at the bottle he had dropped. Much to his disappointment, he had apparently downed all of the powerful agent—well, drank most of it and spilled the rest.

Grimacing in disgust and frustration, he glared down at the corpse of the man who had almost killed him. The thief's mask had fallen off, and Renault scrunched up his face and hocked a great gob of spit directly into his open, bloody mouth.

That was the last respect he was willing to give. Still aching, still in pain, and wanting nothing more than to find Braddock and Tassar and collapse back into his bed at the inn for a whole week, Renault turned and limped off.

As he did so, weary and exhausted as he was, he did not notice the shadow furtively slipping away from the corner he was about to round.

Tassar smiled, very well pleased with his protégé, but he also made sure to move as fast as he could. He didn’t want Renault to know he had been standing by, watching as he was almost killed, of course.

Things were going just as planned—Renault had managed to pass another of Tassar’s little tests. “Good,” the veteran chucked to himself, “Very, very, good. Renault, I’m glad I found you. You’re just what I expected. “

It was the 19th day of the month of the Horse, 702 A.S. Renault had learned to deal with pain—and in the coming years, it would be a skill he would exercise again and again.

_-X-A Job at the Council-X-_

It was not the first time Monica had been to the Grand Narthex of the even grander Tower of the Saint—as a high-ranking bishop, her presence was naturally required whenever the Head Church of Etruria, or more specifically, the Supreme Church of the Eliminean Faith, deemed it necessary to convoke a council, or as they called it, a Holy Synod. This happened so rarely, however, that Monica had still not gotten used to the sight of the immense edifice. In fact, she deeply suspected that even if she were given a lifetime to live within its confines, the overwhelming awe and sense of holiness that washed over her whenever she entered the Narthex—not to mention the tower itself—would never subside.

A narthex was the entrance to a church or cathedral, and as its name implied, the Grand Narthex was the entrance to the holiest site of the Eliminean faith and the national symbol of Etruria—the Tower of the Saint. Yet it was no mere egress—it was a colossal, circular chamber more than large enough to seat a thousand people. Given the fact that almost every bishop was required to attend a Council the Supreme Church had called, there were hundreds of bishops ministering hundreds of dioceses all across Elibe, along with the eight Cardinals each of the Head Churches of Bern, Lycia, and Ilia, and that each bishop could bring along his or her own retinue (which, for the Cardinals, could be massive indeed), they’d definitely be needing all that space.

Logistics were not the only reason the rare Synods were held in the great edifice, of course. ‘Grand’ was an understatement when it came to the Grand Narthex. Virtually every single thing in the room, ranging from the throne-like seats for the attendees to the thousands upon thousands of tiles on the floor and ceiling, was made out of solid gold, so finely polished that the entire edifice seemed to glow slightly. The gigantic golden columns which held up the ceiling were encrusted with sapphires and opals, and on the ceiling itself was inscribed the full text of Elimine’s Journey—every last word of it painstakingly cut into each gold block.

Even all that paled before what lay behind the massive doors—gates, was more like it—in front of which the eight members of the Supreme Church sat. Those gates led to the Tower of the Saint itself, dwarfing the chamber of the Synod in holiness and grandeur. Behind its narthex it rose literally to the sky, its golden spires piercing the clouds themselves. Incredibly powerful and long-forgotten magic had been used in its construction, perhaps the same magic used to craft the weapon which lay at its very top. After all, the Tower had been built on the spot where Saint Elimine had ascended to Heaven and it contained her most sacred relics. The greatest of these was Aerial, her legendary spellbook which was one of the Eight Divine Weapons which had driven away the dragons, seven hundred and three years ago.

Despite her material wealth and her lofty position in the Church hierarchy, in the face of such an awe-inspiring testament to the power of faith, Monica felt very small indeed. As she took her seat, she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and began to pray quietly to herself, giving thanks to God, for Whom all this had been dedicated.

“Ah! Monica!”

She blinked and stuttered, looking up to see who had addressed her. With some resignation, she noted it was a fellow clergywoman she knew perhaps a bit more well than she would have liked—Bishop Paraya.

The middle-aged woman had a narrow face and purplish-grey hair she kept bundled up under her miter. She was flanked by a pair of young men in modest surplices who shared her hair, facial features and somewhat smug expression—her sons.

“Lady Paraya.” Monica nodded curtly, allowing herself to smile slightly. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you as—ah, Isher, you and your brother take your seats, your mother has business to attend to—you as well, Lady Monica. I’m certainly glad to see you look well, especially given those nasty rumors—untrue, I’m sure!—floating around about your son. May God give those with loose tongues their just reward!”

Monica detected just a slight hint of mockery in the other woman’s voice—she wasn’t surprised at Paraya’s nastiness; they had had their theological disagreements in the past and the woman took *any* disagreement personally. She did not take the bait, merely saying “indeed” and redirecting her attention to the eight old men (well, seven old men and one woman) at the front of the room, in the grandest of the seats.

Paraya would not let her go so easily, though. “Indeed, indeed,” she said. “I do, wonder, though, are you sure you’re alright, dear? You came alone…a bit suspicious for a bishop of your stature. Surely there are some priests from your city who could accompany you? What about any promising seminarians? This would be a wonderful learning experience for them. I remember you talking about how much potential one young student had…what was his name, Serapino? Yes, that was it. Why didn’t you take him along with you? I hope he didn’t…ah…find another calling, did he?”

“Not at all,” Monica replied, and now there was a distinct hint of pride in her voice. “He remains my brightest pupil, and I would trust no-one else to accompany me to a synod of this importance. However, he is no longer in Thagaste. About half a year ago, not long after the incident in Sorveno, he left for the north, to the countship of Nerinheit. He felt he had work to do there.”

“N-Nerinheit?” Paraya was clearly shocked. “Did he have any idea of how dangerous it could be? Surely you know what’s going on! This is why we’re having this council! Crime and lawlessness has increased dramatically virtually all across the country after the king’s new taxes, and especially in less fortunate areas such as Nerinheit! Rioting and protests against the Crown have grown commonplace, and Count Glaesal does little to stop them! Even worse, priests are being targeted, Monica! People like you and I, and your Serapino too! One was recently beaten for merely attempting to collect a tithe, and several more have disappeared! And that’s not even going into those strange reports of vandalism, and the strange black riders some of our flock have reported seeing…”

“I know all that, Paraya.” Monica sighed, and she evidently was genuinely worried for Serapino. “That’s exactly what I told him. But he was insistent. In fact, he was absolutely determined to go. He felt called by God…how could I refuse him?”

“Excuse me?”

“It was a dream, Paraya. He…had a vision. One night, while he was sleeping, the Saint came to him. He could tell me little more than that…only that her heavenly visage was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, and that she had told him to go forth and minister to those who most needed God’s love. To eat with sinners, to mourn with the afflicted, and to help the lost find their way. ‘Go North, Serapino,’ is what she told him. Your Grace, who am I to argue with the Saint?”

The expression on Paraya’s face was horrified now. “Monica, what have you done? You allowed your best student to expose himself to such danger…all because he had a dream?”

“Not just a dream! It was sent by God! Surely you’ve read the Journey, Bishop? God spoke to the earliest prophets in dreams! Elimine first took up her staff and book against the dragons after a vision! If God has called Serapino in such a way, he is blessed, far more blessed than I could ever make him!”

Paraya’s eyes narrowed. “I know my Scripture very well, thank you. Do not think to lecture me on such matters of faith. But while faith can move mountains, we were given reason as well. At this time, it’s just insane to take a trip to the North based on a single dream! Surely you cannot be so presumptuous as to think Serapino to be on the same level as the Saints and the prophets?”

“I believe that God truly did call him. Why, and for what purposes, I do not know—the ways of the Creator are beyond the created, which includes both of us. All I know is that I have faith in the Almighty’s plans, and that He will watch over Serapino. If you do not share that faith, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. When was the last time you set foot outside of Aquleia? When was the last time you even visited your diocese in Nerinheit? You may believe people outside of the great cities are unworthy of God’s love, but Serapino doesn’t, I don’t, and--“

Paraya was just about to let loose with an angry retort, but their argument was interrupted by the loud voice of one of the Cardinals of the Supreme Church blaring out from in front of the Narthex. Mortified, both of them seated themselves as quickly as they could as the patriarch began the proceedings.

Despite his age, Cardinal Gosterro was not a weak man, evidenced by the fact that his voice was able to carry through the entire great chamber, albeit aided by its architecture. “Almighty God,” he began, “You who placed the endless firmament above and enduring earth below, You who crafted all living things with Your hands, You who watches over us and protects us, it is to You we give thanks and praise. Please have mercy on us sinners, and guide us in our deliberations today, so Your will may be done and Your name glorified. Amen.”

A chorus of “Amen” resounded through the Narthex. Gosterro took his seat, and with that the discussion began in earnest.

It was the single female Cardinal of Etruria who next spoke. “Honored Brethren,” the silver-haired Cardinal Aleffine said, her voice not as strong as her colleague’s, “We are gathered here today to discuss the increasingly worrisome tidings afoot seemingly everywhere in this country, the blessed Homeland of our Saint. For over two years now the Church has witnessed the rise of banditry, rebellion, treason against the crown, and all manner of other similar social disorder. It is the opinion of the Head Church of Etruria that the Church of Elimine, as a whole, must take a stand against this decay, so as to secure the land for the worship of the Creator.”

A crosier went up in the front row, among the seats closest to the thrones of the Etrurian Cardinals. “We recognize Cardinal Follandt of the Head Church of Lycia,” said Aleffine.

“Your Excellency,” the Lycian began, “Once again I extend to you my deepest sympathies over the plight of your homeland, and share in your wish that, as the Blessed Saint said, all things will be at peace. But I most humbly inquire of you, why was it necessary to convoke a Synod over these issues? We are men and women of God, not of the world. Why should we concern ourselves with the internal affairs of the Etrurian state? My own homeland, Lycia, has not yet recovered from its civil war. If a Synod should be called to deal with Etruria’s problems, why not Lycia’s?”

Murmurs of assent—quietly voiced, of course—rippled through the great chamber, but Cardinal Gosterro quickly put a stop to them. “We recognize that the Children of Roland have suffered greatly these past few years, and rest assured that we will do all we can to alleviate their plight, for the Saint commanded us to show mercy to all human beings. However, it is Etruria which was the birthplace of our Saint, and though all are equal in God’s eyes, it is not good to have a holy land defiled by bloodshed and lawlessness. The Head Church of Etruria has deemed this to be so, and I trust that will be the last word on the matter.”

The Supreme Church had put its foot down, and that was enough to quench any beginnings of dissent or any questioning of Etruria’s primary place in the Eliminean order. With that taken care of, Gosterro took up where Aleffine left off. “It is the opinion of this Church that the Crown of Etruria, whose first King was anointed by Elimine and whose descendants have been anointed by God, requires the full support and cooperation of the faithful all across the land. We thus decree that rebellion, insurrection, and any form of treason against the legitimate secular authorities is synonymous with defying God, and—“ He noticed yet another crosier rise. With a hint of annoyance in his voice, he said, “We recognize the voice of our honored sister, Bishop Monica of Thagaste.”

“Your Excellency,” she began, “let it be known that I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiments and faith of this synod. I condemn unequivocally all forms of sedition and revolution, and it is my hope and prayer that these bleak tidings give way to the hope and love which should reign in Elimine’s birthplace and all across Elibe.

“However, I question whether or not a decree alone will heal the wounds of our country. Lord Gosterro, the people are suffering. The taxes our King Galahad has enacted, despite the best of his intentions, are making life interminably hard for the common folk, and not just in places like Nerinheit. Even though cities like Aquleia and Thagaste can bear these burdens, Scirocco and Sorveno could not. If things continue as they are, the tragedies that occurred in those towns will repeat themselves over and over again!”

“And what do you suggest we do?” blurted Bishop Paraya, not even waiting to be called upon by one of the Cardinals. She struggled to keep the scorn out of her voice, and only barely succeeded. “We are mere servants of God. What can we do but support our King?”

“Quite a bit,” came Monica’s angry reply. “My lords and honored brethren, although individually we may only be able to do so much, collectively, and with the grace of God, I believe we can achieve a great deal. Why has our King enacted these taxes? Because we need more and more mercenaries to defend ourselves, whether from bandits from Lycia or because of our unfortunate problems with Bern. If it is the treasury giving him problems, perhaps we may be able to help? I know many of us have a great deal of money and wealth in the forms of church land and donations that we have been saving up for times of need. It seems like this is one such time of need. If we sold off some of our lands, or donated some of our personal funds to the crown, it might obviate the need to take money from those who cannot afford it to pay for the country’s defense.”

“Here now!” Cardinal Gosterro seemed to glare at the bishop. “Are you insinuating we should sacrifice our own possessions to help solve this problem?”

“W-well…yes.”

At this, the crowd in the great room seemed to rise up collectively, with murmurs—much louder, this time—advocating both for and against Monica’s selfless proposal. Unfortunately, Gosterro would come down very hard against it.

“Unacceptable!” he thundered. “Let us not forget that we speak for God. We are the shepherds of Elimine’s flock. As such, we require our privileges to do our jobs. Ministering over entire dioceses is no easy matter! That shall be the last we hear of that.”

“No!” came a shout from near the back of the room, and the eyes of all the clergy turned to see one of their more unstable fellows standing up and making sure all heard him. Bishop Layzner of the diocese of Padstow, roughly coterminous with the Etrurian countship of the same name and one of Nerinheit’s very close neighbors, was not a small man, and even from the back of the great Narthex it was not hard for him to gain everyone’s attention. “Your Excellency, our sister is correct! Should not a shepherd take care of his flock? If even one under his care goes astray, will he not sacrifice to bring it back? We only have the privileges you speak of so we can do our duty, and our duty is to the people! We are servants of the servants of God! If the discharge of our duties require the discharge of our wealth, then we should do so gladly, for it will bring us closer to God!”

“ENOUGH!” yelled Gosterro, slamming the bejeweled scepter indicating his status as a Cardinal on the ground. “Layzner, now is not the time to challenge your interpretation of Scripture, and your particular Order, even though it is outlandish, has not yet drifted so far as to be worthy of the censure and condemnation of the Supreme Church I belong to. However, I warn you, your actions are bringing it dangerously close to that line! We will not tolerate anything further from you, or any more of this line of discussion. Is that understood?”

Layzner looked as if he was going to say more, but just in time one of the priests accompanying him slapped a hand over his mouth and frantically whispered something into his ear. That was enough for him to merely nod and again take his seat, though with a singularly disgruntled expression on his face.

“Let us get back to more pressing matters, then,” said the Cardinal, a trace of annoyance still very much present in his voice. “I put forward that once this council closes, the following creed must be honored by all believers everywhere on Elibe, and anyone calling themselves a follower of Elimine must adhere to it, no matter what other personal convictions, political allegiances, or theological disagreements they may have.

“We believe that our Creator, architect of heaven and earth, sculptor of man with His divine hands, invested His Saint with all legitimate authority for governing His children. When the blessed Saint ascended to Heaven, she passed that authority on to the rightful kings and princes of Elibe. Let it be known, then, that rebellion against these legitimate authorities is rebellion against God, and it is the duty of every faithful man and woman to oppose and root out insurrection and revolution.”

This, more or less, was the text of what would be known as the Loyalist’s Creed, set down by the Thirteenth Ecumenical Synod of the Church of Elimine. It was not agreed upon immediately, of course—there was some debate from several of Gosterro’s fellow Cardinals, most notably Aleffine, who took Bishop Monica’s side in the ongoing argument. Yet they could not stand up to the force of Gosterro’s personality, and after a week of fierce debate, the eight Cardinals unanimously declared their support for a very slightly revised version of the Creed which Gosterro had first issued. Against the full authority of the Supreme Church of Elimine, none of the lesser bishops could protest—no matter how much Layzner of Padstow might have wanted.

It was on the Ninth Lancer of 702 A.S that the Thirteenth Synod finally concluded. All of the attendees—even those who privately disagreed with their new Creed—were not under the impression that they had done anything particularly groundbreaking. After all, despite the Church’s influence, and no matter how much it claimed to speak for God, the Church did not have that much raw power. It would be the militaries of Bern and Etruria which ultimately decided the continent’s future, so all the Church could do was stand by, make its Decrees, and hope for the best. At least that’s what nearly all the men and women of the cloth there thought.

They had no idea how wrong subsequent events would prove them.

_-X-A Job in Caerleon-X-_

“I am sorry, sir,” said Rosamia, sitting behind Gafgarion as his mount trotted leisurely through the small trail in the woods which led towards Castle Caerleon. “I…I apologize for last night.”

“Beg y’r pardon,” came the middle-aged, mustached mayor—well, former mayor—of Sorveno’s reply. “What happened t’ apologize for?”

“For Khyron experimenting on your son-in-law!” She would have said more, but a sad look from Gafgarion stopped her.

“The man who would’ve been my son in law,” he corrected quietly.

“Y-yes, I knew that…forgive me.” The woman put her head down, and for several minutes after that neither of them said anything as their horse continued forward. Still, Rosamia felt she had to continue. “In…in any case, I do apologize. What Khyron did…it was inexcusable.”

Gafgarion chuckled, a sound as sad as the look on his face. “Ah, y’ have no reason to apologize. Weren’t the one doin’ it, after all. And besides, at least the stuff Lord Khyron was workin’ with wasn’t too bad. I remember when we barged into his lab'ratory last night, when he was shoutin’ and laughin’ like he was the happiest man in the world. Right in front of ‘im, Apolli was sleepin’ like a baby! I know that some of those staves can do real bad things, like turnin’ people crazy and all. Just glad it didn’t happen to Apolli.”

“Yes, but still…”

“Don’t worry about it, Rosamia. I mean, what, he couldn’t use you for that kinda stuff, could he? You’re the daughter of a noble, even if he’s just a plain Knight rather than one of the Mage Corps.”

“That’s the lowest level of the Eturian peerage, sir. And even if it wasn’t—“

“’B’sides, both me and Apolli owe Khyron pretty big, after all. It’s just…can’t figure out what’s with him and those staves, is all. Ever since we came here last year, all he does at night is work with those magic sticks. Not my place to question’ m’lord, specially not a Mage Knight, but…”

“It…it’s because of what happened to Y—I mean, I think he blames himself for…not being able to prevent Yulia’s passing.”

Now this got Gafgarion’s attention. “What d’you mean?”

“When we came to Scirocco, my master could only use the weakest type of staff, called Heal. Even the Mend staff Yulia carried was beyond him. So when she…suffered her wound…he was unable to do anything, and…well, ever since then, he has dedicated himself to mastering the staff as he has mastered Anima magic.”

“So you’re sayin’ my daughter might still be alive today if Khyron’d been a bit better with those staves?”

“W-well, maybe…I mean, he has made much progress. Sleep staves are some of the most advanced known to magic-users; as he is now Khyron would have been more than able to use Yulia’s Mend staff.”

“Heh. Just wished he coulda used it back then.”

“Y-yes…”

“Ah…sorry. Didn’t mean to sound too bitter. We can talk about what woulda, coulda, shoulda happened all day, but it doesn’t change a thing…like my wife always said, can’t complain ‘bout the wolves a day after they’ve killed all your sheep. We just gotta accept our losses and move on, doin’ the best we can.”

After this, they rode on in silence for a few moments longer, before Gafgarion suddenly drew back on the reins and stopped his horse, as if struck by something.

“Sir? Is something the matter?”

“Rosamia, could I see the tax report filed by the last village we just visited?”

“Er…alright.”

“I’d also like to see what’s on that lil’ population census we asked the mayor t’ give us.”

“Uh…yes, sir. Khyron never asks us to take measures of the population, though.”

“I know, but it’s just an old habit of mine. Guess a few things I picked up in Sorveno never really rubbed off. You do have it, right?”

“O-of course! Just a moment.” The young woman reached into her knapsack and fished around for both the documents, managing to produce them after a moment and hand them to the man officially called an ‘administrative assistant’ but who was essentially the steward of the Caerleon lands in all but name. “Here they are.”

“Thanks. He squinted at first the tax report, then the population data, and said ‘hmmm,’ as he usually did when deep in thought.

“Is…there a problem, Gafgarion?”

“Probably not…but something smells fishy. Rosamia, the taxes on this village are just about right for a farmin’ community. Here on the census, they list farmers, a few weavers, a blacksmith, and a passin’ merchant as some of the occupations for people in that village. No knights or horsemen, just the standard town watch and men-at-arms for defense.”

“Yes, sir, that sounds about right. There’s no garrison stationed here. We shouldn’t have seen any soldiers around.”

“That’s right, we shouldn’t have. But Rosamia…remember what we saw when we first came to the mayor’s house? Right at the other end of the village? Those fellas who looked like they were leavin’ just as we were arrivin’?”

“Hmm…yes, I believe so. I think they were cavaliers…actually, Paladins by the armor they wore. It was pitch-black except for the red pauldrons on their left shoulders.”

“Yeah. Armor and horses. Sound like soldiers to me. But this place isn’t supposed to have any.”

Rosamia blinked, considering the implications. “Yes…yes, you’re right. They could have been mercenaries, though…”

“There hasn’t been any trouble in Caerleon since Khyron got back from Scirocco about a year ago. Why would mercenaries be down here? ‘Specially all in black, with those funny red shoulders?”

“I…I don’t know. Should we go back and ask?”

Gafgarion grimaced. “Just the two of us? Maybe I’m gettin’ cowardly in my old age, but somethin’ tells me that wouldn’t be a good idea. Let’s just head back to Castle Caerleon and tell Khyron about it. He’ll know what to do.”

“Ah…if you say so. Still, they left, didn’t they? If they meant us harm, wouldn’t they be pursuing us at the moment?”

“Maybe. Lass, you’re probably right…it’s probably nothin’. Still, I’ve been in a few battles in my time…defended my town against a couple o’ bandit attacks back when I was just a bit younger than you are now. Sometimes I got a bad feeling about things…and whenever that happened, one o’ my friends died. Don’t want that t’ happen to you.”

“Y-yes. You’re right, sir. Let us return home.” She ducked her head, blushing slightly. She didn’t think the older man would actually consider her a ‘friend.’

Gafgarion didn’t think much of it either, since he simply spurred his mount and told it to go faster. Not break into a full run—they weren’t panicked, after all—but not so far away from it, either.

As they neared the end of the small, shadowy forest, Rosamia ought to have felt relieved that they would soon reach the castle of Caerleon and its surrounding town, but she instead felt somewhat wary. Strange as it sounded, she felt as if she was being watched. She tightened her hold on Gafgarion, careful to keep herself from tumbling off the horse, and looked back behind her.

As she expected, she saw nothing.

Almost nothing. She was sure it was just a trick her eyes played on her, but for a moment she thought she saw something move in the wooded shadows.

-x-

“Nothing! Nothing at all!”

It wasn’t often that Gafgarion’s sixth sense failed him, but judging by the downright angry expression on Khyron’s face as he stood before him in Castle Caerleon’s throne room, he guessed that today was one of those occasions.

“So there really wasn’t anythin’ suspicious about those fellas me n’ Rosamia saw, m’lord?”

“No! I told you, I sent out runners to the village to inquire about what you said you saw. Yes, according to the mayor, there had been a small group of men in black armor visiting Caerleon, but they were just travelers passing through on a journey to Nerinheit. They paid their dues at the inn and left the village without incident. I hope you’re happy, Gafgarion! You’ve sent my men on a wild goose chase!”

The older man simply sighed and bowed his head in resignation, silently reminding himself to bear Khyron’s insults with a smile—he really owed the man, after all. “Sorry, m’lord. Guess I’m just getting’ old and fearful.”

“Hmph. That may be so. In any case, though, at least you did a good job with the tax report I asked you to take. And that other thing…the other document Rosamia gave me. What was it again?”

“A census, m’lord. It…it’s nothin’ much. We just ask the mayors or magistrates of the towns we go to to tell us how many men an’ women are livin’ there, what kind of things they do, that sort of thing.”

“Hmm. Not a bad idea, Gafgarion. Indeed, it may be useful later on. Nice thinking for a commoner, at least.”

Once again, Gafgarion sighed, though out of relief this time. That was the closest thing to a compliment he’d ever heard Khyron pay him. “Thank you, m’lord.”

He stood there for several moments as Khyron continued to look through the papers on his desk, before he glanced back up at his assistant. “Well, what the devil are you waiting for! You’re dismissed! Don’t just stand there, go do something useful!”

“Y-yes, m’lord!”

Wasting not a moment, Gafgarion bowed his head bowed his head and quickly scurried through the solid oak doors which led to Khyron’s private chambers.

And almost bumped into Apolli, who had hastily taken a few steps back from his former position right in front of the door.

“A-Apolli,” Gafgarion yelped, somewhat startled. He quickly lowered his voice as he continued, “what are you doing here?”

“I was…a bit worried for ya, pops. I remember you tellin’ me you saw some…some suspicious guys when you went to take that tax report, so…”

“Nah. It was nothin.”

“Oh. So…so Khyron wasn’t mad at you or anythin’?”

“Maybe a lil’, but not too much. Anyways, lad, are y’ busy at the moment?”

“N-no, though I think I oughta go down to the kitchen soon to help with Lord Khyron’s dinner…”

“Ah. Think you’ve enough time to walk with me for a bit?”

“S-sure.”

Together, the two men started off on what had become one of their daily routines—a leisurely stroll together through the castle grounds. They had always gotten along quite well even before the events which had took place at Scirocco, and after that their bond had grown stronger—with Yulia’s death, and Roberto’s departure for parts unknown about two months later, they had very little left in the world aside from each other.

Gafgarion glanced down at his friend. Apolli actually looked better today than he had in several months. Ever since Yulia’s death, he’d had a lot of trouble sleeping. His complexion became pale, his sandy blonde hair had become disheveled, and he could never be seen without ugly black bags under his eyes. Today, however, he actually looked somewhat vital, though he still spoke slowly and hesitantly and his face was as drawn and expressionless as ever.

Gafgarion hoped to change that. “You’re looking well, lad,” he chuckled. “Got a nice sleep last night, I wager?”

“Y…yes. Thanks to Lord Khyron…”

“Mm. He’s not such a bad man, I think. May not have been raised right, may not have known a lot of things, but deep down inside…I think I saw a decent streak in ‘im, buried deep, sure, but still there.”

“Y-yeah. If it wasn’t for him…”

“Well, him and his brother. Mage General Exedol was the one who bade us live in Caerleon, after all.”

“Uh-huh. I…still remember when we first came to Aquleia…we left everything behind. Neither of us had any more family left, and everybody…everybody kept on ‘bout all those horrible rumors. “

“Thought m’own people’d know me n’ my daughter better’n that,” said Gafgarion bitterly. “Guess I had too much faith in ‘em.”

“That’s why you…resigned your mayorship, right?”

“Yep. Well, that and it woulda looked bad anyways…folks wouldn’t want a mayor who couldn’t keep a rein on his own son, and after Roberto skipped town after gettin’ into that big bar fight…”

“Mmm…that’s why I left too. W’out…Yulia…and my best friend neither, wasn’t much point stayin’ in Sorveno, not lest I just wanted to tend my parents’ graves all day. So I went along with you…didn’t have nowhere else t’ go. Heh, guess that was pretty…pretty lucky, right?”

“Yeah. I dunno what woulda happened t’ me if you hadn’t been around. It was the damnest stroke o’ luck, really. We barely had any money when Exedol’s caravan passed us by and he happened to recognize us…well, you. How’d he remember you?”

“He saw me…guess he musta remembered my face”

“From where?”

“K-King’s court. After…after Scirocco, we had to go to Aquleia t’ present our testimony…guess he musta remembered me. Dunno where else he coulda seen me.”

“You musta made quite an impression on ‘im, then. When he asked us what we were doin’ and we told him our story, he just gave us a map, signed it, told us to head over t’ Castle Caerleon, an’ said his brother would take us in.”

“Yup. D-Didn’t think K-Khyron would take us in, though…”

“Heh.” Gafgarion lowered his voice and surreptitiously ducked his head to whisper in Apolli’s ear. “B’tween you and me, lad, I get the feeling he didn’t let us in just outta the goodness of his heart…I get the feelin’ he really coulda used the help managin’ these lands.”

“Ha! Better not let ‘im hear that, Pops.”

“I know, I know. Still, Rosamia told me the same thing…and hell, if this was the first time he’s ever even heard of a population census, I’d be inclined to believe it. I’m a bit surprised, though…his brother’s older, right? Thought Lord Exedol’d have more of a hand in running things around here.”

“Well, since…I think…Exedol’s the Mage General, he spends a lot more time in th’ Caerleon family manor in Aquleia, so he c’n be closer to the King. Khyron’s left in the actual countship of Caerleon mosta the time. It’s rare he leaves it…S-Scirocco was the last time. Since he was gone for weeks, with both Exedol and him away the countship really had some problems, from what Rosamia told me. Y’ had to spend a lotta your early time here cleanin’ those up, remember?”

“Aw, don’t remind me, lad. Still, you helped out a whole lot…I knew you were a fine archer, but I never thought you’d be a good clerk too. Yulia really taught you your letters well, eh?”

“Yeah…yeah, she did.”

They had just been settling into a good mood, but the mention of the girl they had both loved cast a heavy pall over it. “It’s been nice, Pops,” said Apolli, “but…I really gotta go. First dinner, t-then I gotta take inventory in th’ armory…I’ll see ya later.”

Gafgarion nodded. “Alright. Good talkin’ to ya, lad.”

With that, they both went their separate ways, the conversation they had been having forgotten within a few hours. It would be a bit longer than that before Gafgarion forgot about the black, red-shouldered riders he had saw earlier that fateful day, the 12th Moon of 702 A.S.

It would not be long, however, before he remembered them again.

_-X-A Tax Collector’s Job-X-_

“Hey! Children! Get away from that man!”

“Huh?” The loud shout distracted Harvery, and he almost lost his rhythm, dropping the quartet of knives he had been juggling in the air. Key word there was almost—with his skill, he was able to make the most of the distraction, taking it as an opportunity to pluck each knife individually out of the air and into one hand, keeping the blades between his fingers. He held out his hand to the audience, drawing a combination of astonished “oohs” and “aahs” along with peals of delighted laughter from the numerous children (and even a couple of adult passer-by).

“Get away from him right now!”

It took Harvery a moment to figure out that the portly, angry, middle-aged woman across the road was referring to him. Well, it shouldn’t have even taken him that long, judging from the way she was pointing at him and all.

“But mom,” whined one of his audience members, a young boy who had just been watching him with a mixture of admiration and awe, “he’s so cool! Didn’t you see what he was doing with those knives?”

That was probably the highlight of his day—Harvery really enjoyed showing kids a good time. Though the juggling trick was the least he could do with his talents, it actually managed to cheer folks up rather than bring them down, which beat out most of his other responsibilities as a tax collector.

Then again, even something like collecting taxes was preferable to the kind of work he used to do.

“Look at him, with those knives! It’s dangerous! What if he dropped them?” The lady ran up to her now-chastised son and his friends, glaring at Harvery suspiciously.

“He wouldn’ta! He’s good! Ain’t that right, mister?”

Harvery flashed the woman his most charming grin as he sheathed his knives. “Your son’s a smart one, ma’am. Rest assured, you had absolutely nothing to worry about! He—uh, I mean, heck, I could’ve performed that trick with my eyes closed!”

Lamentably, he didn’t win her over. “Hmph! And where’d you learn it, huh? I bet you’re a thief or a mercenary or some other low-life!”

Ouch. Well, as much as he hated to admit it, Harvery could see where the woman was coming from. After all, he wasn’t exactly the most well-groomed or well-dressed man in Elibe. He never bothered to brush his short, scruffy brown hair, and even though he shaved regularly it seemed he always had a five o’clock shadow now matter what time it was. Dressed in a natty but serviceable pair of leather boots, some traveling pants, a decent linen shirt, and a traveling cloak as thick and warm as it was worn (it may not have been fancy, but it did a good job of warding off the cold weather), he looked a great deal poorer than he actually was. In fact, he vaguely remembered hearing something about how servants of the Crown were actually responsible for maintaining their uniforms and ensuring they were always clean and presentable, but one of the rewards of his years of service (aside from his present job, of course) was that he didn’t have to worry about dress codes.

Thus, it was with an honest heart that he could say, “Madam, you wound me! How could think a loyal servant of the crown like me could be a danger to anybody? I’ll have you know I perform very important duties for this kingdom!”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

Once again, he flashed her his trademark grin, reached into his pocket, and produced his royal seal. “Behold! My lady, you speak to a Royal Etrurian Officer for the Furnishment of the Treasury!”

The children were now looking at him as suspiciously as their ward. “Wait a minute,” said the boy, “you’re a tax collector?”

“Er, well, yeah, I guess you could say that…”

The lad scrunched up his face in an expression precisely the opposite of the previous admiration with which he had regarded Harvery. “A tax collector? Hey, that’s not cool at all!”

The scattered grumbling coming from the once-rapt crowd as they joined their matron in turning their backs on him indicated they agreed with her son’s assessment. He called for them to wait, telling them he’d show them an even better trick, but to no avail—they were entirely uninterested.

“Ah, how tragic,” he lamented to himself as they passed away from him. He leaned lugubriously against a nearby wall, took his trusty bottle of cheap wine from its trusty place at his belt, and enjoyed a long and particularly dramatic sip from it. “It is, I suppose, my lot in life. For no reason other than my means of making a living, I am forever and irrevocably condemned in the eyes of Etruria’s youth! I am…as the young ones might say…’square.’ Or…rectangular. Or was it cubic? What do the kids these days call it, anyways? I’ll be damned if I know.”

Taking another long swig from his bottle was enough to lighten up his mood satisfactorily. It was for the best anyways, he thought to himself as he resumed his journey. Fun as playing games with kids might be, he really did have a more important job to do. And he wasn’t thinking about collecting taxes, either.

After a few more minutes of wandering (and the purchase of a couple of nice warm pastries from a vendor he happened upon), Harvery finally reached his destination. Henken’s house was very big, even larger than one would expect a master stoneworker to be able to afford.

Still, given who Henken used to be, it wasn’t surprising.

Harvery walked right up to the ornately carved oak door and slammed his fist onto it a few times. “Hey, Henken! It’s me, Harvery! Open up!”

No answer was forthcoming, and he knocked again. “C’mon! I know you’re in there!”

That managed to get the Lycian’s attention. The slat near the top of the door opened, and Henken peered down. “What do you want?” he asked, laconic as ever.

“Come on, man, we’re friends! Is this any way to treat your ol’ buddy?”

No response.

“I’ve got a bit of wine! And some food!”

No response.

Harvery sighed. “Look, Henken, this is important. I don’t wanna talk about it through a door, out in public. Lemme in.”

Wordlessly, Henken opened his doors and gestured for the tax collector to enter, and he did so enthusiastically.

“Talkative as ever,” grumbled Harvery sarcastically as he shook his boots to get the snow off them. “Really now, would it kill you to be a bit more personable? To me, at least? I mean, I managed to spring you out of Lycia, remember? You might have been dead if it wasn’t for me!”

Henken simply glanced at Harvery with his cold grey eyes and continued his path to his home’s parlor. As the tax collector hurried to catch up to him he happened to pass by the giant suit of blood-red armor shunted away in a small, dark corner of a storage room whose door was not entirely closed.

Even the mere glimpse of that armor was enough to send a chill down Harvery’s spine. Although Henken was a very fit man, he was more wiry and lean than big and bulky. Nobody would think he would have been able to wear the great suits of armor Generals were known by.

Then again, not many people would think he had once been known as the Red Comet of Cornwell, either.

“Hey, you’re not mad, are you?” Harvery was now a little worried. “C’mon, you know I wasn’t trying to be mean. I mean, I owe you a lot too. I don’t hang around you so much for no reason! You’ve really helped keep me safe over the years…and hell, it’s always nice having a place to sleep. So don’t be mad…”

Still nothing.

“Henken…c’mon. We’re friends, right?”

As the two men took their seats across from each other in the small but comfortable parlor, Henken again glanced at Harvery and finally said a single word.

“Yeah.”

“Phew!” Harvery didn’t even bother to try and hide the extent of his relief. “I’m sure glad to hear that. I—“

“Why’re you here?” As usual, Henken wanted to get right down to business. “If you need a place to sleep, your room’s where it always is.”

“H-hey, thanks, but that isn’t it.”

Henken simply stared at him, waiting for him to say what it actually was.

“Ugh. Can’t get anything around you, eh?” Harvery sighed. “Well, no point beating around the bush, I’ll just get right down to it. Henken, the king himself asked me and give you a talking-to.

“Look, I’m sure you’ve heard…things have been getting worse and worse. That ‘liberation army’ thing in Sorveno a while back was just a drop in the bucket compared to this. I’ve heard that Count Nerinheit’s been skipping court for a while now. None of the other nobles have seen him in Aquleia, and the count of Padstow says he’s been hearing strange rumors. It…it’s probably nothin’. I bet it’s all just a big misunderstanding, and Nerinheit’s busy or something. But if not…if something more’s going on, well…the King…we…we want you to be available. We may need the services of the Red Comet.”

Henken said nothing for a moment. Nothing at all. Indeed, he made not the slightest movement, except for a slight twitch of his left hand.

That was what absolutely terrified Harvery. Whenever he saw that twitch, it meant that Henken the stonemason was about to disappear, and the Red Comet would take his place.

“I told you,” said Henken, his voice still perfectly flat—only his eyes, no longer quite so empty, along with his twitch betraying his inner rage. “I told you I never wanted to fight again. Never put on that damned armor again. That’s why I went with you. That’s why I agreed to the royalty’s deal.

“My apprentice went off to become a mercenary almost a year and a half ago. That’s as close as I want to get to war. I want to live the rest of my life as a stonemason and never pick up a weapon again. I’m not going back on the battlefield, Harvery. I’m not.”

“Easy, easy,” said the taxpayer, desperately trying to mollify his friend. “We probably won’t need you! I’m just saying, just in case—“

In a sudden, frightening flash of movement, Henken slammed his fists down on the table in front of him. “No,” he said, his voice still quiet. “No ‘just in case.’ I’m not going back. And if you try to make me…”

“H-Henken,” Harvery blubbered, “Please, please, c’mon! Don’t hurt me! I don’t want this either! I’m just doing my job! What the Crown told me to do! Don’t, don’t be like this!”

As he glared at his cowering friend, some spark of recognition seemed to light up within Henken. He realized that it was his friend he was threatening, and that he really was only doing his job. The stonemaster took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he finally opened them again, they were once again as empty as they usually were.

Harvery took this as a sign to once again be relieved, though since Henken’s face was still as expressionless as ever, he wasn’t sure.

“Sorry,” said the man, and that single word was enough to tell Harvery things were indeed getting better.

“I-it’s okay, Henken,” he stammered. He reached into his pocket and brought out one of the pastries he’d bought earlier. “W-want one?”

Henken nodded and accepted the offered treat. Harvery took out his own, and as the two men began munching he thought he’d try again.

“Henken, I know you don’t wanna fight again. Trust me. What kind of idiot wants to fight? I know I sure don’t. B-but Henken…th-think about me, my friend. Do you know how much I risked getting you out of that prison in Ostia after Cornwell finally capitulated? I didn’t do it under the King’s orders, you know. I did it because you were my friend! They could have just executed me for disobeying commands and risking an international incident, or even sparking up the civil war again! So what was the only reason they let either of us live? Because I told them the Red Comet’s legendary skill might come in handy some day! If it wasn’t for that…”

Henken’s hand twitched as he held his half-eaten pastry, an indication that things were taking a turn for the worse again. “Harvery,” he asked after a swallow, “how long have we known each other?”

“Heh, nearly fifteen years,” he replied nervously. “And, I mean, we’ve been great friends all that time, right? I remember when I first came to castle Cornwell, posing as a servant…barely my second night there you caught me snooping around your sister’s room. But you didn’t turn me in…you knew I was just doing my job. And you knew that unlike most other spies, I didn’t want to sabotage anything or start any trouble. I was just doing my job…keeping my homeland informed of what was going on in Lycia, so we could keep the peace all across Elibe!

“And it’s not as if I didn’t pay you back, either. I always kept you abreast of what was going on in Etruria, in the other cantons of Lycia…”

“Because you didn’t want me to turn you in.”

“T-that’s not true! W-well, maybe at first…but after a while, I grew to respect you, Ch—Henken, I mean. I could see you’d grow to be a fine leader someday, just like your father. So when we traded information, I gave you mine because you were my friend, and I knew you’d use it well!”

“Maybe,” said Henken coldly, his hand still twitching. “But our friendship wasn’t the only reason you rescued me after Cornwell, Laus, and the other rebel cantons lost the war to Ostia and its allies.”

“Okay, fine! You’re right. I was thinking of my country, Henken. This country. Etruria! I thought it could use you someday.”

“Use me?”

“Y-you can’t deny it deserves it! Look at how much the Crown’s done for you, Henken! The King could have just as easily sent you back to Lycia…back to the hands of the Ostians! But instead, we took you in, trained you as a stoneworker, and let you have this easy, peaceful life in Thagaste! The only thing we asked of you was to help us in our times of need! That’s—“

His words were interrupted by Henken’s hands flashing out to his throat. His reflexes were excellent, and he managed to duck beneath the man’s lightning-fast grab. Unfortunately, they were not quite fast enough for him to fully avoid his follow-up—a rough right-handed cuff which managed to catch him on his shoulder and send him tumbling off his chair. From his new position on the floor, he could only watch as his old friend stood over him with hateful, rage-filled eyes.

“Nobody uses me,” said Henken, a slight tremor now evident in his voice. “Nobody.”

“H-Henken, listen to me! Get control of yourself! Nobody here’s out to get you! But I’m just-just saying, you don’t have a choice! That was the deal, Henken! We let you live here, and in return, you help us when we need it! The Crown knows where you live, Henken! You don’t do as they say, they’ll come back here and send you back to Ostia! Send you there to be executed!”

Henken’s response was to pick him up off the floor and slam him against the wall—he did so with one hand, despite Harvery being nearly as large as he was. “They won’t send me back there. I won’t let them.”

At this, Harvery had to laugh. Despite being prone and subjugated against a wall, terrified out of his wits, he was growing angry himself. “Won’t let them,” he gasped, “that’s pretty funny! What, you’re gonna go and hide? They’ll find you eventually. Think you’ll make a stand? Real funny, coming from a guy who said he never wanted to fight again.”

With this, Henken’s normally expressionless face twitched as well. He was growing angrier and angrier, and Harvery knew he was on the verge of exploding. Yet Henken also recognized the truth of his friend’s words. And no matter how angry he got, even if he killed the tax collector right here, right now, it wouldn’t change the truth.

Thus, almost as quickly as the assault began, it ended—sort of. Henken quickly let go of Harvery, dropping him to the floor and leaving him to regain his breath with ragged gasps. He turned his back to the tax collector as Harvery glared at him with bleary eyes.

“It has nothing to do with me,” said Henken quietly. The tremor in his flat voice was no longer there, but his hands were still twitching. “I’m just a stoneworker. If war comes to Etruria…it won’t have anything to do with me.”

Harvery, getting up, still breathing heavily, laughed angrily as he rubbed his aching, bruised shoulder. “Won’t have anything to do with you? Ha-ha, Henken. That’s a lark. Real funny. Real damn funny. ‘Specially cause they said the exact same thing when the civil war broke out six years ago.

“’Wait, what’s that,’ he mimed sarcastically, “The younger son of the Marquess of Ostia killed his fiancée? Sure, since she was the daughter of Marquess Cornwell, there’ll be trouble, but nothing too big, right? Nothing to do with us! Wait, he killed the Marquess of Laus, too? Okay, Bishop Volker was a thug and a scumbag, and Maxim’s rival for Princess Cornwell’s affections, but he didn’t deserve to die. We’ll just hand him over to Cornwell and execute him for his crimes, even a son of Ostia’s not above the law. Nobody else’s problem, it won’t affect us!

“Wait a second! He escaped from his cell? Nobody knows where he went? Aw, hell, now Cornwell and Laus are mad! Accusing Ostia of hiding the kid, that’s a BIG no-no! So now they’re fighting, and Princess Cornwell’s brother and father won’t stop till they’ve seen Maxim skewered. But it’s just the three of them…Cornwell and Laus versus Ostia. Not a big affair. Doesn’t have anything to do with us!

“Uh-oh. Now Pherae’s joining the fight. Ostia’s oldest ally, don’tcha know! Caelin’s in on it too, the marquess doesn’t like Laus too much. Whoah, Araphen’s throwing its lot in with the rebels! Wants to unseat Ostia as the military head of the alliance. And now everybody’s getting in on the game! Kathelet, Tania, Santaruz, Tuscana…Thria, Toria, Word, Ryerde…before y’know it, whole damn country’s up in arms! Guess it really did have something to do with us, eh?

“What makes you think it’ll be any different here, huh? You say what happens in this country has nothing to do with you? Bet you’ll be in for a real nasty surprise if a rebel army ever shows up at the gates of this city. And what if Bern decides to take advantage of our weakness, huh? If wyvern riders start showing up around here because we’re too ridden by civil war to put up a good defense, I don’t think you’ll be sayin’ it has nothing to do with you. I think—“

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Harvery quickly stopped, too astonished by Henken’s sudden outburst to say anything more. The man’s back was still turned to him, but it was just as well—Harvery had the distinct impression he did not want to see the look on his face.

“You’ve made your point.” Henken’s voice was flat once again, but still trembling slightly.

“S…so you’ll do it?” Harvery tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice, warning himself not to declare victory too hastily. “If…if it comes to that…you’ll lend Etruria your axe and spear?”

“Yes.”

“G-great!” Harvery was overjoyed by this admission—but only for a moment. Henken had still not turned back to him. “H-hey, Henken—“

“Leave.”

Harvery drew back, and this time out of dismay almost as much as fear. “Hey, don’t—“

“Get out. Now.” The trembling in Henken’s voice seemed to increase slightly.

“H-Henken…p-please…I mean, we’re still friends, right?”

“I won’t tell you again.”

That was his cue, no matter how much it might have broken his heart. With a paind grimace on his face, Harvery simply nodded, though he knew Henken, his back still turned, wouldn’t see it. “A-alright. I’m going. Thanks, Henken…th-thanks…for everything. Whatever happens, Etruria will always remember your sacrifice.”

He saw one of Henken’s fists clench, and knew he had to get out as quickly as possible. With a thief’s quickness, he darted out of the parlor, through the hallway, and out the door without even bothering to close it. He sniffled as he ran, his breath clouding in the cold air, and it occurred to him he was running away from his feelings as much as from Henken—his old friend—himself.

That wouldn’t do any good, and he knew it. He’d gotten far enough away, so he allowed himself the luxury of leaning against the wall of a nearby armory, stifling another sniffle. He reached down, grabbed his trusty bottle, and emptied its contents in one great gulp, heedless of the curious stares he was getting.

Yeah, he knew he was still running. But at least the booze helped him forget it.

He had done his job, after all. And damn, it didn’t feel good.

_-X-A Botched Job-X-_

“Dammit,” Renault groaned, “You really did it this time, Braddock.”

He said this as he and his two companions stood in front of the now-stalled wagon they were supposed to be guarding, surrounding by the rapidly cooling bodies of their wealthy employer and the other mercenaries he had hired to protect him and his cargo as they passed through Sacae on their journey from Etruria to Lycia.

No, this disaster hadn’t occurred because of an ambush or an unexpected attack from bandits or anything like that. Things had really gone downhill only when Braddock just had to take a peek inside the wagon, and promptly went berserk. The fight itself hadn’t been too bad—despite the fact that the slaver had hired nine other mercenaries to accompany him as well, none of them were any match for Renault, Braddock, and Tassar, who’d dispatched all of them with a minimum of trouble. Well, except for Braddock—he was extremely angry over what he’d seen in the wagon, and had made a couple of stupid mistakes. Renault had to jump in twice to take out a swordsman sneaking up on his back and an archer drawing a bead on him from behind the wagon.

The wagon itself was a grim, Spartan affair, with only a pair of curtain-covered windows on either side of it and a heavy door on the back, locked from the outside, indicating it was meant to contain living beings. Considering the mess this job had turned into, Renault was now wishing it didn’t have those damn windows, although that probably would have meant the occupants would have suffocated long before they reached their intended destination.

“Come on, Renault,” said Braddock, still disgusted and extremely angry. “You know what’s in that wagon! You can look into it and see for yourself! Do you know who we were working for? A slaver! A damn kidnapper!!” He angrily glanced down and spat at the bloody corpse at his feet. The gob of spit landed right on the gilded robe their former employer had been so concerned with when they first met him.

“Why do we care what he used to be,” asked Tassar as he walked over, wiping the blood from his blade, “if he pays us well? We were gonna make some good money off of this, Braddock. A thousand and a half gold for each of us. Not only did you blow that, but think of the damage you did to our reputation! Nobody will be too eager to hire mercenaries who kill their employers.”

“Not when their employer was a manstealer!”

“Come on. Running contraband’s a major source of income for guys like us, and that includes human beings. It may not be honorable, but we aren’t paid for our honor.”

“Maybe not you,” replied Braddock, “but I’m not willing to sacrifice mine. Look at those girls in there, Tassar! Taken away from their homes and families, chained to the walls of that wagon, and taken all across the continent to be used as whores for the scum of Elibe! Nobody who treats women like that deserves to live!”

As angry as he was over losing more than a thousand gold in pay, as he watched his friends bicker with each other he had to admit Braddock had a point. Before the battle had started and Braddock planted his axe squarely in their employer’s head, Renault had taken a peek for himself to see what had gotten his friend so worked up.

It was like looking into the depths of Hell. The smell alone would have been enough to turn his stomach, but the sight of all those emaciated, tortured women…between the dead, glassy expression on the faces of some of them, the quiet, despairing sobbing coming from others, Renault could kind of see where his friend was coming from.

Not quite enough to justify losing out on all that money, though. “Braddock, we’re not white knights,” said Renault sarcastically. “It’s not as if we’re that much better than that guy was. We kill people for a living, remember?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. That still doesn’t make us as bad as him! Fighting against bandits or other mercenaries isn’t anything near as…as…abominable as this!”

“Why? ‘Cause he’s abusing women? I just told you, we’re mercenaries, not knights. We don’t give a damn about chivalry.”

“Maybe you don’t,” said Braddock, glaring at him, “but I do. I thought you were better than this, Renault. If you’re okay with doing the dirty work of whoremongers, then stay the hell away from me!”

Now that hurt. Really hurt. All the money in the world wouldn’t have been worth losing the best friend Renault had ever known in his twenty-five years on Elibe. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point, man,” he said. “I mean, nobody wants to be known as a lackey for whoremongers, right? 'Least not anybody with any pride. And besides, you…you’re my friend, Braddock. For you…I guess…I guess one wasted job isn’t so bad. Just one, though!”

That was enough to patch things up between the two men. “Glad to hear it,” said Braddock with a wide smile. “Tassar, how about you?”

The veteran mercenary still had a distinctly censorious expression on his face, but with a great sigh he finally relented. “Well, no point crying over what’s already done. Besides, you’ve served me well over the years, and we’ve known each other for a long time. I guess I can overlook this, just once.”

“Seems like everything’s settled, then! Let’s get those girls outta there, then.”

Braddock promptly unlimbered his axe and went over to the doors on the back of the wagon. With a single swing, his Wolf Beil chopped through the heavy metal lock and chain as if it were made of paper. The doors swung wide open, allowing the occupants of the wagon the first unhindered view of pure sunlight they’d had in weeks.

They didn’t take it as well as anyone had hoped, at least not at first. Most of the manacled girls simply cast their saviors looks which were either fearful or apathetic. “W-what are you going to do with us?” whimpered one young woman, quivering as she regarded Braddock’s armored form.

“Huh? We’re not gonna do anything to you. Right, guys? We’re here to rescue you!”

Again, no response quickly came from any of the girls, but that changed when Braddock walked up to one of them and cut through the chains restraining her as easily as he had chopped through the lock. She yelped as the axe whooshed by her head, but when she opened her eyes, she was more than surprised to find out she could once again move her arms.

“See? What’d I tell you?” Braddock continued to smile. “You don’t have to worry about anything else, girls. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. I killed the bastard who kidnapped you. You’re free, now!”

As he continued his path through the dank, cold, and filthy wagon, slicing through all the chains and manacles he found, the girls finally found some hope in their lives for the first time in quite a while. It wasn’t long before he had finished his trek, and exited back outside to find himself and his companions presiding over a small congregation of filthy, malnourished, and barely clothed young women, nearly all of whom were crying. All of them were shaking, but from the biting cold of a winter on the Sacaen plains rather than fear. Their tears were borne of happiness and relief, not despair.

“Thank you!” one of them cried, launching herself into Braddock’s arms, much to his surprise. “I…I thought I’d never get out of there! Thank you, thank you so much!”

“Hey, no problem. I’m a mercenary, but that doesn’t mean I have to sell my soul. Right?”

Unfortunately, Braddock wouldn’t have much time to bask in his newfound heroism. "All of you, SHUT UP!" shouted Tassar. The big grin was wiped right off Braddock's face, and apprehension quickly filled the hearts of those he had saved. Whatever the other mercenary wanted to say, it probably wouldn't be good.

"As you may have been able to figure out," Tassar began, "We've sacrificed quite a lot by rescuing you. We were originally supposed to ensure you and your captor got to Lycia safely. Lamentably, your blue-haired friend over there has some silly ideas about chivalry and ruined this job for us.

"If word gets out that we betrayed our employer, it'll be that much harder to find jobs around here. So, girls, I'm giving you this order. When we get back to Sacae, you're not gonna tell anybody what really happened here. Instead, you're going to spread this story around: One of you's the daughter of a wealthy baron in Etruria. I don't know who, make up a name if you have to. He hired us to rescue his child and kill the man who kidnapped her. All of you think you can keep that straight?"

The women all nodded and said yes--none of them thought a small lie was too much of a price to pay for their newfound freedom.

"Good, very good," said Tassar. "I'm glad to hear that. Why? Because never forget a face, and I've seen all of yours. If I ever hear anybody talking about how a flesh-monger in Sacae was betrayed by his own mercenaries, I'll know it was one of you who talked. And I'll come back to find you. Each and every one of you. And I'll do enough to you to make you wish you really had been sold into slavery."

"Tassar," Braddock yelled furiously, "how the hell can you say that? I didn't--"

"Shut up!" On this, Tassar would brook no dissent. "It's bad enough that you cost us our fee, but I won't let you tarnish our reputations as well. I'm not budging on this."

"I...alright, fine." Braddock had to concede defeat. "I don't like threatening people, but I guess it's the only way. At least all of you get to keep your freedom, then. Do you think you could do this for us, ladies?"

"Y-yes," said one of the girls, still looking fearfully at Tassar, "Of course! I mean, it's the least we could do...especially since if the other slavetraders heard that someone paid money to kill one of them, they...they won't be as eager to kidnap us again!"

"Good." Tassar gestured towards the wagon. "Alright, all of you get in there! It's warmer inside and we don't have any spare sets of clothing for any of you. Good thing we're not too far away from Bulgar...should be able to make it there pretty soon. After that, you're all on your own!"

With that, it seemed their course had been decided. All of the girls obediently filtered back into their former prison--it was no more comfortable than it had been before, but at least they were no longer chained down. Tassar took his place at the vehicle's head and pulled at the reins of its horses, a pair of rather stupid beasts who apparently took little heed of the fact their former master had just had his head split open.

As they rushed over to join their leader before he got the wagon moving back towards the city, Renault noticed that his friend still had a rather sour look on his face. "It's the best we can do, Braddock," he said apologetically. "You have to admit, Tassar has a point. I mean, even if we save these girls, it's not much good if we end up unemployed for the rest of our lives, right?"

Braddock sighed. "Yeah...yeah, you're exactly right. Sorry, Renault...sorry for all this trouble. Just got a thing about this kind of--"

"Yeah, I know," Renault grumped. "You and your white-knighting...that's the reason I'm still sending those dumb letters to...uh, what was her name?"

"Lisse, Renault. Lisse. And hey, it's not that bad," Braddock replied, a grin back on his face, "you've tolerated worse from me. After all, those letters don't cost one thousand five hundred gold pieces to send, right?"

Renault had to laugh at this bit of humor at his friend's own expense. "Yeah, yeah. Well, you know what? After this, I think I'm gonna start charging you interest on the money we get from the jobs we take from now on. You owe me a lot more than a thousand gold!"

They were now sitting beside each other, right behind Tassar as he directed the wagon back to Bulgar. "Ouch," winced Braddock, "a _lot_ more than a thousand? What the hell for?"

"You kidding? I saved your life twice back there, pal! You owe me big-time."

"Aw, man, you're right," sighed Braddock. "I was really out of it today...sorry, Renault."

"Heh, don't worry about it. But...you were pretty crazy, man, I haven't seen you that angry in a while. I know you, you've got some of the best combat instincts I've seen. If you forgot about all that, you must have been absolutely furious. What was up?"

The good cheer on Braddock's face had by now evaporated, replaced by melancholy. "Yeah...like I said, sorry. It's...well, a long story, I won't bore you. A woman I...somebody close to me was killed by a scumbag not too different from the one we killed just now."

"Ah, really?" Renault knew better than to pry, so he attempted to pick up his friend's spirits once more. "Well, not my business. Hell, works out better for me the more you owe me, after all!"

"Hah, hah!" Braddock was smiling again--mission succeeded. "Don't get too full of yourself, now. I've saved your hide a bunch of times too! Remember last month, when those armored Knights had you cornered? You'd have been done for if I hadn't carved 'em up right in the nick of time! Got myself a real nasty wound in the process, to..."

Renault made a face. "Ouch, yeah. Man, that was really bad...good thing one of our buddies knew how to use a Mend staff. Well, before he took an arrow to the back of the head, anyways. Alright then, we're even!"

"Even? What about our first fight? I saved your ass back there in Scirocco, too, don't forget! I think you still owe me!"

"Oh yeah? I thought you told me not to worry about that," countered Renault, smiling broadly as well. "Well, if I still got a debt to you, I guess I'll pay it back by hanging with you a little while longer. How's that sound?"

"Couldn't make me happier, man."

The two men continued to banter, the cold of a Sacaen winter offset by the warmth of the friendship which had grown between them over the years. They continued on to Bulgar, completely unaware of what the future had in store for them. The past two years had been pretty good for them, after all--Renault was more than happy with his life as a mercenary, and though Braddock wasn't quite as happy about it, he was content with his living, and with being around his friend. Neither of them thought this state of affairs would change anytime soon.

The next job they received, almost as soon as they reached Bulgar, in fact, would prove them very, very wrong.

_::Linear Notes::_

Just a couple of fun notes: TONS of little references in this chapter...fans of Final Fantasy Tactics, Brigandine: The Legend of Forsena, and some classic mecha animes might find some nice stuff in this installment. And a little shoutout to fans of religion, too...although so far Eliminism has been vaguely based on Catholicism/Christianity, this chapter introduces elements from other religious traditions as well. Think about it...is there one where the number 8 refers to an important tenet of belief? ;)

 


	13. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault, Tassar, and others meet people they haven't seen in a long time. And meanwhile, dark plots are afoot...

Wayward Son

13: Reunions

Renault hadn’t expected the biggest job of his career to come right after he’d just left a completely botched one. Still, he had long since learned that life really was full of unexpected surprises.

They had just finished seeing off the last of the girls they’d rescued from their unscrupulous captor. It had been more than a little awkward—not wanting to be seen, Tassar insisted upon driving the reeking caravan to a rather quiet, out of the way portion of Bulgar. Only then did he finally allow the cold, exhausted, and frightened young women to leave their miserable prison.

Of course, that was all he did. Brusquely ordering them once again to tell no-one of who, exactly, had rescued them, he then promptly informed them that they were on their own from this point on. Since most of them were barely clothed and carrying virtually nothing of value, the girls did not react to Tassar’s orders with anything even remotely resembling joy, but judging by the chilly way he turned his backs to them and started walking away, it wasn’t hard to figure out he wouldn’t be changing his mind.

Braddock had already tried to convince his commander that it would be good to at least provide for the girls in some way, and the abject failure of those attempts had taught him well enough not to try again. Still, as he and his friend followed Tassar back to their favorite bar where many mercenaries gathered, he still couldn’t keep an expression of disappointment off of his face.

“Sorry, man,” Renault whispered apologetically. “Still, look at it this way. What _could_ we have done? I mean, were we supposed to buy them all new food and clothes and then escort each and every one of them back to their homes? We don’t have nearly enough money saved up for that. We’re just three guys, we can’t save the world, right?”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right, Renault. Heh…who thought I’d be lectured on money by an Etrurian? I thought Ostians were supposed to be the thrifty ones!”

“Hey, you still know more about finances than me, at least. Don’t dwell on it too much, bud. Who knows, maybe our next job will be better. Hell, I’ll bet we rake in enough to make a thousand gold look like pocket money!”

As it so happened, Renault’s prediction would turn out to be eerily accurate…at least in a way. A single word, uttered behind them, stopped his conversation with his friend right in its tracks.

“Greetings.”

Braddock and Renault, not remembering anyone following them, immediately whirled around and put their hands to their weapons. Tassar, experienced as he was, didn’t react quite the same way, but the expression on his face as he leisurely stopped and glanced back indicated that there were other reasons he wasn’t at all panicked—he recognized the speaker.

At first glance, there seemed no reason why he would have. The man standing behind the trio was clad head to foot in pitch-black plate mail seemingly appropriate for a Paladin or other mounted warrior, yet he carried no sword and shield. His most distinguishing characteristics were the ebony visor covering his upper face (only his pale, pinkish lips and the wan skin around them could be seen), a bright red pauldron covering his right shoulder, and an odd black book he held in one hand with easy familiarity. It seemed like a spellbook, but Renault could not recall seeing any quite like it, either amongst the Light magic tomes in his mother’s library or the Anima tomes his very first employer had used.

“Who the hell are you?” Renault’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

The armored man smiled and raised a gauntleted hand in the air to reassure the men. “Easy, easy, brother. I’m not out to get you. Just the opposite! I’ve actually been looking for you three for some time, it’s just lucky you happened to pass by.”

“Looking for us, huh?” asked Braddock. He tightened his grip on his axe. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not here to give us some good news?”

“Calm down, Braddock.” Tassar stepped forward and clapped his subordinate on the shoulder, and both Braddock and Renault were surprised by the fact that he was smiling for the first time since they had returned to the city. “I know this guy, trust me. In fact, I’ve been waiting for him.” He turned to their peculiar new friend. “So lemme guess…it’s time to return to Etruria, right?”

The messenger grinned and nodded. “Exactly. We need…well, look at it this way. Mercenaries like you are in very high demand over there, brothers. Haven’t you heard the news? Nerinheit’s finally declared open rebellion against the crown. The countship of Padstow has joined them, and several other regions are expected to as well. The Prime Minister has sent out a call for mercenaries from all over Elibe.”

“Seriously? I can’t believe this.” Renault made no attempt to hide his skepticism. “Things are really so bad they need to call on mercenaries like us? Why can’t they just send in the Mage Corps?”

“Oh, they are. In fact, it’s expected to be a very short war. It’s not as if those poor northern countships could afford to raise up a very impressive army, after all. The Mage General himself will lead a troop of his most capable spellcasters to put down this little…insurrection. The Prime Minister still insisted on hiring many mercenaries as…backup, however. Just in case Nerinheit has something up his sleeve, or to maintain control over the ground the Mage Corps take. You might not even see any combat.”

“I still remember the first time we heard that,” said Braddock sourly. “It didn’t turn out so well.”

“Yes, yes, the affair in Scirocco, right? I know all about that, brother. That’s why I was sent to find you specifically, rather than just some random mercenaries. You, Tassar, and Renault have proven yourselves to be most excellent at surviving even when the unexpected strikes. That would make you ideal choices just in case Nerinheit truly does have some unexpected surprises, yes?”

“Oh, yeah? That’s nice, but I’m still not convinced. Who sent you, exactly?”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Tassar, the smile still on his face. “It’s an old friend of mine. An old benefactor, really. We share a few…well, let’s just say ideas in common. Trust me, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Huh, really?” Braddock seemed slightly more accepting, but not by much. “That’s still not too reassuring, though. Can’t you tell us who this guy is? Why the hush-hush?”

“I’d really like to, but…I can’t, at the moment. My benefactor really loves his privacy, and it’d be…troublesome if I told too many people. All I’ll say is that he has Etruria’s best interests at heart,” and he grinned at Braddock’s still-suspicious expression, “and believe me, he’s nothing like that slaver we killed. You’d actually get along really well with him, to be honest. If he was the kind of guy you’d hate, I wouldn’t be inviting you to come along with me to Etruria. After all, I wouldn’t want you ruining this job like you did the last one.”

“Hmm…” The Ostian regarded his old mentor for a moment, looked back at the mysterious messenger, then back at Tassar. “I…I’m still not sure…”

Tassar just shrugged in response. “Well, if you’re really not, I can’t convince you otherwise. It’s a pity, since we’ve known each other for so long, but if here’s where we part ways, that’s it. Really a shame, though…I mean, for this job we’d be sure to make a lot of money. Probably more than we would have made on our previous venture. Come on, I’ve led you well for the past few years, haven’t I? Why do you think I’d lead you wrong now?”

Once again, Braddock glanced at his old friend, then at the messenger, then back at Tassar. Finally, he shrugged. “Alright, why not. This couldn’t possibly be any worse than Scirocco, I guess. But speaking of…you sure we should go back to Etruria, boss? I mean, what if those rumors are still flying around?”

Tassar waved a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about that. We’ve been long forgotten by now, given all the other issues that country has had to deal with. It won’t be a problem.”

“Alright then, sounds good to me.” Braddock turned to Renault. “What about you, bud?”

“Hey, I’m going where you’re going. If you’re headin’ back to Etruria, so am I.”

“Ahh, excellent.” The black-clad man’s voice sounded well-pleased. “We’ll probably meet again in Etruria at some point. I look forward to seeing you soon, brothers.” He bowed deeply and turned his back on the party, heading down the street away from them. Though it was not a particularly bright winter day, Renault was still struck by the fact that the man seemed to try his best to cling to the shadows cast by the buildings.

“Well, that settles it,” said Tassar. “Come on, let’s get moving. We want to get back to Etruria as soon as possible…it’d be terrible if Nerinheit’s rebellion was crushed before we got there, right?”

Neither Renault nor Braddock saw fit to disagree, and though both of them were somewhat apprehensive about going back to Etruria after the unpleasant exit they’d made from that country, they both had faith in Tassar and didn’t believe he’d lead them wrong.

It was a strange thing, though. A very strange thing. No matter how much he tried, Braddock couldn’t quite dismiss the thought that his leader was motivated by something other than an opportunity for quick cash.

-X-

“Nice shootin’, Apolli.”

A white puff of cloudy breath accompanied those words as Gafgarion spoke them, and the middle-aged man couldn’t help but shiver as he stood in the cold winter air. He hated winter—even though he knew it wasn’t nearly as cold as it would have been farther north (not even to speak of Ilia or the Western Isles!) he still didn’t take very well to temperatures below those of a brisk autumn day. He was standing in the open air of Castle Caerleon’s tiny archery range. It was quite unimpressive, really—a pair of burlap archery targets with off-center circles crudely splashed onto them with not even paint, but excess blood from slaughtered animals courtesy of a nearby farmstead. To be fair, it wasn’t as if they were very often needed--Khyron employed only about half a dozen archers, Apolli counted among them, to defend his lands. This was not to imply the area was ill-defended--he and his fellow members of the Mage Corps were typically more than enough to take care of any threats rising from within the countship. Still, now that the crown had called them up for service, it seemed that Khyron’s non-magically inclined troops would have to hold down the fort while he was gone.

Thus, it was definitely a good thing, at least from a steward’s point of view, that Apolli was keeping his skills sharp. Upon hearing Gafgarion’s compliment, the young man lowered his bow and turned his head to regard his senior. And when he did this, Gafgarion was reminded of how, from a friend’s point of view, it was just as surely a bad thing Apolli had not put down his weapon permanently. He had nodded and smiled, as courtesy dictated, but Gafgarion could easily tell it was not genuine. Apolli’s hands trembled as he lowered his bow, his instinctive archer’s discipline giving way to his troubled emotions. His ‘smile’ was weak, his lips pulled upwards in what seemed to be a thin mask painted over a grimace. There was no sparkle in his eyes, only a blunted mingling of guilt and pain.

It may have been an improvement over how it was when they had first arrived—the first time Khyron had ordered him to continue his training with the bow, Apolli had been so distraught he wasn’t even able to pick up his weapon. Only an angry threat to evict both him and his would-be-father in law unless he regained the skill he’d displayed in Scirocco was enough to kick him back into shape. Still, Gafgarion was more than perceptive enough to see that even if the boy’s archery was improving, his mind was concurrently deteriorating.

Gafgarion moved closer to place a hand on the youth’s shoulders. “I got a minute. Wanna talk?”

Apolli found no need to keep up any sort of pretense, and the false smile fell from his face. He looked back towards the targets—both of which had a series of arrows protruding from their centers, or at least the off-center red dots plastered on them—then back towards Gafgarion, looking much more tired than one would expect from a mere bout of target-shooting, even in the cold of an Etrurian winter. “Yeah.”

Gafgarion nodded and gestured towards the nearby entrance of the castle. Together, they went inside. They didn’t bother taking off their heavy winter furs—even within the great building, the air was distinctly chilly. They continued through the winding halls, past servants who either nodded to them curtly or ignored them completely, before they came to their destination—a small, empty bench and table comfortably situated near the comparative warmth of the great castle kitchen. The kitchen itself was located near Castle Caerleon’s great hall, both so the servants wouldn’t have to walk very far to carry their meals to their lord’s feasts, and also to provide warmth during wet or chilly weather. The massive fires of the cookery were roaring as chefs and maids rushed to and fro, and this time they paid a little more attention to Apolli, since he often helped more than a bit with their duties whenever as per Khyron’s orders. Today, though, they were to be disappointed, for the de-facto steward of Caerleon waved off their attempts to dragoon his young friend into assisting with the cooking. That was enough to tell the servants he was discussing something important—even though most of them held almost as much contempt for ‘country bumpkins’ as their lord did, Gafgarion’s evident talent as an administrator had won their genuine respect, and none of them offered any complaint nor attempted to listen in when the two refugees from Sorveno began their conversation.

“It reminds me of h—I mean…of…of Sci-Scirocco,” began Apolli. “E-every time I pick up my bow, I r-remember…remember everything that happened. I think of the people I killed, a-and Y—“

“I know, lad. You’ve nothin’ to be ashamed of. I feel the same way every time I even look at my spear, though it’s been years since I had t’ use it, thank God.”

“But I…Gafgarion, i-isn’t it…when I hold my bow, when I p-practice like Khyron tells me to…isn’t it…isn’t it that sort of thing, s-sort of, which led t’ all that…all of it—“

“What’re y’ talkin’ about?” Gafgarion’s voice seemed to carry an undertone of disapproval.

“W-what happened to Yulia!” Apolli raised his voice, drawing glances from the crowd around him. Only a stern stare from Gafgarion brought him back to reality, and he continued, “I-I never wanted t’ kill anybody…never wanted t’ fight. But I ended up doing it a-anyways…and look what happened! Everyone…everyone in Scirocco…a-and Yulia! What happened to, oh God, Yulia!

“Th-they…I remember what th’ told me, what the priest told me, what Yulia told me. God…th’ Creator curses those who murder…and I murdered, Gafgarion! I picked up my bow…I killed those Pegasus Knights…and because of that, th-they killed Yulia! How…How c’n I keep doing this? I know Khyron says I have to, or else we both hafta leave, but…it feels like I’m spittin’ on Yulia!”

The hard, stern expression did not leave Gafgarion’s face. “Listen, lad, and listen well. I want you t’ stop talkin’ like that. Right now.”

“B-But—“

“No buts. This is nonsense you’re spewin’, Apolli. Total bunk. Stop it.”

The tone of his voice was enough to silence the young man, and he continued. “Apolli, tell me. Who…who killed m’ daughter?”

“I…it—“

“Just gimme a straight answer.”

“The…the guy we found. She was just tryin’ to help ‘im but—“

“That’s enough. And what about the people of Scirocco?”

“I-I don’t know…Poison—“

“Well? Did the entire town die by y’r bow?”

“N-no!”

“Then d’you see how foolish you’re bein’, lad? You weren’t responsible for Yulia’s death, and you weren’t responsible for what happened to Scirocco. Blamin’ y’rself for any of it…there’s no point. None at all.”

“B-but what about the times I fought? What about the Pegasus—“

“That was self-defense, Apolli. What could you have done? Stand around and let ‘em kill you? Kill Yulia?”

“No…b-but still, the Scriptures—“

“I know what they say, lad, and better’n you. Believe me. God may not smile on war, but He’d forgive you for what y’ had to do.”

The youth blinked, lost in thought, and Gafgarion could see his words had gotten through—but not entirely. “P-Pops,” said Apolli, “but then…what about what I didn’t do?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I…I couldn’t…I couldn’t protect her!” His voice was rising again, but this time he didn’t care. “I was a good archer…good with m’ bow, I always thought…but in the end it didn’t matter! Not at all! I…I couldn’t do anything when she died! All…I was good for, I was good for nothin’! So then…so then even if I train every day, even ‘f I become the best archer on Elibe, what would it matter? I wasn’t able to protect Yulia!”

Now, Gafgarion had no quick response to this—the boy was right, in his own way. Heedless of another round of curious stares from the servants passing by, the (comparatively) old ex-magistrate leaned forward on his bench, resting his hands on the table in front of Apolli.

“That’s true, Apolli,” he finally said. “I can’t deny that.

“I’ve…I’ve thought the same thing m’self many a time ever since you’n Roberto came back from Scirocco. If m’ son was a little quicker…if you were a lil’ stronger…”

Apolli’s eyes widened. “S-so it’s true! I—“

“Let me finish, lad. Yes, that’s what I thought. Yes, there were times I…I blamed you. Thought y’ weren’t good enough. But that was _wrong_ of me, Apolli. Understandable, ‘least from a father, I guess, but still _wrong_. I wasn’t there. I don’t know exactly what happened, or how she…she died. All I got is hearsay…and I can’t make a judgment on that. How do I know if there was anything you or Roberto could’ve done? Even if y’were th’ best sniper in the world, it might’ve happened the exact same way. I just don’t know.

“And neither do you, Apolli. How do you know y’ weren’t able to protect her? You did your best. Even if you’d trained for years like you’re doin’ now, there’s no guarantee that would have changed anything.”

“But…but then I was right,” cried Apolli. “What’s the point of trainin’, then? If I couldn’t have saved her back then, even if I was a great archer…what’s the point of tryin’ to become one now?”

“’Cause you’re still alive, Apolli!” said Gafgarion, his voice rising slightly in irritation. “Yulia’s dead, and neither of us c’n change that, no matter how much we’d like to. She meant the world to us, yeah, and now she’s gone. But the world’s still turnin’, boy, and it ain’t stoppin’ just ‘cause we think it should’ve. You may not’ve been able t’ live up to your responsibility to protect Yulia…and hell, maybe I failed as a father for not even bein’ near her when she needed me. But we can’t allow ourselves to stew over what we woulda, coulda, shoulda done. The only thing we can do is go and learn from our mistakes, try not t’ repeat them, and at least try to be better’n we were.

“Would you have been able to save her if you were a great archer? Maybe not. Hell, probably not. But who knows? Neither of us knows, right? So then why’re you settin’ back on tryin’ to improve yourself, lad? No, y’ can’t go back in time as a great sniper and see if y’ coulda saved her. But if you become a great sniper someday, y’ may be able to save someone else. You never know. We can’t bring her back, but we can keep what happened to her from happenin’ to anyone else.”

“S-she would want that,” mumbled Apolli, almost to himself. “But…a bow is a weapon. For killing people…she never wanted me to kill people.”

“Aye, and neither do I. I know, lad. I can’t say anythin’ about what she’d want…none o’ that old, dusty nonsense about what she would’ve wanted you t’ do and all. She ain’t here. We can’t say. But her father’s still here, and th’ man she loved is still here. So what do we want to do? I c’n tell you what I want. I want t’ keep livin, and t’ do my best at whatever I have to, t’ keep anythin’ like what happened to us from happenin’ again. So what about you? You jus’ wanna stay like this, waste away from grief?”

“N…no.”

“Well, then?”

He turned his face upwards to look the other man square in the eyes. “I don’t want to kill people. I…I don’t want to turn my weapon against another man ever again.”

This didn’t erode Gafgarion’s composure one bit. “That’s what y’ don’t want to do. I asked you what you did want.”

“I…Gafgarion, you’ve always been kind to me, prob’ly more’n I deserve. You’re th’ father of the girl I loved. I want to help you.”

“So what’ll you do?”

“I…I’ll keep on with my training. I’ll try to be a better archer…Yulia may not…she may not be alive, but ‘er father is. I’ll…I’ll do my best to protect ‘im! I…I don’t know if it means I’ll have to turn m’ bow towards war again…but there’s no sense worryin’ about it till I know for sure. So till then…till then, I’m gonna try and get better. So I can protect you!” With this, he smiled hesitantly, and this time it was genuine.

Gafgarion smiled as well, and clapped the youth on the shoulder. “Good man, Apolli, I knew I could count on you. I…” he paused for a moment, “no matter what happened, I think Yulia made a good choice in you.”

Apolli didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he simply allowed his smile to grow wider.

That smile would quickly turn into a flinch and an expression of shock when he heard a loud voice from behind him.

“What are you doing?”

Both of the men hastily turned their heads to see Lord Khyron indignantly stomping out of the Great Hall and towards their spot in the kitchen. Just as hastily they rose from their seats and paid obeisance to their liege.

“Beggin’ y’r pardon, milord,” said Gafgarion, “but we were just havin’ a little—“

“Idle chatter, I know,” came the reply. “I’m not so concerned about you, Gafgarion, but I’m distinctly disappointed in your young ward. I specifically ordered him to assist with the cooking, for my party and I are leaving tomorrow and I’ve no desire to begin the campaign against Nerinheit on either an empty stomach or one filled with unsatisfactory fare. I enter my kitchen to see how work is progressing, and what do I see but one of my best chefs merely killing time? I expect better, you know!”

“Sir,” said Rosamia from behind him, since she had followed her master out of his Great Hall when she heard his loud admonishments, “I mean no disrespect, but might it not be wise to show some clemency? Both of these men have been working extremely hard for you. It surely wouldn’t hurt to allow them a small bit of rest, yes?”

“We must all work hard, Rosamia. You and I at our studies in magic, knights with their swordsmanship, and so on. These two are no exception.”

“Ah-ah,” said Gafgarion, “but believe me, m’lord, it wasn’t just idle chatter! Apolli was outside practicin’ with his bow, y’see. He did exceptionally well, all bulls-eyes, y’know! So I thought I’d just bring him in and give ‘im a few more pointers, to help him improve even more. I ain’t no archer, but I’ve seen a few in my time. Figured he could use some of my advice.”

That seemed to mollify Khyron, and the irritation on his face gave way to a neutral expression. “Ah! I see. Well, that is acceptable. I certainly applaud your enthusiasm for helping the boy sharpen his skills, I only wish more commoners showed that kind of initiative. However, there is a time and a place for everything, and now is the time for preparing a meal, not talk of archery. Gafgarion, I expect you will allow the boy to do his job in the kitchen now that he has completed his job on the range, yes?”

“O-of course, milord.”

“Very good then. Of course, don’t forget you have duties to attend to yourself. You’ll be in charge of things while I’m gone, and after I return from Exedol’s successful campaign I expect my lands to be in perfect condition! I myself must make more preparations …although he certainly won’t need our assistance, it would be shameful to accompany my brother in any less than maximum strength, and so I shall spend some time in the library working with my spells. Come along, Rosamia.” With that, he turned away from the men and back towards the Great Hall.

Rosamia decided to stay behind for a moment. “Once again, I apologize,” she sighed. “The work he has been doing recently to prepare for the expedition Lord Exedol is leading against Nerinheit has put him in a foul temper, but still…that is no excuse.”

“Heh, please, no worries, Rosamia,” said Apolli. “It’s alright. We…we can take it, Right, pops?”

“Still,” she replied, “I can’t help but worry. Both you and your father truly have been working very hard for us ever since you arrived, and I’m not sure Khyron understands that. I appreciate everything you’ve done, of course, but I cannot countenance asking too much of you. No matter what Khyron may say about ‘commoners,’ he has no right to mistreat you!”

“We understand, and believe me, miss, we appreciate y’r concern even more,” said Gafgarion, “but trust us, we don’t have a problem. We got by after…Scirocco, so we can definitely get by now.”

“That’s right,” and when he said this Apolli’s smile was tinged again with a bit of sadness, “and anyways, if you can deal with the stuff Khyron puts you through, so can we. I’ve heard how he talks about you, nobody’s got a right to treat a lady like that!”

Rosamia just looked down and chuckled in response, her hands crossed below her chest. “Sweet as always…thank you, Apolli. Still, like you, I have my duties. And since—“

“Rosamia, where are you?” yelled Khyron from elsewhere. “Don’t think of shirking your studies, girl! Lord knows you need them more than I do!”

“Well, there you go,” said Rosamia, rolling her eyes. “I must be off. Stay well, both of you.”

“Sure thing.” Both of them smiled as they watched Rosamia make her hasty exit. Neither of them, of course, was quite genuinely happy. But as Apolli went off to help the grateful chefs prepare their cured meat, and as Gafgarion plodded back to the castle’s chapel to pray for Apolli, the success of Khyron’s mission, and the well-being of Caerleon as a whole, they both felt better than they had been for a long time.

They might very well have felt differently if either of them knew what their lord’s departure portended.

-X-

Renault had thought Aquleia to be a peerlessly impressive, even awe-inspiring city the first time he stepped through its gates. When he returned over a year and a half later, he saw little reason to change that assessment.

Etruria as a whole hadn’t been doing so well lately, which was part of the reason countships like Nerinheit had rebelled in the first place. However, the troubles which plagued the rest of the country seemed to have left its capitol untouched.

Everything was as Renault remembered, from the alabaster dragon’s teeth which served as the city’s gates to the beautiful architecture of the buildings the metropolis was composed of. There was one thing that was very obviously different, however—the composition of the crowd. Though the wealthy nobles, merchants, and mages were still there, they were rubbing shoulders with many, many more mercenaries.

From seemingly all across Elibe they had arrived. A group of Sacaean horsemen atop their mounts steadily rode towards the same destination Renault and his friends were headed—the great Royal Palace. A trio of Knights clanked past them, and when he saw them Braddock ducked behind a nearby stall, forcing Renault and Tassar to halt for a moment. Apparently, one of the Knights was Ostian, and Braddock feared he may have been recognized. Those weren’t the only Lycians looking for a job in the Kingdom’s campaign against the rebels, of course—once they resumed their progress, Renault caught sight of a few Cavaliers, even a Paladin or two, and a couple of mages who were wearing Lycian garb.

Apparently, the Crown’s call for sellswords had reached much, much farther than even Lycia, for it was on his way to the Palace that Renault caught his first sight (at least he thought so) of an ethnicity he had previously only read about—a Nabatan. Walking beside them (not intentionally, his pace was simply similar to theirs) was a very handsome young Sword Master with dusky skin and long blond hair which reached down to his back. Though Renault knew the combination of dark skin and blond hair wasn’t so uncommon in other parts of Elibe, like Bern, the swordsman’s robes did not look Bernese, so he assumed the man could only have hailed from the harsh deserts of Nabata.

A great shadow suddenly passed over all of the men, and Renault, Braddock, Tassar, and their Nabatan companion only had time to blink before they suddenly found themselves in the midst of a great hue and cry as the citizens around them frantically scrambled to get as far away from the area as they could. A glance upwards revealed the reason for the commotion—a Wyvern Lord from Bern was bearing down on them, spear at the ready!

Letting instinct take over, both Braddock and Renault jumped and rolled to the left and right respectively, unsheathing their weapons and preparing for battle. Tassar, on the other hand, merely stood impassively with a quizzical expression on his face, while an expression of both dismay and anger was painted on the Nabatan’s as he put a hand to the fine curved sword at his belt.

As soon as Renault and Braddock got up, though, they quickly reached the same conclusion Tassar had—whoever this new guy was, he wasn’t looking for a fight. As it turned out, he just wanted to say hello to an old friend. The descending Wyvern Lord had indeed been aiming for the Nabatan, but instead of skewering him he landed right in front of the man with a small puff of blown snow and laid his spear smoothly over his shoulder. “Hey, Dougram,” he smiled, “long time no see. You’re here to sign up for the war against Nerinheit, right?”

“Y-Yazan!” the Nabatan stammered, “Why the hell are you here?”

“C’mon, don’t be dense. Same reason you’re here, I assume. This war is looking to be the biggest one since that stuff in Lycia a few years back, and the Crown’s paying mercenaries like us really well! Man, I can’t wait to get started…this looks to be the most fun I’ve had in a long while.”

The swordsman—Dougram—made no secret of his disappointment and offense. “Yazan, you haven’t changed a bit! You’re still the same psychotic scumbag you always were! People are going to die in this war, and you’re calling it ‘fun?’ You sicken me!”

Yazan sighed and rolled his eyes. “Ugh, and you’re still the same sentimental moralist you always were. Well, whatever. I was just wondering, you know where the Royal Palace is? This damn city’s so big I can’t pick it out even from the air!”

“I’m not telling you! Find it yourself!”

“Ugh! Seriously, what a damn killjoy. Look, Dougram, you can stop this holier-than-thou shit anytime. You should be happy a war’s breaking out, you’re a mercenary too, after all. It’s more money in your pocket, just like it is in mine. But—hey, wait, never mind. Maybe these guys would know!”

He was referring not to the nearby Tassar, Braddock, and Renault but rather to the contingent of spellbook-equipped guardsmen who had come rushing over to see what all the fuss was about. The sight of a wyvern rider, symbol of their hated rival Bern’s elite armed forces, did nothing to calm them down.

“Bernite scum!” one of them cried. “What are you doing here? You’ve got some nerve, coming to the very capitol of our country alone! What are you, a spy? A saboteur! Put down your weapon and hand yourself in! If this is a Bernese plot, know that the Mage Corps of Etruria will burn your entire wretched country to ashes…starting with you!”

As much as Yazan loved fighting, now wasn’t the time for it. He patted his black wyvern’s head to keep him from growling, then raised up a hand as a friendly gesture. “Hey, hey, I’m not here to make trouble. Not right now, anyways. I don’t have anything to do with Bern’s military, I’m here entirely for myself. I don’t work for those guys anymore anyways…I’m a mercenary. I gotta get to the Royal Palace…you know where it is?”

The guard was not yet convinced. “Why the hell should we tell you? We don’t even know if you’re telling the truth.”

Yazan simply shrugged in response. “Hey, if you don’t believe me, you could just cross the border and ask Bern. The Wyvern Generals themselves kicked me out…hell, I think I’m a wanted man back there.” He grinned down wolfishly at the shocked guards. “I mean, even in my own homeland, accepting a bribe to kill my commanding officer and then committing a series of murders while escaping the country would be enough to make me pretty unpopular. If you guys were to bring my charred corpse back to the King of Bern, he’d probably give you a medal!”

This obviously wasn’t the response the guards were looking for. “Y-you blackheart! There’s no reason you should be allowed to taint this city with your presence a moment longer! Prepare to die!”

“Hah! Hold on there, boy,” Yazan laughed. “Gimme your best shot if you want, but keep in mind your King won’t be too happy about it.”

“What in blazes do you mean?”

“Like I said, I’m a mercenary, and a damn good one too. In fact, I was specifically asked to come here, because I’ve served the crown so well in battle before! You take me out, your little campaign against Nerinheit will have to make do with a hell of a decrease in air power. I don’t think Galahad will be too happy about that, right?” He turned to Dougram, still grinning wolfishly. “And if you don’t believe me, ask that Nabatan fella over there. He’s fought beside me a few times, right?”

The guards looked at Dougram themselves. “Is…is that true?”

Dougram’s eyes narrowed in anger, and a grimace twisted his face. “I…dammit, I can’t tell a lie! Justice won’t allow it! Yes, what he said is true. He is a mercenary…a twisted, psychotic mercenary, but one who’s managed to worm his way into your King’s good graces. As much as I’d like to see him dead, he’s done nothing deserving of death today…at least not that I know of.”

“Well, there you go,” laughed Yazan. “Now, I know you don’t want me hanging around, so just tell me where the Royal Palace is, huh? The sooner I get my contract, the sooner I can get the hell out of here. Everybody’s happy, right?”

By this point, the guards seemed to be just as angry as Dougram, but they had to admit the murderous Bernite had a point. “It…it’s directly to the northeast,” the lead guardsman spat. “You can’t possibly miss it on the back of your…beast. It’s the largest structure in the city and surrounded by the forests which are the king’s personal hunting grounds. Now go and get out of our sight!”

Yazan offered them a lazy salute. “There, was that so hard? Thanks, boys! Now, come on, Hambrabi. Let’s get going.” He spurred his mount lightly, and with a strong leap over the heads of the surprised guards and a few heavy flaps of his wings he had risen high into the air, Yazan chuckling merrily atop his back as the beast spirited him northeast.

“Damn,” Renault muttered to himself as he watched Yazan soar off, “what a lunatic.” He turned to regard Dougram curiously. “You knew that guy?”

The grimace on the swordmaster’s face was gone, but he was still frowning. “Unfortunately, yeah. It’s one of the drawbacks of being a mercenary, I guess…a lot of the times you have to work with some true villains, the kind of people who care more about money than justice.”

Renault wasn’t quite certain their new friend was that much more sane, given his odd fixation on ‘justice,’ but Braddock apparently felt differently. “Ain’t that the truth, man. Well, good thing you don’t seem to be that kind of guy.” The Ostian walked over to the Nabatan and held out his hand. “I’m Braddock. Nice to meet you.”

The hand was accepted with a nod. “Same here. My name’s Dougram.” He looked over Braddock’s shoulder to his friends.

Both Renault and Tassar knew a cue when they saw one, the former introducing himself with a somewhat guarded, distrustful, “Renault,” and the latter grinning and nodding. “Tassar. Well met, friend.”

It would be Renault who’d ask the first question of their new companion. “So where’re you from? Nabata?”

Dougram blinked. “Y-yes…how’d you know?”

“Hah! I’ve done a lot of reading. Your skin color along with your clothes gave you away. Man, you’re really far away from your homeland. How’d you even hear of Etruria’s troubles? I didn’t think the news would reach as far as uncivilized wastelands like Nabata.”

This was exactly the wrong thing to say. “You don’t know anything,” yelled Dougram. “Nabata holds glories you couldn’t even dream of!”

“Like what? Sand dunes? Oh yeah, real impressive.”

“Hey, Renault, come on,” said Braddock, somewhat disappointed with his friend. “Do you have to do this every time? I mean, Etruria’s not that great either. I don’t know much about Nabata, but if it’s not having a civil war right now, I think it’s doing a bit better than your homeland in at least one respect.”

Renault couldn’t refute that, so he just chuckled in assent. “Yeah, you got me there, Braddock. Alright, I’m sorry for insulting your home country, Dougram. Guess I don’t have much reason to talk, since my own birthplace is apparently so poorly run it’s rising up in rebellion. No hard feelings?”

Dougram still seemed somewhat displeased, but he accepted the apology. “Yeah, sure. I’ve heard worse before, after all. Still, you say this country’s poorly run? It sounds like you don’t like the aristocracy too much.”

Braddock snorted. “Are you kidding me? We hate those assholes! And their pet clergy, too.”

Dougram more than shared these sentiments, and any tensions which might have lain between the quartet dissipated as their conversation turned towards the objects of their mutual hatred. Together, they followed the now-forgotten Yazan northeast towards the Royal Palace, chatting about how unpleasant it would be to have to serve under a bunch of pompous windbags like the Etrurian nobility.

“Well, at least we’d be getting paid well for our troubles,” chuckled Braddock as they neared the Holy Royal Road. “Even though I don’t like the Crown, I, uh, kinda messed up the last job we were on, so I owe it to my buddies to accept the highest-paying gig we can get. Hey, you don’t look like the kind of guy who’s so concerned about that stuff, though, judging by all the things you say about ‘Justice.’ Why do you wanna take this job, anyways? Hell, why’re you even a mercenary?”

Dougram nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t become a mercenary because I wanted the money…that’s just an afterthought, really. I don’t need any more than necessary to be able to keep continuing with my journey. No…no, I’m a mercenary because I’m…looking for someone.”

“Huh? Looking for somebody?”

“Yeah. A villainous, blackhearted murderer who killed my mother.

“See, I grew up in a town called…well, don’t worry about its name. It’s just a really tiny, out of the way village deep in the Nabata desert. It’s not on any map, and you couldn’t find it even after years of searching.”

“Isn’t that the case for most of what could pass for human settlements in Nabata?” Renault smirked, but fortunately Dougram was too engrossed in his story to pay any attention.

“I was truly happy there…it would be hard for you to believe, but that place was as close to paradise as you could get, unless you believe in Eliminism, of course. But this guy…the man I’m looking for, he almost destroyed all that.

“He’s a dark magician, an incredibly powerful one. We…we thought he was our friend, but he betrayed us. He learned the secrets of stealing quintessence, or life force from living beings…he killed many people so he could use their life force to grow stronger. One of those people was my mother. The elder of our village wouldn’t stand for it, of course, so he lured the villain into the desert to finish him off. He almost succeeded…almost.

“The dark one suffered a hideous wound to his right eye, but he managed to escape anyways. Fortunately, he didn’t come back…he was far too weak, and we would have killed him easily. Nobody knows where he ran off to…now that he was gone, most people in my village were happy to just sigh in relief and forget everything that happened…even my own father. Not me, though…that bastard killed my mother! I couldn’t let him get away with it!

“It took a whole lot of convincing, but I finally managed to get the elder’s approval to leave the village. 5 years ago, when I was just a teenager, for the first time in my entire life, I stepped out of Nabata into the wider world. I had no idea where to even begin my search…so I became a mercenary. The dark magic my mother’s killer uses feeds off death and destruction. I figured I’d be able to find him wherever there was war. I searched through Sacae and Lycia, but no luck…guess he didn’t have anything to do with the conflicts in those countries. Now I’m here in Etruria, to see if he’s profiteering off this civil war. And when I find him…mark my words, I’ll bring him to justice!”

“Damn.” Braddock whistled sympathetically. “Man, I sympathize with you. My…someone close to me was killed by someone not too different, though he was supposedly a man of the cloth instead of a dark magician. Still, like I said, I know how you feel. Sick people are all over Elibe, I guess…”

“Who’d the clergyman—“ Renault suddenly stopped his line of questioning, seeing his friend didn’t want to talk about it, as usual. “Ah…well, forget it. Anyways, Braddock, I can definitely see why you hate the Church…”

“Indeed,” said Dougram. “They’re wrong about so many things, though maybe they’re right about dark magic…still, I wouldn’t go that far.” Suddenly, a spark of inspiration seemed to hit him. “Hey! You’re mercenaries too, right? Maybe you’ve seen or heard of my quarry somewhere. Here, let me show all of you what he looks like.” Reaching into one of the folds of his light robe, Dougram brought out a small woodcut and showed it to his friends.

The moment Renault saw that picture, he felt a chill down his spine like he’d never experienced before. He had no idea why he’d have that reaction, for he didn’t recognize the man depicted at all. If the woodcut was to scale, the magician would have been very tall, perhaps as much as Prime Minister Paptimus. He was much leaner and skinnier, though it was hard to tell since his form was covered by long, flowing robes. His face was the most detailed—apparently, Dougram’s village had some very skilled artisans. It was long and narrow, and the lines on it indicated that it sneered much more than it smiled. The man’s eyes were also narrow and piercing, and there seemed to be a sort of cruel laughter in them, almost as if they were mocking anyone they came across. Over one of them was scratched a large X, indicating the wound to the right eye Dougram had mentioned. There was a short, curled goatee on the man’s chin, and his hair was also short but straight, combed right back. The presence, which could be felt even from a mere woodcut, was almost overwhelmingly sinister and malevolent.

“His name is Nergal,” said the Nabatan with hatred infusing every word. “He has no conscience at all and thinks of nothing except gaining more power. Someday I think he may truly become a threat to all of Elibe, if even half the things he said he could do with enough life force were true…that’s another reason I want to find him so badly. So…so can any of you help me?”

Tassar shook his head. “Sorry. Never seen the guy before, and I’ve been in this business a long while. Braddock?”

“Nope. Never seen him or even heard of anybody like him either. What about you, Renault? H-hey…Renault?”

Renault was transfixed by the image before him, and it took a clap on the shoulder from Braddock to bring him back to his senses. “Huh? W-what?”

“Renault, have you seen this guy before? You sure look like you recognize him?”

“Huh? N-no, not at all. Never seen him before.”

“Really? Weird…you were staring really hard at his mug. You sure?”

“Yeah, completely sure. It’s just that…”’

“What?”

“I’ve never seen him before…but…I can’t shake the feeling that I _will_ see him someday. I…I can’t explain it. It’s like a premonition or something.”

Braddock laughed. “C’mon, that superstitious nonsense? You know better than to take that stuff seriously.”

Renault laughed nervously. “Hehe, yeah…sorry about that. And sorry, Dougram…guess I wasn’t that much help.”

The Nabatan didn’t seem entirely convinced—perhaps he took more stock in premonitions than the others. “Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks anyways.” He put the woodcut back into his robe. “If you ever see this guy, though…well, look. Don’t try to take him on by yourself, trust me. He’s way too dangerous.”

“We’ll keep that in mind if we ever meet him,” said Tassar in his classic deadpan. “And we’ll see if we can find him somewhere in Nerinheit. We’re nearing our destination…look.”

All of them turned to look where Tassar was pointing. They were heading towards the castle from the south rather than the north as they had the first time, and though they were near the south gate, they couldn’t get a good view of it—it was obscured by a great line of milling, impatient mercenaries. The Crown had apparently left no stone unturned in its quest for sellswords—the front plaza was already filling up with freebooters who’d signed their contracts and were waiting for their employers to come out and give a speech detailing their assignment. A small contingent of royal bureaucrats stood valiantly before the great gate, frantically negotiating contracts and payments with as many mercenary groups as possible, but even though those brave men were working as fast as they could Renault could easily tell it would be hours before he’d be able to sign up himself.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips, a sentiment which his three companions shared. It had been a chilly early afternoon when they’d first arrived, and by the time Renault, near the end of the line, managed to even come close to the South Gate, it was early evening. The wait had been unbearably boring, exacerbated by the low temperatures (and lack of bathroom breaks, of course). The only interesting part of the ordeal came almost just as soon as it was finally over. For a while, Renault’s eyes had been drawn to the lone mercenary directly in front of his group. He was a heavily-built man with orange hair and a scraggly, unkempt beard who carried a large, vicious-looking axe on his back. He turned back once—his gaze overlooking those right behind him, so Renault couldn’t get a good look at his face, but he had a black eyepatch over his left eye. Renault wasn’t sure why, but the man seemed oddly familiar…and when the bureaucrat he was dealing with mentioned his name, the reason quickly became apparent to Renault.

“Very well, Sir Roberto. You are now officially under the employ of the Etrurian Crown as a mercenary serving under Lord Paptimus, Right Hand of the King. Serve this country well.”

Roberto simply grunted in response, and perhaps that more than anything else confirmed his identity. “H-Hey, Braddock,” Renault whispered excitedly, “In-in front of us, that orange-haired fighter…isn’t that—“

“Now that you mention it, yeah…I think that’s Roberto, from Scirocco. Hey—“

Their reunion was not to be—Tassar wouldn’t allow it. “We’ll have time for a get-together later. Now, just get our contracts. Be quick about it.”

The bureaucrats were quite tired and wanted to get this job over with as quickly as possibly by this point, so Renault, Tassar, Braddock, and Dougram found themselves holding contracts bearing the royal seal and stating their pay would be based on performance while being ushered into the huge front plaza of the royal palace. To the dismay of Braddock and Renault, by this point Roberto had blended in with the mercenary crowd—try as they might, they couldn’t single him out from anyone in the plaza.

Indeed, under better circumstances, the plaza itself probably would have been a very impressive sight. However, occupied as it was by a small army of noisy, irritated mercenaries, it was hard to get a decent view of the premises. Renault hoped he’d be able to see more of it someday, but that train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the Prime Minister himself along with a small cohort of the more influential nobles of the Court. Apparently, all the sellswords the crown wanted to hire had been gathered. Things would be starting very soon.

“Greetings to all of you, heroic warriors!” The Prime Minister’s voice somehow boomed across the entire great plaza, a difficult feat even for one of his impressive physical stature. Magic must have been involved, Renault assumed—especially since he could feel the slight tingling of a spell, something he recognized after living with a bishop for much of his life. “Uh…I’m actually not so good at giving speeches—weird for a Prime Minister, I know—but since I’m the one who hired all of you, I thought it’d be appropriate f’r me to brief you instead of anybody else. First off, I just wanted to thank all of you—each and every one of you—for signing up. You’ll be compensated monetarily, sure, but even more than that, the Kingdom and Royal Crown of Etruria will always remember your assistance during its time of need.” At this, Renault could have almost sworn he saw a sly smile momentarily flit across the Minister’s face, but he quickly dismissed that notion as a trick of the waning evening light.

“Still,” Paptimus continued, his unpretentious, common manner of speech gradually gaining the esteem of many of the mercenaries assembled, “I have to be honest with you, I don’t think you guys will be doing a whole lot. Nerinheit’s army isn’t that impressive, comparatively…a bunch of his personal knights are its core, with the mass being made up of mainly disgruntled peasants and laid-off soldiers. My friend the Mage General, Count Exedol, and his younger brother, Khyron,” he gestured to the two black-haired men standing to his right, “will lead a battalion of the Mage Corps against Nerinheit’s upstarts. All of you know how strong we Etrurian mages are, so you definitely don’t have to worry about being on the losing side of this battle.

“You’ll probably just be doing a few things, then. The first is as a backup in case Nerinheit really does have something surprising up his sleeve. Secondly, and more directly, you’ll protect the flanks and back of the Mage Knight force. They can burn pretty much anything that comes at them from a frontal attack, but foes coming from the sides or behind can be pretty annoying for mages to deal with. Finally, after the battle’s won, we’ll still have to spend a lot of time restoring order to the rebel countships, rebuilding, and taking care of bandits and thieves who’ve been having the run of the land while Nerinheit and his knights were busy with their little insurrection. All of you will be helping us with that. Any questions? The plaza’s enchanted so I can hear anything anybody says inside the castle grounds, so don’t be shy.”

As expected, there were very few. The entire operation seemed to be pretty straightforward, after all.

“Alright, I think that about settles it,” said Paptimus. He looked at the sky, which was rapidly darkening. “It’s getting pretty late…I think we’re about done here. Exedol’s main army will leave from the North Gate at the break of dawn tomorrow, so I want all of you to show up and be ready to move out by then! For now, though, go buy some more equipment from any of this city’s many vendors and merchants, or get some rest—every inn and tavern should be open for you, and several private residences have been quartered for military use as well. Uh, you’re gonna have to leave the palace grounds soon, though…we, uh, need them for a function—“

It would be reasonable to ask what, exactly, that function would be, but fortuitously enough one of the oblivious nobles standing behind Paptimus would reveal the answer. “Yes, yes, I do hope those tiresome mercenaries leave very soon,” whispered a grossly fat, bearded aristocrat to an only marginally less chubby colleague beside him, both behind the Prime Minister’s shoulder. “The great ball is going to start soon, very soon! King Galahad was so excited about it, you know. After all, we needed a grand fete to inaugurate the beginning of a glorious campaign, correct? All of the most powerful nobles and members of the clergy are going to attend—they should be on their way here now, in fact! Oh, it will be delightful, I assure you!

“I can only hope these uncouth mercenaries leave before the festivities begin. Oh, how terribly ugly and smelly most of them are! Well, except for those Pegasus Knights, you know…what were they called…the Shrike Team, I think? Very famous in Ilia. I paid for them out of my own pocket, you know! Prime Minister Paptimus seems to have something against Ilian mercenaries, but I can’t fathom why…I mean, those girls are so cute! Just look at them, with their long stockings and those short skirts which give the rest of us the most tantalizing teases of the fair, silky skin of their thighs…ooooh, I certainly wouldn’t mind any of those girls attending any of my parties…if you know what I mean, that is.”

Only when he noticed Paptimus’ hard expression—and the entire crowd of mercenaries staring at him angrily—did the lascivious aristocrat stop his unfortunately-timed monologue on Ilia. “Count Bramsel,” deadpanned the Prime Minister, “you’re standing within the field of the enchantment. Everyone can hear you.”

“O…oh dear! Oh, Saint Elimine, save me!” The fat man’s face grew beet red, and with barely a pause he rushed—well, more like waddled hastily—straight back into the confines of the castle as quickly as his pudgy legs could possibly take him. The rest of his horribly embarrassed colleagues quickly followed, leaving poor Paptimus entirely alone.

He sighed heavily. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Definitely not the nobility’s brightest hour,” and this was enough to bring peals of raucous laughter from the mercenaries, Renault, Braddock, and Dougram among them, “but hey, at least all of you won’t have to deal with it any more once the campaign against Nerinheit is finished. Me, I’ve had to deal with it for years. Still…that’s really enough. We’ve all got jobs to do—I have to go over the attack plans with Exedol one last time, and I’m sure most of you want to either rest or prepare your equipment before we leave tomorrow. All of you, good luck!”

With that, the Prime Minister of Etruria followed his foolish noble friends back into the castle, and the great crowd of mercenaries in the plaza began to disperse, making their way back into the city while grumbling about the ‘stupid nobles’ they had to serve.

“Aw man, I’m glad that’s over,” yawned Renault as his friends passed through the gate, “though seeing that fat idiot humiliate himself was more than worth it. Anyways, hey, Dougram, what’re you gonna do now?”

“Me? Huh…I’ve only got one blade on me at the moment. It’s a damn fine one—great at striking killing blows, in fact—but it’s not the sturdiest sword in the world. I think I’m going to stock up on some extra equipment, just in case.” He distinctly shivered. “And buy some new clothes…after a few years in Lycia I forgot how cold winters here can get. It’s almost as bad as nights in Nabata, those are as cold as the days are hot.”

“I think we’ve got enough spare equipment,” said Tassar, and Braddock and Renault agreed. “Guess this is where we part ways. Nice meeting you, Dougram, and I look forward to fighting beside you.”

Braddock and Renault agreed with this again, and the three of them said goodbye to their new friend with a cheerful wave. “Anyways,” began Tassar, “I’m going to head to that inn over there and get us some rooms. After that, we’ll have to part ways ourselves…only for a bit. I have something I need to take care of…alone.” His tone of voice indicated he’d not change his mind. “How about you, Braddock? And you, Renault?”

Braddock grinned. “Hey, if you’re gonna go out by yourself, why not me and Renault? Last time I was here Renault told me I should appreciate it more, so I figured I might as well give it a taste, huh? Whaddya say, bud?”

His friend grinned back. “Sounds good to me. That okay, Tassar?”

The veteran mercenary shrugged. “Do what you want. Just be back at the inn by midnight, or at least at the North Gate of the city before dawn.”

And with that, the three men began the adventures that would mark their second visit to the great city of Aquleia.

-X-

“Man, just look at these jerks,” snorted Braddock as he and Renault stood outside the South Gate, watching a procession of nobles saunter in to attend King Galahad’s great ball. “There’s a damn war going on, and all they can think of is partying? Jeez…”

“Yeah.” Renault rolled his eyes, and then turned them towards the arrival of the next few guests of honor. “Oh, look at that, an Eliminean bishop…hah. They always show up at these kinds of events. Officially, they’re supposed to bless the proceedings and ask for God and the Saint to guide the rulers of these lands, but all they really do is gorge themselves on the food and booze. Disgusting.”

“You know it.” Braddock sneered at the approaching group. Though they were still too far away for him to get a good look at any of them, he could still spot the bishop’s gilded crosier flashing in the flickering torchlights of nighttime Aquleia. That was all he needed to see to know that the newcomer was deserving of nothing but contempt.

However, when the group drew near enough for him to make out the face of their leader, Braddock noted that Renault’s feelings might very well have changed significantly.

“Hey, Renault, what’s up?” asked Braddock, wondering why his friend was now staring intently at the bishop. He turned to look himself, and thought he happened on the answer to Renault’s sudden fascination. It was a female bishop he was looking at—an older woman, about twenty years older than either of them. Her clerical vestments didn’t make it easy to tell, but she seemed to have a slight build and long teal hair which reached just above the small of her back. Her face wasn’t bad looking either—though several wrinkles were beginning to make themselves apparent, they didn’t take away from her aquiline nose and soft blue eyes. Those eyes were nice, but they seemed to lack a certain luster—Braddock had the distinct impression that this was a woman who rarely smiled.

“Hey, she’s not bad looking,” the Ostian whistled. “She was probably a real beauty when she was younger, but even now she’s not so bad. I wonder what she looks like under that surplice. Guess you feel the same way, huh?” He was about to playfully nudge his friend when he noticed the bishop and her friends had stopped themselves. The woman was staring at Renault as intently as he was staring at her.

“Bishop Monica,” asked one of her attendants, “Is something the matter?”

“Ah…N-no.” She quickly turned to the rest of them and gestured to the palace. “All of you, please go on without me. Enjoy the celebrations and bless the participants. I…I have something to take care of.”

The junior clerics whispered amongst themselves in confusion, but they knew better than to disobey anyone above them in the church hierarchy. Shrugging their shoulders, they left their leader behind and made their way through the great alabaster arches of the Royal Palace’s South Gate. The bishop proceeded to hesitantly walk over to the two mercenaries, not taking her eyes off Renault. They simply stood and stared at each other, their breath clouding in the cold air of a winter night in Aquleia.

“Hey, Renault, what’s going on?” Braddock, at this point, was thoroughly perplexed. “Do you two know each other?”

Renault blinked, and for the first time took his eyes off the woman. “Braddock…this is my mother.”

“Your WHAT?” Braddock had to reach out and grab a hold of the South Gate to keep himself from falling over. “R-Really?”

“Yeah.” Renault wore an expression Braddock couldn’t quite identify, and the same thing seemed to be stamped on the bishop’s face. “Look, Braddock…uh…do you think you could leave us alone for a bit? I think…I think we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Bishop Monica simply looked at her son’s companion for a moment and nodded wordlessly. Braddock knew enough to figure out the two of them really did need to sort things out between themselves. “Sure thing, bud. Uh…I’ll meet you back at the inn Tassar got later tonight, okay?”

“Sounds good. I…I’ll see you later.”

With that, the Ostian turned and scampered off one way, while the bishop and her son began a leisurely walk together another way.

-x-

“It’s been a long time, Mom.”

Renault said this as the two of them walked together through the somewhat more quiet streets of Aquleia in the late evening. One might think that the unusual pair of a bishop and a mercenary would attract some unwanted attention, but this being Aqueleia, especially given the events of the past few months, such a couple didn’t seem quite so odd. Thus, walking by themselves, Renault and Monica drew very few stares from the thin, less-numerous crowds.

“Y-yes…it has, hasn’t it. I…I really didn’t expect to see you here…I didn’t know where you went, what you had been doing, and after all those months, to meet again here…”

“Heh, yeah. Strange world, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes…very strange, Renault. I…what are you doing here?”

“What do you think? Didn’t you hear about Nerinheit’s uprising? I’m here as a mercenary, mom. Gonna fight that guy for your noble buddies.” A mocking grin spread across his face. “And why’re you here? Don’t you have some work to do with your ‘precious’ flock?”

“Yes, and this is part of it,” came Monica’s defiant reply. She was beginning to grow as angry as her son. “I and many of my colleagues are here to inaugurate the campaign against Nerinheit with prayer. Prayer for our King’s success, and prayer for the safety of his soldiers…and apparently, that would include you, Renault! I—Renault, WATCH OUT!”

The beginnings of her angry lecture were abruptly cut off by a frightful crash as someone bumbled straight into her distracted son. A hapless porter trying to make his way back to the busy Royal Palace was too occupied with hurrying to watch for where he was rolling his cart and veered a bit too close to Renault, managing to roll right over the man’s foot with a nasty-sounding crunch.

The mercenary swore and stumbled back in pain, then shot the unfortunate servant a look of pure, undiluted hatred and anger.

“S-sorry!” the man gasped. “I was in a hurry!”

“A hurry?” Renault clenched one of his fists, preparing to lash out…and then remembered how troublesome it’d be if he got into trouble right now, especially after he and his friends had managed to sign such potentially lucrative contracts. He took a deep breath, grimaced as another jolt of pain lanced through his foot, and then relaxed his hands. “Fine, fine,” he muttered and turned to his mother. “Hey, mom, do you have a vulnerary on you?”

Monica’s anger had rapidly transformed into ice-cold fear--she had been standing utterly transfixed, expecting the worst, and was more than surprised when her son simply asked her for something instead of flying into a rage. “Y-yes!” She hastily unclasped one of the flasks she carried within her traveling pack and held it out to her son. He accepted it with gusto, taking a draught from it and then wiping his mouth.

“Ah, much better,” he sighed. He looked down at his foot and tapped it against the ground a couple of times—it still hurt, but the wound wasn’t so great a vulnerary couldn’t take care of it satisfactorily. He then turned to the porter, who was trying to make a hasty, unnoticeable exit. “Hey, you!” he yelled. “You owe me. Messing with a mercenary’s not really a good idea, you know that, right?”

The frightened man stopped in his tracks and gulped. “I-I said I was sorry!” he whimpered. “What more do you want?”

“A few gold pieces to cover the cost of that vulnerary would be nice. Worth less than your life, right?”

“Eeeek!” The porter shrieked and hastily grabbed several coins from a pouch at his side and tossed them to Renault. The swordsman caught them easily with a nonchalant, “Thanks!” and the porter took that as his cue to get away from the area as quickly as possible.

“Hey, that wasn’t so bad,” Renault grinned as he tossed the small prize into the air and then grabbed it back. “You want this, mom? It was your vulnerary after all.”

“Ah? N-no, that’s alright. You keep the money.”

“Seriously? Thanks!” He grinned and happily pocketed the change, then noticed his mother staring at him. “Hm? What is it? I didn’t break any laws, did I?”

“N-no, Renault.” The interruption proved to be a blessing in disguise—Monica had managed to rein in her temper, and she realized that lecturing her son would accomplish nothing. Thus, she tried a slightly different tack. “Renault,” she began, “It’s just that…you…you’ve really changed.”

He rolled his eyes and gestured to the light leather armor and fine iron sword he wore—not to mention his sturdy physique, hardened by over a year of work as a mercenary. “What, you just figured that out now?”

“I-I don’t just mean your appearance, or your…your profession! I mean, how you reacted…I thought you’d run that man through!”

“Heh, really?” Renault chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “Remembering how I used to be, I guess I can see why. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? Nowadays I fight for a living, but I just managed to avoid getting into one…well, it comes with being a mercenary. If you wanna survive long in this business, you have to learn how to control yourself. Sometimes you gotta know when it’s just not worth it, and that definitely wasn’t worth it.”

“I…I see.” Monica was more than a little discomfited by how casually her son seemed to talk about his warlike lifestyle, but since she hadn’t seen him for so long she knew she had to tread carefully. “You seem to…to have grown much stronger, Renault. Did that come with being a mercenary too?”

He blinked in surprise. “Y-yeah, I guess so. Why, what makes you say that?”

She smiled slightly, hesitantly, hoping to ply her son over by mention of his childhood with her. “How you barely even noticed that porter running over your foot, of course! I…when you were younger, I remember how you couldn’t stand pain. You’d beg me for a vulnerary whenever you got hurt…”She giggled softly, intending to defuse some of the anger he had demonstrated at the beginning of their conversation. “I think you’ve grown quite a bit.”

The strategy backfired. “Aw, man,” Renault said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t remind me. I really was a weakling back when I was a kid…couldn’t deal with the littlest injuries. Yeah, well, you’re right, I have grown. I’ve learned a lot better…felt true pain. Just a few months ago I had a knife stuck in my gut. Almost died…now that was REAL pain. After that, something like a busted toe’s next to nothing!”

Monica’s eyes widened in shock and horror. “Oh my God! Renault! That’s horrible!”

“Huh? It’s not that bad. I’m still alive, right?”

“I…yes, and for that, I’m glad. Still, as a…a mercenary, surely you’ve suffered similar wounds many times, haven’t you? And you risk death almost every day, do you not?”

Renault shrugged. “Yep, that’s about right. It’s in the job description, really. I didn’t take this work because I thought it’d be easy. Trust me, I never thought it’d be easy…after I finished my first job at Scirocco, I knew well enough that even the simplest jobs can be risky when you’re a mercenary.”

“Scirocco,” Monica murmured. “How…how long ago did that…happen? Just over a year and a half. It feels as if it’s been much longer, though…””

Renault blinked, looked himself over, then looked at his mother. “Yeah…yeah, you’re right. Two years isn’t such a long time, right? But look at me now. When I was twenty, if you’d told me I’d end up becoming a mercenary I’d have just laughed at you. Never had the slightest thought I really would turn out like this…”

“I…neither did I,” said his mother quietly. Then, more to herself, she whispered, “I wish it hadn’t…”

Unfortunately, Renault heard that. “That’s a real funny thing to say,” he sneered. “I mean, what did you expect would happen to me? You were the one who kicked me out, remember?”

“Renault, how could you say that?” Monica’s eyes were beginning to look just slightly watery. “I…that doesn’t make any sense! Why would you think I’d have wanted you to become…become this?”

“Why would you even care? Like I just said, you kicked me out. What business is it of yours what I decided to do with my life? As long as I was away from you, that was the only thing that mattered, right? Yeah, well, I was in Sacae for the past few years. That’s distant enough, right? So why are you complaining? You only wanted me out of your house. Well, I went out, and I stayed out. So what if I became a mercenary in the meantime?”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE MY SON!” By now, Monica’s raised voice had indeed drawn some curious stares, though most of them came from the insides of windows which would rapidly close when the inhabitants decided to sleep instead of eavesdrop. “Renault, I don’t want you risking your life and getting hurt! And I don’t want you to kill others! What kind of mother would ever want her child to become a hired blade?”

“I dunno,” came the cold reply, “the same kind of mother who’d evict her child over a bunch of garbage rumors.”

“Oh, Renault,” Monica sniffled, “Is that it? Do you still remember that, after all this time? Renault…I didn’t want that! I never wanted that! But I couldn’t think of only you! I had to—“

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. I still remember what you said to me last time. You had a ‘duty’ to your flock, and you couldn’t ‘fulfill’ your responsibilities if I were around…after all, even if every last one of those rumors was bunk, so long as they were about me your precious, pious reputation would be hurt, right?”

“W-well, Renault, that’s—“

“It’s a good thing then, isn’t it? First off, the rumors have all died down, haven’t they?”

“I—“

“WELL? Haven’t they? I’m right, aren’t I?”

Monica had to accede. “I…I…y-yes. Yes, you’re right…f-for the most part, people have forgotten about what happened at Scirocco. There have been so many other incidents, like at Sorveno, and so many other troubles the land has experienced that the events you were a part of…have disappeared into memory. I doubt many people outside of Thagaste remember your name.”

“Well, there you go then! No problem with me being a mercenary. Know why? Because if people aren’t talking crap about me anymore, nobody’s going to try and argue about the performance I’m gonna give in this campaign against Nerinheit. I mean, you care about what the King and his nobles think of you, right? Well, I’m gonna be marching off under the banner of the Crown to put down this little rebellion. That’s something you could boast about to your friends, right? Bet it’ll earn you a lot of points with your noble buddies once they hear how your son performed in battle. I’ll come home from this campaign victorious, all your noble friends will hear about the exploits of Renault the…heroic? Fearless? Impervious! Yeah, that’s it! ‘Renault the Impervious!’ They’ll hear all about him, nobody will remember Scirocco, and you can tell them all that guy’s your son. Won’t that make you look good?”

“NO!” She was shouting now, and she was only lucky that the city of Aquleia was either sleeping or too occupied with the party going on at its palace to pay much attention to a loud bishop. “Renault, you don’t understand! I don’t care about that!”

“Oh? Then what do you care about?”

“You!”

“That’s weird. If you did, you wouldn’t have kicked me out.”

“Don’t be stupid, Renault!” Monica was finding it increasingly difficult to control her anger, even though her beloved Scriptures preached self-restraint. Years of sadness, resentment, and disappointment bubbling just beneath the surface of her psyche finally found their chance to vent. “Renault, just because I care about other people doesn’t mean I don’t care about you! Yes, I had to let you go. It wasn’t fair to you, I admit that. But think about it! If you were around me, I couldn’t fulfill my responsibilities to my city and my congregation, because we’d ALL have to deal with the rumors surrounding you and whatever you did at Scirocco! How would it be fair to them if I failed in my duties solely because of you?

“Yes, yes, you’re my son, Renault. And I loved you. I still love you, despite…despite everything, despite what you’ve done to me, and what you’ve become. But no matter how much you love someone, they can’t be the only thing you think about! Your entire world can’t revolve around them alone! That’s not love…that’s obsession!

“That’s why I…I had to ask you to leave me, Renault. I didn’t want to, but I had to. Because my duties as a mother weren’t…and aren’t…the only duties I have! I love you, but I love God as well, I love His servants as well! You…you were the one who forced me to choose, Renault. You made the decision to break away from the life I wanted you to lead…from the life your father wanted you to lead! And when you did that, I knew I couldn’t keep a hold of both you and everything else I loved…so when I chose…when I had to choose…I knew I had to let you go if I didn’t want to lose everything else!”

Renault’s face grew redder and angrier. “So…so what are you saying, mom? That it’s my fault…my fault that YOU decided you didn’t want me around?”

Monica’s expression matched her son’s. “I…Renault, I’m sick of arguing about this with you. Will you never understand? If you want to believe it’s all your fault or whatever, then fine. Fine! Believe what you want!”

“Heh.” A cruel smirk twisted its way across Renault’s face. “Okay, I will. Tch…what a waste. I should have known it would have been stupid to talk to you. Actually blaming me for what I’ve become? Like you have any right to talk down to me? I don’t need to take that crap. Especially not from a woman who worships the same God who took her husband away from her. No, I don’t need it at all.”

He spat on the ground in front of his mother and turned away, heading back to the inn. He thought the unpleasant conversation was over…yet he was stopped by one last question coming from behind him.

“WHAT _DO_ YOU NEED, RENAULT?”

The loud shout was enough to catch his attention, despite thinking he’d ended things with his mother. He turned back in surprise to see Monica standing behind with her arms at her sides, her hair disheveled and tears streaming from her eyes.

“What do you need,” she sobbed, “that I couldn’t give you? I…I tried my best. I tried to love you as best as I could…I tried to provide for you…I tried to lead you down the right path. So…so why did I fail, Renault? Why? What couldn’t I provide? WHAT DO YOU NEED?”

Monica’s tortured, heartfelt query produced only another dismissive smirk from its recipient. “You know what I need, Mom?

“As I am right now, I only need two things. A good sword in my hand and a good friend at my side.” He unsheathed his weapon and held it casually before him for a moment. “As you can tell, I’ve already got the first. And the second? He oughta be waiting for me back at that inn near the South Gate. You already met him…the blue-haired Ostian guy. Braddock. He’s my friend…my best friend. As long as he’s with me, I don’t need anybody else. Especially not you.”

With that, and a satisfied grin on his face, Renault turned once again and headed away from his mother. She could do nothing but slump quietly to the ground, heedless of her expensive vestments, and sob quietly into her hands.

It was the third time her son had left her like that. It would also be the very last.

-X-

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Braddock muttered to himself, lightly slapping himself on the head as he walked, “I can’t believe I was that stupid! ‘Gee, I wonder what she looks like naked…’ yeah, I’m sure that’s what every guy wants to hear about their mother. Damn.”

Braddock sighed heavily, watching his breath cloud up in the cold night air, then kicked at a small patch of snow on the cobbled ground. He knew quite well he should have gotten himself back to the inn and waited for Renault to finish things up with his mother—he’d definitely need the rest for tomorrow’s early expedition, after all. Still, he was feeling somewhat edgy, and he really didn’t think he’d be able to get much sleep at the moment anyways. He didn’t mind the cold so much, so he decided to take a stroll around the waterways surrounding the great palace of Aquleia. Even from where he was the lights of the castle could be seen reflecting off the still waters of the many canals winding through the city—the cold weather was not enough to freeze them over, for the royal mages kept themselves busy weaving a variety of enchantments all across Aquleia to ensure that nothing so petty as winter would still its aquatic traffic. Despite this, Braddock allowed his face to scrunch up in a frown as he looked over at the palace, from which he could hear the sounds of revelry and merriment being carried over the cold winds. He just couldn’t get used to that sort of thing—there was no way anyone in his native Ostia would waste time on some silly “celebration” on the eve of a campaign!

As he walked, however, Braddock was soon drawn out of his sour thoughts by a rather strange sound nearby—it was almost like splashing, but somehow…different. This really piqued his interest, for he’d never heard anything quite like it before. Besides, who could be around here at this hour? Most of the city’s inhabitants would either be enjoying the warmth inside their homes or the party going on at the palace. Giving in to his curiosity, Braddock wandered north a few yards to the source of the odd noises.

Sitting on a bench facing the nearby canal was a young woman holding out one hand towards the water. The closest torch was too far away from her to really illuminate any of her features, but Braddock was pretty sure she had long green hair. Much more interesting than her appearance was what she was apparently doing.

The patch of canal water at which she was pointing was roiling and turning over on itself, as if it had a life of its own. As would soon become obvious, however, it didn’t—it was totally under the control of the mage sitting across from it. She gestured with her fingers, and at her command a large globule of water rose and hovered in the air. Another quick gesture and it separated into two. A third, and each globe suddenly took on a distinct shape, both seemingly human, with recognizable heads, arms, and legs. The first seemed to be molded with a slim body that expanded greatly below the waist but above the tiny feet—a woman wearing a flowing skirt. The second globe shivered and whirled in the air for a moment before forming into a slightly larger shape that seemed to have a jet of water flowing from behind it—a man with a cape.

A quick flick of the mage’s wrist brought the figures into explosive motion. Racing towards each other in an imaginary ballroom, the water-man and water-woman began to dance. The man took his partner’s liquid hands in his, raised them over both their heads, and twirled her around once, twice, thrice as her skirt weaved and bobbed through the air, amazing Braddock with the way it seemed to distort the dim torchlight as it moved. The dancers spilt, twirled around each other, drew close, stepped forward, stepped back, moving faster and faster, split again, then finally ended their routine by racing towards each other one last time. The man again grabbed his partner but took her off her feet, spinning her through the air, then tossed her above his head. As she hovered above him he leapt straight up into her arms, and now she was the one who tossed him up farther into the air, where she then leapt herself to reach him, and to allow him to propel her even farther up.

On and on this mock-trapeze act went, until the two water-dancers were so high up they could barely be seen. The mage quickly brought her hand down and the pair began a sudden, heart-stopping free-fall straight into the waters they had been borne from. Right before they hit, though, the magician held out her hand, and both of them stopped over the canal. Now slightly apart, the skirted woman and caped man turned over in the air and faced each other. They ended their performance with the woman offering a demure curtsy, to which the man returned a gentlemanly bow.

Braddock had never before seen anything quite like it, and he was genuinely delighted. “Bravo, bravo!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Hey, that was really something! I didn’t even know you could—“

Unfortunately, he had forgotten that the woman was not aware of his presence, and his well-intentioned gesture was rewarded with the two water-dancers immediately losing their shape and falling back into the canal as their creator lost her concentration. She jumped up and turned around as quickly as she could, regarding Braddock with suspicious, narrowed eyes. “Who’s there?”

The embarrassed Ostian quickly took a step back, holding out his hands in front of him as a sign he didn’t mean anyone any harm. “Whoah, whoah, easy now! I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m just a wandering passer-by, is all…just happened to come by your little performance and thought it was really something. Heh heh…I don’t think you intended it for me though, huh? I’m sorry about that, too…guess it serves me right for, uh, peeping or whatever.”

At this, the woman visibly relaxed. “Ahhh, I see. Forgive me, in that case. I was merely entertaining myself, you’ve done nothing wrong. I should be the one apologizing to you!” Suddenly, she cocked her head, regarding Braddock with curiosity rather than suspicion—apparently, she couldn’t see in the dim torchlight much better than he could. “Wait a moment, your voice sounds somewhat familiar…pardon my asking, sir, but what is your name?”

Come to think of it, Braddock had to admit he thought he’d heard her voice somewhere before as well…and didn’t he know a girl with green hair a while ago? “Uh, my name’s Braddock, miss. Again, sorry for scaring you like that, uh, but…you know, I’m probably wrong, but your name wouldn’t be R—“

“Rosamia, yes.” The woman was now smiling, though it was a pretty small smile. “I thought I recognized you! It’s been so long, Sir Braddock. What brings you back to Aquleia?”

“Heh heh, nothing big.” The Ostian returned her smile. “Mercenary stuff, once again. Could I sit down?”

“Of course!” The woman scooted over on her bench and patted the empty space next to her, which Braddock took happily.

“I’m here for the war against Nerinheit. Me and my buddies were travelling around Sacae when we heard the news…my boss thought it was a really good opportunity, so he decided to take it, and here we are. Lemme guess…you’re here for the same reason, right? Being…ugh, what was that guy’s name, Khyron, right? Khyron’s apprentice.”

She nodded. “Yes, exactly. Once again, my master thought it would be helpful for me to see battle in order to increase my skills. Trial by fire and all that.”

“Ugh. Sounds just like Khyron, from what I remember of him…well, don’t worry about it too much, Rosamia. Me and my friends will protect you!”

At this, the mage brought a hand to her mouth as she chuckled softly. “Thank you, Braddock, though I insist that I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. Still, I do feel a bit better, because I remember your fine performance at…”

Mention of the last assignment they’d had together brought a distinct pall over both of them. “Yeah, Scirocco,” muttered Braddock. “I sure remember that. Hell, I don’t think I’d be able to forget it, no matter how much I might try. What…just what the hell happened back there? I only wish I knew. Last I heard there were all sorts of crazy rumors flying around…my friends and I had to leave the country to get away from it all. We spent the last couple of years in Sacae…first time we’ve come back to Etruria since then. I think we’ve been forgotten by now, but…”

He was surprised by a soft hand on his arm. “I understand,” said Rosamia, and her sincerity was evident from her voice. “After Scirocco, the past years have been…difficult for me as well. And even Khyron, too…even though he’s the brother of their Count, the people of Caerleon don’t trust him as much as they used to…not that they ever trusted him all that much. And some of that’s rubbed off on me…even though I’m a noble myself, whenever I visit a town I can hear them whispering behind my back…”

“Figures,” Braddock snorted. “Dammit…people always have to believe the first ridiculous rumor they hear, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes…still, I haven’t much cause to complain, I think. Though it hasn’t been pleasant listening to the rumors about me and my master, it’s not as if anyone’s tried to evict me from my home at the castle or anything. The same…the same can’t be said for Apolli, I’m afraid.”

“Apolli? I think I remember him…he was the archer, right? And…Yulia’s fiancée…”

“You’re right,” said Rosamia sadly. “The years have not been kind to him. Watching his wife-to-be die like that struck a blow to his mind that has yet to heal, I fear. And what happened to him when he returned home…that was even worse. If the rumors are bad in places like my master’s Caerleon, they are absolutely horrible in villages like Sorveno, his hometown. His former friends were absolutely convinced that he was part of some nefarious plot that killed everyone in nearby Scirocco…he and Gafgarion were forced to flee.”

“Gafgarion?”

“Yulia’s father. He would have been Apolli’s father-in-law.”

“Ah. So what happened to them? And what about Yulia’s brother? Roberto?”

“Roberto…I’m not sure. He seemed to be as hurt as Apolli over his sister’s death. Gafgarion told me he left Sorveno, and they haven’t heard from him since. Now, Gafgarion and Apolli…they’ve been living with me and Khyron at Castle Caerleon for the last year and half or so, actually. Gafgarion took Apolli to Aquleia and told Count Exedol of what had happened. The count took pity on them and ordered his brother to take them in…ever since then, Gafgarion’s been serving Khyron as a steward, and Apolli as an archer and, er, sometime chef. Gafgarion is an excellent civil servant, and I’m very glad to have him with us. Apolli, though…I worry for him. His heart still hasn’t healed, but Khyron works him very hard…he tries his best anyways, for he’s a good, earnest, young man, but still, I wish my master would ease up on him…ah! Forgive me, I shouldn’t—“

“Heh, don’t worry about it, Rosamia. I told you before, you don’t have to put on airs with me, you know how much I dislike guys like Khyron, right? I’m really sorry to hear about Apolli…I mean, it’s kind of my fault about what happened to Yulia, so—“

“You’re still blaming yourself? Please, don’t. None of us could have known what was waiting for us in that God-forsaken town.”

“Heh…I’m not so sure about God, but…thanks, Rosamia. Still, Apolli was a good kid, it’s terrible to hear what he’s going through.”

“Mm. Still, take heart…I believe he is stronger than he looks. I don’t know if he’ll ever recover fully, but…he will survive, I think. I…I’m not so certain about Roberto…”

“Him? Yeah. It’s weird, though…when me and Renault were signing our contracts, we caught sight of a mercenary who was named Roberto…had the same orange hair too. Not sure if it was the same guy we fought beside at Scirocco, though…he lost one of his eyes, apparently. Well…I dunno if that was him or not, but wherever Roberto is, I hope he’s doing well.”

“Heh, I hope so as well.” Rosamia looked up at her old comrade-in-arms. “What about your friends, Braddock? I recall you served under a veteran mercenary, Tassar. And you seemed to be good friends with that young man from Thagaste…what was his name?”

“Renault. And yeah, they’re both doing well. Tassar’s still my boss…still the most skilled swordsman I’ve served with. Like I said, we’ve been hanging around Sacae for the last few years. Work’s really been pretty good…I know, it’s terrible for a mercenary like me to say that, but it’s true. We’ve been taking care of a lot of bandits and thieves…Renault’s been there all the time, right behind us. He’s a real help, and I’m not kiddin’.

“See, after we received our payment in Aquleia, the three of us headed back to Thagaste…I thought we’d part ways with Renault there. Thought he’d go back to being a stoneworker or something. But as it turned out, all those rumors were floating around really heavy in that city too. Renault got into some trouble, I think…then his own mother kicked him out of her house. I don’t know if she actually believed all those garbage rumors, but she apparently thought Renault would be too much of a hassle to keep around. Can you believe that? A bishop disowning her only son!”

“That…that is terrible.”

“Well, anyways, Renault managed to find his way to the same inn Tassar and I were staying at, and when we told him we’d be skipping the country, well…the rest was history. Renault obviously couldn’t stay in Thagaste much longer, maybe even not anywhere in Etruria, so he decided to tag along with us.” Braddock smiled as he thought of his friend. “To be honest…I mean, look, I know being a mercenary isn’t something to be proud of, and that I shouldn’t encourage other people to take up the profession. But I’m really glad Renault joined up with me. He may not have been much of a swordsman when we first met, but believe me, he’s improved a lot. In fact, right now I can’t think of any other guy in all of Elibe I’d rather have watching my back, ‘cept maybe for Tassar.”

“Ah…well, though I don’t much approve of the mercenary lifestyle, if your friend’s as good as you say, I’m glad he’s accompanying you. Makes it that much harder for Nerinheit, yes? But then I wonder, where are they now?”

“Tassar and Renault? Tassar went back to get us some rooms at a local inn, said he had some stuff to do. Renault…well, his mom’s a bishop visiting for the big party they’re having at the palace, apparently. Renault wanted to talk to her alone for a bit…like I said, the last time they met they didn’t part on the best of terms. Probably for the best I left them to themselves…I kinda put my foot in my mouth when I first saw his mom.”

“Really? How so?”

Braddock looked at her for a moment, vainly going through his dusty, ancient stores of unutilized etiquette to figure out if that would be the kind of story fit for a lady’s ears. In the end, he figured he might as well give it a shot. “Uh…well, it’s kind of embarrassing. See, me and Renault were hanging out by the South Gate, watching the guests arrive for their little party. We saw a group of clerics come up, and I thought the Bishop at their head was not bad looking, at least for an older woman. I mentioned this to Renault, and, uh, he told me that bishop was his mother.” He put a hand to the back of his head and chuckled, blushing slightly.

Fortunately, Rosamia didn’t seem to think that much worse of him. “Oh!” she cried, hunching over and clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle what would have been an unladylike guffaw. “Ah, well, boys will be boys…don’t feel too bad, Braddock, my father’s done the same thing a few times himself. Besides, comparatively, that’s fairly innocent…much worse comes from the mouths of nobles all the time. I mean, did you hear what Count Bramsel said earlier today?”

Braddock made a distinctly sour face. “Ugh, yeah. That fat guy, right? What a disgusting pervert! I mean, I’ve seen enough to respect the Ilians as mercenaries, but I think there are better reasons to hire them aside from their outfits. I hate guys like that…my previous employer was one of ‘em. I still have a bad taste in my mouth from that…”

“Really? How so?”

“Uh…well, it has to do with why my last job didn’t end so well…I messed up pretty badly.”

“Ah, I see. We all make mistakes…please forgive me for asking.”

“Nah, it’s alright.” Braddock again glanced at his companion, trying to decide whether or not he could trust her. In the end, for the second time he came to the conclusion it wouldn’t hurt. “It’s just that…well, look. Promise not to tell anyone else about this, okay?”

She nodded. “My lips are sealed.”

“Well, the last job we took in Sacae was an escort mission. We and nine other mercenaries were hired by this ugly rich fella to protect him as his wagon made its way from Etruria over to Lycia. He told us not to look at what was inside of it, and me being the idiot I am, I just had to defy that order…last time I’ll let my curiosity get the better of me.

“Inside, it was…horrible. The guy we were working for was a slaver. He was carrying a whole load of kidnapped girls who were going to be…sold…when he reached my homeland. I…I just lost it. Jammed my axe straight through his head. We ended up having to fight off the other mercenaries he’d hired…it was a complete loss. We would have gotten over a thousand gold each if the mission went well, but thanks to me…” He shook his head. “Even the girls I ‘rescued’ didn’t end up doing so well. We couldn’t have escorted each and every one of them back to their homes, after all, so we just had to leave them back in Bulgar. Jeez…I really am stupid.”

Rosamia, however, was looking at him with a curiously impassive expression. “Braddock, is that really true? You’re not making any of that up?”

“Huh? No, it’s the unvarnished truth. Like I said…please don’t go around mentioning that to anybody, okay? I mean, if word gets out I killed my own employer, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find another job as a mercenary. I know, I know…I probably deserve it for being such a fool.” He closed one eye and winced, expecting a stinging rebuke from his friend, or at least expressions of shock from her at how badly he’d screwed up, but instead, much to his surprised, he received a warm smile.

“Braddock, I’m very proud of you,” she said. “I don’t think you did anything wrong…slavers and people like that are the scum of Elibe. The kind of bandits we’ve had to fight in Caerleon make their living off of selling captives to men like those. And I’m sure wherever those girls are now, they’re better off than they would have been if they’d reached Lycia.”

Braddock was floored. “W-wait, you’re serious? You’re not kidding? I mean…I made a real hash of things for my friends, none of us got paid a single seal. I think Tassar’s still a little mad at me…all because I’m dumb enough to pretend to be a ‘chivalrous’ knight…I mean, mercenaries can’t afford to care about stuff like that, right?”

“Not at all,” came the reply, “at least I don’t think so. No matter what their profession may be, there’s not a man or woman in Elibe so low they’d have to sell their honor. The fact that you refused to protect a man as heinous as a slave trader, even if he paid you well, doesn’t make you a fool. I think it makes you an honorable man who’s not willing to sell his principles for gold. I…I wish we had more men like you in this country.”

“R-really? Aw…” Braddock didn’t quite know what to say. “Thanks, Rosamia. Though I think you’re being too nice to me…I mean, I really went crazy back there. Not because of any principles or anything like that…just cause…well, just cause I hate guys like that, is all.”

“Hm. Well, considering how many nobles I’ve met who have been more than willing to make deals with such people in order to profit, I wish more men shared your feelings.”

“Heh.” Braddock shifted in his seat and looked down, now blushing somewhat more profusely. “Th-thanks, I guess..uh, so, anyways, Rosamia,” he said, trying to turn the conversation to lighter matters, “what was that stuff you were doing with the water? I really liked it…like I said, never saw anything similar!”

“Oh, that? It was a mere parlor trick, to be honest. We mages must learn to control the elements around us to be successful, after all, so such simple manipulation of water is something most of us learn early in our careers. A lot of magic-users in this city make a sport out of it…there are so many canals and aqueducts, after all, if you’re skilled at waterweaving you can have yourself quite a bit of fun almost anywhere here. Just look!”

She again held out her hand towards the water, and at her command more shapes arose from its depths. First came a liquid knight on horseback charging at a fearsome dragon spitting gouts of clear, watery flame. Then came a Pegasus, soaring through the night air on fluid wings. Finally, she brought it crashing down into the water, and from the resulting splash came a small army of archers in armor, marching towards the pair on the bench before melting just as they reached the edges of the canal.

“Woo-hoo!” cried Braddock—he wasn’t worried about being loud, for there was apparently no-one else in the immediate vicinity but him and Rosamia. “That was great!”

“Thank you, my friend. Though the great sages can do much more than I…I’m not unaccomplished in this pursuit either. Forgive me for indulging in a bit of boasting, but from all the students the First Royal Academy has produced after I began my apprenticeship with Master Khyron, I believe few are my equals when it comes to this sort of water manipulation.”

“Really? That’s pretty impressive in and of itself…I don’t think I’ve ever been known to be particularly skilled at anything, except maybe fighting. Hey, doesn’t the Royal Palace have a really great fountain on its grounds? The Fountain of Dawn, or whatever? Think of the stuff you could do with that! You’d probably be a hit at that big party they’re having over there.”

Rosamia was still smiling, but now it seemed a little bitter. “Again, thank you. However, I’ve been to those kinds of balls before. They…they really aren’t to my liking. I am only happy that Khyron doesn’t force me to attend…one of the few luxuries he allows me. I…I simply can’t stand most of the guests at those functions. Corrupt, greedy nobles, flattering each other with honeyed words when they face each other and then stabbing their ‘friends’ in the back with poisoned gossip the moment they’re out of earshot…I can’t tolerate that sort of hypocrisy.”

“I know what you mean,” spat Braddock. “Oh, do I. It was the same kind of garbage back in Ostia…we Ostians aren’t really so much for that kind of frivolous stuff, but a lot of people in the other cantons like it. Sometimes the nobles of my city would hold big balls and parties…partially to keep the other marquesses entertained, partially to facilitate diplomacy. It was the exact kind of crap there…bunch of hypocritical aristocrats making nice publically then going at each other privately. Couldn’t stand it m’self…it wasn’t always so bad, though. There was a lot of dancing, and dancing’s always fun.”

“Yes, well…” Rosamia looked down, somewhat embarrassed. “That’s the other thing. At these kinds of balls in Aquleia, almost everyone is expected to dance, at least those who look like they can. I look like it, but truly…”

“Wait a second,” said Braddock, “Y…you can’t dance? Not even a little waltz or something?”

“W-well…no. I-I never learned!”

“You gotta be kidding! I can’t believe there’s a girl in Elibe who doesn’t know at least a few steps! Well, a noble one anyways, even if you’re just the daughter of a knight! It’s one of the best things in the world…probably one of the few things nobles learn that’re worth doing! Here, lemme give you a quick crash course.”

Braddock jumped from his seat, and Rosamia barely had time to utter a short, surprised, “W-What are you doing?” before the Ostian gently grabbed her by the hand and lifted her to her feet.

“Here, stand a bit further away from me,” said Braddock, and he gave a quick bow (slightly awkward, since he was still wearing his cuirass). “First things first. I gotta bow, and you gotta curtsy.” Rosamia unthinkingly followed his command, still just a bit too shocked to really protest. “The ground’s a bit wet from the snow,” continued Braddock, “and it’s literally been YEARS since I danced like this, so we gotta take it slow, but I can show you just a little that I remember.

“First, I come forward,” and he took a couple of quick steps until he was right in front of Rosamia, whose hands he promptly took in his own. In other circumstances she would have protested, especially since by now the surprise had worn off, but unexpectedly she found herself having too much fun to really complain. “Alright, now I’ll take your hands like this,” he raised one and lowered the other, “and now we’ll start. Slowly now, remember, the guy always leads. Just follow me! I take a step back with my right foot, you take a step forward with your right foot, I take a step back with my left foot, then you take a step forward with yours. Then you step back with your right, I step forward with my right, you step back with your left, I step forward with mine.” They attempted this a few times, and the first time Rosamia accidentally stepped on Braddock’s foot (he simply laughed it off), but by the third try she managed to pull it off perfectly.

“Great, great!” he exclaimed. “Now, here’s a little thing we can try…after you back, I’ll step back again, and then what you do is step forward like I showed you, let go of one of my hands, and then what I do is bring our right hands right over our heads like this, so it looks like I’m holding your arm up—not actually holding it, though!—and what you do is just spin around a bit. Wanna give it a shot?”

She readily assented, and she succeeded on her very first try, more or less. A step back, a step forward, and then she and Braddock were both laughing as he stood in front of her with his hand over hers as both their arms were stretched over their heads and she twirled around once, twice, thrice. She then broke away from Braddock, stepped away from him, and offered him a demure curtsy. Grinning broadly at seeing his impromptu student’s success, Braddock happily offered his own gentlemanly bow.

It was a cold, snowy night, but both Rosamia and Braddock were feeling quite warm as they looked at each other. “Hey, that was really good,” said the Ostian. “You’re a real quick study, Rosamia. You’re sure you never learned to dance like that before?”

“Mm.”

“Heh, really? I mean, look at those water dancers you summoned earlier, they did the same kind of stuff…well, except far more advanced, but still. After seeing that, I’m surprised to hear you actually don’t have any experience at all!”

“Well, it’s true,” she said, again somewhat sadly. “I’ve seen many of my fellows dance from time to time, and I’ve often wished to join them, but…I never could. I was always too caught up in my studies. I never really had time to learn anything else but magic…no dancing, no playing an instrument either, nothing else. The water magic…it was really one of the only forms of release for me. One of the few ways I could have some fun while sharpening my skills at the same time, of course.”

“I, uh…wow, I didn’t know. Sorry, Rosamia, I hope I didn’t—“

“No, no, please don’t apologize. I enjoyed myself very much. Heh…in fact, I think I’ve enjoyed myself more tonight than I can recall in the past year. I’m happy that we were able to meet again, Braddock.” She smiled as wide as he could recall when she looked up into his eyes. “Thank you. Really…”

“Heh, uh, no problem, Rosamia. Just happened to be around, is all…I’m glad you had fun. I did too!” He looked over the canal to the palace, where the lights seemed to be dimming. The ball, apparently, was coming to a close. “Whoah, what time is it? It’s getting late, right? Damn, I better get back to the inn…hey, Rosamia, are you going that way? I could escort you, if you’d, uh, like.”

“Ah! It is late, isn’t it,” Rosamia gasped. “I’m sorry, but we’ll be heading in different directions. I must return to the palace.” She quickly reached out and gave Braddock’s hand a squeeze, which surprised him a bit. “Believe me, I would like to chat with you a bit longer, but I don’t want to face Khyron’s wrath…you know how he is.”

“Hah, hah! Yeah, I still remember. Don’t worry, Rosamia, I understand completely. Besides, we’re in the same army now, right? I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

She grinned. “I hope so! Stay well, my friend.”

The mage turned and headed away from him, stopping quickly once to wave. He gladly returned the gesture, then started his own way back to the inn Tassar said they’d all meet at. The unhappy mood he’d started the night off with was now entirely gone—indeed, there was now a jaunty spring in his step.

Smiling to himself, Braddock couldn’t help but think of how even the worst day could pick up right when you least expected it.

-X-

Tassar really, really enjoyed the look on the Countess of Reglay’s face when she finally figured out who he was. It had taken a little while, since she couldn’t see quite well in the dark so late at night, but after a few moments recognition definitely clicked on her face. She definitely wasn’t expecting to ever see him again.

“Elicia. I’m glad you remember me, even after such a long time.” Tassar smiled—not because he was happy to see her, but because of the way her eyes widened in fear and she ducked behind her young, distinctively grey-haired husband. “I figured you’d have forgotten, but…you know, thinking about it, I don’t think you’re _entirely_ to blame. My hair was a lot shorter the last time you saw me, after all, and I didn’t have all these scars…Or these muscles. Or this sword and armor. Pretty surprised, aren’t you?”

As he stood protectively in front of his wife and moved closer to the light of a nearby torch, Count Barim of Reglay’s hair was actually revealed to be bluish-grey. Not a common color in Etruria, and definitely not one Tassar would ever forget. “What business have you here,” asked the noble, “especially at this time of night?”

“Nothing in particular,” lied Tassar with a sardonic grin on his face. “I’m just a wandering mercenary who happened to sign on for Exedol and Paptimus’ little campaign against Nerinheit. What, is there a problem? If you want to see my contract, I got it right here. Everything’s official. You can count on me to serve your Mage General well, m’lord.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, mercenary. Why are you out this late at night? And how do you know my wife?”

Tassar bowed low, yet another sarcastic gesture. “I didn’t think it was illegal for a servant of the Crown to spend his hours as he liked, especially since there’s no curfew in this city. But since I’m just a commoner and you’re a noble, I guess I’m obligated to answer you, right?

“Well, sorry to say that the answer’s really not that interesting. I got a room at a nearby inn so I could rest up for tomorrow’s campaign, then spent some time looking over my equipment and purchasing a few supplies—after all, you never know, maybe one of the Mage Corps will break a nail and require a spare vulnerary. Before I knew it the sun had gone down, but when I got back to my room I found I couldn’t sleep—must be a little restless since my big adventure with Exedol’s coming tomorrow. So I decided to wander around, enjoy the great capitol of my native country, and wouldn’t you know it,” his grin widened, “while I was spending time outside the South Gate of the Palace, watching the great nobles I was serving leave their grand celebration, I just happened to run into my former fiancée.”

Barim’s eyes grew as wide as those of his frightened wife, though out of shock rather than fear. “E-Elicia! Is this true?”

If she had only said no, her husband would have believed her. A single statement of denial would have been enough for him to laugh off the unknown mercenary as a passing lunatic, or perhaps even call the guards to throw him into the stockades for his disrespect.

Yet the Countess of Reglay could not find it within herself to lie. “I…I…It’s true. He…was.”

This immensely pleased Tassar, and he laughed and clapped his hands. “There, you see? So surely there’s nothing to worry about, right? This is just a happy reunion! I gotta say, I’ve always wondered about what became of my bride-to-be ever since she ran off with you after you visited our town, just over 10 years ago. You can’t blame me, after all. I bought a ring and everything! But it wasn’t so bad. I was able to sell it and get a decent sword for the money! And, well, she seems to be so very happy with you, o great noble. So I guess everything worked out, right, Elicia?”

The Countess offered no response. She looked at her husband, apparently as distraught as she was, back to Tassar, and then away from both of them, biting her lip.

Tassar wouldn’t let her go. “Well, Elicia? Are you happy? Are you?”

She knew she had to do something, so she did. “Y-yes,” she stammered, and haltingly took her husband’s arm in her own. “I…Tassar, I’m very happy. Barim has been so kind to me over I—“

“Hm.” The mercenary sneered. “Yes, that’s all that matters, right? Your happiness. Who cares what you did to me? Well, it’s not as if I should have expected anything else from you…the fact that I did only illustrates how naïve I was back then. I know better now, don’t worry.” He offered another bow to the upset couple, but before he turned to make his way back to his inn, he left his former fiancée a parting warning.

“Enjoy this happiness while you can, Elicia. It won’t last forever…you can trust me on that.”

Laughing merrily, the mercenary disappeared into the darkness, leaving both the Count and Countess with a plethora of questions that neither of them quite wanted answered…

Along with a tiny yet gnawing suspicion that Tassar’s enigmatic parting words bode ill for much more than the two of them.

-X-

“Vyrleena…Vyrleena…”

At first, the woman thought she was merely having a dream—it wouldn’t have been the first one where a man called out her name, after all.

When she groaned and squinted her eyes because of the glow emanating from the small crystal ball across from her, however, and when she realized the voice was not the one that typically occupied her thoughts, she knew this was no dream.

Vyrleena groaned again, sat up in her comfortable, lavish bed and tossed aside the purple quilts keeping her warm. She didn’t really care for the luxuries—most Bernites, like Ostians, had a reputation for being frugal—but for the highest-ranked members of their military, a small bit of conspicuous consumption was expected.

The voice from the crystal ball was still calling out her name, and it was becoming annoying. She quickly got up from her bed and made her way over to the magical device. Despite the fact that it was pitch dark at this time of night, the only light coming from the crystal ball, and the floor of her suite was covered with stray books, spare weapons, and discarded pieces of armor, she had no trouble at all safely reaching her destination—the fluid, catlike grace with which she moved ensured that nothing so petty as unfavorable terrain would hinder her in any situation.

She recognized the voice and, as she got closer to the glowing orb, she recognized the robed man who appeared in its smoky depths, but that still didn’t stop a rather grumpy frown from contorting her pretty face (heart-shaped and delicate, well, unless you didn’t consider a nasty scar over her left cheek to be delicate). “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Of course I do,” he chuckled in his distinctive, charming dulcet tone, “and rest assured, I truly am sorry to trouble you at this hour. After all, you need your sleep to maintain both your strength and your beauty! However, we really do need to talk…”

“Hm. Alright.” Vyrleena brushed a few stray locks of long, light green hair from out in front of her eyes and sat down on the small ottoman in front of the crystal ball’s table, crossing her hands in front of her ample chest (not because she wanted to hide anything—she was wearing her normal sleeping dress, a loose pair of linen pants and a thick wool shirt—but because it was quite cold, especially at this altitude). “So what is it? I assume everything’s proceeding as planned on your end?”

“Yes, very well. Nerinheit’s finally decided to make his move against the Crown, just as I thought he would. Equally predictably, the Crown’s sending a force to put him down…they’re leaving tomorrow. I’ve set everything up…heh, heh, things won’t go as expected for them.

“However, even if this phase of the plan succeeds, the revolution as a whole will fall apart without the assistance of Bern. Tell me…how are things proceeding for you? Have you had any success convincing your king that the time to strike against Etruria will come very soon?”

She shifted in her seat. “I…have made some progress. It was difficult enough convincing him and my colleagues to allow Yazan and his fellow condemned into Etruria, so persuading them to go to all-out war against the kingdom would be much easier said than done. However, I did bring up the suggestion to my lord…he didn’t deny it quite so vehemently as I might have expected.”

“Vyrleena, that’s…really not very encouraging.”

“It’s the best I can do!” she snapped. “Unlike your Galahad, King Arbain is a prudent man, and so are the other two Wyvern Generals! After suffering such defeats in Sacae thirty years ago, we are not eager to go to war again, especially with Etruria.”

“Easy, easy, my friend. I didn’t mean to insult your country, and your king’s reservations are definitely valid. However, please keep in mind that you may not have an opportunity like this for centuries. The coming civil war will smash Etruria’s main source of military strength, at the very least, and if your forces and mine team up, we would easily be able to sweep away the wretched nobility of that country. Lycia still hasn’t recovered from its civil war, so we won’t have to worry about them interfering either—the most they’ll be able to do as they watch us invade their ally is protest.”

“Covered all the bases, have you? What about the Church? You know that Bern has the highest amount of believers—both numerically and proportionately—of any country on Elibe except for Etruria. The Supreme Church has already formally condemned sedition. The masses of believers in this country will rise to the support of Etruria if the Church tells them to. What will you do if that happens?”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite aware of that. I’m impressed you thought of that possibility—your reputation as a tactician is very well earned. However, rest assured that I have planned for that contingency. Let’s just say I’m good at making friends…Cardinal Gosterro has the most influence over the Supreme Church, and I believe I will be able to win him over…we won’t have to worry about the Elimineans, at least not until it is already too late for them to do anything.”

“Hmph. Suborning a clergyman? The most influential clergyman in the land? I can think of many words to describe you, but ‘honorable’ would not be one of them.”

“Yes, that is true, Vyrleena…lamentably so. Yet my honor is a very small price to pay compared to the thousands of lives which will be sacrificed in the upcoming war…and the many thousands which will be lost when Bern and Etruria have been unified, and we begin our campaign to bring all of Elibe under a single enlightened government.

“Yet all of that is a necessary sacrifice. Necessary in order to create a new world! Think of it, Vyrleena. After a few centuries of war, Elibe will know millennia of true peace! After hundreds of thousands of people have perished in our wars, the millions of their descendants will never have to know violence ever again! Surely that is a cause worth sacrifice? Worth our honor, our lives, and the lives of many people?”

There was a long silence as Vyrleena stared contemplatively at the robed man ensconced within the smoky white halo of the glowing crystal ball he had given her. She was staring at him—but what she was really looking at was something very different, something even farther away from her than he was at the moment.

“I agree, old friend. If I did not, I wouldn’t be working so hard on your behalf.”

The robed man smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. Please continue to do your best…that’s all I can ask of you.”

“I will, but I can guarantee nothing. You just don’t understand how King Arbain views things. I cannot overstate how reluctant he is to send men to their deaths.”

“I know, I know…but if anyone can convince him otherwise, it is you. I have faith in you, Vyrleena.”

He smiled at her, then mouthed a quick spell. Faster than Vyrleena could react, the light of the crystal ball blinked out, leaving her in utter darkness.

She sighed, and drew her arms a bit tighter around herself. He always had loved to make quick, unexpected entrances, and his exits were often the same.

She also remembered how he’d always hated the very concept of ‘faith,’ at least baseless faith. For him to say he had faith in her…strong praise indeed.

She sighed again and returned to her bed, wrapping the thick, expensive quilts around her body. She fell to sleep quite quickly, for there were few doubts, few self-recriminations to keep her awake.

She knew what she had to do tomorrow, and every day, for that matter. She’d try her best. For her friend, for her country, and for all of Elibe.

No matter the cost.

_::Linear Notes::_

Count Barim's backstory will be expanded on in later chapters, as well as in the sidestory to this fic, "The Last Red Shoulder," which is up at FFn. I may transfer that as well.


	14. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations begin for the march on the rebellious countship of Nerinheit.

Wayward Son

14: Before the Storm

“Come on, get up. It’s time to go.”

It was very, very far from the first time Renault had been woken up like that, but even after nearly two years of working with Tassar, he’d still not gotten used to it.

He blinked and groaned, more than a little displeased at the prospect of getting up. Partially this was because judging by the light (more specifically, the lack of it) coming through their windows, it was still dark out, and partially because the bed he was in was one of the more comfortable ones he’d enjoyed in quite a while. They’d chosen the Ballacetine Inn for its proximity to the Palace and its reasonable prices more than anything else, but it really had been a good deal—the quality of the hospitality was definitely more than they’d been expecting.

Renault wasn’t the only one who wished he could enjoy the inn’s comforts a bit longer. “Mmmrf,” mumbled Braddock, “Now? At this hour? The sun hasn’t even risen yet.” He sat up in his bed and yawned, shivering slightly—it was still a bit cold even in an inn like this one.

“Uh-huh. I let you two sleep in as much as I could, but our army’s leaving at the break of dawn. We have to be at the North Gate in about half an hour or else we’ll get left behind.”

That was enough to rouse both Renault and Braddock—neither of them wanted to miss out on their chance to cash in on their potentially lucrative contracts.

“Aw, man, we gotta move,” said Braddock as he hastily jumped from his bed and started to get ready. “The agreements we signed said we had to follow the orders of…who was it, uh, that Exedol guy and Paptimus…if we’re even a little late they might kick us off the campaign altogether.”

“Which would be a shame,” continued Tassar still standing in the doorway of their room, “because we could make an immense amount of money off of it. This is looking like the largest battle we’ve yet participated in. From what I’ve heard, Nerinheit’s managed to cobble together a force of about 3000 men, mostly laid-off conscripts, poor disgruntled townies, and a few lower-ranking nobles who want a piece of the guys above them on the social ladder. Since we get paid by performance, we’ll almost certainly have an opportunity to make a small fortune. At three hundred gold a kill, between the three of us I’d wager we’d be able to break 10,000 easy.”

“Sounds nice!” Renault grinned, feeling much more energetic already. “Alright, we’ll be there in ten minutes. We don’t need to do much besides get ready and get our equipment, right?”

“Nope. But it’s better to get yourself prepared for anything, Renault. I know I taught you that. So hurry up, I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.” With that, he left his two companions to dress and pack by themselves.

“Be prepared for anything,” snorted Renault as he began to don his thicker winter clothing (cold as Aquleia may have been, things would get much colder when they moved north), “I know that’s a good idea, but we’re not gonna be waylaid right after we start, right?”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, Renault. The rebellion’s occurring up north, yeah, but there’re a lot of angry people down around here too, from what I’ve heard. We might find some trouble earlier than we expected, so I don’t think it’s a good idea to let our guard down, no matter where we are.” Braddock said this as he was buckling on his cuirass, and proceeded to turn around and point to its back. “Hey, speaking of, could you get this clasp right here?”

Laughing, Renault did as his friend had asked, and within a few more minutes they were both fully suited up, packed, and ready to go. In good spirits they then headed down to meet up with Tassar, make their way to the staging point at the North Gate, and face the challenges that lay before them.

-x-

“Hey, what the hell? What’s King Galahad doing out here?”

The sun had not yet peeked out over the horizon, but the sky was growing lighter and Renault could easily make out the details of the great crowd assembled in front of the North Gate. The gigantic procession occupied many of the streets and lanes of even a great city like Aquleia. As he expected, Renault saw the Mage Corps standing in perfect columns in the roads, as disciplined and well-maintained as if they were on parade. Behind them milled the motley collection of freebooters, adventurers, and fortune-seekers which composed the bulk of this impromptu army—and the group of which Renault and his friends were a part.

What he was not expecting to see, however, was the group gleefully idling in the center of the procession, behind the Mage Corps but in front of the mercenaries. Nestled safely within the army’s formation was a small group of immensely ornate, gilded carriages. There were about a dozen in total, with the largest of them located within the center of their own little formation. It was a gigantic, gaudy, monstrosity of a vehicle, borne on six gilded wheels pulled by four large destriers with the visage of a solid-gold eagle with its wings outstretched (symbol of the Etrurian government) glowering down from atop the bejeweled hood. It didn’t take a genius to tell that the person sitting in that carriage was the King himself.

The answer to Renault’s question came from Dougram, who had arrived at the staging point just a few minutes before they had and had happily waved them over to him when he saw them coming. The Nabatan muttered something unpleasant under his breath, and then, more loudly, he told his friends, “It was a last-minute thing. Galahad decided he wanted to see what a real battle was like, because,” and at this Dougram’s voice lengthened into a sarcastic affectation of a posh accent, “Battles are such exciting things, and I grow tired of just hearing and reading about them! I wish to see one for myself! And what greater choice could I make than personally witnessing our great victory over Nerinheit and his pathetic rabble?”

“Tell me you’re joking,” groaned Braddock in response. “What kind of a fool is that guy? Are we gonna have to babysit him and his idiot friends?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Tassar. “Like I said, our contracts state we have to follow the orders of the Mage Corps absolutely. If they say we have to protect their little king, that’s what we have to do.”

“What a pain.” Renault looked at his leader curiously. “Hey, you don’t seem to be too angry about this, though. Were you expecting it?”

The older mercenary merely chuckled in response. “No, not really, though it’s not surprising, given Galahad’s personality. Still, we’ve dealt with worse inconveniences before, haven’t we? Comparatively, this is no big deal, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Privately, Renault couldn’t quite shake the suspicion that there was another reason Tassar was so blasé about this unexpected and unpleasant new complication (judging from the faces of the mercenaries around them, virtually everyone was displeased at their army’s newest “volunteers”), but his questions were quickly banished from his mind when his attention was drawn to a new problem.

He noticed several large shadows flitting across the ground and over the heads of him and his fellows, and curious, he peered upwards to see what cast them. What he saw did not please him. A couple of Wyvern riders soared lazily through the air on the backs of their mounts—one of which was pitch black, the steed of that crazy Yazan guy they’d met yesterday, Renault assumed. That wasn’t what really unnerved him, though. It was the Pegasus Knights who were accompanying the Bernites in the brightening pre-dawn sky.

Braddock noticed what he was looking at, and clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically. “Hey, man, I know how you feel,” he whispered quietly. “Reminds you of Scirocco, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t let it get to you…remember, that’s the thing about being a mercenary. You go where the money takes you. Sometimes you’ll be allies with someone one day, but the next day you’re on different sides of the battlefield. At Scirocco, those Knights were just doing their jobs, like we were. It’s the same now.

“And hey, it’s a good thing, right? I mean, with all the trouble they gave us back then, they’re definitely strong warriors…I’m glad they’re on our side, eh?”

Renault was about to agree, but Dougram, who had overheard that last bit of their conversation, quickly quelled any good feelings he was starting to have. “You mean those Pegasus Knights?” he asked. “You’re right…I’d hate to be facing them. Even so, though, I’m not even glad to have them for allies, though. Most Ilians are brave, loyal soldiers, at least going by their reputation, but I’ve heard some very bad things about the wing that’ll be accompanying us.

“They’re one of the most skilled and highly-priced contingents the Ilians put out for hire. Count Bramsel got ‘em partially because he wanted to show off his wealth, partially because he had a thing for their uniforms, I guess. But there’s a reason they command such a high price. They’re called the “Bloodwings.” That’s their _official_ name, and it should tell you something about them. The members of that wing are the best Ilia can field, but they also take the most dangerous missions. Most of the time they’re thrown by themselves into the hottest action of any given sortie, and only half of them come out alive—if that. Their commander doesn’t care about their safety at all. She’ll do anything, and make them do anything, if the money’s good enough.

“In fact, it’s because of that commander that the unit’s got their nickname—“The Shrike Team.” She’s…insane. I can’t think of any better word to describe it. She used to be just a regular Pegasus Knight, but after her whole wing was annihilated on one mission they gave her a squad of her own. From there, she quickly distinguished herself as one of the best fighters in Ilia, but also one of the most vicious and reckless. Almost every battle she participated in she left piles of corpses behind her…she’d pursue her foes even if they were retreating, or when she wasn’t ordered to. She just likes killing, plain and simple. Maybe even more than money. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

At the end of this monologue, both Braddock and Renault were visibly unnerved. Even Tassar looked somewhat disquieted, though the only evidence of this he gave was a flat expression and a couple of blinks.

“W-well,” stammered Braddock, “so much the better for us, right? At least those girls will be soaking up the brunt of any enemy attacks. And if their leader is as crazy as they say, it’ll make our jobs that much easier, won’t it?”

“I sure hope so,” grunted Renault in response. “In any case, we’re gonna find out soon, right?” He pointed to the horizon. “It’s almost dawn. We’re moving out, aren’t we?”

He was right about that—well, almost. At the great North Gate the guardsmen manning the alabaster watchtowers raised trumpets to their lips and blared out the loudest herald they could, signifying the departure of the “mighty Mage Corps and the valiant, heroic warriors they had hired” on their “glorious campaign to bring peace back to Etruria and mete out righteous punishment to Nerinheit and his lawless rebels.” The army began to move, and Renault sighed, more than ready to begin his long march to his destination—he’d gotten used to long, boring marches ever since his very first job.

However, to his surprise and dismay, marching would not be the only reminder of his first ill-fated mercenary expedition. Upon hearing the call of the trumpets, the airborne members of the expedition ceased their flighted milling and quickly set themselves into the most common formation they used with armies containing both ground-based and flying warriors. It was a diamond-shaped phalanx composed of all twenty Pegasus Knights and the four Wyvern Riders the crown had managed to hire. The strongest warriors served as its points at the front, back, and right and left flanks of the marching columns—which meant the commander of the Shrike Team took the front position, two of her Knights the sides, and the ebon-mounted Yazan carrying the rear. This was obviously dangerous for the fliers, since they would be the first ones to be attacked, but it had the advantage of giving them the widest range of view over the surroundings and made things much safer for the infantry, because they would be alerted well in advance of any enemies lying in wait for them.

Yazan and his fellow Wyvern Riders took their allotted places in the formation with a minimum of fanfare. But as the army began to make its way through the North Gate, the Shrike Team decided they wanted to put on a little show just as they left the city. Gathering themselves into the distinctive V-shaped formation the Pegasus Knights were known for all over Elibe, the Knights soared high into the air, turned back, then descended steeply towards the army’s rear. Just as they almost hit the ground, a moment before it was too late to control their fall, all of them simultaneously banked upwards and forwards, flying right over the heads of the surprised mercenaries and Mage Corps.

The soldiers didn’t take very well to that little display, but then again, it wasn’t for their benefit. A loud clamor could be heard from the carriages at the center of the procession; the nobles and the king in particular hooting, clapping, and cheering loudly, very impressed.

Renault, on the other hand, was struck—and for a different reason. In the half-second it took for the Shrike Team to fly over his head he had looked up, and locked eyes with their leader—a green-haired woman with a vicious grin and a wild expression in her eyes. A spark of recognition had burned between them, and right then and there the sinking feeling in his stomach told Renault they had met before. No matter how desperately he wished to be wrong, he’d long since learned to trust his instincts, and they were proven right once again.

Finishing their display, the members of the Shrike Team took their ordered positions within the aerial diamond. All of them, except for their leader. Laughing happily, she dug her spurs into the sides of her mount and pulled back harshly on its reins. Quick as lightning it turned back and careened towards the even more surprised mercenaries at the army’s rear, its mistress’ vicious, serrated lance turned towards one of them in particular.

“IT’S BEEN SO LONG! I’M _SO_ GLAD TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

Renault barely had time to let out a stuttered “W-what the hell?!” before leaping to the side (almost crashing into Braddock). Without even thinking about it he came up kneeling on the ground and holding his sword in his hands. A good thing, too, because the crazy Pegasus Knight had barely finished her first dive when she swooped up and then back down for a second. Renault, still slightly off-balance, probably wouldn’t have been able to avoid this strike—but fortunately, a well-timed throw of a hand axe forced the Knight to veer to the side and abort her attack.

This didn’t faze her a bit, though, as her mount hovered in the air and she turned to look at Tassar, who had caught his axe as it returned to him and was wearing a distinctly grim expression. “Hey, I remember you too!” she exclaimed. “And your handsome, blue-haired friend there. Ahhh, so many memories. Let’s relive a few!”

She once again readied her lance, but was stopped yet again by a chorus of angry, perplexed shouting, coming both from above and below her. Two of her Knights had broken formation to fly up beside her, and upon hearing the commotion Paptimus and Exedol themselves had made their way through throngs of curious mercenaries and nobles to plant themselves right in the middle of whatever was going on. All of them were calling for the commander of the Shrike Team to explain herself.

“Sister, what’s the meaning of this?” asked the Knight hovering at her commander’s left side, who shared her bright green hair but kept better care of it and looked a year or so younger. “These men are our allies.”

“Yeah!” exclaimed the other Knight, who had green hair as well but kept it much shorter and looked (and sounded) like the youngest of the trio. “They’re our friends, aren’t they? We shouldn’t be fighting each other!”

She probably would have ignored them, but the entreaties of her employers finally caused her to roll her eyes in exasperation and give up her plans of attack completely. “Commander Kasha, what the hell are you doing?” boomed Paptimus’ strong voice from the ground. Beside him stood Exedol, who seemed only marginally less irritated than the Prime Minister was. “Have you gone mad?”

This elicited a peal of laughter from Kasha, and that was enough to make Braddock, Renault, and Tassar realize quite fully what an unfortunate reunion this was. Still smiling broadly, the woman set her mount down right in front of the three men, forcing all of them to take several steps back—as far as they could, since they were surrounded by a ring of interested spectators. Even a couple of the Wyvern Riders, most notably Yazan had drifted downwards to get a better few of the proceedings.

“Mad? No more than usual, m’lord,” Kasha chuckled. “I just wanted to say hello to a couple of old friends! We met back at Scirocco, y’see.” She looked straight at Renault. “What was your name, kid? I only saw you a couple of times, and the only thing I remember about you was when you fell on your ass trying to brandish a sword!”

This caused almost the entire crowd to burst out into laughter, and Braddock and Tassar both stared at Renault in horror, expecting him to rush at his old ‘friend’ or do something comparatively stupid. He almost did—the young man felt his face grow hot and red, and felt more anger than he had in years. But Tassar’s lessons had been well-learned. Renault did not staunch the rage flowing through him, be he channeled it, and with a grin on his face as vicious as that of his opponent’s, he simply held out his sword and shifted his feet into a defensive stance.

“You’re right,” he spat. “I sure as hell didn’t know what I was doing when we first met. But it’s been a long time, and I’ve learned some things since then, vulture. Sorry to disappoint you, but I think you’ll find me a tougher nut to crack than you expect!”

Lamentably, this didn’t have the disheartening effect on Kasha he’d hoped it would. “That’s great!” she cheered. “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to have much fun with you, but maybe you’ll keep me occupied for more than a couple of minutes! Let’s go!”

She wouldn’t get a chance. A small streak of fire lanced through the air right in front of her face, forcing her to halt her charge. Paptimus had held out his right hand and was pointing in her general direction, a wisp of smoke drifting from his outstretched finger.

“Enough,” he said, in the most commanding tone he could muster. “Any more of this and you can consider your contract terminated, Kasha. Bramsel’ll be displeased, surely, but he won’t even think of crossin’ me.”

“Fine, fine,” replied the Ilian. “It’s no big deal, though, right? Sooner or later I’ll get a chance to pay all you bastards back for Scirocco. And I drink from a canteen, too, so don’t think you’ll get out of it by poisonin’ somebody’s water again!” She flashed them another of her vicious smiles. “See you later, boys.”

With a light flap of white-feathered wings she had lifted off, followed by her two sisters, both of whom looked back with expressions of shock, horror, and disgust, and took her place at the head of the mid-air diamond formation, which now had a series of holes in it thanks to its members wanting to look at what she was doing. Her departure wouldn’t mean the end of Renault’s troubles, though. “Hah hah, God damn!” laughed Yazan, whose mount was currently hovering a few feet above Renault’s head. “Now that’s my kind of girl. Maybe I’ll get to know her a little better before he hit Nerinheit. Anyways,” he looked downwards, “So you guys were the ones who poisoned Scirocco? Wow. And they call me a bastard!”

“Shut up, Yazan!” Dougram shot his newest friends a quick, hard glance, knowing that much of the crowd around them was looking at them the same way. “That’s not true, right? He—she—they’re just making things up, right?”

“Yes,” yelled Renault in frustration, “we didn’t do anything there! Hell, we still don’t know what even happened, or why! Come on, don’t believe every stupid rumor you hear! Besides, it’s our word against hers, and who the hell would believe a stupid Ilian?”

This seemed to win over the crowd at least somewhat, though Yazan just shrugged. “Well, whatever. We’ll see.” His wyvern flapped its wings and drifted lazily upwards, back to its former position. Before anyone else could start any trouble, Exedol would quickly cut off any further discussion. “Enough! This nonsense has delayed us enough already. All of you, stop jabbering and resume your march. The King of Etruria deserves better from his men!”

This provoked a lot of disgruntled grumbling from the mercenaries, who had a less than glowing opinion of the country’s monarch. Still, it at least drew their attention to subjects other than the crazy Pegasus Knight and her ‘old friends,’ allowing Renault, Tassar, and Braddock to resume their marching with little further attention paid to them.

Little cheer that provided, of course. As he passed through the giant North Gate and followed his army into the wilderness of Etruria, Renault couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that even though the campaign had barely started they’d already ran into some problems.

He desperately hoped he was wrong, but he couldn’t shake the premonition that this job would turn out to be even worse than his very first.

-X-

One hack of the iron axe chopped the training dummy’s arm clean off, and a second did the same to its straw-filled head. Even wearing the gigantic, immensely heavy armor of a General, Glaesal Nerinheit had not broken a sweat. And he had been at it for a good half an hour.

“Meris!” he called, turning to the red-haired woman who stood patiently by the doorway of his manse’s great training hall. “Bring in another dummy, would you?”

“Ah…forgive me, my lord,” she walked up to him and bowed her head apologetically, “but we have no more. You’ve, er, destroyed most of them today.”

“Have I, now? Oh well. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take a break. In fact, I think I’m done with dummies altogether…there are only so many times I can repeat the same strokes over and over before I’ve learned all I can. How I wish I had an actual sparring partner.” He chuckled sarcastically at this. “Of course, it’s not easy to find a good one when you’re a rebel. Well, I knew what I was getting into when I declared my independence from the Crown.” Not even bothering to remove his armor, he sat down right on the ground beside one of the large room’s walls, right below a window which allowed a pleasant amount of sunlight to reach his white-bearded face. “Meris, if you haven’t any more dummies, could you bring me some water?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And stop calling me ‘lord,’ Meris. I’m no longer an aristocrat. Besides, I’m not even _your_ lord anyways. That was Paptimus, remember?”

“Yes, my—y-yes, of course.”

She quickly made her exit (not bothering to bow, realizing Glaesal wouldn’t have liked that any better) and just as quickly returned, carrying a full jug of water. She walked over to the former Count and held it out to him, which he took and drank from with relish. Wiping his mouth, he offered the jug to Meris, who hesitated for a moment before taking it and enjoying a couple of sips herself.

“Glaesal,” she then asked, “Are you done training altogether, or is there anything else you’d like me to bring? We have several spare targets and a pair of Fire—“

“No! No magic. I haven’t touched a book of spells since Exedol stole my position and I don’t plan to start now. I’ve rejected everything about the nobility, including their reliance on magic. Nothing but plate, axe, and spear for me now.”

“Yes, I understand. I was just—“

“Were you, now?” Glaesal shot his companion a hard look. “What were you thinking of doing, hmm? Trying to remind me of my past? Perhaps trying to weaken my resolve? Hmm?”

“S-sir—“

“Yes, that would be fitting, wouldn’t it? Maybe you’re in Paptimus’ pocket. Maybe he sent you here to suborn me! Fitting…he betrayed me, why wouldn’t you? He promised to help me if I rose up against the king, and he broke that promise. Who’s to say you’ll be any different? Besides,” and his eyes narrowed, “You’ve always been a bit suspicious, haven’t you? The girl the journal from Scirocco mentioned…she had red hair, and her name was Meris. Similar, eh? Yes, perhaps you’re hiding many things from me, my girl. Many things—“

He looked at Meris and then stopped almost immediately, because the girl seemed as if she was about to cry. A wave of shame rippled through Nerinheit, and he sighed heavily in a combination of weariness and embarrassment.

“Meris, I—no, never mind. Forgive me. I have no excuse save for being overburdened by too much care and too little sleep. The news of Exedol leading his Mage Corps and Paptimus leading his mercenaries against me and my allies has not done my mind much good, and I lashed out against you. Again, forgive me.”

“I understand, l—Glaesal. I will leave, if you so wish.” The young woman’s eyes still looked a bit wet.

“No, no. That would do me no good. Come, sit by me.” He patted a gauntleted hand on the spot on the floor next to him, which Meris reluctantly accepted.

“I’ve been much too hard on you, my dear,” he began. “It must have been terribly difficult for you these past for weeks. You were as close to Paptimus as I was, yet when news of my rebellion reached you, and you learned of his refusal to help, you left his side, left even the Palace, and traveled all the way up here.”

“I…I just wanted to help you, Sir Glaesal. You have always been so kind to me, and to others like me…most nobles of the Palace treated us servants like…like…we weren’t even human. It was no different from—“

“I understand” he replied sympathetically. “I was with Paptimus when he found you in Lycia. I know what you had to endure.” He reached out to lightly stroke her hair, and although the gesture itself may not have been comforting, coming from a mailed hand as it did, the feeling behind it certainly was. “The slave market is terrible in that country, especially for girls like you.”

Meris nodded and bit her lip. “Mm. In Lycia, they…there’s a superstition that says girls with red hair are…ah, my very name itself means ‘bountiful’ in the old Lycian tongue. It’s given to so many like me, and I doubt our parents would have thought the pain it would cause us, at least in our own homeland. If Paptimus hadn’t come and taken me from there, I might have spent—“

“Yes, yes. You needn’t say any more, my dear. Well, so long as I rule over Nerinheit, no-one else will ever have to endure what you experienced. My men will always ensure that no trade in flesh will ever go unpunished.”

“Th-thank you, sir.”

He chuckled sadly. “Well, don’t thank me too soon…I may not be in control of this land for much longer, for what it’s worth. Make no mistake, I am under no delusions about the success of my little revolution. Against the might of the King and his dogs, my men, brave as they may be, stand no chance. But we will die like men, and not the cuckolds Galahad has always treated us as. I cannot ask you to make the same sacrifice, though. Meris…when the army comes…when Paptimus comes…leave, would you? You’re a young, beautiful woman with a whole life ahead of you. There’s no need for you to throw it away beside me.”

“Lord Glaesal, please, please don’t say that! I am here because I believe in your cause, and I am willing to put my life behind that. Besides, all hope isn’t lost, yes? Perhaps a foreign country will come to our aid! Bern has long been at odds with the Etrurian government, and surely the Lycians grow tired of being under Etruria’s thumb. Perhaps now they’ll see a chance to assist us!”

“No, no. I very much doubt it, Meris. Bern’s king is a very cautious man, and they still haven’t recovered from the losses they suffered during their ill-fated incursion into Sacae. And Lycia? That country is in shambles, it’ll take them another decade at least to restore their armies to anything resembling their former strength. I don’t think a single marquess lost less than a fifth of his men, most much more.” The rebel count’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Still, Ostia and several other cantons have an excellent spy network, one that has mostly survived from what I understand. It may be possible they’re interfering with us somehow…in fact, that would make sense. Like you said, there are many red-haired girls named Meris in Lycia, particularly from the cantons of Pherae and Cornwell. Perhaps one of them was involved with what happened in Scirocco…p-perhaps there are Lycian spies in my city, even now! My men will have to be on watch…”

“Yes, Glaesal. Perhaps. But let’s deal with the problems we know exist, and which must be addressed now.” She smiled at him, feeling a bit better, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “If you are done training, perhaps you now have time to attend other matters? A small group of merchants has arrived from Padstow asking if they might receive any preferential treatment in regard to tariffs and customs, since that countship is allied with us as well. I thought it would be best to ask you than to treat with them myself—“

“You thought right, my dear. Thank you. Here, help me out of this armor and then we’ll go meet them together.”

“Of course!”

She seemed quite content, carefully unclasping each piece of her leader’s armor with both haste and skill. Nerinheit himself seemed to have been at least somewhat cheered, and she was very glad for that.

A few small lies were more than acceptable if they kept him happy, weren’t they?

-X-

“AH-CHOO!”

Sitting next to the Mage General at the front of his personal carriage—actually, it was a pair of very large wagons hitched to each other—near King Galahad’s, Paptimus furtively wiped his nose and shot a somewhat embarrassed look at Exedol. “Heh, sorry about that. Guess this cold must be gettin’ to me.”

“Hmm.” Wearing a distinctly nonplussed expression, Exedol reached to a pocket near his belt and brought out a small handkerchief, which Paptimus accepted gratefully. “Mind your manners, Paptimus. I know your birth and your background, but after all this time you should know better than to wipe your face with the back of your hand.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“In any case, are you coming down with something? If so, you really oughtn’t push yourself. It will be something of an inconvenience to have the commander of the mercenaries incapacitated even slightly when we reach Nerinheit, but my Mage Corps will be able to take care of anything. If you’d like to rest, feel free to. I can even send you back to Aquleia if you wish.”

“No, no, s’alright. Just a passing thing, it was. Anyways, what did you want to talk about?”

“We’re still quite some distance from the countship of Nerinheit, not to mention the city as well. Despite my confidence in my men, I’d like to know as much about what we may be facing as possible. Since you’re Nerinheit’s protégé, I figure you’d know. What do you expect he’ll send against us?”

“Mmm.” The Prime Minister’s face grew grave. “Well, you already know about how many men he’s been able get together…it’s been a month or so since he first launched his declaration, so he’s had more than enough time to gather an army of his own. However, keep in mind that Count Padstow has risen up as well, and there are probably many more supporters of this little rebellion who’ve wandered in from across the land. 3000 rebels is probably a low estimate…even going with that, we have what, 500 of your mages and a thousand of my mercenaries? At best we’d be outnumbered two to one, six to one counting only your forces, and those odds are almost certainly even worse in reality.”

“I realize that. However, keep in mind the power of the Mage Corps of Etruria. We have long triumphed against opponents many times our number, especially those with little magical ability of their own…people like the ones Nerinheit has managed to draw. More important, to me, is where we will be facing them. In the open will be annoying, and we may have to rely on your mercenaries then. However, in an enclosed space or a narrow defile my men will have every advantage.”

“Uhh…well, I guess that’s something of a problem. Have you ever been this far north, Exedol?”

“No.”

“Well, there are a lot of woods and forests in this part of Etruria. The largest is called the Lurkmire Forest. There are a lot of bad rumors about it…the superstitious say it’s haunted, and those who know better still say it’s home to many vicious brigands and highwaymen.

“Even going quickly, the forest would take a couple of days to get through. The trees are thick; within the forest it seems like night at mid-day and as black as the Cursed Land at night. It would be the perfect place to stage an ambush, and that’s exactly what I think Nerinheit is gonna do. If it WAS an open battle, it’d probably be easier on us, but clearing out that entire forest…it’s gonna be really, really tough going. Nerinheit’s men may not have much raw skill, but they do know this area. Guerilla tactics could inflict very heavy losses on us if we try to make our way through the forest. We could go around it, but that would waste at least a week, if not more.”

“Is that all?” Exedol sniffed. “Hmpf. You were beginning to worry me. Well, if they’re all in a forest like what you describe they’ll be very easy prey.”

“Uh…huh? Exedol, I don’t understand.”

The Mage General simply smiled smugly. “You’ll see. Anyways, after we drive them from the forest, what will we have to deal with?”

“Well, after the Lurkmire there’s only really Nerinheit himself. Glaesal will make his stand there, I think. It won’t be easy going either…since the city is so close to the Shield of Durbans, it’s always had to deal with many pirate attacks from the Western Isles. It is not lightly defended. Its walls are strong and defended by many ballistae.”

“Is that all? Again, no matter. We have many, many Bolting tomes with us—a great extravagance, really, even more so than the mercenaries. There are also several staves we have in store which will be of use. We can deal with the ballistae on their own terms with little problem.”

“Oh yeah? And what about the walls? The city itself?”

Exedol simply shrugged. “If worst comes to worst, the mercenaries will serve as fodder, distracting the city’s defenses long enough to for us to decimate them with our magic. And even then,” he grinned cruelly, “we might not have to rely on the mercenaries at all. Again, our Bolting spells can blow apart even stone walls as if they were naught but silk.”

“E-Exedol, you can’t be serious. D’you know how much damage that would cause the city? How many innocent people might die? This countship is extremely important, both to Northern Etruria as a whole and our colonization efforts to the Western Isles. If we follow your strategy, it’d take a fortune to reconstruct it!”

“So? These rebels deserve it. It’s their fault for daring to raise arms against the Crown. Besides, it’s not as if we have any lack of funds.” He waved lazily to the wagons behind them. “It seems you’ve brought along your personal fortune with you, Paptimus. Even I haven’t seen so much gold in one place! This is all for the reconstruction effort, yes?”

“Well, yes, but money can only rebuild buildings, if that. It can’t restore lives!”

“So what? The lives of rebels and traitors are worth nothing.” He cast the Prime Minister a suspicious glare. “I think you concern yourself overmuch with the fate of this scum, Paptimus. Have you lost your nerve?”

“I haven’t, Exedol. Don’t start that. But Glaesal is—was, my friend. Nerinheit’s like a second home to me.”

“But you’re here anyways, fighting against your former friend. Or do you mean to betray us?”

“NO!” Paptimus was growing somewhat angry now. “Don’t even say that! I made my vows t’ the king, and even though it hurts more than anything, if I have to stand against the man who’s like a father t’ me, then that’s what I’ll do! Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“Yes, I would.” Exedol’s voice softened somewhat. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to impugn your loyalty to our liege.”

“Uh…yeah. It’s…fine. Still,” he grumbled, “You can see where I’m coming from, don’t you? I love this land. I don’t want t’ visit any more destruction on it than necessary.”

“Hm. Admirable sentiment, I suppose. Still, we do what we must. If Nerinheit surrenders, as he should if he were intelligent, all this will be irrelevant anyways and we’ll have nothing to worry about. But if he doesn’t, as I fear, then I am afraid we must undertake whatever measures are necessary.”

“Again, Exedol, ‘necessary measures’ aren’t things that oughta be thrown around lightly. Ostia and Cornwell both took what they thought to be ‘necessary measures’ seven years ago, and Lycia’s still a wreck.”

“Ah, yes, I remember that. Well, I think you worry too much, Paptimus. Those Lycians are pathetic bunch of squabbling weaklings, really…they play at being a respectable nation like us, but all they can do is a pale imitation of our greatness. There’s no way this little matter could ever spin out of control like theirs did.”

“Don’t be so sure, Exedol. I was there. I saw the war begin. Absolutely nobody would have thought that little incident would spark a civil war that lasted two years either.”

“Oh?” Exedol turned to Paptimus, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “You mean you were in Lycia? Why?”

“Glaesal took me. Seven years ago he was preparing me to assume the position I’m in now. He wanted to give me some hands-on experience with diplomacy, so he took me with him on his trip to Lycia. Several Etrurian nobles were invited to Maxim and Pamela’s wedding, and he was one of ‘em. They never said he couldn’t bring along his adopted son, so I got a free ride. It’s kind of sad, though. Lycia was a pretty nice place. I was only there about a week before the trouble started. Maybe I’ll come back some day, when things are better.”

“Hmm. Well, you brought along a memento of your trip, at least, didn’t you?” Exedol chuckled sarcastically. “Didn’t you bring a servant girl or something back to Etruria with you and Nerinheit? I remember hearing she came from a brothel…or perhaps those are just rumors?”

“No, they’re true,” replied Paptimus defensively. “Yes, I did find her in a brothel. F’r pity’s sake, she was only 13! I couldn’t just leave her there. Everyone deserves a chance at a better life. Glaesal saved me from the fighting pits pretty much the same way. How could I not do the same for her?”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Hmm…well, I can’t say I approve of such uplifting of commoners, but in your case it worked out well enough. Perhaps it will be the same with her. Odd, though, I haven’t seen her in quite a while.” If Exedol was more perceptive, he might have noticed his companion’s face darken slightly, but of course, he didn’t. The Mage General continued, saying, “Well, in any case, the whole thing was somewhat amusing. It says a lot about Lycia if they started a civil war over a wedding.”

“It’s not that simple, Exedol.” Paptimus was somewhat disappointed by his colleague’s racism. “Fighting over a wedding is one thing, but wouldn’t you say it’s justifiable if both the bride and one of her former suitors turn up dead? Especially if both were high-ranking members of the nobility?”

“Hm? Is that what happened? You’ll have to excuse me, I didn’t know that. I don’t pay much attention to foreign affairs…most of my time is spent maintaining the forces of the Mage Corps. So tell me, what was the real story?”

“Well, that’s something I honestly don’t know for sure…like I said, I was only in the country for a week. I’ll tell you what I heard, though.

“It was supposed to be a great celebration, lots of good cheer and good feelings all around. The Marquess of Ostia had finally managed to get Maxim married off. This was an accomplishment—I never even saw the boy personally, but most people said he was such an incompetent screwup that his parents intentionally kept him as far away from court affairs as possible. Now, his wife wasn’t much better—he was s’posed to have married Pamela, the youngest sister of Marquess Char of Cornwell. She wasn’t even anything close t’ beautiful—hell, I mistook her for a boy the first time I saw her. She was hard to get along with and wasn’t good at poetry, religion, or anything a noble lady’s supposed to be. Only good things about her were that she was good with a spellbook, liked dancing, and had red hair. You’ve heard about the Lycian thing with that, right?”

“Indeed. Sometimes I get the feeling that lot is almost as superstitious as the Sacaens.”

“Well, superstitions or not, you can see why she ended up with Maxim. Both of them were screwups, so it was only fitting they got together. Worked out real well politically, at least from what Glaesal told me. It’d cement an alliance between Ostia and Cornwell, which given Cornwell’s wealth was a good thing. There was a problem, though. The Marquess of Laus, Bishop Volker.”

“Hmm… _Bishop_ Volker? But he was a marquess as well? I thought one had to renounce any title of nobility before taking a position in the Church hierarchy.”

“Well…I’m not the most devout guy there is, but from what I understand, though the Church doesn’t sanction holding both a noble and a clerical title, it doesn’t explicitly forbid it. It should, though, at least I think so. Guys like Volker really gave it a bad name. The only reason he took his position was so he could add tithes from his diocese to his coffers in addition to his taxes. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he was a greedy, petty little man.”

“Even the clergy of Lycia is sub-par, it seems. We’d never have such scum in the ranks of the holy in Etruria!”

“Yeah, maybe.” The expression on the Prime Minister’s face indicated he didn’t really believe this. “In any case, though, Volker desperately wanted Pamela’s hand in marriage. He’d had two wives before her, both of whom died…after they failed to bring him any heirs. He was hoping a redhead would do the trick this time. Naturally, when he heard Pamela was getting hitched to Maxim instead of him, he was less than pleased. Still, nobody thought he would actually do anything about it…at least not until just two days before the wedding.

“Pamela turned up dead…her body was found by a guard near Laus’ borders, and from what he said it looked like someone had…used her before killing her. Things blew up from there. Most thought it was just a bandit attack…a gang of thieves looking for some quick fun who just happened upon a noble. Pamela’s fiancée, however, insisted it was Bishop Volker, who obviously denied it.

“I don’t know what the truth is. All I know is that Maxim apparently believed it. With the bride dead, Glaesal and I made a hasty exit back to Etruria after paying our condolences to Char…but a few days after we left, I heard that Bishop Volker was dead. They’d found Maxim in his room the night before, smashing his head in.”

“Vigilante justice,” asked Exedol, “is that common in Lycia?”

“No. But like I said, Maxim was a screwup. Probably couldn’t control himself. But it still made Ostia look very, very bad. Volker’s younger brother took the throne of Laus and started to accuse Maxim himself of killing his wife to be. After what he did to Volker, it seemed pretty likely. Still, there was some hope that the whole mess could be salvaged…he was sent to Ostia to be imprisoned, and under the demands of Cornwell and Laus, they agreed to execute him for his crimes. Hanging their own son…pretty harsh, huh?”

“Not in my view. Laws must be upheld, no matter who breaks them.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that. I guess you have a point, too. Still, they never got a chance to send Maxim to Ostia. He escaped from his cell one night, and they could never find him.”

“Escaped? From an Ostian prison? How? I think little of those people, but I can appreciate the strength of their defenses. Did he magic himself out of there somehow?”

“Nobody knows, that’s the thing. Cornwell and Laus thought that the Ostians were hiding him, while the Ostia denied it. They didn’t believe it, and went to war over it. That’s the story. To this day nobody knows what became of Maxim.”

“Hmm. So who won the war?”

“Ostia and its allies, barely. They didn’t get what they wanted, though…they were too weakened to ask for anything but a very conditional surrender. Bishop Volker’s brother remained on the throne of Laus, and Marquess Char…again, nobody knows what happened to him either. Ostia wanted him dead for his viciousness in battle, but he managed to get out of their hands as well. How, I don’t know either. Maybe their prisons aren’t so well-guarded after all.”

“Char? The Red Comet? I’ve heard of him. There are rumors floating around that he’s in Etruria right now.”

Paptimus blinked, clearly surprised. “Are you serious? Where did you hear that?”

“From some of our spies. Our intelligence networked is close-lipped, though, even to us. The only one they answer directly to is the king. For all I know, it could just be misinformation they’re spreading.”

Paptimus pursed his lips thoughtfully, yet another gesture Exedol ignored. By this point, he had a distinctly sour expression on his face. “Anyways, this is such a horribly sordid tale, Paptimus. All that bloodshed over a woman. What savages those Lycians must be!”

“Well, take the speck out of your own eye before you look at someone else’s. Isn’t that what the Saint said? I wouldn’t say too many bad things about those Lycians if I had your women troubles. Glaesal always thought your thing with his wife was why he lost his position to you. It—“

“Silence!” Exedol was glaring at his companion now, the sour expression having turned to one of irritation and anger. “Cease your gossiping. You know nothing of what went on between us.”

“S-sorry, Exedol. I didn’t mean to, uh—“

“Hmph.” The Mage General had been mollified, but not by much. “Yes, you apologize for quite a lot, Paptimus. You need to learn to mind your mouth. I can understand it is difficult, given your low-born origins, but you have been among us for long enough to have learned better. Know that there are things you should not say in the presence of your equals, not to mention superiors. Try to speak more like a noble than a commoner, would you?”

Paptimus simply nodded, appropriately chastised. “Very well, m’lord. I’ll try.”

“That’s a start.”

Exedol leaned back in his seat, and the two men continued their journey in a silence that was neither cold nor warm.

-X-

Crunch, crunch, crunch. After hearing almost nothing but that distinctive sound of heavy boots tramping the snow and seeing nothing but leafless trees and seemingly endless snowdrifts for about one and a half weeks, Renault was beginning to wish he’d stayed in Sacae. At least there he’d probably have had something to do.

Braddock, marching beside him, sympathized more than a little with his friend’s sentiments. “I know I always told you being a mercenary was a tough business,” he grinned sheepishly, “but I guess I should’ve mentioned it was boring a lot of the time too, huh?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Renault grinned right back in response. “So long as you’re here things’ll be interesting. Besides,” and at this he looked up at the sky, “with people like those around, sometimes I think a little boredom isn’t such a bad thing.”

The loud whoops and yells coming from above them were the only things necessary to illustrate his point. As usual, and as they had been for the better part of the week, the two most skilled fliers the army had, Yazan and Kasha, were at it again. They called it ‘sparring,’ and to an extent this was an honest description, since neither of them ever seriously injured the other, but judging by how close they consistently came Renault would call it something a bit less euphemistic.

Both of them were shouting at the top of their lungs as they spurred Pegasus and Wyvern against each other. Hambrabi roared in irritation as he attempted to chomp on Kasha’s swift Pegasus, the woman laughing maniacally as she attempted to skewer Yazan with her nasty-looking Killer Lance. The Bernite was all too happy to return the favor, a wide grin on his face as he swerved his mount to and fro in the air, attempting to get close enough to land a solid blow on his opponent with his own heavy steel sword.

“Uh, I guess it’s nice to see them become such good friends in such a short amount of time?” Braddock was still wearing his sheepish expression.

“Yeah, right,” snorted Renault. “Hey, where’re Tassar and Dougram? With another group up ahead a bit, right? Let’s link up with them. We stay by ourselves too long around here, we’re likely to attract that crazy lady’s attention.”

Unfortunately, he spoke too late. Kasha careened away from Yazan after he repelled her last attack, and as she was turning Renault happened to catch her eye. With a wide grin on her face, she angled her mount downwards and spurred him to increase his speed. Instinctively, Renault leapt and rolled to his left just as Kasha crashed into the spot he would have been standing.

After a moment, the brief snowstorm created by the force of her attack dissipated, and Renault was left staring at her as she maintained an infuriatingly innocent expression on her face. “So sorry,” she pouted, “I really didn’t mean to do that. Yazan’s attack was so strong I just lost control of my mount!”

Yazan, who’d followed his friend down to earth, chuckled as he heard the compliment. “Like I always say, I wasn’t called a Wyvern Lord for nothing. But hey,” he smiled at Renault, “that was a quick dodge. You’ve got good reflexes, kid. In a little while, maybe you’ll be good enough to actually provide me with a challenge! All this time in Etruria I haven’t had one yet.”

This prompted a venomous glare from Kasha. “Hey! What the hell are you implying?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just that I’ve seen better moves than yours from fresh recruits barely a year out of training!”

“Oh, really? THEN LEMME SHOW YOU SOME NEW ONES!”

Almost faster than any of them could see, Kasha’s Pegasus galloped forward and she flicked out her lance twice with a pair of equally swift jerks of her arm. Yazan and his mount were quick enough to dodge the first jab, but the second came dangerously close to the Bernite’s face and with a grimace he raised his sword to deflect it. He did so successfully, but not while maintaining his grip on the weapon, and it went flying off into the snow.

“Nice!” he exclaimed, unlimbering his second weapon, a heavy spear also made of steel. “Now things are gettin’ interesting! C’mon, hon, show me some more!” With a flap of leathery wings he and his mount ascended once again, and laughing gleefully, Renault completely forgotten, Kasha followed.

“Lunatics,” Renault muttered. “Complete lunatics.”

“We’re in complete agreement there, my friend,” said Braddock with a frown. “C’mon, you were right. Let’s get out of here before they notice us again.” The two men quickly increased their pace to a light jog, soon passing by most of the other mercenaries around them, who were marching pretty quickly themselves. Exedol and Khyron had set a very quick pace, because they wanted to hit Nerinheit before Glaesal could consolidate his position any further, but the guests they had brought along necessitated a few changes to the army’s pace. The nobles found the mercenaries “distasteful” and wanted to stay as far away from them as possible, so as a result the hired swords marched slightly slower than the Mage Corps and the nobles’ carriages traveled. The nobles also didn’t care if they marched in lockstep or formation so long as they actually marched, so within a short amount of time Renault and Braddock reached the head of the disorganized mercenary columns, managing to spot Tassar and Dougram, who was currently busy conversing a small distance away with a couple of other veterans.

“Ah, welcome,” said Tassar when he turned and heard his subordinates crunching through the snow towards him, trying to catch up. “You look like you’re in a rush. Remember, don’t get too excited…the Mage Corps won’t like it if it seems like you’re trying to one-up them.”

“Don’t worry about it,” answered Renault. “We just wanted to get away from Kasha and Yazan, that’s all.”

“Ah, I can understand that. Seems like she still has a grudge against us. Heh…not good form. In our line of work it’s not much good to build enmity or affection, since you may be side-by-side with your rival against your friend someday.”

“True enough,” said Braddock, “but then again, I get the feeling that Pegasus Knight is too crazy to care.”

“Maybe.” Tassar grinned. “Well, she’s not the only one. Be glad you haven’t seen Roberto around.”

Both Braddock and Renault looked distinctly surprised. “Roberto? So it was him we saw back at Aquleia.”

“Uh-huh. He’s become quite a terror with that axe of his, so I’ve heard. But I don’t think he’s forgotten us…when I went up to him to say hello, he got a pretty ugly look on his face and looked like he wanted to plant that big blade through my head. I got away from him before he had a chance.”

“Damn.” Braddock now looked distinctly sad rather than surprised. “I guess I can’t blame him after what happened in Scirocco. I’d like to apologize again, but…if he’s still like this after two years, I don’t think anything I say will do much good.”

“Wise thinking,” said Tassar with a slight smile. “Both of you ought to keep away from him.”

“I will, at least,” said Renault. “So is there anybody else around here we have to watch out for?”

“Fortunately, I don’t think so. Khyron and Rosamia are around as well, but they’re with the Mage Corps…we won’t see much of them. Other than that, I don’t think we’ll be seeing any more old friends over the course of this expedition.”

“I hope so,” said Renault. Braddock and Tassar started chatting a bit, talking about the weather’s effect on their equipment (the armor they wore had to be protected from significant amounts of moisture, including snow) but the sellsword from Thagaste remained quiet.

The bad feelings he’d had since this job started were only increasing, and he was getting fairly certain things would only get worse.

-X-

They were almost there.

After marching north from Aquleia for almost three weeks, the army Renault was a part of was just a few days from their final destination. They had penetrated the countship of Nerinheit, passed by the dead castle and equally dead town of Scirocco (raising some very, very unpleasant memories for Renault and his friends) and after a few more days had finally arrived at the largest functional settlement in the area aside from the city of Nerinheit itself—the moderately-sized town of Austros. It was quite a bit bigger, than most of the other towns in the region, especially compared to Scirocco, and obviously much livelier (though still not nearly as impressive as Aquleia or even Thagaste).

The journey to it had been surprisingly easy going—Count Nerinheit had laid no forces in wait for them, apparently concentrating everything he had in the forest and his city. When they actually reached the town Renault figured they might actually have to capture it, but as the army marched up to it, much to his surprise the town just opened its wood gates and essentially rolled over for them.

Tassar wasn’t at all surprised. “We were all expecting this,” he told Renault and Braddock as they stood outside with the other mercenaries while the Mage Corps and the nobles entered. “A lot of people up north may support Nerinheit’s rebellion, but not enough to fight for it. These townies are probably surrendering and pretending to be…loyal,” and he spat this with a bit of venom that somewhat surprised Renault, “in the hopes that the Crown will show them some clemency.” The veteran mercenary then chuckled sarcastically. “I doubt they’re gonna end up pleased, though.”

Tassar’s prediction turned out to be correct. The three men watched as a portly, brown-haired man who seemed to be the town’s magistrate hastily went out to meet with Exedol and Paptimus. After a few minutes of apparently frantic discussion he returned to the town hall, shouting loudly, though Renault couldn’t make out what he was saying outside of its walls. Exedol and a portion of the best men he could find in the Mage Corps began to escort the carriages of the King and his nobles into the village, while Paptimus returned outside to address the troop of waiting mercenaries.

“Sorry about this,” he boomed, once again using an enchantment to raise his voice, “but we’re going to have to camp outside the town for tonight. This town’s not big enough to quarter more than a thousand men, and in any case, it’s best to keep some forces outside of the town walls, just in case there’s a surprise attack heading our way.”

Renault and his friends were none too pleased to hear of this, and the other members of their army definitely weren’t either. “So what the hell were the King’n his nobles goin’ inside for?” one shouted.

“Uh…the King, his nobles, and some of the Mage Corps will be staying in village. That’s’—“

Paptimus was cut off by a chorus of angry shouts from his audience. “What the hell? We’re the one’s doing the fighting! Why are they the ones getting the luxuries?” “They’re too good to sleep out here with the men they hired, huh?”

The Prime Minister raised his hand and cut off the chatter with a resounding “ENOUGH!!” Taking a deep breath, he continued. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. It makes the rulers of this country look even worse to people who already don’t like them. But the King’s word was final, and I couldn’t go against it. Besides, from the way the nobles complained about the ‘amenities’ whenever we camped out in the open, it’s probably for the better they’re lodging in a place they can’t complain about as much. And frankly, the people of this town have it even worse than you do. Many of them are getting kicked out of their homes to make room for the nobles. Hell, they’ve even turned a hospice into an inn for the night to keep one of the Counts happy! So just be thankful that our journey’s almost over, and you’ll all be able to go back home much richer men once we finally put a stop to this rebellion business. It’s the people of this countship who really need the sympathy here.”

With those words, the tensions among the crowd dissipated—the mercenaries agreed, for the most part. With that, the crowd dispersed, beginning to set up tents and build fires in preparation for the night (duties with which Paptimus himself helped, endearing him even more to his employees).

“Incredible!” sputtered Dougram as he, Renault, Tassar, and Braddock gathered up some kindling and rations (a few small rabbits Braddock had managed to trap earlier) to prepare dinner. “Don’t the nobles of this country care about their people at all? This isn’t justice!”

“It sure isn’t,” replied Braddock, “but that’s how the nobility works in every country.”

With those words, they sat themselves around the fire they’d just managed to light up and set about making some rabbit stew.

-x-

“So that’s the hospice, huh?”

Renault was standing with Braddock outside of one of Paptimus’ tents. The Prime Minister had brought several spares, as he was a fairly cautious man, which allowed many of Austros’ townspeople to have at least a bit of shelter for the night after being temporarily “relocated” from their homes to make room for the King and his retinue. The fact that it was a “great honor” to sacrifice for their monarch (whom they had never seen before) was of little comfort to them.

It was perhaps the least comfort for the sick and hurt people who had been laid up in one of the town’s larger halls, which was now occupied by Count Bramsel. Austros had been without a professional apothecary for a few months, but from what Renault had heard a wandering Eliminean preacher had traveled to the region and agreed to take up shop in the town for a brief period. This tent was where he and his patients had been set up after Bramsel occupied their previous lodgings.

“We’d better stay away from this place,” Renault said, sounding extremely bitter. “They’re hotbeds of filth and disease.”

“Well, I guess that’s to be expected,” said Braddock, a bit surprised and disappointed by what seemed to him his friend’s lack of charity, “but it’s not the fault of the people in them they get sick or hurt, right?”

“Yeah, maybe not. But they can still hurt the people who try to help them.” Renault’s voice lowered. “That’s how my dad bought it.”

“R-really?” Now his friend was even more surprised, and couldn’t think of anything more to say.

“Yeah. My dad worked at a hospice not too different from this one. One day he came down with…consumption. Caught it from one of his patients, I guess. Died a while later.” Renault snorted. “He was a bishop too. I thought God would protect him because of that, but…hmph. Well, I was a kid back then. Served me right for being dumb enough to have ‘faith’ in anything.”

“I…uh, I see. I’m sorry, Renault, I didn’t mean to pry or anything.” Braddock truly was sorry. Not having known of this before, this insight into his best friend’s psyche made him feel embarrassed for potentially hurting the guy’s feelings, sorry for what he’d gone through, and a bit sorry for having thought Renault was being (entirely) selfish as opposed to dealing with bad memories.

Renault, though, saw this on the Ostian’s face and quickly moved to dispel his friend’s unnecessary guilt. “Hey, man, don’t worry about it. You didn’t know. And besides, it’s not bad talking about it…at least not with you.”

“R-really? Thanks, bud.” Once again, Braddock couldn’t remember the last time anybody had confided in him quite like that. “Relieves me a bit, at least. But, uh, you wanna go somewhere else? I understand if you don’t wanna hang around…”

“Well, what do you wanna do? Honestly, I don’t like places like these, but you were the one who said you wanted to check it out. If this is where you’re going, I wanna come to.”

“Yeah. I was just wondering if these folks needed any help or anything, since it’s kind of our fault they got kicked out here…well, those damn nobles’ fault, anyways. And there’s some kind of priest watching over them, isn’t there?” His face hardened. “I’d like to make sure they aren’t being mistreated.”

“Knowing the clergy, that’s not a bad guess. Alright, if you wanna check things out here, I’ll be right behind you. So long as you’re with me, I think I’ll turn out better than my dad did, at least.”

Both men feeling much emboldened by the support of the other, together they made their way into the confines of the tent. It turned out that both their fears turned out to be unfounded.

The first thing they noticed was a distinct lack of disease within the makeshift hospice. There were eight beds on the snowy ground (moved by Paptimus himself—even years after his days as a gladiator he still had great physical strength), all of which were clean and well-maintained. Two of them were isolated from the others, their occupants covered with blankets and apparently suffering from some sickness, but on the other six lay townsfolk who were not sick but rather injured or incapacitated—bandages swathed the head of one man who’d suffered a fall several days earlier and an elderly man had been wrapped up in thick blankets with his extremities doused in small pans of warm water to ease his frostbite, for instance. These kinds of injuries were better cured by rest and kind ministrations than the magic of a staff, but fortunately, they were not the kind of maladies one could catch by mere proximity. Since the ill patients were isolated, Renault had no need to worry about coming down with something.

Judging by the way the proprietor ministered to his latest patient, Braddock needn’t have worried about maltreatment either. The man on the bed lay groaning, a red blotch spreading over the bandages around his waist. He had actually been brought in just a few minutes ago—one of the town’s hunters, he had been gored by the antlers of a buck he had been pursuing.

His savior stood over him dressed in nothing but a thick brown cassock, holding a Mend staff above him and chanting intently. He was far too engrossed in his spell to pay any attention to the interlopers who were watching him at the moment. As his chanting grew louder and a soft blue light spilled from the gem at the tip of his staff, the red blotch on the man’s bandages stopped spreading, and his breathing began to slow and relax. Though his eyes were still closed, a smile of relief spread across his half-conscious face.

“You’ll be alright,” said the brown-haired priest. “Good thing you were brought in when you were! The spell should’ve closed your wound right up…uh, er, at least it looks like I did it right. Just rest for a while and you’ll be as good as new!”

The pilgrim turned around, and when Renault got a good look at him he blinked, suddenly struck by a bolt of recognition. The young man before him had a friendly expression that might have looked vapid a few years ago, but seemed to have been weathered by some degree of travel and hardship. He was not fat, but his skin seemed to hang slightly, as if he once was.

“A-ah!” the man stammered. “Oh, Elimine forgive me, I-I’m sorry for not noticing you! You’re the King’s men, aren’t you? D-d’you need any help or healing or anything? I didn’t think there was a battle but—“ He stopped his rambling when he got a good look at his old friend from Thagaste. He was about to shout but a cough from one of his sick patients reminded him of where he was. “R…are you…no, it couldn’t be, I’m sorry—“

“No, you were right,” Renault groaned. “It’s me. Renault of Thagaste. Serapino, what the hell are you doing here?”

“God’s work,” came the cheery reply. “The Saint came to me in a dream and told me the people of the north would need my help for the troubles ahead of them! So over the past few months I’ve been traveling from village to village, preaching the Word and doing what I can…I c-can’t do much, b-but I’ve gotten better with a staff! Really!”

“Wait a moment,” Braddock asked incredulously, “You came all the way up here because of a dream? You have to be joking!”

Serapino was completely oblivious to the man’s sarcasm. “No, not at all! I’m completely serious! I…I may not be much, but if the Creator has called me, I’ll do my best!”

“Jeez.” Distaste was evident on the Ostian’s face. “Religion really does make you do crazy things. Well, at least you’re helping people, I guess, but still…”

“Helping people? Yeah, he certainly is, though I guess it’s up in the air as to how well,” snorted Renault derisively. “He and I used to be friends back when I was younger. He’s definitely not quick-witted, but Serapino’s honest. If he’s running things around here I don’t think you have anything to worry about. These people are in…well-intentioned hands, at least.”

Even Serapino managed to figure out he was being mildly insulted by the two men, but the timid pilgrim didn’t really want to start a fight. “So, uh,” he stumbled, attempting to change the subject, “what’re you two doing here? I never thought I’d see you around here!”

“I came up here with my best friend, Braddock.” He grinned at his Ostian comrade. “We’re mercenaries.”

“M-Mercenaries?” Serapino couldn’t hide his surprise. “You? Renault? A mercenary?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh. Uhh…wow. S-so…uh, no stoneworking?”

Renault’s face twitched in irritation. “No.”

“Uh…ah…okay.” Renault gritted his teeth as he prepared to deal with a barrage of dumb, increasingly annoying and probing questions from the befuddled young man, but he was much pleased to see that Serapino’s travels had apparently forced him to become much better at reading people. “Uh, um, I guess I can see why. This whole rebellion business is really bad…I mean, the church even issued an edict condemning it and everything! So it’s really good that you’re here helping the Crown! W-with you around, I’m sure things will be back to normal in no time!”

This was good enough for Renault, who simply snorted again and grinned in response. “Yeah, hopefully. We’ll see about that.” He turned to leave. “Anyways, we’ll get out of your hair now. Nothing more for us to see around here, eh, Braddock?”

The Ostian nodded and followed his friend. “Uh-huh. See you around, priest-boy.”

Together they left the makeshift hospice, and Serapino made no effort at all to pursue them. Probably for the best. Although Renault was thankful this little reunion had turned out better than the one he’d had with Kasha, it still didn’t sit too well with him.

Then again, perhaps it was best to appreciate his blessings. He had no idea what was waiting for him up ahead, after all.

_::Linear Notes::_

With this chapter I began posting character data at my forums at FFn. Again, I may back up that stuff here.


	15. A VERY Nasty Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Nerinheit begins...and ends in a way no-one could have possibly foreseen.

Wayward Son

Chapter 15: A VERY Nasty Surprise

(Many, MANY thank yous to Writer Awakened for beta-reading!)

“So that’s the Lurkmire Forest, huh?”

Renault said this as he and his companions stood with the rest of the army a few stone’s throws away from the outskirts of the great forest. Being a city boy originally and having spent most of his time as a mercenary on the wide-open plains of Sacae, Renault had never seen many forests, so this was easily the largest he’d ever encountered. He’d thought the King’s hunting grounds at the Holy Royal Palace had been huge, but they weren’t much compared to the Lurkmire. From east to west as far as the eye could see stretched trees, so closely lumped together it was almost as if they formed a solid wall. Only a few small roads seemed to pierce the foliage—it’d be more than easy to get lost in these forests.

And it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, either. The King’s grounds may not have been as large, but at least the vegetation there had been lush and verdant. The trees of the Lurkmire, however, seemed to be afflicted with something much worse than winter’s chill. As one might expect at this time of year, none of them had any leaves; pine trees and other evergreens were foreign to this part of Etruria. What these trees did have, however, were multitudes and multitudes of long, thin, pitch-black branches which terminated in sharp, vicious points, almost as if they were giant thorns. There were so many of them that virtually no light could reach the forest floor, and they discouraged any kind of aerial assault—fliers attempting to land within the trees would likely be sliced to pieces by the thorns, unless they and their mounts were more than lightly armored.

“It’s gonna be horrible to fight in there,” continued Renault with an extremely sour look on his face. “Couldn’t we have marched out here in the summer or something?”

“Wouldn’t be much better,” said Dougram, who was also standing nearby, with Tassar and Braddock. “I was here during…the month of the Moon, a few months back. They hired me to clear out some bandits. Those nasty thorn-looking things are covered with leaves in warmer weather, sure, but those leaves are grimy and clammy to the touch, like it’s been raining even when the sun’s out. And no matter where you are whole clumps of them—and other things—seem to keep falling on top of you and into your eyes, almost as if they had a will of their own. It’s a nasty, nasty place. I wish I didn’t have to fight here again, but I need the money to continue my journey.”

Braddock nodded in understanding. “Same here. Well, Renault and I have been in some pretty nasty places too, and Tassar’s more than capable of handling anything anywhere. Even if we have to make our way through a place like this, it’ll be worth it once we get paid.”

“Heh, heh. Maybe it won’t be so difficult after all.” Tassar said this with a small, sly grin playing across his face. “We may find ourselves with a bit less work to do than we expect. Any of you ever seen the Mage Corps in action before?”

Braddock, Renault, and Dougram all looked at each other. “Nope.”

“Well, they don’t have their reputation for nothing. You guys know your tactics, right? Nerinheit’s got a whole bunch of his men all over the forest just waiting to ambush us.”

“Yeah, we figured that much already,” said Renault. “So how’re those mages gonna deal with them? What, are they gonna set the forest on fire? Maybe if it was summer, but with all this snow around…”

“Not quite.” Tassar’s grin grew wider. “Renault, what’s snow made out of?”

“What the hell do you think? It’s ice. Frozen water.”

“You know what happens when a bolt strikes something that’s wet?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it a few times before. One of our mage buddies back in Sacae liked using his Thunder tome whenever it was rainy out. Tassar, what’re you getting at?”

The veteran mercenary merely chuckled. “Just watch, my friends. Just watch.”

Renault, Braddock, and Dougram decided to take the man’s advice. They weren’t disappointed.

-x-

“They’re waiting for us in there, aren’t they?”

Paptimus offered no answer to Exedol’s question other than a curt nod. That was enough, and certainly nothing out of the ordinary, but the Mage General still cast him a slightly suspicious glance as they stood together at the head of the army. The mages were in front, arranged in a horizontal line some distance away from the forest that was two columns deep, with their strongest members—Exedol’s brother and his apprentice Rosamia—being at the centers of the lines. Behind them were the king and his entourage, eagerly awaiting the fireworks display the mages were sure to provide, and behind them were the mercenaries—a disorganized mass tasked only with “defending the rear,” along with the Pegasus and Wyvern Knights, who were making a point to stay as far away from the Lurkmire as possible to avoid drawing the attention of any archers who may have been waiting there.

Paptimus had been spending more and more of his time with the mercenaries lately, and Exedol found it a bit strange. He was the one who’d hired them and who technically commanded them, yes, but they were only mercenaries, no more. And he was becoming less and less talkative as well, seeming to spurn the company of his fellow nobles. Even his mode of dress had changed—for the past few days, Exedol had noticed, he spent little time outside of his personal carriages and wagons and when he did it was garbed in a plain brown cloak, the only distinguishing characteristic of which was that it was large enough to conceal the entirety of his sizable frame, and more.

Ah, well. Perhaps he was merely stressed or feeling out of place, since for all he knew Glaesal could be somewhere within the forest. No matter—so long as he was still willing to see the king’s will through, and he gave no indication he wasn’t, a few peculiarities in dress or speech could be tolerated. “Excellent,” Exedol smiled. “Let us begin, then!”

He raised a hand in the air, from which spouted a small but bright gout of flame into the sky, its color matching the bright red Elfire tome he held in his other hand. This was the signal for the Mage Corps to begin the first phase of the assault upon Lurkmire Forest. Khyron, the next-highest-ranking member of the expedition shouted something when he saw the signal, and as one, the five hundred Mages and Sages took out their own tomes—all books of flame magic—and began chanting.

Paptimus quirked an eyebrow up in surprise. “Fire magic?” he asked, in the odd, dulcet tone he’d suddenly taken in the past few days that unnerved Exedol even more than his solitude and change of dress. “How strange. You do know that no fire-elemental spells exist that would be able to strike at anything within the forest at this distance, right? Bolting might be able to, but—“

“Just watch, Paptimus,” Exedol snapped, feeling distinctly off-put by the slight hint of mockery in the other man’s strangely cultured, refined voice. “We may be unable to cast flame across long distances, but we certainly can cast heat. Just watch.”

The Prime Minister said nothing further. He simply nodded again. And what Exedol didn’t notice was the way he grinned.

-x-

Renault blinked as he felt a wave of heat wash over him, even as far away from the mages as he was. The air shimmered as if it were a burning-hot day in the middle of summer, and the young mercenary looked down at his feet in surprise as he noticed the snow beneath them begin to turn to slush. When he turned his eyes back towards the forest, he noticed a similar transformation taking place—even from this distance, he could hear the sound of a thousand icicles falling off the thorn-branches of the Lurkmire’s trees and a low splashing sound indicating many, many droplets of water trickling from the trees and down to the increasingly wet ground below.

Still, Renault was quite confused. “Braddock,” he said, turning to his friend, “what the hell’s up with all this? They’re making the area hotter, sure, but that’s it. As far as I know nobody’s ever been killed by a little heat. If anybody’s really waiting for us in there they’re probably laughing if this is the best we can do!”

The Ostian nodded. “Yeah, I have no idea either. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Tassar? What do you think?”

“Hmph.” The veteran mercenary seemed slightly disappointed that his protégés hadn’t picked up what he had already. “I told you earlier to think about what happens when a storm bolt hits water. Now, look at all this heat. Isn’t the forest our enemies are in getting pretty wet?”

“Yeah. By this point I’d say it’s almost like a swamp.”

“And what’s the one spell mages can use that would be able to hit a target in the woods at this distance?”

“Hmm.” Renault scratched his head. “I remember, back in Scirocco, Khyron mentioning tomes called Bol…Bolt…Tassar, they can’t possibly be—“

His words were cut off as he noticed as the air around him starting to tingle and his hair beginning to stand on end. After several minutes, the mages had stopped their chanting. The members of the first row of the Mage Corps formation simply stood still and straight, books at the ready to fend off any unexpected attack. The second row, however, only stopped their chanting momentarily to put away their Elfire tomes and unlimber another book with a distinctive yellow-gilded cover. They then continued their chanting, but at a faster pace than before, Renault may not have been well-versed in Anima (though he’d long since made it a point to know more about it than his mother’s famous Light magic) but it wasn’t hard to tell what those tomes and that chanting was meant for.

Chuckling to himself, Tassar turned away and put a hand over his eyes. “I’d do the same if I were you,” he said.

Braddock trusted his superior just enough to do as he said, and Dougram, standing nearby, was more than quick enough to protect himself in any case, but Renault hesitated for a couple of moments. Not even the time it took to blink thrice.

But that was all the delay it took for him to get the full force of what happened next.

As one, the chanting of the mages reached a crescendo, and when it did, the sky itself seemed to light up. It was a perfectly clear winter day, with not even a hint of cloud, but streams of energy arced through the air as if it was the middle of a terrible storm. The blue sky flashed brightly for a moment, cast in burning colors of white, yellow, and purple. From that sky crashed down two hundred and fifty gigantic bolts of electricity into the now-soaked forest.

It was at that exact moment Renault finally shut his eyes, and fortunately for him, too. A flash of white-purple light seemingly brighter than the Sun itself seared through Renault’s closed eyelids, and he grunted and turned away, putting a hand to his face. Only after almost another half-minute did the glare finally fade enough for him to take his hand down, cautiously open his eyes, and take a good look at what the Mage Corps had done.

The slightest glance was enough for his squinting eyes to pop right open and his mouth drop limply in amazement. And this reaction was shared by Braddock, Dougram, and most of the other mercenaries in the army.

A thick cloud of mist—steam, really—rose from the massive forest. Tiny arcs of electricity continued to spurt here and there between the twisted, blackened branches of the trees. The foliage had been black and gnarled when they’d first arrived, and now it continued to be so—but because the electric attack had torched virtually everything in the area it had struck. Almost every tree they could see had been damaged in some way—burnt to cinders, blasted to pieces, hewn almost in two, and those few strong ones which remained standing were aflame, fires merrily twinkling here and there as if travelers had lit hundreds of beacons all across the forest’s murky depths. The combined power of two hundred and fifty strikes of a Bolting spell would have been impressive enough on its own, but the strength of the attack had been increased exponentially by Exedol’s cruel tactic of soddening its target with a bit of magic heat.

And a cruel tactic it was. The smells and sounds emanating from the blasted forest were almost as striking as the sight. Underneath the smell of burnt wood was the stench of roasted flesh and over the dull crackling and snapping of charred and broken branches could be heard moans and screams of pain. Glaesal’s forces had definitely been waiting for them, all right. And now they were regretting it.

“I…I can’t believe this,” said Braddock, dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Incredible,” muttered Dougram. “Even the Archsage couldn’t—”

Tassar seemed to be the only one among them who hadn’t been dumbfounded by that demonstration of the power of the Mage Corps. Laughing, he clapped his hands together. “Well, that solves that, doesn’t it? And look how worried you all were about fighting in there. Anybody that was waiting for us in the Lurkmire is now either dead or retreating. Looks like things won’t be so troublesome after all, eh?”

The veteran mercenary wasn’t the only one feeling jovial—the nobles in front of them seemed to share his optimism. A huge, loud clamor of hooting, clapping, and excited hollering rose up from the King’s carriage and those of his escorts. Exedol and his mages returned to their masters, irritatingly smug, satisfied expressions stamped upon almost all of their faces. Casting the same quick spell of voice-strengthening Paptimus was fond of, the Mage General declared to the entire assemblage, “Our first strike against the rebels of Nerinheit is a resounding success! Yet we must not spend too long enjoying this victory, for our mission is not finished yet. For the glory of our King, we will continue on to the city of Nerinheit itself and bring the exact sort of justice you have witnessed to the traitor Glaesal personally!

“No one could be left alive in that forest—the energies released by that assault would still be enough to stop a man’s heart if he spent too much time in this area. Any of our enemies who are not dead are in full retreat and complete disarray. We will not pursue them too stringently—there is no point moving when the Lurkmire is still electrified in this way, and in any case, with strength such as ours giving our foes a small reprieve is really the most chivalrous thing to do. We shall rest for tonight, wait for the energies of our Bolting strike to dissipate, and then tomorrow we shall make our way through what remains of this forest. I expect us to be at the gates of Nerinheit within less than a fortnight. But for now, enjoy some rest!”

This proclamation was greeted by a tired cheer from the rest of the mages, who really had exerted quite a bit of their strength in the heating of the forest and the subsequent Bolting attack, and equally enthusiastic cheers from the nobles, who had done absolutely nothing at all.

The only ones who seemed at all unhappy about their “victory” as they began setting up camp were Renault and his fellow mercenaries. In fact, they seemed positively angry. Snarls of discontent were evident in many scattered conversations over the dusk hours and even long into the night, when the mercenaries and their fellows settled down to sleep. Only the Pegasus Knights didn’t complain much, perhaps because they were kept too busy on patrol, making sure no surprises managed to crawl out from the devastated forest. The reasons for this unhappiness were encapsulated most succinctly in Renault’s last conversation with Tassar for the night.

“Man,” he grunted, sitting close to the fire they’d made for an earlier dinner to keep warm, “you know, I can’t figure it out. If the Mage Corps is so strong, why the hell do they even need us mercenaries?”

“Well, think about it, Renault. Even after the battle’s won and Glaesal’s dead, there’s still a hell of a lot of work to be done. The countship will need people to keep the peace and purge any remaining rebels until the crown can get a replacement in. So we might very well find ourselves busy for the next few months.”

“Wait, what the hell? _Months?_ We’ll get paid even more for all that, right?”

“Nope. Check your contract. The initial fee they paid you covers the journey to Nerinheit and, I quote, ‘any additional services rendered, as the leaders of the expedition see fit to request.’ Hanging around Nerinheit for a few more months falls under that description.”

“Really? Ugh, that’s a pain. On the other hand, we do get paid 300 gold per head we win in battle, right? Nerinheit’s a pretty well-defended city…unless this Glaesal guy surrenders, we’ll be able to score a lot of kills, right?”

“Don’t bet on it. Remember what happened in the forest today? More likely than not the mages will just do the same to the city. Those Bolting tomes will probably tear up the ballistae and walls easily enough, and then they’ll move in to incinerate everything with their close-range fire magic. They may send us mercenaries up front to distract the defenses and serve as cannon fodder, but for the most part they’ll be scoring most of the kills.”

By this point, Renault was livid. “Tassar, what the hell? You promised us this job would be big, but now it looks like we’ll get paid almost nothing for months of work! We journeyed all the way up here to this frozen, nowhere wasteland and we’re not even gonna fight?”

The veteran merely laughed in response. “Take it easy, my friend. I know things seem bad now, but I’ve led you rightly all these years, haven’t I? Have some faith in me. I know our employer, Paptimus. He’s a good man, he’ll treat us right. I guarantee that to you, on my honor as a mercenary.”

“Hmph.” Renault still wasn’t entirely convinced, but he had taken a liking to the former gladiator-turned-statesman. “I’ll take your word for it, but man, if this doesn’t work out…”

“Don’t worry, Renault, it will. Trust me.”

Trust wasn’t something that came easy to the young man from Thagaste, but as the fire before him grew dim and he and his superior settled down within their heavy blankets, he thought it was something he might be able to spare his commander. At least this once.

-x-

Failure. Utter failure. As he and the remnants of his army limped through the gates of their city and their last redoubt, that single, damnable F-word was the only thing running through Glaesal Nerinheit’s mind. As he expected, a small crowd of citizens was gathered behind the gate—the fact that it was so late at night didn’t dissuade them. They were mainly the wives and daughters (but in some cases, the husbands and sons) of the brave soldiers who had accompanied him in his ill-fated “ambush” of the encroaching royalist army. They had heard horrible rumors almost the day after Exedol had launched his brazen attack, of course, but judging by the horrified expressions on their faces as they gazed upon the staggering, wounded, and burned remnants of their “heroes,” they had not expected anything this bad.

Seemingly as one, the crowd surged forward, rushing to meet the friends, siblings, and spouses who seemed so battered and so few in number. It was just as well, too, since Glaesal, and most of the other survivors he had brought with him, were barely able to stand. His vision blurred, his damaged plate armor suddenly seemed much heavier, and he sank down to his knees, but all of a sudden Glaesal found himself being supported by a pair of soft yet firm hands. He blinked and looked up, and saw the pretty face of his most fervent supporter, Meris.

“L-Lord Glaesal!” she cried. “This is—w-what happened to you?”

“We…we set up an ambush,” he coughed, “and we were a-ambushed ourselves. Exedol…that bastard, even I never thought he’d sink so low.”

“In the Lurkmire? But how?”

“They…they turned it into a swamp. Their fire tomes couldn’t hit us from a distance, but they could heat up the forest…as hot as mid-day in the Nabata…and then launched hundreds of Bolting spells at us.”

“What kind of…”

“E-Exedol…that man is truly shameless. If I were the General the Mage Corps would never use such dirty tactics. We…we never even had a chance…”

It was the last thing he could say. His wounds from the electrical attack (his own innate resistance to magic and the elements, a legacy of his time as Mage General, had been the only thing that had saved him—the armor he wore had been blasted to near-uselessness) combined with exhaustion from leading his surviving men back to Nerinheit as quickly as possible—a journey that would take two days was made in one—has utterly sapped his strength. He closed his eyes, collapsed against Meris, and knew no more.

-x-

The first things Glaesal noticed when he came to were noises all around him—hushed, furious conversations all around him, the shuffling of bedsheets, and the groaning of the wounded—and the sunlight streaming into his eyes. Blinking, he asked, to no one in particular, “W…where am I?”

He heard soft, padding footsteps as someone came over to the soft bed he was lying in and laid a hand on his forehead. A few locks of red hair drifted into his field of vision and he realized it was Meris. “You are in your manse, my lord. Forgive me, but it has been converted into a hospice. There were so many wounded, we…I am sorry, but I acted on my own. Many of this city’s inns are used to take care of the injured as well, but they were already so crowded that--”

Glaesal blinked again, coughed, and settled back into his bed. “No, you did fine. It’s what I would have done.” It really was—he wasn’t surprised that they’d had to resort to quartering private residences for use as hospitals. Over the last couple of weeks Nerinheit had been seeing an odd increase in the number of visitors which came between its gate. Some were volunteers from other parts of Etruria who supported his cause (many of whom now lay dead in the Lurkmire) but most were queer pilgrims garbed entirely in black and red. He had been very suspicious of them, and had called for anyone in such dress to be objects of particular scrutiny from the guard, but Meris had insisted they meant no harm at all and the guards reported they were unfailingly polite and law-abiding, paying their rates to wherever they stayed in full and on time—they really did seem to be a legitimate group of wandering travelers. Still, though, even if they gave him little to complain about it was troublesome to have them taking up space, especially under these circumstances.

Well, he didn’t have time to dwell on it, other concerns came first. Glaesal coughed and turned to Meris. “How is everyone?”

“Well, sir. Though less than half of the force you took returned with you, your survivors are being taken care of. We haven’t lost anyone…though we haven’t an apothecary or priest,” this second word came out with distaste, “so far the most serious burns and wounds have not proved beyond the ability of our nurses. Right now exhaustion and shock are the real problems, but rest will allay those.”

“Rest, eh? Wait…Meris, how long have I rested?”

“Don’t worry, my lord. You’ve been here about ten hours, it’s now mid-afternoon.” The rebel count started, eyes wide, but Meris soothed him. “I understand you’re worried about the follow-up attack, but fear not. The royalists have grown overconfident because of their victory and are not pursuing with any haste. They’re not familiar with the area like we are, so it will take them some time to make it through the Lurkmire, especially clearing out all the debris their attack left behind. Even if they worked quickly it would take them at least three days to get here. We still have some time…enough for you to recover, at least.”

“Really? I…I see. That’s good, then. How long will it take for me, though? I need to be on my feet and leading my men as soon as possible.”

“Tomorrow at the latest, Lord Glaesal. You seem to have resisted the spells very well, though I don’t think any of the Bolting attacks hit you directly. Your armor took the brunt of the damage.”

“No wonder,” grunted Glaesal. “I guess gothic plate doesn’t resist magic as well as a former Mage General does.”

“Mmm. Well, your burns weren’t severe either. We’ve bandaged and salved them…by the time our enemies reach our gates, you’ll be fully recovered.”

“Will I? We’ll see. Meris, help me up. I must attend to something.” He attempted to extricate himself from his bed, ignoring the dull ache of his bandaged wounds, but Meris hastily stopped him.

“My lord, you mustn’t! You still need a bit more rest!”

“I told you about calling me ‘lord,’ Meris,” he replied, though not unkindly. “In any case, this comes first. Meris, first get me some robes. I must make myself presentable. Secondly go up to this manse’s belltower and begin ringing. I must give a speech.”

“L—Glaesal, I—“

“Please.”

“I…very well.”

Wasting no further time, she did as he asked.

-x-

Glaesal Nerinheit stood proudly in front of the steps of his manse, the folds of his heavy robes—thick and concealing rather than showy, given the climate of Northern Eturia’s coast—as a loud, heavy ringing emanated from his property’s belltower all across the city. It was a tradition of Nerinheit, albeit one rarely invoked—even before his family had moved up here, they had commissioned a humongous bell to be casted and tower built for it that would ring on those occasions where the count wished to address the people of his city. The bell and its tower were massive, dwarfing the ones the Eliminean churches had (Glaesal kept them small anyways, the clergy annoyed him enough by themselves)—no one could possibly mistake the dull, booming gongs echoing through the city as anything but extensions of the will of its master.

Thus, Meris—with only a bit of help from a couple of strong youths she recruited—was able to draw quite a crowd in front of the manse’s steps within just a few minutes. Once the crowd seemed large enough, Glaesal raised a hand, and the soon enough the bell stopped ringing—even from the top of the tower, one could see what the Count did. Taking a deep breath (for having spurned the use of magic, Glaesal had no means with which to enhance his voice) the rebel began his address.

“Citizens of Nerinheit, I will not lie to you. Our planned ambush of the royalists just a few days earlier was a complete failure. We had intended to surprise them, but they surprised _us_ with a sneak magic attack. I had never imagined my foes would be so bold, but,” he lowered his head, “that is no excuse. As the former Mage General, I should have anticipated what they would do. And because of my failure, many of your friends and family members lie dead in the ashes of the Lurkmire, and even more lie terribly wounded behind me.

“Nothing I could do could make up for your losses. Even my sincerest apologies and deepest regrets are not enough. The only thing I can do now is ensure none of my people suffer for my mistakes, and that my friends in the Countships allied with me will not pay for them. People of Nerinheit…I am going to surrender to the king’s forces.”

The gathered crowd had already been fairly quiet, having a great deal of respect for their leader. However, at this announcement a pall of absolute silence descended upon all the people. The only sound seemingly in all the city was the howling of the Etrurian winter’s wind.

“I saw what they did to the Lurkmire,” he continued, “and I know all too well Exedol’s utter disregard for honor and morality. He will do the same to this city, if it comes to that. I cannot allow this to happen. I am responsible for all of you. If our ambush within the forest had succeeded, I would be able to continue our struggle, but now…in good conscience I cannot allow any more lives to be lost. I will lay down my arms and declare that I alone was responsible for this rebellion. I strong-armed the counts of Padstow, Verelecht, and our other allies into following me, and I dragooned the young men of this city into my army. Whatever punishment befalls me, you will not share in it.”

The old Count’s voice had begun to crack by the end of his soliloquy; he bowed his head, not wishing to say any more, and turned back to return to his manse and hopefully gain a few moments of privacy—as much as he could before the inevitable, anyways. Yet before he could step inside, he was stopped by a piercing scream.

“NO!”

He had barely turned back again before what seemed like a heavy weight slammed right into his torso. He grunted in surprise and looked down to see Meris clinging to him desperately. As soon as she had finished ringing the bell she had rushed from the tower to hear his speech, and now fully realized what he intended to do.

“Meris, what are you—“

“You mustn’t, Lord Glaesal!” She was not crying, but she seemed about to. “They’ll kill you if they get their hands on you! Not even Paptimus will be able to make the king show you any mercy! Please, my lord, you…I don’t want to lose you!”

Glaesal was very unnerved by this display, especially in front of all of his citizens, but he realized how the young woman must feel, and simply patted her head awkwardly and tried to calm her down. “Meris, my dear, please, listen to me. I don’t like this any more than you do, but it is the only way. We have no chance of victory, not after the debacle in the Lurkmire. This is the only way!”

“I-It can’t be! G-Glaesal, I need you! The people of Nerinheit need you! This country needs you! We may have been defeated for now, yes, but we can’t just give up! Everything we’ve fought for up till now will be meaningless!”

Glaesal stuttered, trying to think of something to say, but most surprisingly enough, it was the voices of his citizenry that cut him off.

“The girl’s right!” cried one woman. “I’m not stoppin’ now!” called another middle-aged man. A youth near the front of the mass, close to Glaesal, stood forward and seemed to voice what all of them were thinking. “My older brother’s dead n’ unburied inside the Lurkmire,” he shouted, “and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I want to pay those bastards back! The crown’s always treated us like dirt, and now they’re killin’ us! I’m not gonna take any more of this. I’m gonna fight! I’m gonna get revenge for my brother and for everybody they killed!”

His shouting was met with rousing cheers from the rest of the crowd, and a flabbergasted Glaesal had to push Meris away from his side and raise his hands to dim the commotion. “My friends,” he began, “my countrymen, do you have any idea what you’re saying? Look at what the royalists did at the Lurkmire. They won’t show you any mercy! I say it again, I cannot ask you to risk your lives any more! I—“

He was cut off again by a resurgence of the angry shouts from the crowd. “You don’t have t’ ask us to risk our lives,” replied the youth, “we wanna do that anyways! Someone kills one of yours, you kill one o’ theirs right back. That’s the way it’s always been. And they killed a whole bunch of ours, so I say they owe us a lot o’ blood!”

“He’s right,” Meris yelled, as much to the crowd as to Glaesal. “I used to serve the Prime Minister! I know how the nobles work! Even if our Count gives himself up, they won’t show anyone here any mercy! They’re reduce Nerinheit to rubble, like they turned all the Lurkmire to ruin! Just like Sorveno! Just like Scirocco!” She turned to give Glaesal the most piercing look she could muster. “Surely you haven’t forgotten about those atrocities, have you?”

“No, no, I haven’t,” he began, growing angry, but he then stopped to listen to what the other citizens were saying, he also began to realize that his friend had a point.

“We’re in it for as long as it lasts! There’s no goin’ back now!”

“So long as we’re alive we at least got a chance!”

“I’m not dyin’ like a dog! If the King wants to kill me, I’ll take a few o’ his men down with ‘im!”

“I agree with all of them, my lord!” The look on Meris’ face was now hopeful and optimistic rather than despairing. “I won’t abandon you! I won’t abandon Nerinheit! I stand with you! And together we’ll give the King a fight he’ll never forget!”

Her sentiments were echoed by the people of Nerinheit. “We stand together!” came a shout from the back of the crowd, and soon enough all of them had begun the same refrain. “We stand for our freedom! We stand for our brothers! We stand with our count, and we stand together!”

Over and over they repeated their mantra, and when he saw this Glaesal was reminded of why he had decided to launch his revolution in the first place. Seeing the determination of his townspeople, Glaesal couldn’t help but feel a bit of his former resolve returning as well. He looked down at Meris, saw that she was smiling, and even though the events of the past few days still lay fresh in his mind, he smiled back himself. Raising his hands again to quell the crowd and their chanting, Glaesal brought his speech to a close.

“My…my friends,” he boomed, and he paused for a moment—just a moment—with doubt, but another glance across the faces of the crowd, expressions of belief in him and anger at the crown present on all of them, washed his fears away for a final time. “My friends…you were right! All of you, you were right! I…I was mistaken. You have stronger hearts than I, and for that I am grateful. If I could ask you to lend me your strength…then I will fight!”

The masses of Nerinheit cheered their approval, and Glaesal continued, soaking up their righteous anger and combining it with his own resentment turned it into red-hot resolve. “The kind of scum who would destroy a forest from afar rather than face its defenders in honorable combat are not the kind who would show anyone mercy, and they deserve none either! The conniving knaves of the court have mocked me for years, but now they seek to destroy my people? I will not stand by idly! Thank you, my friends, for you have given me the courage to do what must be done. If we are all to die, then so be it! We’ll die on our feet, we will die together, and we will not make it easy for the dogs of the king!” He pumped his fist into the air. “I pledge my life, not just to Nerinheit, but to anyone who’s suffered under that despot they call a king! DEATH TO GALAHAD! FREEDOM TO ETRURIA!”

“DEATH TO THE KING!”

“FREEDOM FOR OUR COUNTRY!”

“DEATH TO THE KING!

“PEACE FOR OUR CHILDREN!”

In the maelstrom of yelling and cheers, anger and emotional release, Glaesal almost lost himself. Yet it was Meris who brought him back once again. “My lord,” she said, loudly to make herself heard, “now that our course of action is set, we must prepare ourselves. The battlements must be readied, and you need your rest!”

“Yes…you’re right, of course. Thank you, Meris. I’m glad you’re here…you truly are an invaluable asset.” Raising his hands to silence the raucous crowd for the last time this night, Glaesal yelled, “My comrades, there is still work to be done! We have walls to repair, ballistae to arm, and most of all, we still have wounded men who must be attended to! We will meet the King’s men when they come, but we shall be well-prepared when we do! I shall return to my manse, both to look over my men and to formulate plans for our defense. The rest of you, tend to your families or dust off your arms! No matter what happens, they’ll not find this city an easy target!”

The crowd continued to cheer, but that was all Glaesal could bear for the night. He suddenly felt lightheaded, but fortunately Meris leaned into him for support. It would not do to swoon in front of his loyal citizens, after all, and the girl hastily led him back to his manse so he could finally get the rest he needed.

It was an odd thing, though. Just as they passed through the building’s beautifully-carved wood doors, Glaesal could have sworn he heard Meris mutter to herself, “Just like Scirocco.”

He would not remember it at the time, being so exhausted. He thought he’d merely heard wrong. But it would come back to him later. And he would regret it.

 

-X-X-X-

 

This was even worse than he thought. Much, much worse. The only good thing about this whole journey, Renault thought, was that it would be over very soon.

Sighing in exhaustion, he collapsed atop his blankets next to Braddock, who looked as tired as he was.

“Tough day, huh?” The Ostian smiled, though his half-lidded eyes betrayed his weariness.

“And night, too,” Renault groaned. It was indeed just after midnight as they spoke, though it wasn’t easy to tell, given how the sky had been obscured by charred branches and the smoke from blasted trees (and corpses) for most of their trek through the forest. “I’ve been clearing out burnt branches and burnt corpses for twelve hours now, without even a single break! Exedol’s a damn slave driver. I want to fight, not toss around dead bodies!”

“Hey, it’s not like we’re not used to it,” said Braddock, trying to defuse a bit of his friend’s petulance. “Remember Scirocco? We got a lotta experience as morticians there.”

“Ugh, you’re right. This is even worse, though. I mean, a dead town was bad enough, but this massacre takes it to a whole new level. We’ve been working for three days already and we haven’t even disposed of half the corpses in this place. Not only are almost all of ‘em so badly burnt we can’t get anything off of ‘em, but we can’t even bury them! The nobles keep going on about how we don’t have time and we just dump ‘em around to the side of the trails!” Renault gestured around himself, illustrating his point in a grisly fashion. They and their fellow mercenaries were all camping in a narrow approximation of lines following the various trails through the forests, and around those trails were strewn many, many corpses—Archers with twisted bows, Knights who had been cooked alive in their armor, and horsemen who had perished along with their mounts. Nerinheit had indeed been preparing a grand ambush for them, and the remains of that ambush had been unceremoniously dumped to the sides of the path the invading army was taking, allowing any of the mercenaries who were so inclined to enjoy the sights of a grotesque gallery of burned corpses beginning to rot wherever they looked. Small wonder the nobility chose to stay far away from it all, cloistered in their carriages, though of course the mercenaries were afforded no such luxury.

“Don’t they care about disease?” Renault continued. “I mean, at least at Scirocco we burnt all the bodies. But just leaving all these people to rot…I don’t care about ‘em one bit, but I sure don’t want to catch something from ‘em!”

“Well, I know what you mean, bud.” Braddock had to admit his friend’s complaints weren’t entirely groundless. “Still, in this case we’d be trading speed for sanitation, and I can understand why our commanders don’t want that. Keeping momentum up is important when you’re on the offensive. The longer we take, the longer Nerinheit has to regroup and recover from his wounds. If I were Exedol I’d want to put this place behind me as soon as possible too.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he should’ve thought of that before blowing this whole forest apart!”

“Mm-hmm.” There was an expression of sympathy stamped on Braddock’s face. “Just like those nobles. Can’t be bothered to think even a little bit about the consequences of what they do. Still, Renault, I don’t think it’s so bad. At least those mages did our job for us, right? Can you imagine how terrible it’d be to fight in this place?”

“Man, I gotta admit you’re right. Even with all the holes blasted in the foliage barely any sun came down during the day, and at night…damn. Sometimes I get the feeling I’ve been seeing or hearing things…weird voices and stuff.”

At this, Braddock couldn’t help but laugh. “Weird voices and stuff? Come on, Renault, don’t take those stupid rumors about ghosts in this forest so seriously. Besides, even if there were any, I’ll bet the mages banished ‘em all!”

“Hah! You’re right, I was being dumb. Sorry, Braddock.” All of a sudden, the mirth seemed to dim slightly in Renault’s eyes. “Guess ghosts weren’t the only thing they got rid of, though…”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“No animals,” said Renault, a little sadly. “No squirrels, no rabbits…haven’t even seen a little bird around here.”

“Oh yeah, that got to me too. Makes trappin’ game that much harder.” He noticed that Renault seemed to consider the lack of fauna in this place more than a mere inconvenience. “Hey, is it really that bad? I mean, you like animals or something?”

“H-huh?” Renault was just a bit embarrassed. “W-well, I mean, I’m not one of those crazy monks who think animals are sacred and refuse to eat meat-but—“

Braddock interrupted him with a wide smile. “Heh, heh.No need to hide it! I’m the same way.”

The tension between the two of them dissipated. “Really? Heh, I’m glad to hear that. To be honest, before I met you the only things I could really get around with were the animals. I’ve never had a rat try and pick a fight with me or a sparrow tell me I’m a bad Eliminean, at least!”

“Hah, I know exactly what you mean. Though in my case, I guess my fiancee’s love of ‘em rubbed off on me. She told me pretty much the same thing, and ever since then I’ve been convinced. She really liked horses,” and at this Braddock’s face soured, “but she was a noble, and everyone else told her that her love for riding was “unseemly” or something like that. Idiots. Only the aristocracy would complain about a girl takin’ a liking to something practical.”

“They and the clergy,” Renault sullenly agreed.

“Yeah, you got it. Heh, I noticed a few dead horses in the bodies we took care of…guess Glaesal had some cavaliers waiting for us. It’s a shame…too bad all the animals in this forest had to go out along with Nerinheit’s men…it’s not as if they had anything to do with this stupid rebellion anyways.”

“Yeah, you got that right.” Renault blinked. “Hey, wait a second. I just remembered, you just said a fiancée? I never knew you had a girl, Braddock.”

“H-huh?” Now it was Braddock’s turn to act off-put, though he was less embarrassed and more irritated with himself and his big mouth. With Renault, though…suddenly, it didn’t seem so bad. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “Yeah, fiancée. She…she’s not around anymore. It’s because of that I ended up becoming a mercenary, but…that’s a whole ‘nother story. She was a great girl…the greatest. I think you would have really liked her, Renault.”

“R…really?” Renault didn’t quite know what to say, but for the sake of his best friend he’d try his best. “I…I see. I’m sorry, Braddock, I didn’t mean to pry or anything. I just…well, if she was good enough for a guy like you, I think I really would’ve liked to meet her.”

He winced—Renault didn’t know much, but he definitely knew that as insensitive and ill-mannered as he was, he had a knack for saying exactly the wrong things in situations like these. However, Braddock didn’t seem to be angry at all. Quite the contrary—the expression on his face was possibly the softest, yet at the same time saddest, Renault had ever seen from him.

“Renault…thanks, man. Thanks. I…I’m glad.”

“Uh…heh. D-don’t…uh…th-thanks to you too, Braddock. I mean, at least…no matter what happened, or what will happen, to either of us…I’m glad we were able to meet.”

Those were the last words that passed between them for the night.

-x-

They had finally arrived. It was early morning on the fourth day of the month of the Horse. The army was in perfect arrangement—the mages marching in straight columns at the front, the King and his nobles protected in the center, and the mercenaries taking up the rear, with the fliers in their diamond formation. Ironically enough, it was specifically this arrangement, Renault thought to himself, which had led to the argument he and his friends were witnessing now, before they had even come within striking distance of the great stone gate of the city of Nerinheit they could see from their location.

The Prime Minister, dressed in simple, concealing, thick brown robes, was arguing with his friend the Mage General over the best way to subdue the city before them. And since neither of them seemed particularly concerned with privacy, they allowed almost the entirety of the hired mercenary contingent, which Renault, Tassar, Braddock, and Dougram were standing near the front of, to get an earful of their discussion.`

“Lord Exedol, my friend,” said Paptimus in an odd, sweet tone Renault had never heard from him before—his ‘common’ accent seemed to have disappeared entirely, “forgive me for saying this, but this strategy seems like a waste. Why should we use magic to blast down the walls of Nerinheit? Our mercenaries would certainly be more than capable of doing the jobs themselves.”

Exedol replied with no small degree of irritation. “Paptimus, is this why you called me all the way back here? Stop holding up our campaign with your silly reservations, we’ve been over this many times. Our Bolting magic will quickly annihilate the ballistae on the walls, and after that, they will have little else with which to defend themselves. If they do not surrender, they will likely rush out to meet us, and we can annihilate their forces quite handily with our remaining magic.”

“Surely it would be wise to at least allow the mercenary forces to participate in the battle, though?”

“They will, if it is necessary, but I doubt things will come to that. If they were in front of us, they would just most likely get in the way of our spells. And besides, we are Etruria’s finest warriors! Why would we need to hide behind a gaggle of freebooters?”

Naturally, this caused more than a bit of discontent among the mercenaries who were watching the exchange, Renault included, but Exedol paid them no heed. Paptimus, on the other hand, seemed a bit more concerned. “My friend, isn’t this strange? If we never intended to use them, why did we even hire all these men?”

“As backup, and to keep control of the city after we’re done with it! Remember the terms of the contracts they signed, Paptimus, you were the one who set them! The fee they were paid covers both the journey here and anything else we need them to do! Keeping control of this area falls under the latter category.”

“But the contracts also stated they’d be paid by how many kills they scored.”

“If we end up needing assistance, they will have a chance to earn their keep. If not, they will do what their contracts state—after we leave, they will remain here to keep order within this countship. That is all!”

The mercenaries were none too pleased with this. “The hell are you talking about?” yelled one mounted soldier, a former Paladin from the look of his armor.“I could have made thousands off of the kills in this battle! Are you telling me I’m gonna have to settle for the measly sum you paid me back in Aquleia, AND spend months in this frozen-over hellhole?”

Renault thought the exact same thing, and the increasingly angry shouts and jeers coming from his comrades indicated they all felt the same way. Exedol, of course, would have none of it. “Stop your whining!” he shouted. “You signed your contracts, didn’t you? Not one of us forced you to do so. You are serving the King of this great nation; that is reward enough! Now—”

He was quickly cut off by a resumed spate of angry shouting from the mercenaries, and for a moment it seemed as if they might actually turn on him. He seemed ready to reach for his Elfire tome when Paptimus saved the day.

“This is no problem,” the man said, his voice still smooth and calm yet carrying a tremendous amount of force behind it. “If the crown will not adequately repay our men, I will do so myself.” He brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled, and as if on cue, the multiple horses which pulled his large wagons began to separate from the noble entourage and trot back towards their master and his mercenaries.

Nobody had any idea what was going on except for Paptimus—and soon enough he let everyone know exactly what he was up to. As soon as his wagons stopped in front of him, with a big grin on his face he raised one hand from beneath the folds of his great drab robes— _why is he wearing those black gauntlets?_ thought Renault—and clapped his hands twice.

There must have been a bit of magic in those claps, because simultaneously and seemingly of their own volition, the doors of those wagons blew wide open, allowing everyone facing them to get a good view of what was inside them. And Renault couldn’t believe what he saw.

Mounds of gold bullion nestled against gilded suits of solid-gold armor, piles of jewels sitting next to an armory full of ancient, incredibly powerful enchanted weapons. Precious gemstones, ingots of rare metal, and finery of the highest caliber seemed to fill Paptimus’ wagons to the brim. Renault couldn’t keep his eyes from boggling, and many of his fellow mercenaries couldn’t even keep themselves from drooling. Paptimus seemed to have brought along his entire fortune with him, and the wealth of a Prime Minister easily exceeded several hundred thousand gold.

“My comrades,” Paptimus said, “upon successful completion of this mission, I shall divide the spoils you see before you amongst all of you equitably. The only thing I ask is that you follow my orders to the letter over the course of the upcoming battle. I trust none of you find this objectionable?”

The mood of the mercenaries had changed in almost an instant from simmering anger to virtually ecstatic joy. “NO!!” came the resounding cheer.

Paptimus turned to the Mage General. “Well, know, the problem is solved, don’t you think?”

“Hmm…I suppose so. But this is your personal fortune, Paptimus, surely you don’t wish to squander it?”

The big man merely chuckled. “The King has given it to me for use as I see fit. Surely you cannot fault me for doing as I will with it, Lord Exedol?”

The Mage General was smart enough to catch the man’s sarcasm, and he didn’t appreciate it. “There’s no need for you to take that tone with me, Paptimus. I merely thought you were being careless with your money; it wasn’t my intention to order around one of my equals. Although I daresay I find your sudden courtesy to be maddening. Just a few days ago you spoke as the commoner you were born. Why the sudden change? Has being around these freebooters opened your eyes to the importance of rank?”

“In a way.” He bowed low. “Do forgive my speculation, but are you angry with me? Just a few days ago you told me that I should speak as a noble should, so I merely wished to take your advice. Perhaps it’s you who is growing irritated at the fact that a born commoner such as myself can not only rise to my position but imitate your mannerisms as well? After all, it does lend itself to some fairly unfortunate implications. Since I was not born much higher than the mercenaries I lead, perhaps the fact that a man such as myself can act like a noble indicates that these men might possibly be worth as much as nobles themselves. Perhaps they even deserve to be paid as nobles would! But you needn’t worry about it. You won’t be taking care of them, after all. I will.”

The gathered mercenaries more than appreciated Paptimus’ jab at Exedol’s expense, and Renault and his friends found themselves wholeheartedly joining in the laughter coming from the rest of their comrades. Exedol, for his part, betrayed little emotion other than a thin, strained frown and a narrowing of his eyes. He didn’t bother to say anything further—he merely ran a hand through his black hair, turned his back on Paptimus with a flourish of his purple cape, and made his way back to his mages.

“Well, that takes care of that, my friends,” said the Prime Minister, turning to his mercenaries. “Now, the mages have begun to march, and the nobles will be following. Do stay close to them, and protect my wagons as well, would you? It wouldn’t do to have anyone’s reward damaged, after all. Come, let’s go!”

That was an order Renault could follow enthusiastically. Though he was still personally somewhat perturbed by the sudden change in demeanor Paptimus had undergone, if the Minister was doing it just to poke fun at the Mage Corps, not only was it alright in Renault’s eyes, but it made the man an even more attractive leader. His enthusiasm was bolstered by the fact that pretty much everyone around him felt the same way, with Tassar in particular seeming to be more than happy to take orders from the man.

For the first time in quite a while, Renault had a good feeling about this whole expedition again.

-x-x-x-

“Meris. MERIS! Who the hell are they?”

Glaesal Nerinheit said this as he was standing with his friend along with one of his ballisticians on one of the battlements on the walls closest to Nerinheit’s south gates, but despite the royalist army he knew was approaching he was not looking at what lay in front of his city, but rather the force which appeared to have materialized from thin air _within_ it.

The city was well-prepared for battle—the time their enemies had spent getting through the forest was more than enough to allow their wounded fighters to recuperate and their weapons to be armed. Glaesal knew that his ballistae and other defensive weapons, by themselves, wouldn’t be enough to fend off the coming assault, and so he had begun preparations to outfit his forces for a charge upon the Mage Corps. He was well aware they would lose in a direct battle, but his hopes were to keep the mages occupied long enough for the ballistae to do their damage. When he began to call his army together, however, he was more than surprised to find that an army had already gathered.

Even in early morning, there was enough light that he could actually recognize them—they were the travelers and journeymen who had supposedly come seeking refuge within his city. There were about five hundred of them arranged in a neat column before the main gates. All of them wore black—the ones who had come here on foot were clad in ebony robes and cloaks which still allowed the blood-red pauldron on their right shoulder to be seen, and the ones who had come on horse now sat on their mounts wearing black armor (again, with the red pauldrons) and barding. They had not been there earlier; indeed Glaesal had no idea the travelers passing through his city intended to fight, or were even capable of fighting.

“Salutations, Brother Glaesal!” The mellifluous voice called up to him from the black rider at the head of the force, whose face was completely concealed by the visor of his helmet except for the pale skin surrounding his equally pale pink lips. “We, the Red Shoulder Battalion, are here to assist you. We have sworn our lives to deposing of the king and his parasitic pet aristocracy and clergy, and thus, we are your comrades in this struggle!”

The former Count was not convinced. “Why should I believe you when I don’t even know who you are?” he shouted. “The ‘Red Shoulders?’ I’ve never even heard of you before!”

The black rider—no, in fact, the high quality of his pitch-black plate mail and barding indicated he might have been better called a Black Knight—merely laughed in response. “Indeed, and for that I am glad,” he called back, “for we are a most secretive order. But make no mistake, we are on your side, brother! We will prove this to you the moment we sweep away the mages attempting to block the path of our glorious revolution! Meris, my sister,” he said this as he noticed the girl standing next to the older man on the battlement, “open the gates! Allow us to show the royalist dogs what true magic is!”

Glaesal turned to his companion, shocked. “Meris, you…you knew these men? For how long?!”

“L-Lord Glaesal,” she responded, “that’s not important right now. What’s important is that we’ve received the reinforcements we need! The Red Shoulders are the strongest spellcasters on the continent, my lord, and the anima of the Mage Corps cannot stand against the power of their elder magic! They are our best…no, our only hope of victory against Exedol!”

“I am not so easily convinced, girl.” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shook her, eliciting a small cry. “Tell me! Now! Who are they? What do you mean by the strongest spellcasters on Elibe? And what kind of elder magic could they possibly have that would give the Mage Corps pause?”

The Black Knight, noticing the commotion above him, quickly raised a hand and flipped through a few pages of the black-and-grey book he held in his other. To his surprise, Glaesal found a force stronger than steel prying his fingers off of Meris, and he was forced to take a few steps back, a combination of bewilderment and anger on his face. The girl, for her part, rubbed her bruised shoulders and looked away. It was her savior who spoke up for her.

“Brother Glaesal, you should be ashamed of yourself! Manhandling a young woman so dedicated to our cause is no behavior for an upstanding revolutionary like you! But perhaps it is only your distrust of us which causes you to act in this fashion. Very well. Let us show you our power!”

He again waved his hand, but this time towards the heavy iron gates at the center of the wall protecting Nerinheit’s south, and Glaesal could only stand and gape in amazement as the great portcullis began to creak and groan, lifting seemingly of its own accord. Only one other person he knew was capable of lifting such a weight with nothing but his magic, and that was Paptimus.

The tramp of feet and the clomping of horses’ hooves indicated the steady, inexorable march of the Red Shoulders to the field of battle. “Forward, brothers!” called the Black Knight. “Forward, to victory!”

And even as this mysterious, entirely unexpected force of self-proclaimed “assistance” left the walls of his city, its count could only share in the reactions of his men and the citizens around him—standing stock-still in amazement.

Meris was the only one who did not seem to be shocked into silence by these developments. “My lord, you must trust me—and them! They are our only hope!”

Glaesal only shot her a long, ugly glare in response. He then turned away, towards his ballistician, who had watched everything dumbly, having no idea how to react to anything that was going on. “You! What are you just standing there for? Prepare your weapon,” Glaesal scolded him, “and tell your comrades to prepare as well!” He then turned to descend from the battlement, grabbing Meris’ arm roughly as he did so. “You’re coming with me, girl,” he growled roughly. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I have an explanation for whatever’s going on!”

Meris simply nodded her assent and followed the angry Count without a word against him. He would receive his explanation soon enough, after all.

-x-x-x-

All in all, the king of Etruria thought to himself, this little outing was going quite well. Much of it had been quite tiresome, but the excitement at the Lurkmire Forest had been more than enough to make up for it. And the way things were going, the coming battle would be even more fun.

He was currently sitting on a moderately-sized couch set within the golden eagle perched atop his personal carriage. It was a bit colder than he liked, but he didn’t mind so long as he was wrapped within his incredibly thick, opulent royal robes, and the position allowed him to get the best view of the proceedings anyways. His loyal servant, Count Visclad Bramsel, was sitting next to him, and although Galahad found himself with a distinct lack of room even on a couch which could seat three people, the man had displayed such enthusiasm for the expedition he thought he could allow him a small luxury like this.

“My great and wise Lord Galahad,” chuckled Bramsel merrily, “I’m just so curious, how long do you plan to stay in Nerinheit after our victory?”

“Ugh, hopefully not long,” came the reply. “This place is so dreadfully boring! Nothing but snow, dirt roads, poor villages, and ugly, ugly forests! After Exedol finishes them off here I want to get back to Aquileia as soon as possible. At least I’ll have entertainment there!”

“Oh, yes yes, indeed. Might it not be a bit of a pity, though? I’ve heard girls from Nerinheit are very beautiful, you know!”

“Pshaw. The fine, cultured ladies of the court exceed them in every way possible!”

“Of course, of course. But surely it never hurt to try new things once in a while, if you know what I mean? Heh-heh-heh.”

Galahad merely rolled his eyes. “Well, if you wish to sample the local delicacies so much, you can stay here as long as you want. Perhaps you can even become the new Count! Lordship of both Bramsel and Nerinheit, how does that sound?”

Visclad perked up, squealed, and clapped his pudgy hands together like a little girl. “Oh, great lord, my king, do you truly mean it? TWO Countships for me? You’re too kind! I’ll be the envy of all the court!”

“Oh, stop your toadying, Visclad. It’s nothing to do with you personally. I just don’t want to deal with the tiresome business of overseeing Nerinheit. Taxes, building things, and all the other concerns of politics are so dull! I’d rather be back at my palace hunting or reading accounts of great battles…or spending more time with Malonda after her annoying husband is dead, heh heh. It’s a pity she couldn’t be here today, but she didn’t want to watch Glaesal die. Understandable, I suppose, even now he’s still her husband. That always was so horribly troublesome for us…but after this, we won’t have to worry about that anymore, if you understand?”

“Oh yes, great King, I certainly know what you mean, I do!”

“Well then, you can see why I just want someone to take care of all these boring details as quickly as possible. You’ll do it, won’t you, my trusty vassal?”

“Of course, my great and magnanimous Lord! You can count on me!”

“Excellent! Now cease your yapping, it seems the fun is about to start.”

Galahad said this as he noticed a strange commotion coming from far ahead of them. He reached into the folds of his robes and produced a small, strange gadget called a “telescope,” supposedly produced by an obscure tinkerer in some faraway corner of Lycia and quite rare and expensive. It was a very, very, fragile thing, but he’d risked bringing it along for exactly this moment. Telescopes were not actually an extremely recent invention—Lycia had begun exporting the gadgets to Etruria about a hundred years ago. The one Galahad possessed, however, was undoubtedly the most advanced and complicated of its type. Although it was small enough to fit into a commoner’s pocket, it contained a series of extraordinary tiny, delicate mechanisms which gave it a host of peculiar advantages. Specifically, by twisting some knobs on its side, Galahad could get a clear look at a single blade of grass on the field of battle before him several hundred feet away; when he twisted the knobs in the opposite direction, he could get a clear view of the entire battlefield, almost as if he were sitting in the best seats of Aquleia’s coliseum.

He had to give those Lycians credit, sometimes they really could display a rather delightful ingenuity. Of course, even their best paled in comparison to what his countrymen could come up with.

Chuckling to himself, Galahad took the device up to his eye to get a good view of what has happening, ignoring Bramsel’s insistent and annoying requests of “Oh, my lord, let me see too!”

Through the lens he could get a much better view of what was going on in front of them. “Well!” Galahad exclaimed, “the gates of Nerinheit City are opening! It seems Glaesal’s riding out to meet us!”

“Ohhh, let me see, my great and merciful lord, oh please let me see!”

“Hush! I’ll describe it to you! This is strange…I thought they’d lure us in closer to their ballistae. Not that it’d do them much good, but still. And another thing, I don’t see Glaesal anywhere. In fact, I don’t think these men are even from Nerinheit. Their infantry and cavalry alike seem to be…black.” He took a hand to his face and twisted one of the scope’s knobs. “Hmm, let me see…ahhh, there it is. Huh…they have these funny red shoulders, though”

“Black and red? I don’t remember Nerinheit’s heraldic colors being black and red.”

“Hmm…neither do I. Maybe Paptimus knows.” The King turned around in his seat and called out to the Prime Minister, who was happily marching at the front of his army of uncouth, disrespectful freebooters, who had been just about ready to mutiny before he’d pacified them with the bribes contained in the wagons he was also leading. “HEY! PAPTIMUS,” Galahad yelled, “COME UP HERE! DON’T YOU WANT TO SEE THIS?”

The big man merely looked up at him, grinned, and shrugged his drab brown-clad shoulders, eliciting a smatter of smug giggling from the mercenaries trudging near him. “What insolence!” Galahad exclaimed in a huff, quickly turning away, his face red and angry. “That Paptimus is getting too full of himself, in my view. Yes, his magical ability is great, and yes, he put on great shows as a gladiator. But even a Prime Minister still kisses the feet of the king! Perhaps I’ll take his title away from him after all this is over. All the advice he’s given me in the past won’t count if he continues to act so unbearable.”

“Oh yes yes, my lord. I entirely agree. May I humbly submit myself as a prospective replacement?”

“No, no, you already have quite enough, Bramsel. Oh, now be quiet, it looks like Exedol is saying something.”

Waving a hand in the air before him, the Mage General cast the same voice enhancement spell the Etrurians were so fond of. “King Galahad, my gracious lord,” he said, his voice booming across the field in front of Nerinheit, “Forgive my impertinence, but I request you stay back while we march forwards to deal with this threat. We will not allow any harm to befall you! Stay out of the range of our magic, and have the mercenaries protect you if anything goes amiss. Not that anything will, of course. Still, for fear of any stray arrows or spells, we humbly request you remain at a distance!”

“Oh, fine, fine.” Galahad didn’t like this, as he wanted to be even closer to the action, but he both respected Exedol and owed the man a few very large favors, even though he was the one who ordered the Mage General around. Galahad took a flag from near his seat and waved it above his head so that the whole army could see it. This was an indication to stop, which the king’s retinue and the mercenaries behind it did, while the Mage Corps continued their march. It was not long until the white uniforms of the Royalists would meet—and crush—the black wave of the army which had ridden to defend the rebels.

Again putting his telescope to his eye, and adjusting and re-adjusting it as suited his preference, Galahad could still get a decent enough view of the battle about to take place. The two armies were still too far apart to attack each other, but they looked to be facing off—both were approximately the same size, which in the case of his men came out to five hundred soldiers, and the Mage Corps’ primary formation consisted of Mages and Sages with a few young and comely Troubadours and Valkyries providing cavalry support and magical healing assistance. The enemy, however…they seemed harder to place. At their back marched infantry in very strange robes. Galahad had never seen anything much like them personally, yet…he recalled some of the mercenaries dressing similarly, and read about strange magic-users in accounts of battles which had occurred in Ilia and Sacae. This infantry looked suspiciously like…Shamans and Druids.

That was impossible, though. Where would Nerinheit possibly find such men? And besides, the cavalry at the front could not be placed at all. They were clearly Cavaliers and Paladins, yet they carried no shield, axe, spear, or sword. No-one, as far as he knew, had seen anything like them before.

Ah, well, it didn’t really matter. They’d all die once the fighting started, and much to his satisfaction, Galahad saw that the fighting would likely start soon—apparently, Exedol wasn’t going to bother with parleying. Good for him! His mounted ladies readied their steeds at the sides of the five-layered columns the Mage Corps were organized in, prepared to heal any wounds, and the Mages and Sages took out their books, the men in the back ranks preparing the Bolting spells which would fry most of the enemy before they even got close.

As expected, almost as if they were one the back ranks of the Mage Corps formation lifted their hands and called forth the wrath of the skies. At this, both Galahad and his companion shut their eyes—as entertaining as the devastation of the Lurkmire had been, by the Saint, Galahad had not been expecting the fireworks to be that bright!

As expected, there was a bright flash of white, yellow and purple, visible even under his closed eyelids. Grinning to himself, Galahad waited a few moments before opening his eyes through the telescope.

That was when he realized things had gone very, very wrong.

The field before him was scorched and blackened, just as he expected from his mighty Mage Corps. Yet their enemies did not lie dead on the ground. Far from it.

There were a few corpses here and there, Galahad could see. But the vast majority of the black-garbed army was either completely unharmed or only slightly injured. Watching closely, Galahad saw the reason for that. The opposing army was indeed black, from head to toe—even blacker than they had been originally. They seemed to have coated themselves with tar or pitch—and the inky substance began to flow from them as the last residual bits of the Mage Corps’ magic dissipated. It pooled at their feet—and stayed there.

“S-Shadows,” Galahad muttered to himself, completely shocked. “They…they protected themselves with their shadows!”

“L-Lord Galahad,” Bramsel stuttered, “I-I’m sure you’re just seeing things! A trick of the—the telescope! Yes, it must be it! Typical shoddy Lycian workmanship! I’m sure—“

His doubts were soon put to rest by the counterattack of the shadow-mages. The Black Knight at the head of their formation shouted, “CHARGE, MY BRETHREN!” just as his infantry cast their own spell.

The sky darkened, as if it had turned from morning to midnight in an instant. A giant, glowing sigil appeared in the air—an eldritch mark from a time long before men had walked the earth, and which would endure long after they had passed from its surface. It was a six-spoked wheel set within an oval, the entirety of it wreathed in dim blue flame. From four of the spokes extended smaller circles, half blue, half purple, with dots of the opposite color set within each half. A pair of large circles at the edges of the outer oval completed the sigil. As Galahad watched in horror, six balls of black-purple flame formed at each circle of the sigil, flaring for a moment before disappearing and before the sigil itself shimmered and faded away. He hoped whatever evil spell this was failed, but alas, it was not to be. A huge dome of black-purple energy formed over his brave Mage Corps, completely obscuring them from view. Streaks of pinkish energy swirled around it for a moment before the dome itself disappeared in one more vortex the same black-purple color.

Light returned to the world, and when Galahad could see clearly his heart leapt—none of his mages seemed to have died! Not even the ground beneath them had been damaged!

But something was still very, very wrong. Almost all of the mages seemed to stagger, as if they had been dealt horrible, debilitating wounds—yet no mark could be seen on their bodies!

“S…STAY STRONG, MEN!” Exedol yelled, even his composure shaken. “PREPARE YOURSELVES FOR THE FOLLOWUP ATTACK!”

His orders came not a moment too soon. With a great clatter of hooves, the Black Knight and his cavalry had begun their charge, and they crashed into the reeling defenders like a sable wave. To their credit, the mages, even as shocked and hurt as they were, refused to be taken by surprise—the Troubadours and Valkyries had already begun calling upon the power of their staves, and the mages and sages had unleashed several of their own burning attacks, sending more than a few black riders and their steeds crashing to the ground amidst screams and flames. But it wasn’t enough—not nearly enough. Hundreds of swirling black vortices formed in the air above the charging horsemen, coagulating into grimy-looking black spheres which suddenly dripped into the shadows the dark magic users cast beneath them. The mages had no idea what hit them.

Many of the mages looked down in absolute horror as sigils—smaller versions of the same one they had seen in the sky—appeared beneath their feet. From these sigils erupted tendrils of black energy surrounded by dim purple flame, twisting and twining around the bodies of the mages before coagulating into the same black spheres that had disappeared into the ground, vanishing in the same purplish vortices.

“Horrifying” would have been utterly inadequate to describe the effects of the spells. They did not burn or freeze, as Anima magic did, nor did they even sear or crush, as Light magic often did. They…decayed.

Galahad watched, speechless, as the bodies of his mages began to fall left and right. They had been turned into disgusting, decrepit things which it was almost impossible to believe had been living, breathing people just moments before. The afflicted mages looked more like mummies—skin stretched tight over bones with no flesh supporting them, wide open mouths whose lips looked like dry parchment forever stuck in an “O” of terror, and their eyes…horrible, dull-grey orbs which quickly collapsed in on themselves, leaving nothing but empty sockets. A fate which soon overtook the rest of those bodies, as they crumpled up, folded in on themselves, and crumbled into dust, leaving little but flakes of skin floating around piles of rags which might once have been clothing.

Despite all this, the mages refused to break—the discipline of the Etrurian army was truly something to be respected. Screaming in anger, they surged back against the black horsemen, seeking to avenge their fallen comrades. Bolts of thunder stormed down from the heavens, and great jets of flame soared across the battlefield, seeking to feed themselves upon the bodies of those who had so angered their masters.

Yet it still wasn’t enough. Though several more of the riders fell, once again most of them were able to evade harm, their shadows coating them like ebony masks. And their dark magic continued wreak havoc upon the stalwart royalists—with every batch of those disgusting black spheres which rose and disappeared into the air, more mages died.

It was hopeless, and Exedol realized it. “Fall back,” he yelled, and then once again amplifying his voice, he screamed, “FALL BACK!”

The mages knew full well if they allowed themselves to be surrounded, they would be completely annihilated. Still maintaining their composure despite their terrible losses, the survivors quickly re-formed themselves into a wedge. They were not attempting to break through the enemy lines, however—they were giving themselves time. The mages at the point and outsides of the formation tore into their foes with every ounce of strength they had, knowing full well they would not be returning. They performed brilliantly, sending scores of the horsemen crashing down to the earth. But of course, their anima could not last long against the power of a magic far older than anything they could even imagine, and within just ten minutes the last of them crumbled away to dust.

They had performed their duty perfectly, though. Their sacrifice had given the inner portions of the wedge time enough to beat a hasty retreat—Exedol, Khyron, and the rest of the command structure of the Mage Corps may have been humiliated, but they were still alive. They and the other survivors had managed to reach and surround the King and his retinue.

Galahad was terrified out of his mind, but he took a small degree of satisfaction in the fact that he was not nearly as terrified as his seatmate Bramsel, who had been reduced to quivering and whimpering as he watched the battle play out.

This was not how it was supposed to happen. Not at all. “E-Exedol!” he called out, attempting to maintain his kingly presence even as his voice quivered pitifully. “Explain yourself! W-What his going on out there?!”

The Mage General turned up to look at his lord—the expression on his face was deathly calm, even though the sweat plastered on his forehead and the wild look in his eyes betrayed his true feelings. His brother could not even make the attempt, looking down at the ground below him as his apprentice kneeled on the ground, shaking from the exertion, the cold weather, and the shock.

“M-My lord,” Exedol started, even now beginning to regain some of his former poise, “forgive me. We were not expecting anything like this. This…this sort of foul magic has not been seen in these lands for decades. We…are at a disadvantage. But no fear! Shadow may triumph against flame and bolt, but not against steel! We’ll call out Paptimus’ mercenaries and begin our counterattack immediately!”

“Yes, yes, that will do it!” cheered Bramsel, trying to stave off his own fear. “Th-this is nothing! I mean, we spent money on those mercenaries, it’s only appropriate they earn their pay, yes! Hah hah! Glaesal may have been banking on these worshippers of darkness, whoever they are, but our foresight will prove him wrong! Hah hah!”

“Yes! YES!” cried Galahad. “Our mercenaries outnumber them more than three to one! Th-this is just a minor setback! PAPTIMUS! Link up with Exedol’s force and attack! Show them the folly of even daring to humiliate the Crown of Etruria!”

Yet even as he said this, Galahad realized that as bad as things had gotten, they were about to get much, much worse. For he had noticed the strange behavior of the strange black-garbed army which had almost annihilated his mages. Turning to look at them, he noticed that they were not moving very fast—after crushing Exedol’s diversionary detachment, they had not charged forwards to follow through with their victory, as would normally be done, but instead seemed to be marching forwards at a leisurely pace, allowing their infantry to catch up with them. Indeed, they actually seemed as if they were in no hurry at all. As if…they were waiting for something.

But what in the world could they be waiting for?

-x-x-x-

Renault was completely confused, possibly moreso than at any other period in his life.

Following orders like a good mercenary, he had stood still and waited with his fellows when he heard Exedol’s voice ringing across the battlefield and when he saw the flag go up over Galahad’s carriage. He (and all the other mercenaries, for that matter) hated taking orders from such a pompous, foolish windbag, of course, but it’s not as if he had much of a choice—Paptimus was following the man’s orders too, and if Renault wanted a shot at the fortune the Prime Minister had promised, he’d better do as he said.

Still, he didn’t have to like it. It was insulting to sit at the back of the formation doing nothing while someone else went and fought, after all. Even worse, he couldn’t get a good view of the battle from behind the carriages of those stupid nobles. Thus, he had absolutely nothing better to than to stand around shuffling his feet and make small talk with Braddock.

Until, of course, he heard the familiar, ear-rending crackle of a mass Bolting spell, and closed his eyes just in time to block out the flash he knew was coming. “At least it’s done with,” he mumbled to himself. But much to his surprise, the battle was far from over. First came the darkening sky and that weird dome of black energy he’d never seen before, visible even from his position. Then came the great clamor of iron-shod hooves, and a whole mess of shouts and screams. But even though he couldn’t clearly see what was happening, the screams sounded as if they were coming from the mages—the same ones who’d devastated an entire forest—more than their opponents.

By this point, Renault was already feeling pretty confused. His befuddlement only grew when he heard Exedol’s magically-amplified voice calling for a retreat, and then a few minutes later, his hasty, shouted explanation to King Galahad and the latter’s call for the mercenaries to pull their weight.

“T…Tassar,” Renault asked hesitantly, “What the hell is going on? Did the Mage Corps…lose?”

“Apparently so,” said the man, and he didn’t seem worried at all—in fact, he was actually grinning. Grinning!

“So what the hell are you so happy about?” asked Braddock, who apparently shared his friend’s confusion. “You heard Galahad’s orders, right? We’re gonna have to fight those guys, whoever they are! And if they were able to take out the Mage Corps, what do you think they’re gonna do to us?!”

“Well, just wait and see, Braddock,” the veteran chuckled. “After all, Paptimus hasn’t given us an order to move, has he?”

“Y…yeah.” And that was another weird thing as well, Renault noticed. Paptimus seemed to be just as happy as Tassar. Though the Pegasus Knights had soared off once they heard Exedol’s call, the rest of the mercenaries were waiting for the Prime Minister’s orders. And he had not given any.

“This is too weird,” Renault said. “What the hell is going on? Why aren’t we doing anything? And what’s with that creepy magic?”

It was Dougram who answered that question—the swordmaster, as usual, had been hanging out near Tassar, since both of them were comparable in skill, watching the proceedings with an expression even more shocked than Renault’s. “Dark magic,” he stammered. “I…I can’t believe it. That spell…I once saw Nergal use it. These are dark magicians?”

“Dark magic? All I know is that my mom hated it and refused to talk about it. What does that mean for us?”

“Haven’t you heard of the Trinity of Magic? Dark magic defeats Anima spells, like the ones these mages use. They’re as good as dead against this force!”

“So I guess this means we have to take up the slack, huh?” Braddock tightened his grip on his axe. “Well, it’s nice to see those arrogant nobles get taken down a notch. We’ll show ‘em what we can really do!”

“Again, Braddock, hold on,” said Tassar. “Don’t be too hasty. Just wait ‘till Paptimus gives us our orders.”

Once more Exedol shouted, and once more only the Pegasus Knights obeyed, hovering over the heads of the mages protectively, awaiting the arrival of their foes who still seemed to be marching forwards leisurely rather than charging. But even they were now discomfited, as Renault noticed several of them shooting puzzled, fearful looks in his direction, wondering why the other mercenaries hadn’t moved.

Still Paptimus kept his hands in the air, indicating his men should do absolutely nothing. Yazan and his fellow Wyvern riders just hovered, while Renault and everyone else just stood there, being determined to follow only Paptimus, since he offered them the most money.

Their mysterious enemies were closing in, and the royalists were growing very fearful now. Galahad took another red flag from under his couch and waved it frantically in the air, the signal to attack. “PAPTIMUS!” Exedol yelled, enhancing his voice with magic. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? GET YOUR MEN MOVING!”

A few of them did as Exedol had ordered, even though Paptimus still maintained his signal to halt. Renault and the vast majority of his comrades, however, continued to wait in place—more and more, they began to suspect that Paptimus had no intention of doing anything Exedol told him to. And they also knew where their loyalties lay.

Exedol, naturally, had had quite enough of the Prime Minister’s malingering. “DAMMIT! WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield. After a few moments—and Renault had to squint to see this, because the wind had suddenly grown much stronger, even though it was weak just moments before—Exedol hobbled out past the carriages of the almost panicking nobles into clear view. He looked terrible—he was gasping for breath and looked deathly pale, his face sweaty and black hair disheveled, and at this point even he couldn’t keep up a dispassionate appearance any longer. He stepped up right in front of Paptimus, his face contorted with rage. “PAPTIMUS! CAN’T YOU HEAR ME? THEY’RE ALMOST UPON US! MOVE!!”

The Prime Minister of Etruria merely grinned and spoke a single word.

“No.”

It was just a single word, spoken not loudly, though thanks to Exedol’s enchantment everyone could hear it. And that single word heralded the beginning of a war.

Exedol, of course, was oblivious to that fact for the moment. In fact, he didn’t even register it, going on as if he hadn’t heard it. “PAPTIMUS! YOU ARE THE PRIME MINISTER OF ETRURIA! YOU FOLLOW THE ORDERS OF THE KING! CAN’T YOU SEE HE’S TELLING YOU TO MOBILIZE YOUR MERCENARIES?”

The purple-haired giant said nothing for a moment, simply standing stock-still in his giant, dull brown cloak and allowing the mysterious wind to blow around him even more strongly, kicking up snow and forcing Exedol to cough, shield his eyes, and stagger backwards a few steps.

“I am sorry,” said Paptimus calmly, and so quietly Renault had trouble hearing it even with the enchantment, “but I do not follow your orders, nor those of the king.”

This finally got Exedol’s attention, yet even then he couldn’t quite believe it. He was silent for a moment, blinking in befuddlement before managing to spit out, “W…what did you say?”

“Ah, I owe you an apology,” said Paptimus with a smile on his face, “and I suppose I owe all these mercenaries an apology as well. And to the people of Nerinheit, of course.”

Renault looked at Tassar. “You…you know what he’s talking about, don’t you?”

The veteran chuckled. “I do. And I guess I, too, owe you an apology. But wait, let’s let Paptimus finish.”

The wind was going extremely quickly now, whipping around the Mage General and the Prime Minister as if it was in a frenzy. But even so, Paptimus’ voice could be heard—he had cast his own enchantment on himself, so that every single person in the area knew exactly what he was talking about. “I’ve been so terribly cryptic,” he continued, “but my only excuse was that it was all for the greater good. Well, no more. Exedol, allow me to make myself clear.”

The wind picked up yet again, so violently that Renault knew there was no way it could be natural. It swirled around Paptimus like a miniature hurricane, and his great brown cloak whipped wildly in the air. Even stranger, the air around the man seemed to _darken_ —that was how it seemed to Renault, as if he began actually absorbing light into himself. Tiny flames appeared around him—black and purple, the same color of that strange dome he had seen earlier. Those flames lost themselves in the frenzied wind, sheathing the Prime Minister in the raw power of elder magic and forcing Renault, Braddock, and many of their fellows to take several steps back, fearing Paptimus had been attacked.

But, of course, that was not the case. Almost as suddenly as it had come, the wind stopped, and the black-and-purple flames disappeared with it. All that was left was Paptimus—sans the brown cloak which had previously concealed him. And everyone who was watching—the nobles, Exedol, and the mercenaries themselves (though notably not Tassar)—gasped in surprise when they saw what those robes had concealed.

Paptimus was standing straight and tall, all seven feet of ex-gladiator muscle, with his powerful arms crossed across his chest. That chest was covered by chain mail with a strong, heavy black cuirass buckled over it, and those arms were covered by equally strong gauntlets and vambraces. Indeed, his entire body was protected by a huge, all-encompassing suit of gothic plate armor perfectly fitted to a man of his size, very similar to what one would expect to see on a General. The only differences were that he carried no shield, axe, or spear—only a staff on his back and a small black book clasped at his belt. The pauldron on his right shoulder was red—the exact same color, Renault realized, as that of the strange messenger who had informed them of this job in the first place.

“Exedol! Galahad!” Paptimus’ voice became even louder, indicating his growing fervor. “From this moment onwards, I renounce my position as Prime Minister of Etruria, and forsake any loyalty I once had to you and your kingdom! My heart is now where it always should have been—with my friend Glaesal, his countship of Nerinheit, and with all Etrurians wishing to free themselves from your yoke! On this day, a new era in the history of Etruria…no, all of Elibe has dawned. And you, great Mage General…this new era will be inaugurated with your blood!”

With one swift movement, almost faster than Renault could see, Paptimus reached to his belt and took the black tome in his right hand. Exedol was still faster, however.

“YOU FILTHY TRAITOR! DIE!”

His face contorted with pure rage, the Mage General brandished his Elfire tome and screamed out the incantation. A bolt of flame lanced towards the turncoat…

And succeeded only in incinerating the ground behind him as he deftly stepped to the side, his armor clanking as a smirk spread across his face.

“Again, I apologize. This armor encumbers me much less than you’d expect. Now, Exedol, let me show you MY magic. GESPENST, LEND ME YOUR POWER!”

Before the Mage General could regain his footing and cast another spell, Paptimus launched his counterattack. Flipping through the pages of his black book, he raised his free hand over his head. A vortex of black and purple energy appeared in his hand, and the wind picked up again—forcing Renault and everyone in the vicinity to take a few steps back—as tendrils of that same energy rose up from the earth and dove into that vortex, forming a small sphere of darkness which disappeared in a flash of purple light when Paptimus clenched his fist. He took a step back and held out that hand towards Exedol, and the spell began its work.

Exedol was no fool, and the moment he saw that flash of light he leapt to the side, attempting to avoid the attack he knew was coming. But alas, Paptimus had thought one step ahead of him, anticipating his move. To his horror, a dark sigil—the wheel with four smaller bi-colored circles at its spokes—appeared in the air right over him, along with a host of large purple flames. Before he could react, the sigil and the flames faded from view, just as he was surrounded by an evil-looking purple mist.

That mist obscured him from view, and Renault had no idea what was happening to him in there. The ground shook slightly, giving Renault a very good idea of how powerful that spell was, and arcs of bright purple energy tore through it for a few moments before the whole conflagration disappeared in another flash of light.

All that was left was the Mage General—and he was not in the best of condition. At first he seemed unhurt, leading Renault to believe the spell had failed. The expression of absolute horror stamped on Exedol’s face indicated the contrary, however. Renault’s eyes widened, and his shock was shared by everyone else viewing the battle, as Exedol’s right arm slipped cleanly from its socket and crashed to the ground, exploding into a fine red spray as he did so.

The Mage General looked up, offering Paptimus an almost piteous expression of pure regret and betrayed trust, and then fell apart in the same manner. Nothing was left of him except a thin red mist over a pile of expensive clothing—and even that was very soon blown away by the wind.

All this happened in less than five seconds. By this time the mages and Pegasus Knights, hearing their commander’s shouting and realizing the rest of the mercenaries weren’t about to back them up, had retreated even further to protect the nobles, far enough for them to see what had happened to Exedol. They stood there dumbfounded for a moment, not able to believe what they had just seen, and that reaction was shared by the rest of the nobles and even Paptimus’ mercenaries.

Paptimus would promptly break their spell. “My brave mercenaries,” he shouted, holding his hand—around which still crackled traces of black energy—in the air, “The arrogant mages and the pathetic nobles they defend care nothing for you. I, on the other hand, have marched with you and have offered you my own personal fortune to make up for what the King did not. Now, I offer you something else. Fight with me! Join with the people of Nerinheit and the Red Shoulders who assist them, and follow me as we topple this decrepit, wretched monarchy. I have already demonstrated to you that the vaunted Mage Corps is no match for me. Follow me, and not only will you enjoy my fortune, but all the booty you can find in Aquileia itself!

“TRAITORS! SCUM! ALL OF YOU! MY LOYAL MAGES,” shouted Galahad in panic, “ATTACK THEM!”

Renault, however, could barely hear him over the sound of his own cheering—and that of Braddock, Tassar, and the rest of the mercenary army. Fighting against a man who had killed the most powerful mage in Etruria with a single attack and who offered them an immense fortune on behalf of pathetic, ungrateful aristocratic wretches? Renault sure as hell wasn’t going to make that deal, and very few of his comrades were, either.

Almost as one, the mercenaries descended upon the terrified, helpless nobles and the reeling mages who were supposed to protect them. On the other side of the battlefield, a shout from the Black Knight coerced his forces into a full charge. Trapped between the turncoat mercenaries and the Red Shoulder Battalion, a slaughter was all but assured.

At least, that was what Renault thought as he rushed into battle with his friends, their weapons drawn. But even as he did so, he realized that the day might very well have had some more surprises in store for him before it was over.

But he knew one thing for certain: This job had gotten much, much more interesting.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Whooo-eeee! Things really went down in this chapter, eh? First off, many, MANY thank yous, again, to my boon companion Writer Awakened for beta reading this chapter. He caught a couple small errors that slipped past my eye and generally gave me his thoughts on it, and I’m very grateful to him because I wanted to make sure this chapter was as good as possible, since it’s so significant. Anyhoo, This chapter introduces several new classes which are entirely my own creation. Let me list them as they’d appear in FE7 or FE8. Although, admittedly, ever since Awakening there have been actual Black Knights now...

Black Rider: Horsemen who crush their foes with powerful elder magic. High mobility but low magic resistance.

Appearance: ‘Evil’ looking Cavaliers without weapons.

Weapons: Dark Magic

Promotion: Black Knight

Base Stats/Growth Rates:

HP: 17 growth 50%

Mag: 2 growth 30%

Skl: 1 growth 25%

Spd: 2 growth 30%

Def: 3 growth 25%

Res: 3 growth 30%

Move: 8 (horseback)

CON: Generally the same range as you’d find on Cavaliers.

Description: As you might be able to tell from the stats, they are somewhat similar to Troubadours, though they trade staff use for offensive magic use. Thus, they are like mounted Shamans in that respect. Advantages: They have the movement range of a mounted unit combined with the power of dark magic, and are stronger and sturdier than Troubadours and other magic units. Disadvantages: Their resistance is not as strong as a Troubadour’s or Shaman’s, they are slower than Troubadours and weaker than Shamans, and they are vulnerable to Horseslayers, Longswords, and other anti-cavalry weapons.

 

 

Black Knight: A title given to the most experienced Black Riders. Masters of both shadow and staff.

Weapons: Dark Magic, Staves

Appearance: As above, “Evil” looking Paladins without shields or weapons.

Promoted Class. Stat gains: +3 HP, +2 Mag, +1 Skl, +1 Spd, +1 Def, +1 Res, +1 Mov, +1 Con. Weapon gains: Dark +40, Staves +1.

Stats:

HP: 22 (max 60) growth 45%

Mag: 5 (max 27), growth 35%

Skl: 3 (max 24) growth 25%

Spd: 3 (max 24) growth 25%

Def: 6 (max 25) growth 20%

Res: 5 (max 25) growth 20%

Move: 9

Con: Bonus a Black Knight gains from promoting to this class: +1

Description: These are essentially mounted Druids in the same way Valkyries are mounted Sages (can use dark/anima along with staffs from horseback with the drawback of lowered stat caps). Advantages and disadvantages are essentially the same as Black Riders.

Credits to Serenes Forest for being a cool place that has *comprehensive*lists of all the classes and their base stats and stuff! VincentASM is an awsum guy :D

So now just a small note:

1: About the Bolting attack, I figured in Elibe, where electricity-based attacks are commonplace and Lightning is the name of a specific light spell, I would refer to bolts of lighting in storms (like the Bolting attack) as just ‘bolts’ and also figured that people in Elibe would have a rudimentary understanding of how electricity worked—not enough to make lightbulbs, but enough to know that electricity and water can be a pretty destructive combination ;) 

  


 

 

 


	16. Dawn of a New Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rebellion kicks off with a mighty bang indeed.

Wayward Son

Chapter 16: Dawn of a New Era

Chaos reigned, and Renault loved it.

Those weird black riders with their terrifying magic had charged straight into the royalist formation and were annihilating the Mage Corps, leaving Renault and his mercenary friends plenty of time and room to pay back those ridiculous nobles for all the humiliation they’d been put through. The sounds of battle and the screams of dying men echoed around Renault, the unsettling howling noises of that dark magic mingling with roars of flame coming from the mages, desperate shouts for help mixed in with the distinctive squelching and crunching of flesh being torn and bones being crushed. Renault hadn’t had this much fun in years.

The young mercenary tore open the door of one large, gilded carriage, revealing its panicked occupant—a screaming old man who just minutes before had been a proud and immensely wealthy and influential merchant, a personal friend of King Galahad, but was now a corpse who didn’t know he was dead yet.

“Guess this trip wasn’t as fun as you thought it’d be, huh?” Renault grinned savagely as he thrust his sword through the man’s showy robes and into his chest, ending his screaming in a pained, bloody gurgle. He then took a moment to dig through the dead merchant’s robes, chuckling gleefully when he managed to pull out a small red gemstone from its hiding place in a secret pocket. Inserting it into his own pocket, he immediately hopped back out of the carriage to rejoin the fight.

That might have been the end of him if it wasn’t for Braddock. The moment Renault stepped put of the vehicle’s doorway a small burst of flame coming from his left lanced through the air above him, and when he looked in that direction he saw its source—a red-cloaked Mage whose still-smoking hand was hanging limply by his side. Judging from the shocked expression on his face, if the Ostian standing behind him hadn’t buried his axe into his back at just the right moment, the Fire spell would have almost certainly hit its target.

“Be careful, man!” Braddock shouted this as he lifted one foot and gave the unfortunate Mage’s back a strong kick, dislodging his weapon in a small shower of blood. “Victory’s not ours just yet!”

“Sorry, I—BRADDOCK, WATCH OUT!” Renault shouted this at the top of his lungs, and amidst the noises of a Thunder spell going off right behind them and another Mage taking a mercenary Sniper’s arrow to the head, Braddock barely heard the warning. Just in time he leapt and rolled to the side as a pair of thunderbolts slammed into the ground he had been standing on a moment before. He quickly got up and turned back as Renault ran to his side in order to get a good look at his assailants—a Valkyrie and yet another Mage, both wounded and weary, but both holding their Thunder tomes in their hands with looks of bleak, resolute determination on their faces.

Before the two men could do anything, however, the two royalists were engulfed by yet another pair of black globes, which promptly disappeared and left nothing behind but dust and bones. Blinking, Renault and Braddock both looked up as their savior raced into view.

The pitch-black courser whinnied as its mount pulled back on its reins, bringing it from a gallop to a stop as he raised his helmet’s visor to regard his two allies. “Braddock! Renault!” he cheered. “Good to see you again, brothers! You’re performing as well as I expected. I come with an opportunity for you to make a fortune beyond your wildest dreams!” The Black Knight—the same one who they’d met back in Bulgar, Renault surmised—turned and gestured behind himself, where the battle seemed to be most intense.

The surviving mages—devastated and demoralized as they were—still had not forgotten their duty, even in these dire straits. Realizing that they had no hope for victory, they had gathered in a defensive perimeter around Galahad’s carriage, atop of which he was screaming wildly, frantically, and in utter panic. Even from this distance, Renault could see a Sage he thought he recognized as Khyron leading the ragged remnants of his brother’s force in one desperate last-ditch defense of their liege. The exhausted Mages unleashed their magic with every ounce of strength they had, driving back the pushes of both the dark cavalry and even the mercenaries with Paptimus at their head over and over again. But they were not fighting for victory, and Renault could tell they knew it. With every passing moment their numbers fell and their counterattacks grew weaker, and it was only a matter of time before they fell. With all of their power, they were trying only to give the King of their country just a few more moments to live.

“Come, help us!” yelled the Black Knight. “Brother Paptimus has promised a hundred thousand gold to the warrior who brings him Galahad’s head! Let’s see who’ll get that reward! CHARGE!” And with that, the rider turned his mount and spurred it towards the besieged carriage.”

“Damn! A hundred thousand?” Renault’s eyes virtually boggled with greed as he broke into run, following the Black Knight. “Come on, Braddock, let’s go! We can’t let somebody get that prize before we do!”

“Dammit, Renault! Remember what I just told you? Don’t get carried away!”

This warning would soon prove to be unnecessary, however. Renault and his friend didn’t get further than a few feet before several great black shadows passed over both their heads. The mercenary from Thagaste couldn’t hide the dismay on his face as he looked up to see Yazan leading his fellow wyvern riders, laughing wildly as they soared happily over the heads of the fighters on the ground directly towards their intended target, the King of Etruria.

“HEY! NO FAIR!” Renault shouted indignantly as he realized there was absolutely no hope of him reaching Galahad before the Bernites did. His hopes were momentarily rekindled, however, when Yazan and his fellows suddenly broke off their attack, swerving to the sides as several streaks of white flashed between them and the cringing Galahad.

“The Pegasus Knights are covering Galahad!” Renault grinned. “All right, we’ve still got a chance! Let’s—Hey, what the—“

His cheering was cut off as Braddock hastily grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back to the carriage he’d just exited, following him inside as he shut the gilded doors and peered cautiously out the window in the back.

“What the hell, Braddock?” Renault was more than a bit disgruntled. “A hundred thousand gold, did you hear that? Now we sure as hell don’t have a shot at—“

“Renault, cool down for a second.” Braddock pointed through the window to the sky above Galahad’s head. “Don’t you recognize the girl Yazan’s fighting?”

Renault came up and took a look for himself, and sure enough his face blanched as he heard that screaming, familiar laugh over the great din of the battlefield. “Shit! It’s that crazy Ilian from Scirocco, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. You remember what happened the last time she caught sight of you, right? Let’s just stay in here and wait this battle out. I know it sucks not getting the big prize, but hell, we’ve already gotten a lot off of the nobles we’ve killed, so there’s no sense losing it all now.”

“Yeah…yeah, I know what you mean. Jeez, I remember how she acted when we were on the same side, I can only imagine what she’d do to me if she saw me right now. Thanks, bud.”

Braddock grinned. “As always, no problem. Now let’s just sit back and watch the show!”

-x-

Up to now, Yazan had been having a great day. Not only had he gotten to watch those pathetic mages get torn apart, but then he got a chance to actually take out a few of them himself, courtesy of Paptimus (who ended up being a much, much better employer than he’d ever even dreamed). The hundred-grand reward for skewering that worthless sod of a king was just icing on the cake.

Unfortunately, just as Hambrabi brought him within a javelin’s throw of the old fool (screaming and cringing as if he were a little girl, while his tubby friend clung to him for dear life) one of his best friends just had to ruin everything.

Yazan grunted as he twisted in his saddle, encouraging his wyvern to swiftly bank to the left, which allowed him to just barely dodge the lance screaming down at him from above. The other Bernese mercenaries following him quickly did the same, though one was just a bit too slow—Yazan barely had time to shout out, “RICK!” when he saw the man and his beast blown out of the sky by a thunderbolt from one of the embattled Sages below them.

Feeling more curious than angry (Yazan had never liked Rickard—the other mercenary was an exile too, but apparently had a few silly notions about regaining his citizenship if it so happened Yazan had an “accident” and he returned to Bern to take the credit), the Wyvern Knight made a U-turn in the air and readied his Steel Lance, wondering who’d come to Galahad’s rescue.

He blinked in surprise when he saw his best sparring partner, Kasha, hovering in front of the King along with several of her other wings, while the rest dived downwards to provide a bit of assistance to the almost-spent Royal mages.

“Yoo-hoo!” Kasha waved to her favorite fugitive, a big smile on her face as she cradled her Killer Lance with her other hand. “Yazan, isn’t this great? Now we can go all-out, no need to worry about gettin’ slammed with treason if we kill each other! I’ve been waiting for this for WEEKS!”

With that, she spurred her Pegasus into a wild aerial charge at him, her Killer Lance leading the way. Hambrabi growled and flapped his leathery wings, managing to bring himself and his rider over and clear of the woman’s attack, but Yazan still had to raise his weapon to fend off yet another strike as Kasha banked almost supernaturally fast and brought herself at him a second time.

Even as her lance was deflected by Yazan’s and she was forced to veer to his right to avoid a collision, she didn’t hesitate at all. Building up momentum and performing yet another U-turn, just as he had—while dodging a slew of arrows and several globes of that weird dark magic launched at her from below—she began her third attack.

“God damn,” whistled Yazan in appreciation and amazement, “girl, you weren’t kidding about going all out. Well, I guess I should return the favor!”

Hambrabi let out an eager roar as his master called for him to begin his own charge, and with another flap of those scaly wings he hurled himself towards the woman and her tasty-looking Pegasus. Bernite and Illian passed by each other once…then, scarcely moments after, twice, and then a third time.

Yazan winced as he took a hand off Hambrabi’s reins for a moment to place it on his right shoulder—Kasha had managed to land a blow with that last strike, and it had torn his pauldron right off. He grinned when he made a fist, pounded his now-naked shoulder, and found out she hadn’t managed to do any more damage.

Of course, he didn’t have much time to ruminate on his good fortune. Hambrabi took a sudden dip to avoid a couple of fireballs soaring dangerously close to his position, and Kasha had to do the same in order to dodge another barrage of arrows from the turncoat mercenaries. Their courses brought them close enough to attack each other, but Yazan had something else in mind.

“HEY! KASHA,” he yelled as he passed by, and was gratified to see the woman turn and match her mount’s speed with him as they soared over the battlefield. His sharp eyes could see the expression on her face, and it evinced both an eagerness to see what kind of conversation he’d find more interesting than this battle and a voracious desire for him to leave himself open while he kept his mouth flapping, which was why he made sure that his spear was still pointed squarely at her.

“This is fun and all,” he continued, and by this point they were high enough that their voices sounded closer to each other than the chaos below did, “but think about it for a moment. One of us is gonna kill the other, right? So then what’ll we do for fun? Off the battlefield, I mean. Hell, I’ll be blunt. Fighting you’s absolutely great, but you’re the first woman I can think of in at least a month or so I’d like to—“

He was cut off by a delighted peal of laughter from Kasha, who brought her Pegasus close to him and lashed out with her lance, a quick attack more intended to annoy Hambrabi than to actually hurt him. Yazan was well prepared, though, and a quick jab of his own weapon kept hers from scratching the Wyvern’s wing. The woman laughed again, pleased at her partner’s skill, and decided to answer his question.

“Awww, you’re great, Yazan,” she chuckled. “You really know how to flatter a girl, you know that? They just don’t make men like you in Ilia. Timid little voles, the lot of ‘em!”

“Really? Finally, somebody who appreciates me! Never met a lady in Bern who could compare to you either, hon. Then again, I don’t think many women anywhere like a javelin to the chest. But anyways, since we’re so obviously meant for each other,” and at this, he chuckled himself, “why do we even have to be on opposite sides? Come on, I know you girls don’t like that worthless moron of a King. Why don’t you join me with Paptimus’ crew? I mean, did you see that treasure he offered us? Pays a hell of a lot better than what Bram or Bramimond or whoever’s paying you, I’d wager?”

Kasha blinked. “So you’re telling me to betray my employer?”

“Sure, why not?”

His query was answered with another lightning-flash thrust of that Killer Lance, and even his quick reflexes weren’t able to block it before it left a nick on one of Hambrabi’s horns.

“I take it that’s a ‘no,’ then?” Yazan sighed as he launched a lazy counterattack of his own, which Kasha dodged with a giggle and a small dive. “Come on, don’t tell me it’s that ‘unshakeable Ilian loyalty bullshit’ or whatever.”

“Nope! Not at all! My mom was big on that stuff, but she was a bitch and she’s dead too. My sisters believe it, but they’re better with their lances than their heads. Me, I don’t give half a rat’s ass about any of that!”

“So then why not? There’s no good reason to stay with those royalist fools. You saw how much money Paptimus has, and there’s only more for the taking from the corpses of the nobles and the ruins of their castles! Why wouldn’t you join my side, huh?”

“Simple,” replied Kasha with a big smile on her face. “I’ve fought all over Elibe, and I’ve killed more people than I can count. Knights and Paladins, Mages and Nomads…I think I’ve even taken down a couple of Wyvern Lords like you. But I gotta say, I’ve never seen anybody like those black guys on the horses before.”

Her smile grew wider and much more vicious. “I won’t be able to have much fun with ‘em if I switch sides, but if I stay with the royalists, I’ll be able to take out as many of ‘em as I want! After years of killin’ the same old soldiers over and over again, I finally get a chance to wet my spear on some dark magicians! No way I’m givin’ this opportunity up!”

“But what about the money?”

“Money’s nice, but it’s not the real reason I love what I do. I just like battle, and fighting against those Black Knights is looking to be a lot more interestin’ than the other way around!”

Once again, Yazan sighed. “No arguin’ with that, I guess. What a damn shame. Ah, well. It was nice knowing you Kasha, and I’m not kidding. But now it’s time for you to die!”

With a vicious spur to Hambrabi’s sides, Yazan leaned over to jab at Kasha’s unprotected head. As he expected, she again dipped her mount to evade the attack, but to his surprise, she didn’t attempt to counter—she quickly turned and descended, heading back as fast as she could to the great carriage of the King over which they’d first collided.

“HEY! WHERE’RE YOU GOIN’?” Yazan shouted as he directed Hambrabi to follow. “I THOUGHT YOU WERE LOOKIN’ FORWARD TO THIS FIGHT?”

“I WAS,” Kasha called back, “BUT MY SISTERS ARE JUST ABOUT DONE WITH THEIR JOB! LOOK!”

Laughing, she pointed towards her destination, and Yazan’s eyes widened when he saw it. She was flying towards King Galahad’s carriage, protected by the last few Royal Mages and surrounded by incredibly angry mercenaries and Black Riders. The reason for that anger was obvious—the top of the carriage was quite empty. In the distance, Yazan could see dwindling white dots which were the survivors of Kasha’s Shrike Team, and on a pair of those dots he thought he could see the glinting of gold—while he and the other fliers was occupied with Kasha’s Pegasus Knights and the mages kept the ground forces at bay, her sisters had apparently made off with the big prize!

Once again, Kasha laughed. “DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, YAZAN! WE’LL FINISH THIS SOME OTHER TIME! SEE YA!” She gave her mount a kick and it strained forward, soaring through the sky as fast as it could, which was very fast indeed—the multitudes of arrows and spells launched at it from a very dismayed Paptimus and his men couldn’t even come close to it. With a grimace on his face Yazan spat into the wind, but he didn’t even bother telling Hambrabi to give chase—his buddy was a lot stronger and tougher than a Pegasus, but not nearly as fast.

“Aw, shit,” he mumbled to himself, but then the grimace on his face turned into a self-effacing smile. “Damn, but she got me good, didn’t she? Had me right in the palm of her hand. There really aren’t too many women like her out there!” He laughed and gave Hambrabi’s back a light pat. “Come on, boy. The battle below’s almost done, I bet. Let’s go down there and see if we can’t make a few final kills. Keep us in shape till we meet Kasha again, eh?”

Hambrabi was more than happy to hear this, for he let out a low, satisfied growl, veered left and right to dodge the fireballs coming from below him and the thunderbolts raining from above him, and brought his laughing master back into the fray.

-x-

Khyron could die a happy man.

He didn’t want to die, of course, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting to die here, not even in his wildest, most terrifying nightmares. However, with his brother’s death—due to the treachery of that backstabbing knave Paptimus—and the subsequent encirclement of the beleaguered force he now led by a combination of those filthy black riders and their traitorous freebooting lackeys, Khyron fully realized he would not be leaving this battle alive.

But at least he had fulfilled his duty.

“M-my lord,” stammered his apprentice, straining to make herself heard over the explosions and screams from all around them, “K-King Galahad is safe. The Pegasus Knights have spirited him away from this battle, and they’re much too fast f-for any of our foes to overtake. Even if your Warp staff could not reach him from down here, the wings of an Ilian will spirit him away almost as fast!”

“We have done our duty!” called a blond-haired Sage standing near Khyron, using up the last energy of his Elfire tome to incinerate a greedy Myrmidon who had just slew one of their Troubadors nearby. “Our liege will surely reach Aquleia safely!”

Khyron closed his eyes and smiled. “Good. Good. All of you…you’ve…honored the name…of the Mage Corps.” He staggered, and almost fell, but Rosamia rushed up to support him.

“Hah. Th…thank you,” he grunted. “Even to the end, girl, you stand by me. You may not have been an impressive mage, but…your loyalty will be remembered.”

She managed to shoot him an annoyed look even through her pain, fear, and exhaustion, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter now. They were all dead anyways.

Or were they?

Everyone around them certainly was. Khyron, Rosamia, the other Sage (his name was Johan, the younger brother of one of Exedol’s friends, so far as Khyron remembered), and a handful of other mages, utterly drained of magic and armed with nothing more than empty tomes, were the only remnants of the expeditionary force left alive. Even through his bleary, tired eyes, Khyron could see Paptimus accompanied by his Black Knights and mercenaries advancing upon him steadily, triumphant smiles on their faces.

He really did fall to his knees this time, taking Rosamia with him. His ragged breath wafted around him in small puffs of mist, and it took what little remaining energy he had to take his eyes off the snowy ground below him to look up at the man who would end his life. Even if he couldn’t die on his feet, he could still die looking up.

“Little Khyron,” grinned the former Prime Minister. “I really do feel somewhat bad about this. You survived what I…well, let’s just say you acquitted yourself at Scirocco with distinction. Hmm…is there any reason I should kill you? Why don’t you surrender? From my perspective, you’d make a good hostage, and from yours, well, everyone wants to live another day. What do you say?”

Khyron’s only response was to bunch up his lips and spit on the ground before him.

Paptimus shrugged. “Ah, well, it’s not as if you have a choice. Do any of you men have any rope? Tie this fellow up and keep a watch on him. Do the same to the other survivors, in fact. If we ever need any bargaining chips they may come in handy.”

“Never…NEVER!”

Khyron blinked in surprise as he noticed a dim white circle appear on the ground underneath him and the now-unconscious Rosamia. Johan had managed to stand and was now holding a distinctive ruby-tipped staff high above his head, channeling as much of his remaining energy as he could into forming a dimensional gate for his commander.

“L…Lord Khyron!” he gasped. “You can’t fall into their hands! Etruria still needs you! Farewell!”

“Damn it,” groaned Paptimus, “enough of this, just—Whoah!” He was suddenly cut off by a rush of the remaining Mages—though they had no magic, they still had their bodies. Khyron could only watch in horror as those brave men and women launched themselves at the black-clad traitor, almost managing to bury him…before a flash of purple light sent their decaying corpses flying away from him.

But it bought them time. Just barely enough time. Even as a javelin thrown by one of the Bernite mercenaries pierced his chest, in his final moments Johan was able to complete his spell. The last thing Khyron could see was the smile on the dead man’s face before all the world became a mass of white light.

And then he knew no more.

-x-

“Hey, Braddock, I think it’s over…uh, maybe.”

Renault said this as he peered out of the carriage’s window with his friend, having seen the Pegasus Knights’ filching of Galahad and the destruction of the remaining Mage Corps survivors (punctuated by that great flash of light—Renault figured somebody had teleported away, though he couldn’t tell who). The sounds of battle had died down, and now the only things the two of them could hear were the cheering of the mercenaries and black cavalry as well as the attempts of the former to filch as much as they could off the corpses littering the battlefield.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. C’mon, let’s see if we can find Tassar.”

“Oh? You think somethin’ happened to him?”

“Nah. No way he’d let himself get killed in a battle like this. But still, something smells fishy about this whole thing…I’m as happy as anybody to get a chance at killing some noble bastards rather than kissing their feet, but all this really came out of the blue, at least as far as I can tell. I get the feeling Tassar knows what’s going on, though…at least more than we do.”

Renault nodded. “Yeah…yeah, I got that feeling too, especially back at the Lurkmire. Alright, let’s go.”

The two men cautiously made their way out of the carriage, keeping an eye out for any remaining royalists, but fortunately, it seemed they had nothing to worry about. They managed to reach the wreckage of King Galahad’s carriage, which was being torn apart by most of the mercenaries, who wished to take as much as they could of the expensive jewels and gilding which covered the vehicle. Making their way through the crowd, it didn’t take long for Renault and Braddock to find their leader.

Tassar raised a hand to them in greeting. “Renault! Braddock! Good to see you’re both well. Sorry for losing track of you during the battle. Hope you two didn’t get into too much trouble without me?”

The two men looked at each other and grinned, with Renault reaching into his pocket to show off his latest prize. “Nah, I think we did alright.”

“Good, good.” The veteran mercenary looked around him. “Well, the looting’s starting to die down…I think we’ve got pretty much everything we can off of these guys.” He laughed as he brought out a small pouch from his belt, opening it to reveal many more jewels and golden trinkets. “Great haul, and Paptimus is gonna pay us even more than that! See, I told you guys to trust me. Didn’t this job turn out well?”

“Yeah, it did,” replied Braddock, who still had a smile on his face, “but I have to say, boss, I’m still a little suspicious. I mean, I never thought Paptimus would end up betraying the crown…I always liked the guy, but I thought his loyalty to Etruria was pretty solid. What’s up with all this, then? You know anything? Don’t hold out on us, man!”

“Paptimus will explain everything, don’t worry. But if you have any questions, I’ll answer ‘em later. Just keep trusting me. I led you right for this job, and I’ll keep leading you right.”

Braddock looked at Renault, who just shrugged in response. “If this turns out to be a trap for us rather than the Mage Corps, Paptimus is going about it in a really weird way. I think Tassar’s right. But it’s your call, man, I’ll follow you no matter what you think.”

The Ostian paused in thought for a moment, then smiled. “Yeah, okay. We’ll follow you, Tassar.”

“Good, good. And that means following Paptimus. Let’s listen to his next orders, huh?”

Those would end up coming very soon. “My brave mercenaries!” boomed a voice that resounded across the field; Paptimus must have re-energized his voice-enhancing enchantment.

“You have performed magnificently this day, and for that, I am immensely proud. However, look to the north!”

Surprised, Renault heeded the turncoat’s suggestion. Squinting his eyes, he noticed that another force was marching out of Nerinheit’s gates. These, however, didn’t seemed to be dressed in the black plate and red pauldrons of Paptimus’ “Red Shoulder Battalion.” In fact, these guys seemed to have been armed and armored with apparently whatever they managed to cobble up.

“There you see,” continued Paptimus, “our comrades—the beleaguered people of Nerinheit! No doubt they and their leader, my friend Glaesal Nerinheit, are immensely grateful for our assistance, but for which they would have been annihilated by the royalist scum. Come, let’s greet them!”

That wasn’t exactly the explanation Renault had been hoping for, and Braddock looked the same way, but they’d both agreed to trust Tassar on the matter, so trust him they would. Together, the three of them made their way close to the head of the disorganized mercenary and Red Shoulder formation, which Paptimus was leading in exceedingly good spirits. The Red Shoulders had suffered a moderate amount of casualties (even against dark magic, the might of Etruria’s Mage Corps could not be underestimated) while the mercenaries had to deal with very few; the advantage of surprise had swung the tide of battle very heavily in their favor. The Red Shoulders were quite happy about their victory and the mercenaries were well-sated with both the gains they’d filched off of the corpses of the nobles as well as the riches Paptimus promised them, so both sides of this impromptu Revolutionary Army were more than happy to follow their leader as he met up with their new allies.

However, as the two forces drew closer, Renault could see that the people they saved were perhaps not as happy about this meeting as Paptimus might have been. Glaesal Nerinheit stood clad in heavy gothic plate at the head of their formation, seeming to be dragging a young red-haired woman behind him. Renault didn’t remember the Count too well, having last seen him several years ago when he stood before the Etrurian Royal Court, but he could see that the expression on the elder man’s face was one of befuddlement, fear, and anger, not gratitude. It seemed to be shared by the few hundred men who were behind him.

“H-hey, they don’t look too friendly,” stammered Renault. “Tassar, you said—“

“Don’t worry, Renault. Paptimus has to explain things to them. That explanation will be for you, too.”

As if on cue, the moment he came close to Paptimus, Nerinheit shouted the question most of them had been entertaining as well.

“PAPTIMUS, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”

The former Prime Minister was completely unfazed. “The beginning of a glorious revolution, of course!” His enchantment had not worn off, and everyone in the immediate vicinity could still hear the conversation clearly. “Glaesal, my friend, surely you have not forgotten my promise to you? I swore to help you, when you first brought up the subject of rebellion to me in secret so long ago. I have kept that promise, and I intend to keep it! Myself and my men are at your disposal. Never again will the King’s thugs lay a hand on Nerinheit and its allies!”

“Y…you’re here to help me? You remembered? Paptimus…” Glaesal’s eyes seemed to soften, but he was still very suspicious. “But these methods…why couldn’t you have come to my aid before the tragedy of the Lurkmire? Why are you allying yourself with these…these shadowy black riders? And why did you choose to betray Exedol like this instead of accompanying Meris to my city?” With this question, he turned to regard the red-headed girl standing at his side—Renault noticed that he was no longer holding her in place, but he still seemed to regard her with distrust.

Paptimus sighed in response. “Those are all legitimate questions, my old, dear, friend, and you are right to ask them. In fact, it is only a testament to my own weakness and inability that things turned out this way. My only defense is that I did the best I could. Well, at least I can begin to make things up by offering you—and all the men and women on this field, for that matter—an explanation.

“Glaesal, I must be truthful to you. Even before that fateful day when you first broached the subject to me, almost two years ago, I had long been thinking of rebellion myself. You know better than anyone why a former gladiator like me would hate the Crown, Glaesal, so I need not reiterate the same things I’ve told you before. When you mentioned your plans to me, that only cemented your resolve. I wanted to stand by you, my friend, the only member of the nobility who ever showed me a spark of kindness. But I was—and still am—a rational man, and I realized that by myself, there was little I could do to help you. The office of Prime Minister gave me wealth and influence, but not enough of each to effect true change…at least not by myself.”

He gestured first to the mounted Dark magic users standing behind him, then to the mercenaries who were now loyal to him. “This, my friend, is where the Red Shoulder Battalion comes in. The men who stand before you have a very, very long history with me, ever since my days as a gladiator.

“Dark magic—more accurately, elder magic, for a variety of reasons, has long been scorned and shunned across Elibe. Yet in every country, there have been those who refused to be chained by the superstitions and prejudices of their peers. My old, dear friend, Job Trunicht, is one such man.” Paptimus then pointed towards the leader of the black cavalry, Renault’s Black Knight friend. “We first met nearly twenty years ago, just a few days after I first discovered that my talent for Anima magic was even greater than my skill with the axe. He saw my magical ability…and wanted to increase it, to nurture it. He gave me a Flux tome, taught me how to use it…and from then, the rest is history. He has ever been my greatest supporter from the shadows. As a gladiator, I honed my skill with flame and wind in the ring, but in my own cell, he would come to me, sharpening my abilities in the elder forces. Even after Glaesal emancipated me, this continued. During the day, I would learn statecraft and magic from my adoptive father. During the night…that was Trunicht’s time.

“Yet teaching me was not the only thing my old friend did. He introduced me to so many new people…a whole world, in fact. There were many, many like him, my friends. Intelligent young men and women who hated the Crown, the Church, and every wretched symbol of their oppression across Elibe. Innocent people branded and cast out of their communities merely for showing interest or skill in the oldest form of magic. Distrusted even in countries like Ilia and Sacae, which do not share the foolish prejudices of ‘civilized’ nations like Etruria, these outcasts were scattered all across Elibe, hiding anonymously within the crowds of big cities or living like hermits far away from human settlements. They kept in contact with each other through men like Job, but they were disorganized, leaderless. They needed a leader to effect any sort of meaningful change, to lift themselves out of their unhappy lot. They needed…someone like me. Once I became Prime Minister, it was easy for me to use my wealth and connections to forge these scattered discontents into a single well-trained fighting force, the Red Shoulder Battalion you see here today.”

“P-PAPTIMUS!” Glaesal roared, utterly shocked. “ALL THIS TIME, YOU’VE BEEN PLOTTING A REBELLION FOR ALL THIS TIME, AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME?”

The look on Paptimus’ face was sincerely contrite. “Forgive me, my old friend. I…there was no other choice. I knew how risky my pursuit was. If I was ever caught…if you displayed the slightest knowledge of my activities, you would be implicated as well. No matter what, I could not allow that to happen to you, even if it meant shouldering my burdens alone.”

The explanation seemed to make sense to Renault, but, he noticed, apparently not as much to Glaesal. “And what of everything else? You had the King’s ear for years. Was everything…everything, from Scirocco to Sorveno to now, all part of your plot? HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE YOU KILLED, PAPTIMUS?!"

“Your accusations wound me, Glaesal, but…they are well-founded. However, I can assure that everything I did as Prime Minister, I did for what I thought was the good of Etruria. I encouraged Galahad to place his trust in mercenaries because they truly seemed to me the best way of filling the holes in Etruria’s military. My dream was to reform the system peacefully, from within. But when Galahad gave his merciless orders for the treatment of Sorveno, when the mercenaries I sent to Scirocco were unjustly accused of poisoning the town…I realized that my dreams were hopeless. Especially Scirocco…do you know what happened there?”

Now this got Renault’s attention, and Braddock’s too. The mercenary from Thagaste likely would have shouted for Paptimus to explain, but Tassar stopped him. “Just listen, Renault. Everything will be made clear.”

Glaesal seemed to be even more flabbergasted than Renault and Braddock were. “What are you talking about, Paptimus? Do you know—“

“Yes, my friend, I do. It is high time you learned the truth. First, it is true that Meris—my Meris—was present at Scirocco when the town was destroyed.”

At this, Glaesal’s face reddened, and he looked at the girl with fury in his eyes. However, Paptimus stopped him before he could do anything rash.

“Listen, Glaesal! Yes, she was there. I sent her there. I sympathized with the people of that town, but did not want to involve myself directly, because using my influence too hastily might have made the situation even worse. I sent her to observe and to help the people as much as she could—nothing more. I hoped the whole situation might have been solved peacefully. She told me of the townspeople’s plight, and when the king demanded I take action, I specifically chose one mercenary whose reputation preceded him—Tassar,” and at this point Paptimus smiled as his eyes swept over Renault and his friends, “because he was well-known for having sympathy for the common man and a cool head. Even with Khyron accompanying him, I felt confident he could find a way to cool down the populace. Just in case, however, I had Meris hire a wing of Pegasus Knights. I thought that would provide leverage to convince Khyron to parley rather than simply burn everything to ashes, as was his wont. I was wrong about that…Khyron’s stupidity was even greater than I expected. Never in my wildest nightmares, however, did I think of what Exedol would do…”

“Exedol? What in the world do you mean?”

“It…it was not long after the mercenaries gave their testimony to the royal court. I was not even supposed to hear of this, but fortunately, well…my ears are sharper than my fellows gave me credit for. It was a private conversation Exedol had with the king I managed to catch wind of.

“Exedol was aware that his younger brother was taking a suspiciously long time to return, so secretly, under the cover of darkness he himself journeyed to Scirocco. When he saw that they were much more well-defended than he thought…he took it upon himself to make things easier for his brother. With his own hands…he warped several bags of deadly poison from his own stores directly to the aquifer underneath the town. The rest is…well, you know what happened. The moment she drank the well’s water that morning, Meris contacted me to let me know what had happened. I was able to spirit her away and treat her, barely…but I was unable to do anything else.

“Do you see, Glaesal? Do you see, my trusty mercenaries? Everything that happened back then was solely for the convenience of the nobility! Exedol wanted to give his younger brother a smashing victory to impress the court. Thus, he slaughtered an entire town full of innocent people and their Ilian protectors to give Khyron that victory, knowing that any blame for such an underhanded tactic would fall on the unknowing mercenaries! Tassar, Renault, everyone there…they were simply scapegoats! This is how you would have been treated had you remained loyal to the king, my mercenary friends!

This…this was the moment my loyalty to the crown was shattered. After I heard this, I knew All the good intentions in the world could not reform this kingdom—we needed force. Nothing but our strength will bring justice to the corrupt rulers of Etruria!”

The mercenaries were now wholly under Paptimus’ sway. “DID Y’ HEAR THAT?” called one Warrior, “LOOKIT HOW TH’ KING TREATS THE MEN WHO FIGHT FOR ‘IM! I’LL SEE JUSTICE DONE, ARIGHT, AND IT’LL BE WHEN GALAHAD’S HEAD IS AT THE END OF MY AXE!” Rousing cheers of approval came from the rest of the army, and Renault was no exception.

“He…he set us up,” echoed Renault, shocked by the revelation. “Khyron…Exedol…everything that happened…those bastards set us up!”

“You’re exactly right,” replied Tassar grimly. “Still, don’t dwell on it too much. Exedol already got what he deserved, and Khyron…we’ll give it to him, don’t worry.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we will.” Braddock said this with a bit less enthusiasm than Renault expected, and the swordsman looked at him in surprise. Despite Paptimus’ explanations—which he found quite convincing—Braddock still seemed suspicious about something.

Glaesal seemed to feel the same way, though that suspicion was receding. “Paptimus…you mean all of this was Exedol’s responsibility? I…I can’t…”

“Surely you can believe it,” came the smooth reply. “Glaesal, you know what an amoral, underhanded knave Exedol was. Remember what he did with your wife? Remember how he took your position away from you? That was perfectly in-character for him.”

“Yes…yes, you’re right!” Glaesal seemed to have been won over…almost. “That bastard…and he’s finally dead! Yes! YES! I’m glad you killed him, my friend! I hope it was painful! Everyone at Scirocco, everyone who died at the Lurkmire…I hope they can rest in peace now! Finally! But…wait, Paptimus. Wait. Why,” and now the suspicion seemed to be returning in full force, “Why did you not tell me of any of this? In fact, it should have been the first thing you did! Why didn’t you tell me Meris was in Scirocco? Why didn’t you tell me of Exedol’s guilt? Why have you kept so much from me? You and Meris both!”

It was Meris who answered that question. The red-haired girl at Glaesal’s side gripped his arm this time, pleading with him. “It wasn’t Paptimus’ fault, L-Glaesal! He had no other choice! Please, you have to—“

Glaesal angrily shrugged away her grip. “Let him speak for himself, girl!”

“Glaesal, enough,” said Paptimus reprovingly.”Meris has never been anything but loyal to you, and the same applies to me. Believe me, it was the greatest desire of my heart to tell everything to you. But I must make my decisions with my head, Glaesal. One must never act too hastily, after all. What good would it have done to have told you? If we went to the Court, they wouldn’t believe us. Indeed, they would likely strip us of our positions and imprison us if they thought we had caught on to their plots! And of course, there was the matter of the king’s spies. We had already risked so much discussing rebellion after the events at Sorveno. Exedol and the Court had already been suspecting me for a very long time, and many of their rats were trailing me almost night and day…if I had told you everything before now, they would have almost certainly heard me, and cast both of us to the gallows.”

“Yes…yes, that is true,” mused Glaesal pensively. “It was always difficult to walk more than a few steps in the Palace without bumping into one spy or another. Your quarters were the only place that was safe, as I recall, and if they were keeping tabs on you even there…but, but! That doesn’t explain everything, Paptimus! I see the book at your belt! I saw the foul magic your allies used! These…these Red Shoulders! Paptimus, why would you associate yourself with these dark magicians? You know how dangerous this magic is!”

At this, Paptimus seemed somewhat disappointed. “Glaesal, such uninformed prejudice, coming from you? I thought you knew better. Yes, elder magic has its risks. They are serious ones, and I would not have employed the assistance of these men without very good reason. However, Glaesal, does not all magic have its risks? Cannot any be used for destructive purposes? You need only to look at the Lurkmire to see what even Anima magic can do in the wrong hands. Elder magic is no different. Remember, Bramimond fought for humanity during the time of the Scouring. The Red Shoulders are no different than he was!”

“Yes…yes, that may be true. Your Red Shoulders have been living in my city for some time now, posing as simple travelers, and they have caused me no trouble and my citizens no harm. Yet that in itself raises more questions. When I declared my rebellion, Meris went out to join me almost without a second thought. Why didn’t you accompany her? Why did you wait so long to play your hand, Paptimus? Surely you knew your Red Shoulders were gathering in my city. Why didn’t you take them against the Mage Corps before they destroyed the Lurkmire?”

Paptimus frowned at this. “You are right, my friend, and I justly deserve condemnation. I wish from the depths of my being that I could have pulled this off with fewer casualties on your side, Glaesal, but, alas. To explain why, I must again refer to these brave mercenaries.” He gestured towards Renault and his fellows.

“The Red Shoulder Battalion is strong, yes, and I specifically allied with them because their brand of magic, though not inherently evil, is most effective against the sort utilized by the Mage Corps. However, only a fool underestimates his enemy, and a wise man leaves as little as possible to chance. I wanted to deliver a crushing, demoralizing defeat to the Mage Corps; I wanted to cut off its head and leave it enervated, never to recover. As powerful as the Red Shoulders are, to make absolutely certain of that outcome I needed both a little extra manpower and the element of surprise.

“My plan was to have both these mercenaries as well as the Red Shoulder Battalion surround and then annihilate the Mage Corps and their noble masters. If they hired mercenaries—with perhaps the exception of the Ilian Pegasus Knights, which I did not foresee, unfortunately—I knew they would be unable to command the loyalty of their troops. Thus, I banked on Exedol and his fellow foppish nobles to alienate and underpay these warriors, and when I could offer them a better deal…well, everything fell into place. I only needed the perfect time and location to pull off my ambush, and, of course, the utmost secrecy. If even the smallest rumors got out that I was plotting something, my entire plan would have been ruined.

“This was why I had to keep so much from you, my old friend, and for that, I am so very sorry. I had your best interests at heart, and those of Etruria…indeed, all of Elibe! But it is a small excuse, I know. If you wish to punish me, I will gladly accept anything you have to deliver. I only ask that you spare my dear Meris. Under my orders, she left the Palace to assist you and your revolutionaries to the best of her abilities, and to also keep me apprised of your plans, so that I could spring my own trap in perfect accordance with your own assault.

“Alas, it was not to be. I wanted to ensure that both the Red Shoulder Battalion and the mercenaries attacked the nobles at exactly the same time. Given the strength of the Mage Corps, if only one of my forces attacked them, even with the element of surprise the mages would most probably be able to make an effective retreat. Thus, I had to wait until the Red Shoulder Battalion was gathered in sufficient force and ready to attack with the mercenaries before making my move. It was no easy task, considering how its constituents were spread all across Elibe. An acceptable number reached Nerinheit only yesterday. By that time…well, you know what happened at the Lurkmire. I…I am truly sorry, my friend. I should have put my plan into motion sooner. Perhaps then all the men who died in that forest could have been saved. Again…if you wish to punish me, I will accept anything you have to give.” He fell to his knees before Nerinheit, surprising the Count as much as it surprised everybody else watching. “I said it before, and I will say it again. My friend, Lord Glaesal, you have done so much for me. You were the one who rescued me from a miserable life in the fighting pit, and even with Trunicht’s help, I never would have been able to even begin my struggle against this corrupt, wretched crown if it wasn’t for you. I owe you everything, and though I know this explanation almost certainly has not satisfied you, I am willing to give everything I have for your cause, including my life if need be.”

“Damn,” Renault muttered quietly at the end of this speech, echoing the sentiments of Braddock and virtually all the other mercenaries and Nerinheit militia listening to it. “Now that is an elaborate plan. You really were in cahoots with this guy, Tassar?”

“Sure was,” replied the veteran mercenary. “You can see why I threw my lot in with him. I don’t think there’s anyone smarter or more capable than he is on the face of Elibe.”

Tassar was not the only one who had such faith in the turncoat mastermind. “You must understand, Lord Glaesal!” Meris had thrown herself at the count once again, pleading on behalf of her Paptimus. Renault couldn’t figure out why she was so attached to him—he never remembered hearing the Prime Minister having a wife or anything. “We are your allies! We have always been your allies! Please, if you have even the slightest care in your heart for the people of your countship and the people of Etruria, you must believe us!”

“Enough, Meris!” Once again Glaesal scolded her, but this time it had much less force and he didn’t try to shoo her away, either. “I…enough. I cannot approve of these underhanded methods, but I must admit…I was fully expecting to die here today. I will concede, Paptimus, this plan of yours and these strange allies…they have saved my city. If you hadn’t moved when you did, the Mage Corps would have almost certainly annihilated us.

“And if what you tell me is true…then Exedol was the true villain in all this, and the King himself has yet to pay for his crimes. If you will help me stand for justice, Paptimus, then…then I accept your aid. However, I still have questions, and you still have much more explaining to do! But…but for now…I think I will consider you a friend. On the other hand…well, these Red Shoulders of yours have been trickling into my city for weeks now and have done nothing to prove they are enemies…but these mercenaries? I am sorry, but—“

“Come now, my friend, these men are your allies too. You know how the Crown has ill-treated them. Despite my best efforts, Galahad always refused to pay them anything more than the bare minimum, and his contempt for them has made itself painfully obvious over the course of this journey. These men have no loyalty whatsoever to that fool! They are ours, and ours only. Is that not correct?”

Visions of the immense riches Paptimus had brought with him and the promise of more taken from the homes of the nobles danced in Renault’s head, along with a burning desire to take revenge on Khyron, so he naturally repeated what the rest of the mercenary forces did: A loud, resounding “YES!”

“Even so, Paptimus, mercenaries are not often known for their softness or kindness. Regardless of the King’s orders at Sorveno, it was still...you…you know what I’m saying. If even one of your men touches a hair of one of my citizens…”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Say no more, Glaesal. Troops!” he yelled, turning to face the mercenaries, “In exchange for both the payment I am giving you and your chance to strike back at those wretched nobles, I expect all of you to maintain the highest conduct as long as you follow my orders. You are to show no quarter to our enemies, for the nobles and counter-revolutionaries deserve none, but to the people of Nerinheit and to any allies of our cause, you are to show nothing but the highest regard. Anyone who violates this order,” and at this the sky seemed to darken ever so slightly and a small arc of purple light hovered around the black book at his belt, “will have to deal with me. I trust there are no objections?”

None were raised—Renault had learned long ago the wisdom of not picking fights when they weren’t necessary, and all of his fellows seemed to agree—not even Yazan said anything. Everything seemed to be settled.

“Very well,” said Glaesal. “We are already running low on accommodations, so I doubt your mercenaries will find much room, but…for now, I accept your forces as allies and invite you to rest in this city, if only because the more men we have to defend it, the better.” A smatter of agreement came from the Nerinheit militiamen behind him, who knew how undermanned they were in comparison to the forces Galahad could levy against them. “However! We’re not done yet, Paptimus. We have much to discuss, you and I. And Meris as well. But we shall do so in private. Tell your men to pass through the gates!”

Paptimus smiled. “Good. Very good. Well, you heard the man,” he yelled, his voice still echoing across the now-quiet battlefield. “All of you, let’s go!”

And so, at last, Renault began the last leg of his journey to Nerinheit as his fellow mercenaries and Red Shoulders followed Glaesal and Paptimus as they entered the city itself—as allies, not conquerors.

He had had very many surprises in his short career as a mercenary, and this latest development was still the biggest. Yet for once, Renault was grateful it turned out to be a pleasant surprise (for him, anyways, certainly not for the royalists). Not only was he getting paid better, but he had also finally learned the truth of what had happened at Scirocco and gained an opportunity for revenge.

At least, at the time, that was what he had thought.

 

-X-

“Aaaah, it’s been ages since we’ve been together like this, hasn’t it? Just the three of us?”

Paptimus said this as he sat next to Meris on one of the comfortable couches in one of the comfortable guest rooms in Glaesal’s manse. Once the revolutionary forces had made their way into the city it had been quite difficult to quarter the mercenaries effectively, given how full the city’s residences already were, but thanks to the enthusiasm of many of the townsfolk (whose hatred of the crown outweighed both their distrust for black magic and mercenaries) Glaesal had managed to make do. After that organization was complete, the master of Nerinheit had taken Paptimus and showed him to his room—“not the best you’ve ever been in,” Glaesal had snapped, “but the best I can give you under these circumstances.” It wasn’t extraordinarily furnished—it had a good-sized bed, more than large enough for Paptimus, a good couch and a table and some drawers, but little more. Obviously, Paptimus didn’t complain.

“Glaesal,” the former PM continued, “you wouldn’t happen to have any wine around here, would you? We both share the same tastes, of course. Why not celebrate our reunion?”

“I know where he keeps his favorite vintages,” exclaimed Meris with a smile. “I can go get them, if you’d—“

“No.” Glaesal did not yell this, but he said it with enough force that Meris quickly shut her mouth and sidled up just a bit closer to Paptimus. “We still have much to discuss.”

Paptimus sighed. “Very well, Glaesal. What else do you want to hear? What else do you want from me? Everything—EVERYTHING—I told you outside of Nerinheit. I cannot apologize enough for keeping so much from you, but—“

“Let me speak, Paptimus.” Now it was Glaesal’s turn to sigh. “Think of my position. Ever since I began my rebellion, when you failed to come to my side I thought you had betrayed me—sold me out! Not even Meris told me of your true plans,” and at this the girl looked down in shame, “and yet today…well, look what happened. You suddenly betrayed—and killed!—Exedol, that bastard, and you brought with you a legion of mercenaries and dark magicians. I don’t know what to think, Paptimus; I barely even know what to say. You think I was prepared for this? You think I even expected this? No!” He sighed once again and ran a hand through his stark-white hair. “Paptimus, Meris, I…this is all too much for me to take, at least in a single day. You have to understand. You were like family to me, I thought I’d lost you, and now…it seems I have you back. But I can’t think of just you, Paptimus, I must think of my city and the allies who have joined my struggle as well. What does it all mean for my people? How can I truly be sure a betrayer like you has our best interests in heart? As much as I hated Exedol, as glad as I am to see you have returned to my side, something like this…Paptimus, your tactics are even more deceitful than Exedol’s were! In good conscience, how can I accept that?”

“Glaesal, I already told you. All this was necessary—“

“Yes, yes, I heard your speech, Paptimus! Necessary, necessary, necessary. But tell me, how is any of it different that what Exedol, may he rot in hell, did? He lied to me, and he betrayed me. Granted, I never thought he was an honorable man in the first place, but still! What guarantee do I have you won’t do the same to me?”

Paptimus looked distinctly hurt. “Glaesal, my friend, think of who you’re talking to. You’re the man who saved me from the gladiator—“

“Yes, I am. But then again, judging from what you said, so did this Trunicht person—who’s not with us, by the way. Too busy with his Red Shoulders, hmm? Suspicious. How do I know you’re not more loyal to the man who taught you dark magic than you are to the man who taught you anima?”

“Do the two things have to be mutually exclusive?”

“For the length of time you’ve known both of us, I’d say so. Why did you never tell me about him? Even when you began living with me under my wing, I knew you’d often disappear around nighttime. I always thought you were just frequenting the brothels—that was how you met Meris, after all,” and at this the girl blushed brightly, “but now you tell me you were meeting with this Trunicht for lessons in black sorcery? And you never told ME? Paptimus, do you have any idea of the risks you were taking? I am a former Mage General, and I know more about magic besides my own, even black magic, than does the typical layman. All magic has its risks, but black is the most dangerous. Almost every tome in the royal library which dealt with those spells mention the thousands upon thousands of aspiring druids who ended up in comas because the darkness they themselves invited took over them! What if that happened to you? Or worse? I deserved to know, didn’t I?”

“I…yes, Glaesal, I understand what you’re saying. But again, my secrecy was all for your benefit. How could I have told you? I already mentioned that the spies of the King were everywhere. You know how he loved to have their agents posing as ordinary people, ranging from milkmaids to tax collectors. If I had revealed my dabbling to anyone other than my teacher, even you, it would have come out eventually, and everything would have been ruined.”

“That’s your answer to everything! The king’s spies, the king’s spies!”

“It’s a good answer, Glaesal. The very first time you informed me of your intentions to rebel you couldn’t raise your voice even within my own room in the Palace. And…well, knowing you, would you have taken a confession of studying dark magic well?”

“Perhaps not. Why do you think I’ll take well to it now? Indeed, this is even worse! After years of thinking you were like a son to me, now you’re almost a completely different person! A betrayer and a sorcerer! How can I trust you now? If you wanted me to welcome you with open arms, Paptimus, you should have told me of your plans much, much, earlier! If you were willing to take the risk of dark magic, why couldn’t you have taken the risk of talking to me?”

Paptimus nodded, which surprised Glaesal. “My friend, as much as I respect—and love you, be reasonable about this. Mastering dark magic was integral to eventually triumphing over the Mage Corps. Why would I take any additional risks on top of that?”

“Hah!” Glaesal was beginning to grow angry again. “Not willing to take a risk for me? For my peace of mind? Not the best way to demonstrate you’re loyal to me, Paptimus. Perhaps you’re working with this Trunicht? Yes, and Meris, too! She can cast that magic as well, can’t she? You never told me you were teaching her.”

“Glaesal!” Meris cried, “Paptimus never meant you any harm! Both of you know how loyal I am, and how much I care about you! He just wanted to share something important to him with me! He wanted to bring out my potential! That was why he rescued me from that…from that…” She couldn’t continue.

Glaesal remained unconvinced. “Yes, and don’t forget how kind I’ve been to you, Meris. Yet he still couldn’t tell his teacher that he had a student of his own. Why?”

“What do you think it would have looked like?” asked Paptimus irritably. “Again, the King has eyes everywhere. There are enough stories of prominent nobles getting too comfortable with their servants as it is. If the Court found out I was teaching magic to a commoner—and a foreigner from Lycia, at that!—it would have weakened our position even further.”

“Oh, very convenient. Yes, too convenient, Paptimus. Perhaps you’re all—“

“Enough of this, Glaesal.” Paptimus’ voice was still respectful, but had acquired an undercurrent of strength which managed to stop the elder man in his tracks. “I suppose there’s only so far my reason can convince you, my old friend. But I can only ask you to look at the facts. Firstly, have Trunicht or his men ever done ANYTHING to endanger the safety of your city?”

“N-no, not that I recall, but perhaps—“

“And Meris. She dedicated herself to the defense of Scirocco, and barely escaped with her life when Exedol launched his poison attack. Has she ever done anything to hurt you or the people of her adopted country? Has she not served you well all the time she has been with you in this city?”

“No, I—“

“And of this betrayal, Glaesal. My betrayal of Exedol. Did I do it for my own benefit, or to save you and your city? Is Nerinheit a smoldering wreck thanks to the Mage Corps, or a city wildly celebrating a victory against oppression thanks to the support of both mercenaries and elder magic users?”

“The…the latter.”

“Now, Glaesal, I ask you. After everything you’ve heard, what benefit do you think all this possibly have for me? If I hadn’t gone over to your side, I could have watched the destruction of your city and then gone on to live a very happy, comfortable life as Prime Minister. Instead, I have cast aside both my position and my personal fortune to live the hard life of a revolutionary. Why? Because I care about you, Glaesal, and I care about your cause.

“This is the difference between Exedol and I. Exedol lied and cheated for nothing beyond his own self-interest, his own lust for your wife and desire for glory. I, on the other hand…I have done many immoral things. God will not judge me for them, but perhaps history will. Yet history will also recall my motives. The death of Exedol from my betrayal, the destruction of the invading army…these may have been crimes, but I committed them not out of concern for myself or anything as tawdry as lust, but because I loved you, Glaesal. You were like a father to me, and I only wanted to help you. I did what I thought was best. Perhaps I thought wrong. But everything I did, I did for my friend, and for a just cause. So at the very least…”

The anger seemed to dissolve from Glaesal’s face, and in its wake was left the countenance of a tired old man. Sighing heavily once again, the former Count leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He opened them after a moment, and they looked much more clear than they were before. “I…I suppose I can’t argue with that, Paptimus. After all this is over…perhaps you may have to pay for your deceptions. But if you loved me that deeply, and sincerely thought you were doing the right thing…perhaps there may be forgiveness. Meris,” and at this she looked up at him, seeming considerably less distressed, “get us some wine, please.”

She was more than happy to. “Of course, my lords!”

“What did I tell you about that?”

“I agree,” said Paptimus, smiling broadly and warmly. “Now there’s no need to put on airs with either of us. But do fetch us something to drink, my dear.”

“Yes, my—Ah, haha, forgive me. I’d be happy to, Paptimus. But please allow me some time, the wine cellars are a fair distance away and it’s not easy finding a specific vintage within their great depths!”

With a charming laugh she promptly made her exit, and the two men continued their conversation. “So, Paptimus,” Glaesal said, “this Trunicht man…if you’ve known him for so long, even without telling me, I assume he’s trustworthy?”

“Of course, my friend. He’s as dedicated to our cause as both of us are.”

Glaesal paused for a moment. “Paptimus…what is our cause?”

“What do you mean? The overthrow of the monarchy, the crippling of the Church, and the institution of the first truly rational republic on Elibe!”

“That…that is quite an ambitious goal, Paptimus.”

“Indeed. Why should that concern you? Do you not support it?”

The suspicion had returned to Glaesal’s face. “I’m not sure I do. I am grateful for your help, Paptimus, but…even with our additional forces, I’m not sure I want to take over Etruria. I had initially wanted to protect only the independence of my countship and its allies.”

“Come now, Glaesal, don’t be naïve. Do you really think Nerinheit will know peace as long as Galahad sits on the throne? He will continue to send his troops at you, over and over again. Do you want your people to know war for years upon years?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then striking at Galahad is the only option. The sooner we cast that wretch off his gilded throne, the sooner the war will end and Etruria know true peace. Besides, Glaesal, you remember what happened at the Lurkmire. Even if I am to be blamed for not acting, it is the king’s fault such a tragedy occurred…his mismanagement brought the country to this point, and he permitted Exedol to carry out such an underhanded attack! And that’s not all, of course…you remember how he always laughed and mocked you, and winked at Exedol’s dalliances with your wife! Not to mention all the other wretched nobles, who are no better! They have no care for their people, and all the Court laughed at you. Including your own wife, who enjoyed making a fool of you! Surely they all deserve punishment?”

“Yes!” Mere mention of this was enough to direct Glaesal’s anger away from Paptimus and back to his enemies. “Yes! YES! I’ve already endured far too much from them! They must pay!”

“Then we will be the ones to bring justice to them, Glaesal.”

“Yes, yes…but easier said than done. Even with Exedol and so many of the Mage Corps dead, the King is still alive and can still draw upon considerable strength.”

“Indeed…I had not anticipated the Pegasus Knights throwing things slightly awry. Still, it is no important matter. The Mage Corps may be strong, but so are my Red Shoulders. The mercenaries will provide extra strength, of course, but really, our true power will come from the people of Etruria. There are several countships besides Nerinheit, Padstow, and Verelecht which are as displeased with the King as we are, and many, many more people all across Etruria who feel the same way! This victory will give them strength, and they will come flocking under our banner, the banner of liberty and reason. Soon our army will swell to several times its present size, and with the mercenaries training them, our new recruits will become a fighting force that can easily sweep aside any opposition, even the Mage Corps!

“And that’s not even our only advantage. Remember, Bern has its own grievances with the Etrurian crown, and I have friends in high places in their government. Being Prime Minister had its benefits, after all! I am certain Bern will assist us as well, for Galahad has done many things to anger them, ranging from his constant attempts to provoke them to his policy for the Western Isles.”

“Yes…yes, I see all that. If we have even a chance at victory, then, Paptimus, I will take it. Yet I also wonder…you seem to hate the nobility, old friend. Yet why are you speaking like them? I’ve noticed it, and I know that for all the years I’ve known you, you were never quite able to shake your low-born brogue. Why have you suddenly changed like this?”

“A fair question,” said Paptimus, and for the first time he seemed to trade a bit of his affability for raw anger. “I’m glad you asked. The reason is simple. For years and years, the nobility has mocked people like me. Partially it was because of our customs of speech and dress—those fat, pompous, pampered, wretched filth declared ‘commoners’ would never be able to reach their status because we didn’t have their ‘social graces’—their preoccupation with extravagant, useless clothes and deceitful, honeyed words.” He spat these words out, and even Glaesal was surprised by how much pure hatred dripped from his voice. “Well, Glaesal, I wanted to stuff their wretched prejudices right back into their slavering mouths. Until this campaign is over, I will speak as sweetly as Exedol or Galahad could have ever wanted me to. And when I stand atop the burning ruins of Castle Aquleia, holding Galahad’s life in my hands, I will speak to him as the most erudite, cultured nobleman he has ever known, so that now and forever, history will record the bitter irony of the aristocracy being undone by a commoner who replicated their own practices far better than they ever could.”

“P-Paptimus, I…I’ve never heard this from you before. You seem to hate them even more than I do!”

“Yes. That’s absolutely true, Glaesal.” Paptimus sighed, attempting to regain his former composure—and failing. “I hate them for the same reason I love you. You recognized my humanity, and treated me as such. The moment you told me I was too good to waste my life in the fighting pits was the moment I knew I could swear my life to you. But the nobles…those noble scum, Galahad and all the rest of them, watching me from the stands in the great Coliseum…they thought I was nothing more than a plaything for their amusement. Every time I felt a blade bite into my flesh, they laughed and clapped. Every time I was forced to kill a fellow man no different than I was, they cheered. Do you know how that feels, Glaesal? To have one’s life and death struggles be treated as nothing more than a game? To suffer for someone else’s amusement? If you can, then you can understand why I love you, for you were the only one who rejected such immorality and saw who I truly was, unlike your fellow nobles. However, you can then understand the depths of my hatred. You know why I want to destroy this system in which we live, why I want to overturn this decrepit society of ours.

“Yes, I lived among them for a time. Yes, I eventually acquired a degree of acceptance from them. But did that lessen my hatred for them? No. NO! It sharpened my anger instead. Living every day among those hypocritical, double-tongued sacks of excrement…listening time and time again to a fat pig of a man mock my strength and physique as being a marker of my low birth, enduring the mockery of an inbred, illiterate cretin as he claimed my ‘low-born’ speech to be evidence I would never amount to anything within the Court. All this, of course, was bandied about behind my back—every last one of them, including Exedol, knew I could burn them to ashes with my magic…or simply break their necks with my bare hands. I gave no vent to my anger and hatred, of course. Even if I were to lash out at any one of them, it would do little good in the long run. No, I would have to set myself in position to topple the entire system. So I endured their insults and bided my time. I waited…and allowed my rage to grow and fester.

“I must be honest. Yes, this is not rational. Yes, I may be letting my emotions get the better of me. But for all my efforts, I am just a man. And surely I am allowed some measure of irrationality, no? At least my hatred has some justifiable basis. It is shared by people all over Etruria, perhaps all of Elibe, and it is directed at a social system which is clearly dysfunctional and irrational. If my irrational anger and hatred can be turned to rational purposes…they are not such bad things, are they?”

“I…I suppose not,” replied Glaesal. “I…this is another thing I’ve never known about you before, Paptimus, but it has restored my faith in you, not eroded it. If this is the depth of your feelings for me and your hatred for my foes…I think I can trust you.”

“I am glad to hear that, my friend. And I may call you my friend, yes?”

“It will take some time…but yes, Paptimus.”

“Good. Yet if I may be so bold…may I ask a question of you?”

“Hmm? What could you possibly want to know?”

“Ah…it’s strange, but have you ever heard of a man named Nergal?”

“No, never. Why?”

“Hmm. It’s apparently a question of some interest for users of elder magic such as myself. See, one of my mercenaries, Dougram, came up to me for a private conversation before I met with you. He’s very devoted to our cause—he loves freedom and justice and hates the nobility and clergy. However, he was very suspicious of elder magic users, and I only managed to win him over to our side after convincing him we weren’t all evil—again, Bramimond was one of us!

“See, apparently there was an evil mage in Nabata who killed his mother. The man was insane, but also an elder magician. He was very tall and has a wound on one eye. Have you seen anyone matching that description, Glaesal?”

“No…no, I haven’t. Should I keep my eyes out?”

“Yes, yes, please. I had thought Trunicht knew every user of the ancient magic on the continent, but he’s never heard of this Nergal either. Someone we don’t know of who wields such power…it could be very troublesome indeed. I have heard strange rumors, though…about a year or so ago, when I was in a trip to Bern, I heard some of the small folk talking about a phantom which had come to haunt a mountain range on the eastern coast of Bern, near a small monastery. I wonder…”

“That could be a problem,” said Glaesal, again a bit suspicious. “You say Bern is our ally? How does this Nergal person play into our plans, then? What, is he one of your acquaintances too?”

“Don’t say that, Glaesal. I never even knew he existed before today. I was merely wondering if you might have known. Since you keep such a close eye on your people, if he’d shown up anywhere in Nerinheit I knew you’d know. That’s another reason I’m glad I’m on your side, my friend. Someone with eyes as sharp as yours could never be taken in by any underhanded tricks or schemes!”

The compliment was enough to satiate the count. “Hm. I try my best, Paptimus. Perhaps I won’t have to try so hard now…judging from the kinds of plans you come up with, I’m sure you’d be even better at watching out for those kinds of things!”

Paptimus smiled, and was just about to say something before Meris burst back into the room, carrying a bottle of Etruria’s finest.

“Forgive me for taking so long, my l—er, my friends,” she said, eliciting smiles from both men, “Someone had apparently misplaced the bottles from Vinland Glaesal so prefers. I’ll serve you now, if you wish?”

“Of course, Meris,” said Glaesal, to which Paptimus added, “and take a third glass for yourself, too.”

Meris blushed so profusely at this that Glaesal and Paptimus both had to chuckle, but to her credit through her haze of delight she didn’t actually drop the bottle. She quickly set it down on the room’s small table and rushed off to retrieve a trio of good, average-sized cups (glass ones being something of a luxury during a rebellion), poured the rich red wine into three of them, and brought everything over to her friends as they began their small celebration of both their reunion and the beginning of a successful campaign.

-x-

“Ahhh…that really was fun, wasn’t it, Meris?”

This time, Paptimus was reclining on the couch, his arm around a slightly tipsy Meris as he regarded the empty bottle and the three empty cups on the table in front of him with a satisfied smile on his face.

“Y…er, y-yes, it was, L-er, Master Paptimus. I haven’t seen Glaesal smile like that for literally weeks! Thank you…this was the most enjoyable time I think either of us have had in quite some while.”

“Hah, hah. I’m glad to hear that, my dear, though I’m sorry it had to end so quickly…Glaesal still has several things to take care of before this night is over, and he seemed to getting a bit too deep in his cups…it would have been inconvenient if he’d inebriated himself before meeting with the ballisticians, at least. Still, don’t worry about him, Meris. He may have protested, and maybe he’s a bit put out he couldn’t enjoy himself as much as he wanted, but we’ll have time tomorrow. Besides, no-one is as dedicated to his duties as Nerinheit is. He realizes protecting his city and fighting the royalists is more important than partying.”

“Yes,” said Meris, her expression growing sad and her wine-induced flush seeming to disappear. “Yes, Glaesal…he is such a diligent man, isn’t he? A good man…”

“Hmm. Meris, you sound troubled. Is something the matter?”

The girl broke away from his embrace and edged away from him slightly, somewhat surprising him. “Master, I…well, I…it just doesn’t…feel right, Paptimus. Glaesal…he thinks you’ve told him everything, but you haven’t, have you? Not what really happened at Scirocco, not—“

Paptimus rolled his eyes. “Not this again, Meris. Remember what I told you back there? As horrible as it was, it was necessary for the greater good. So it is for Glaesal. You know how paranoid he is, you saw how difficult it was for me to get him to trust me again…surely you know how he’d react if I told him what really happened at Scirocco! There’s no way he’d listen to reason. For now, as much as I hate it—and I truly do—we cannot be wholly honest with him yet. For a little while longer, he must remain in the dark.

“As I keep saying, Meris, it is all for a good cause. A truly good cause. Look how people are suffering in Etruria. Look at how they’re suffering in Lycia. Look at how you yourself suffered! All because of the wretched nobility all across Elibe, with, of course, their pet clergy assisting them. It would be the best of all possible worlds if we could wash all this away without bloodshed. But progress cannot happen without sacrifice, and sometimes the people must be ready to do what is in fact in their own self-interest. I had to stage the death of Scirocco, Meris, because the chains of propaganda bind themselves so strongly around the Etrurian people that without such a shock, they would never lose their blind faith in their king and be willing to rise up against him. And I must continue lying to Nerinheit, for he must be led to do the right thing for his country and for Elibe, even if he does not realize it.

“If Nerinheit knew what I do, he would agree with me. As would you.”

“I…I suppose.” Meris still did not look very convinced.

“Come now, my dear. Glaesal distrusting me is understandable, but you? I’ve kept in contact with you every night since you’ve been in this city, and you know my plans more intimately than anyone else does. And you know better than anyone how necessary all these stratagems are, distasteful as they may be.

“Besides, when you think about this, isn’t it for Glaesal’s own good? If he rejected my help, my mercenaries and my Red Shoulders, what do you think would happen to him? He would go up against the Mage Corps alone, and they would annihilate him. So even this deceit I commit out of love for my friend, so he won’t do something rash and get himself killed. Surely you cannot argue with that.”

“I…no, Master.”

“Good, good. I’m glad to hear that.” He smiled at her, and she did as well, and the tension between them seemed to lessen, at least enough for him to wrap his arm around the girl and draw her close once again. “See, isn’t this nice? I’m happy we were able to talk like this. It’s wonderful to see Glaesal again, but it’s also good that the two of us have some time alone together.”

“Y-yes, Master…I…I feel much better now, hearing your explanation. I was being foolish…forgive me. I know this is all for the best…I know it! You…you wouldn’t lie to me! I’m sure!”

“You’re exactly right, my dear.” Affectionately, he brought a hand up to gently run it through the girl’s hair, then lowered his face to hers so he could lightly kiss her on the cheek.

“I truly missed you, Meris,” he breathed, enjoying the warmth of the girl so close to his lips. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I mean that. It was so lonely, in the capitol without you…even if I could talk to you through magic every night, it wasn’t the same as having you with me, right by my side…it’s been so long since we had that, hasn’t it? And now, finally, we’re together again…”

“Ah…” Meris shivered slightly at his touch. “Master, I feel the same way.”

Paptimus drew back momentarily, chuckling. “Meris, remember what Glaesal told you about calling us ‘Lord?’ The same applies to you calling me ‘Master.’ Maybe during lessons you may refer me to that, but for now? I’m just Paptimus.”

“Oh…oh.” She blushed slightly. “Yes, m-Paptimus.”

“Much better. Much, much, better.”

He leaned closer to resume kissing her, yet this time his lips fell upon the side of her neck. She let out a small moan as the light dusting of kisses he lavished upon her began to move lower, to grow heavier and more insistent. As he brought his hands around her, kneading the supple flesh he could feel under the thin fabric of her clothing, he felt her tense up against him for a moment—just a moment.

“M-Master,” she gasped, “Paptimus!”

Once again, he stopped his advance and drew back. “What? What is it?”

“M…P, Paptimus…please be gentle. Please…”

“Have I not always been gentle, my dear?”

“Yes…you…you were the first man who ever held me without hurting me. The only one…”

“I am still that man, Meris. And I always will be.”

To that, Meris said nothing in reply. And nothing more would be said as Paptimus scooped her up in his large, powerful arms and swept her over to the single bed in the corner of their room.

-X-

 

“Well? What do you think?” asked Tassar as he carefully laid his sword into the sturdy trunk at the foot of his bed.

The two men looked at each other—they were sitting across from one another, on their own beds--then back at Tassar. “I…I guess I’m feeling pretty good, Tassar. Paptimus answered all my questions with his speech earlier today, at least all I can think of. That guy really has it together. Don’t you think so, Braddock?”

“Yeah…yeah, I gotta say I do.” The Ostian still had a pensive look on his face, though. “It was a really complex plan he described, but I guess he was smart enough to pull it all off, and about betraying the kingdom, well…I know how nobles are. If even half the things I heard about the coliseums in Etruria are true, Paptimus probably hates those bastards even more than I do. I guess I can’t blame him…and I’m sure not sorry about fighting the King rather than serving him, either.

“Still…I dunno. It’s probably nothing. Just me being paranoid…”

Tassar rolled his eyes. “Well, a little paranoia’s a good thing for a mercenary to have, but not too much of it. You’ll see, Braddock. This is all going to work out in the end.”

“Yeah!” Renault smiled, hoping to cheer up his friend. “I mean, think of it this way, man. This is the first time we’ve had a good surprise rather than a really bad one, right?”

This was enough for Braddock, who chuckled and returned the smile. “You know, my friend, you’re right. Nothin’ to worry about, at least the way things are looking now. It’s just me…heh, sorry about that.”

“Nah, don’t apologize. If it wasn’t for your caution I probably would have died twice over in today’s battle! But it’s all over now. Guess we can relax a bit, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess. ‘Specially in these lodgings…I think we’re pretty lucky to have found this room.”

“Indeed,” said Tassar. “This city’s been very crowded as of late…it’s no easy task finding accommodations for all the people wandering in here to sign up for Nerinheit’s rebellion, not to mention both the Red Shoulders and us mercenaries. You have admire Glaesal…and the people of this city, for that matter. They’ve really made do. From what the couple downstairs have told me, this room was just meant for storage, but they were happy to offer it for us to stay in, at least for now. These people hate the Crown so much they’re willing to bend over backwards to accommodate anybody on their side in this rebellion.”

“Can’t blame them,” said Braddock sadly. “Look at how badly the King’s mistreated them over the years. It’s just like it was in Lycia.”

“Nobles never change, no matter where you go,” snorted Renault in derision, and he was gratified to see Braddock grinning at him. And also very happy to see Tassar nodding in agreement, a dark expression on his normally calm face.

“Exactly right, Renault,” said the veteran mercenary, with perhaps a bit more force than either of his companions were used to hearing from him. “But don’t worry, everything’s going to change, real soon. You know they’re paying us to help train the masses of raw recruits they’re getting, right? Most of the bumpkins serving as this city’s militia barely know how to hold a weapon, but they weren’t so different from you when you first started out, Renault. After a few months we’ll have whipped them into shape, and then we’ll march all across Etruria and put every last noble to the sword!”

“Yeah! Now that’s what I’m talking about,” cheered Renault. Braddock, however, didn’t seem quite so enthusiastic.

“That’s a pretty tall order, boss. We won today, but Galahad’s still alive and the bulk of the Mage Corps is still around. You really think we stand a chance?”

“With Paptimus leading us? I think we do.”

“You seem to have a lot of faith in that guy, Tassar. I guess I’ll take your word for it, but still…”

Tassar chuckled at this. “Well, we’ve known each other for a little while. I don’t think I’m wrong about him.”

That was good enough for Renault, but Braddock still didn’t look convinced. “How long? I don’t remember even seeing him until we got that first job in Aquleia, so long ago. What, did you know him before then?”

Tassar was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, no. I suppose I’ve never told either of you? I might as well tell you now.”

This was enough to get the attention of both of the younger men, and they listened quietly as the veteran began his tale.

“I’d already been a mercenary for some ten years before we first met, Renault. Braddock’s been with me for most of ‘em. We worked mainly in Etruria—neither of us really wanted to go back to Lycia—and as some of the men who hire guys like me can tell you, I’d acquired something of a reputation for myself.

“I had quite an eye for talent, you see. Over the course of my career, after I’d established myself as a skilled sellsword, I became particularly known for taking in younger and inexperienced warriors under my wing. Young men looking to make names for themselves, vagrants with nowhere else to turn…whenever I spotted one, I could tell just from a glance whether or not he had potential. I’d take them, offer them the life of a mercenary, and train them. I was very rarely wrong…virtually all of my ‘recruits,’ hah, became famous soldiers in their own right. That was how I met Braddock—back in Lycia, I knew the moment I saw him his axe could do great things. And in fact, our paths crossed in pretty much the same way, Renault,” he smiled when Renault blinked at this admission. “As I told you all those years ago, I knew you were destined for better things than wasting away in that pitiful little excuse for an inn. Look where you are now! Aren’t you glad I found you?”

“Y…yeah.”

“As I thought. But in any case, my efficacy with training promising mercenaries wasn’t the only reason I became well-known. I also…well, let’s say this. Any job I was given I did well, but when it was nobles I served under…heh. I found ways to make things just a bit harder for them. Just a bit. And, of course, when I was given jobs which involved me going up against one noble or another—real under-the-table work, so to speak—that kind of thing was what I did very, very well. Same with Braddock, in fact. Neither of us liked nobles so much—that was almost as obvious as our skill. And that’s what drew Paptimus’ attention in the first place.”

“When we went to Aquleia, Braddock and I had split up—the idea was to hunt around and seek all the offers we could find, and when we met up we’d decide which one was the best. I wandered into one of my favorite bars in the city, and to my surprise, I found a great big man I initially would have thought was a mercenary if it weren’t for the clothes he wore.

“It was, of course, Paptimus. He had been looking for me specifically, in fact. I was suspicious at first, of course. I hated the nobility, and thought the Prime Minister would be no different, but…the fact he would actually be chumming around at a ‘common’ bar in the first place told me there was something different about him, and when we actually got a private room to talk, well…let’s just say he impressed me. He actually didn’t like the nobility any better than I did—fitting for a former gladiator—and it was because of that he thought I’d be just right for the job. If Khyron had to go to Scirocco, somebody who wouldn’t kiss his ass and actually had a degree of both tactical knowledge and sympathy for the people would be a good choice, right? Well, he convinced me, and I convinced Braddock when we met up.

“That wasn’t why he impressed me, though. He seemed competent enough, so that’s why I took the job, but rather, it was his predictions about it that told me this was a guy who really knew how to see things in the long term.”

“Huh?” Now this really got Braddock and Renault’s attention. “What do you mean by prediction?”

“Well…he essentially just told me to be careful. That the entire town might have been in danger…that Exedol might have had something up his sleeve. I didn’t take him too seriously…thought it was just paranoia, or him trying to upstage the Mage General. But when we found the whole town dead and poisoned…well, I guess I saw firsthand that the Prime Minister’s powers of prediction were nothing to sniff at. He has a better handle of Etrurian politics and the path history takes than anyone I’ve seen.”

“Wait, wait, Tassar,” said Braddock, who now seemed somewhat angry. “You knew all of this?! Why the hell didn’t you tell us? If we’d known that poison attack was going to take place, we might have been able to stop it or something!”

“You’re right, Braddock, and it’s my fault. But remember what Paptimus said earlier? He suspected Exedol, but he never got any concrete proof until he overheard the Mage General’s conversation with the King several months after the fact. Both of us know what a bad idea it is to make a move based on nothing but suspicions rather than hard proof.”

“Even so, you could have at least mentioned that Exedol had something to do with it, or that Paptimus knew what was going on, or—“

“Braddock, what good would it have done? Nobody would have believed us if we went around telling that story, and the nobles would probably have us sent to the guillotine if we accused one of their own. Besides, look, I know you and Renault. Look at what you did with our last job, Braddock. If I told you guys my suspicions about Exedol, you probably would have thrown yourselves at him—and Khyron—the moment you saw them. Would’ve gotten yourselves killed, too. I’m telling you all this now because the moment’s right. Enough time has passed that you won’t do something foolish, and in any case, now that Paptimus has revealed his true colors, taking your revenge out on Khyron and his fellow nobles will be exactly what we want.”

“You have to admit, he’s kind of got a point,” said Renault, who was feeling more embarrassed than angry. “I mean, knowing how I was back then, I probably would have completely lost it if I found out Khyron’s brother was responsible for everything. And you? I’ve seen you when you get mad, man…just look what happened back at Sacae.”

Braddock couldn’t argue with that. “Yeah…damn, that guy may have deserved it, but I really did lose my head there. Probably would have gotten myself killed you hadn’t been watching my back, Renault?”

“There, you see?” Tassar smiled. “Even when I was withholding all this from you, I had your best interests in mind. And look how well everything’s turned out. We’ll be making a fortune in the coming war AND fighting against those we already hate. Like I said, I’ve never lead you wrong. So really, do you have anything to complain about?”

“I…I guess not,” said Braddock. “There are still some things I don’t get. How’d you know what would happen at the Lurkmire and everything?”

“Heh. Paptimus and I kept in contact through letters. Surely that’s not hard to believe? I know Renault’s still sending those to that silly girl back at Thagaste.”

Renault blinked. “Who?”

“Lisse,” Braddock said, “Lisse! Aw, hell, I forgot too…it’s been a while since you got back to her. We should—“

“Aw, man, I’m busy!”

“Yes, Braddock,” said Tassar, “we’ll have time for that nonsense later. For now, though, the important thing is that you see how I knew everything I did, and why I had to keep it from you. I trust it is acceptable?”

Braddock frowned slightly. “Well…I’m still not too happy about you keeping things from me, but…I guess I can see why you had to.”

“Good enough. Now, let’s get some sleep. It’s getting late and we’ll have a whole lot of work to do tomorrow.”

That was all the veteran had left to saw. As the night grew steadily darker, he simply tossed himself atop his small bed; within minutes he was snoring softly. Renault and Braddock quickly attempted to do the same, and already tired from the day’s excitement, the former found it an easy task. Braddock, however, didn’t seem to be so sleepy.

After several minutes of listening to his friend’s tossing and turning, it was Renault who found it hard to get to sleep. “Psst! Hey, Braddock,” he whispered, a bit irritated, “You got fleas or something? Why can’t you sleep, man?”

“H-huh? Oh, uh,” and at this, Tassar let out an annoyed grumble, prompting Braddock to lower his voice, “uh, sorry, Renault. I…ah, it’s probably nothing. I’m just feeling on edge. Sorry.”

Renault was about to go back to sleep, but he noticed something odd about the way Braddock said that. “Something up? What do you mean ‘feeling on edge?’”

“Ah…maybe I’m just being paranoid, but…”

“If you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s okay, but I trust you, Braddock, so if you’ve got reservations about this or something…”

“Heh. Thanks, Renault…it’s just…I don’t get something. I know what Tassar told me, and I heard Paptimus’ speech. Exedol poisoned Scirocco, right?”

“Yeah. That asshole…I’m glad he’s dead. I hope I get to do the same to his brother!”

“Well, hold on a sec, Renault. There’s something I don’t get. He meant to pin the blame on us, right? But from what I’ve heard, Khyron got a lot of nasty rumors about him too. So did Apolli and Roberto, for that matter, but…I don’t get it. Exedol poisoned Scirocco to help out his little brother, didn’t he? But if Khyron’s reputation was nearly destroyed because of it…why would Exedol do that to his own brother? I hate the nobility, but they’re definitely pretty big on nepotism, at least when family members aren’t trying to kill each other. What did Exedol have to gain by making Khyron look like a murderer?”

“I dunno, man. There are plenty of reasons. Maybe Khyron had an eye on his position, or maybe they just didn’t like each other.”

“Hmm. Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. Still…”

“Besides, how do you even know Khyron’s reputation was hurt that badly?”

“Rosamia told me. We met up back in Aquleia, actually. Remember her? She was Khyron’s apprentice. She told me things were getting really hard for her in Caerleon because so many rumors were flying around her master. Exedol might have been enough of a scumbag to frame his own brother for the poisoning of a whole town, whatever the reason, but I can’t see how it was in his own self-interest if it made governing the Countship of Caerleon harder.”

“Hmm…Maybe. I got a good feeling off of Rosamia, she didn’t strike me as being a typical stupid, pompous noble.”

“Uh-huh, I trust her too. That’s why what she said about those rumors made me kinda suspicious.

“I can see that, remember, from what I heard Exedol just hung out in Aquleia all the time, actually running Caerleon was left to his brother. Any problems over there would be Khyron’s, not his. So why wouldn’t he? Hell, he might’ve actually encouraged the rumors Rosamia was talking about, just to make things harder on his brother. If there really was bad blood between the two…”

“I dunno…Khyron always seemed to really look up to his brother.”

“You can never tell with those nobles, man. Liars, the whole lot of them.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right, Renault. You know, I think I was just being paranoid. Thanks—“

“No problem, bud. You’ll probably feel a lot better after a good night’s sleep. I know I will!

This elicited a small, muffled chuckle from Braddock, and he nodded and fell back into his makeshift bed. He apparently found no reason to continue his tossing and turning, which made it much easier for Renault to get back to sleep.

He wouldn’t have been able to rest quite so peacefully if he’d given a bit more thought to his friend’s suspicions. But, of course, he didn’t—and he would come to regret it.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

As a random note about a bit of dialogue here and there, just as a note, I think the concept of ‘hell’ does exist in Elibe and thus probably Eliminism, cf. Geitz’s support with Isadora where he likens slaves in the galley to “lost souls in hell.” On the other hand, perhaps Eliminean beliefs about the matter are *somewhat* different, as in his supports with Igrene Saul denies that anyone who doesn’t follow the Church is “cursed.” I’ll flesh it out later on.

 

 


	17. Misgivings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Braddock begin to suspect that all may not be well with their new cause.

Wayward Son

Chapter 17: Misgivings

It had been quite a good month, at least in Renault’s estimation. This work paid well, thanks to Paptimus, and it wasn’t at all difficult—in fact, truth be told, it was actually sort of enjoyable.

He was standing in the cool air of a spring morning in the city of Nerinheit’s central plaza, with about thirty of his young charges arrayed in neat rows in front of him, holding their wooden training swords over their heads as he had instructed them. Just a small distance away, Braddock stood with his own trainees, about thirty of them as well, but these ones held mock axes.

The two men shot each other a glance, grinned, and then proceeded to begin their separate lessons. “Alright, everybody,” Renault said, loudly enough so all thirty of the young men (well, twenty-nine young men and a single girl) could hear him, “you know the drill. Show me some basic strikes from the Roof stance!”

Obediently, they did as they were told, bringing the mock weapons down in steady, measured arcs again and again, ten times in total. “Good! Now for the Plow!”

Without hesitation, the students lowered their swords to their midsections, and again Renault was pleased by the competent (though not flawless) series of thrusts and low slashes they performed from that stance. He asked them to perform similar exercises with the Ox and Fool stances, which they did as well.

“Okay, that’s enough, guys! Good work!” He smiled as he watched the youths—mainly teenagers, the oldest boy among them being 21—smoothly transition from their tenth strike in the Fool stance back to a ready but non-battle position; they swept their swords in front of them with a flourish and then turned the wooden blades over, slipping them into imaginary sheaths at their hip. Renault had to suppress a giggle at this; he couldn’t help but find the display a bit amusing, but since the kids took it seriously he tried not to egg them on too much.

Besides, they were getting good enough that they could be allowed a bit of pretension. Renault noticed their breaths coming out with a bit of labor, but none of them seemed exhausted or even very tired, as some had when they’d first began their training. _They really are getting better, at least under me,_ thought Renault to himself, and at this he couldn’t suppress a grin.

An annoying question would quickly wipe that grin off his face, though. “Brother Renault,” groaned one fellow in the front row—and just being called “Brother” jarred Renault a little bit, he just couldn’t get used to it, even though virtually everyone in the city had started pretending they were siblings thanks to that “lexicon of liberty” Paptimus had been trying to spread around, “how many more times are we gonna have to do these exercises? We’ve been doin’ ‘em every day for a month now, can’t we learn anythin’ new?”

“Don’t knock ‘em, kid,” Renault growled, and the low anger in his voice was enough to cow him—and all the other trainees—into submission, since even though they liked their teacher, they also had a great deal of respect for him, since he was the only one who carried a real weapon and had showed them he knew how to use it very well. “They’re important. You can’t even begin to learn the advanced techniques before you’ve absolutely mastered the basics. Besides, being a swordsman isn’t all about fancy tricks. You need to be fast and strong, and you’ll also need a whole lot of endurance. Haven’t any of you noticed these exercises are getting easier and easier for you? You’re building yourselves up, and that just might save your life when you have to fight after marching nonstop for days or when you’re carrying heavy loads, like a great big sword or a full set of armor.”

“Y-Yes!” shouted the admonished youth, along with several of his compatriots. “You’re totally right, Brother Renault! Forgive us!”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Just remember what I said, alright? Still, I guess you’re all finding this a bit boring by now. So how about something new? Anybody up for a lil’ sparring?”

Once again, Renault couldn’t hide his grin when a resounding cheer rose from all the kids. “Okay, let’s go!” He turned to look at Braddock on his other side. “Hey, Braddock,” he yelled, “How’re yours doing? Think they’re up for a little fight with mine?”

“Up to it?” The Ostian had a grin on his own face as he looked over his charges. “I think that’s an understatement, eh, guys?”

The question was answered in the affirmative, at least judging by the second cheer which went up from Braddock’s axemen. The two groups converged, staring at each other eagerly, while their two teachers watched on in amusement.

“We’ll start off with this,” said Renault, “just a little demonstration to begin. I’ll take one of my swordsmen, Braddock’ll take one of his. Any volunteers?”

Virtually everyone raised their hands, quite pleasing their teachers with their enthusiasm. Renault pointed to one at random, which turned out to be the single girl in his group—a pretty lass named Dina, who kept her light purple hair in a single neat braid that went down to her shoulders. She didn’t look like much, but she was actually one of Renault’s better students.

“A girl? You sure about that, Renault?” The mischievous glint in Braddock’s eye was enough to tell Renault he was being sarcastic, but he saw no reason not to play along. “Sure am,” he replied. “Anybody I pick’s gonna win, after all.”

All the youths evidently took that as a challenge. “Big words, buddy! We’ll see about that. Okay, how about…Albelo, why don’t you show us your skill?”

The big brown-haired boy stepped forward, grinning as he brandished his training axe. “No problem!”

Both groups formed a rough circle around the competitors, their teachers standing behind them as they eyed each other warily. “I ain’t gonna go easy on you, sister,” growled Albelo, to which Dina only smiled and replied, “and for that, I’m glad!”

“Let’s get started, you two. Dina, remember the stances and strikes I told you. Albelo, remember the moves Braddock taught you. Start!”

Swiftly and smoothly, Dina brought up her sword in a good approximation of the Roof stance, just as Albelo charged forwards and brought his axe down at her head. It was actually a well-executed strike—Braddock had taught him well. Even a training axe could still be unwieldy, however, and Dina easily skipped to the side and slapped her opponent lightly on the back of the head—and made no effort to hide her delighted smile as she scored her first victory, basking in the cheers of her group and the groans of Braddock’s.

Albelo growled in frustration and humiliation, but Braddock quickly put a stop to it before it could get out of control. “Remember what I taught you, man. Getting angry can get you killed on the battlefield. Don’t dwell on your mistakes, just try to do better next time.”

He took the advice to heart. “Yes, sir!” Taking a breath to calm himself, Albelo once again launched himself at his smiling opponent, who again dodged his strike, though with a bit more difficulty this time. She also failed in landing a second blow on him, for the trainee axeman quickly ducked under her blade. He stumbled a bit, but quickly righted himself, turning to launch his final attack. He almost managed to hit the girl this time, but another quick step to the side brought her to safety and left him rubbing the back of his head a second time.

The cheers from Renault’s group were almost ecstatic, as were the cries of dismay from Braddock’s, but ironically enough, Renault himself would put a stop to all that. “You did very well, Dina,” he said sternly, “but don’t get too full of yourself just yet. You do know you had an unfair advantage, right? Albelo here never really had a shot.”

This took quite a bit of the wind out from the girl’s sails, and both the cheers and the jeers from both groups quieted as they turned to look at the mercenary curiously. “What do you mean, Brother Renault?”

“Haven’t any of you heard of the Weapon Triangle?”

Nobody answered.

“Well, it’s like this. Swords have an advantage against axes, but are weak against spears. Axes, on the other hand, can beat spears, but they’re not much good against swords. This was what you saw right now. Albelo,” he said to the young man, who still looked distinctly depressed (and was getting angry looks from his peers), “you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, and nobody has any right to criticize you either. Your attacks were very good for a beginner, Braddock definitely taught you well. It’s just that axes are almost always heavier and slower than swords. Your attacks don’t move as fast as theirs, and you yourself can’t move as fast as they can because your weapon’s encumbering you, which makes it harder to dodge. So don’t feel bad, kid, you did as good as you could.”

“So does that mean we’ll never be able to beat those guys?” asked Albelo, somewhat sadly, his expression mirrored by Braddock’s group while Renault’s had self-satisfied grins on their faces.

“Not quite,” smiled Braddock. “Remember, personal skill counts for a lot. No offense to my buddy here, but I’m pretty sure I’d be able to take on any of his swordsmen, if not the guy himself,” and this elicited a chuckle from Renault and peals of laughter from both groups. “But besides that, remember what Renault told you. Even if swords are good against axes, they’re not so great with spears. Those weapons have a much longer reach, which means most of you swordsmen would get skewered before you could even get close to attack. Axes, though? They have no problem. Our weapons are big and heavy enough that we can just swat away a thrust from a spear and then move in for the kill.

“So remember, on the battlefield, both of you guys need each other, and you need to work together. When the royalists send axemen at you, you with the swords will know what to do, but when they send spears at you, your axemen buddies will protect you. Got that?”

The cheering from both groups was now unanimous. “YES, BROTHER BRADDOCK! FOR THE REVOLUTION!”

“Alright, alright, good. So how about a little more training? All of you break up into pairs, one axe and one sword, and Renault and I will go around to each of you—he’ll teach the swordsmen a few tricks that work well against guys with big, slow weapons, and I’ll show you axemen how you can get around some of the disadvantages of your weapon. Any objections?”

None were raised, so the two mercenaries spent the next hour or so carefully ministering to each pair, Braddock helping the axemen against their foes while Renault gave the swordsmen some tips on refining their technique. However, they couldn’t spend too much time on this training, as the “Citizen-Soldiers” of the “New Etrurian Republic” often had a whole slew of other duties to attend to, ranging from maintaining patrols around the city to “keeping tabs on subversive elements,” whatever that meant. Thus, Renault and Braddock had to bring today’s training session to an end.

“Okay, I think that’s it for now, everybody.” By this point all the students were quite tired, evident in their ragged breathing, but they still seemed quite enthusiastic. “All of you have done really well today,” continued Braddock, “so those of you who can, go home and get some rest. The rest of you, go do whatever Nerinheit told you to…and then go get some rest, eh?”

“YES, BROTHER BRADDOCK!” All the youths said this in unison as they stood ramrod-straight, holding their weapons by their side and lifting their free hands to their chests in clenched fists—the strange “revolutionary salute” that had been concocted by the authorities. Not that Renault or Braddock minded, since it seemed to install a sense of discipline and camaraderie among virtually everybody, citizens and “citizen-soldiers” alike. The students held this pose for a few moments before Renault and Braddock nodded that they could go, which resulted in them dispersing in seemingly a thousand directions; the same thing happened to the small crowd which had been watching the training with excitement and good cheer.

“Hey, Braddock,” said Renault, “I’m gettin’ kinda hungry. You wanna get something to eat?”

“Why not? Same place as usual, right?” He was referring to a good-sized tavern a few minutes’ walk away. “Tassar’s probably around there too. Let’s go!”

Together, the two men began their leisurely journey towards their favorite eatery—they were in no hurry, since they had at least an hour to kill before they had to attend to the next batch of trainees. Braddock didn’t seem to be in the mood to say too much, which kind of irked Renault. If he were back in Thagaste (not to mention Aquleia), he could have occupied himself with enjoying the scenery and beautiful architecture, but Nerinheit—and pretty much every settlement in the North, in fact—was pretty disappointing compared to that. Not nearly as bad as the hovel Bulgar was, of course, but still, none of the buildings in the city could even compare to the great edifices of the cathedrals and palaces further south. It had to do with the North’s relative poverty and lack of development, Renault knew, but he still didn’t like it. Making things worse were the crowds. Renault had been a mercenary long enough to become inured to loud noises and jarring sights, but even so, he still preferred the din of a battlefield to the incessant babbling of large throngs of people.

Again, he had to admit it wasn’t that bad. The crowds were enthusiastic and lively, something which indicated their optimism and their belief in the “Revolutionary” cause. This obviously bode well for Renault, since he was on their side. In fact, he had to acknowledge things were a bit better now than they’d been a month ago, when he first arrived. War—more specifically, preparations for war—seemed to have done some good for Nerinheit and indeed the other regions which had risen up in rebellion (of which there were now several—after the crushing defeat of the royalists and the death of the Mage General and so many prominent nobles, a few other northern counts had thrown their lots in with Nerinheit, Verelecht, and Padstow, and several other countships saw their rulers deposed as their people swore allegiance to the rebellion—almost a third of the country was now up in arms against the King). The people moved with purpose, having found something to live for—fighting for their freedom rather than serving a distant and uncaring King. Many young miscreants and ne’er’do-wells finally found a purpose their energies could be put to—serving as soldiers for the Revolutionary Army. The economy had been given a nice fillip as well, as merchants found themselves with immense amounts of business, selling weapons, provisions, and a wide variety of things the revolutionary armies needed for war (which they could afford, thanks to both the wealth Paptimus and his Red Shoulders had brought, along with the fact that the rebels obviously no longer had to pay taxes to the Crown).

Things were looking up indeed. Even so, however, that did not change the fact that Renault wanted something to distract him from the noises of the crowd he so disliked, even if they were happy. And what better distraction could there be than talking with his friend? “Braddock,” he smiled, “This training stuff’s not so bad, is it? I think our students are really getting the hang of their weapons. I dunno if they’re catching on to it as quickly as I did, but still…”

Braddock blinked, then smiled back in response. “Yeah, you got that right, my friend. Still, they have some pretty good teachers. Kind of surprising…honestly, I never thought you’d be such a good mentor, Renault.”

“Hey! Why d’you say that?”

“Heh, easy, easy, buddy. Just that…well, you never seemed like the most patient guy, but you’ve been pretty patient with all the recruits we’ve got. Haven’t seen you lose your cool yet, and as a result, I think all those kids really respect you. You’re really teaching them a lot. I bet pretty much all of ‘em will live through this war!”

“Yeah, I hope so. But for my patience? Well, I just remembered my experiences with Tassar…I screwed up a couple of times pretty badly, right? Remember when I lost it back a few years ago, when we first met up, and he knocked me out?”

“Hah hah, do I. Now that was embarrassing.”

“Yeah. So the way I figure it, if I made screwups like that when I was learning, and Tassar was still patient enough to teach me, I can do the same to these kids who might be fighting beside me later on, right?”

“Yep, exactly. Best way to think of it, my man. You’re pretty smart, you know that, Renault? Glad to have a guy like you watching my back.”

“Same here, Braddock. Just hope I can pass on some of that knowledge to my students. We’ve both got a lot of them, don’t we? I think I’m teaching swordplay to about 90 kids altogether, and you’re doing the same to another 90. And we’re definitely not the only ones. Tassar and Dougram are busy with a lot of things, from what I’ve been told, but even they’ve been assigned a few recruits to teach. More experienced guys, like members of the militia and town guard and stuff. I don’t think that Yazan guy’s doing anything but patrolling, though.” Renault chuckled. “Fitting, huh? I really don’t think he’d be too keen on training recruits.”

“Aw, c’mon, Renault. Training new soldiers sure isn’t the nastiest job a mercenary could take, right?”

“No, no, you misunderstood me. I’m fine with training, but think of the kind of guy Yazan is. He’d probably kill every kid they sent to him!”

Braddock laughed loudly. “Hah, now I got ya! Yeah, you’re exactly right, man. We sure can’t afford many losses right now, least of all to our own men!”

“Uh-huh.” But now, Renault looked distinctly contemplative. “Doesn’t it seem like this Revolutionary Army’s really swollen, though? I mean, when we got here, Nerinheit had what, three thousand battle-ready militiamen with him—a bunch of whom died in the Lurkmire—and then, even after Paptimus’ betrayal, half a thousand of those Red Shoulder guys, and then about a thousand and a half of us mercenary guys. But now? We’re getting more recruits and volunteers than we can handle! How big does our army look now, about 60,000 strong?”

“A bit closer to 50,000, but yeah.”

“Hah! You see what I mean? Sounds like we could lose a few guys here and there and not be too much worse off for it.”

“Well, don’t be too sure, Renault,” said Braddock pensively. “Remember, we still have the Mage Corps to deal with. Khyron’s still alive to lead them too—they may have lost a few hundred of their best men, but even their not-so-good are pretty damn good.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Still, we’ve got those Red Shoulders. Remember how that shadow magic of theirs tore up the Mage Corps? No matter how good they are I don’t think they can beat that.”

“Hmm…maybe. Haven’t the Red Shoulders been training for this revolution for years now?”

“Yeah. Before I met you I heard a lot about them, in fact. When I was a stoneworker in Thagaste, I remember having to repair some damage on a cathedral that just made no sense to me—a whole chunk of it just disappeared. Turns out it was one of the Red Shoulders in hiding, just sticking it to the Elimineans. And a bishop even sent my mom a letter about how priests and churches were just up and disappearing in places like this. Turns out it was the Red Shoulders flexing their muscles again.”

“Wow.” Braddock whistled. “Damn. Those guys are really dedicated, eh?”

“Yep. In fact, that’s what I’m wondering about,” and now it was Renault’s turn to purse his lips in thought. “With both the Red Shoulder Battalion and us, why’re we even bothering to train all these new recruits? We could just head right in and smash the Crown, couldn’t we?”

“Again, don’t be too sure of that, my friend. One of the first things I learned in my military history classes back in Ostia was that generals who underestimate their opponents tend to lose pretty fast. We don’t know what Galahad might have in store for us—even if our dark mages are our trump card against their anima mages, maybe they’ve got a trump card against our dark mages. Thus, don’t you think it’s better to get ourselves a nice, big, well-trained army? That way we’ll have the numbers—and the skilled men—to put up a good fight against anything Galahad can throw at us. And even if it doesn’t have anything at all, then it’ll be that much easier crushing him with 50,000 men rather than just a couple thousand, right?

“And another lesson I took from my classes was to capitalize on any advantage we’re given. One advantage we have right now is time. It’s been a month and the Crown still hasn’t launched its counterattack. They’re still reeling from the Mage General’s death, and I hear the King is still too shocked to make a fast decision. So really, why not take this chance to consolidate our position? If they’re giving us some time, just sitting around doing nothing while Galahad sits and cries on his throne, let’s use it to build up our forces. Might as well make use of all us mercenaries, right? No reason all the archers, swordsmen, spearmen, and axemen can’t pass their skills on to their allies, especially when they’re getting paid so well. That’s what I’d think, at least. I dunno much about Paptimus, but one thing I do know is that he seems to be pretty smart.”

Renault chuckled. “Yeah, I sure got that impression too. But man, I never thought of it that way before. They must’ve taught you a lot in those tactics classes, Braddock. What, I thought they only offered ‘em to nobles or something. Guess I was wrong?”

In response, the Ostian quickly averted his eyes and brought a hand to the back of his head. “Uh, y-yeah…er, well, on the other hand, don’t worry about it. I just picked up a few things, is all.”

Renault blinked, but he knew better than to pry. “Whatever you say, bud.” Knowing his friend had been made uncomfortable, he attempted to change the course of their conversation. “Still, that Paptimus has some pretty strange friends, and they seem to have some pretty strange ideas. I mean, did you hear about that weird new calendar that one guy…you know, the one we met back in Bulgar, I think his name was Trunicht or something, wanted us to use?”

“Oh, yeah.” Braddock laughed, his discomfort disappearing. “What a strange idea. I mean, revolution’s great and all, but we don’t need to change THAT much. What the hell was a “Thermidor” supposed to be, anyways?”

“Beats me, man. Good thing Paptimus shot down that proposal, at least from what I heard. But even beyond that, isn’t it weird how everybody calls each other ‘Brother’ or ‘Sister’ nowadays? Like our trainees. I’m getting used to it, but still…”

“Yeah, it feels weird to me too. Guess they’re pretty serious about the “brotherhood” part of their platform…”

This elicited another chuckle from Renault, who was about to respond when he caught wind of a small commotion up ahead of them. He squinted his eyes as he looked forwards. “Hey, what’s that all about?”

“Dunno. Wanna find out?”

The two men broke into a light jog in order to get closer to the source of the tumult—which, as it turned out, was actually a small mob led by no one other, to their surprise, than Tassar.

The older man turned to regard them as they jogged up to him, and smiled slightly. “Braddock, Renault. I was just looking for you two.”

“Boss, what’s going on?”

“Nothing much,” he chuckled as he gestured to the angry-looking townsfolk he led—many of them Renault recognized as new recruits into the Army, but many of them just regular civilians. “We’re just going to, ah, ‘mete out some Revolutionary justice,’ as Trunicht might put it. You guys wanna come along?”

Renault and Braddock looked at each other and grinned. The Revolution had only been going on for a month, but already there had been a few instances of “meting out Revolutionary justice,” and both men knew exactly what that entailed. “Hell yeah!”

At the head of the boisterous mob, the three men made their way through the streets of Nerinheit as passers-by moved out of their way, not wishing to hinder their progress. It wasn’t long before they reached their destination—one of the small, inauspicious Eliminean churches which dotted the city. It wasn’t an ugly building, but it was small and rather dull—there weren’t many big cathedrals this far north; even the seat of the diocese’s bishop was no cathedral but rather a modest manse slightly smaller than Glaesal’s own.

The wood doors of the building were closed, but, of course, that was little deterrent to the determined Tassar. He knocked on the door once, the mob jeering from behind him. He knocked again, harder. No response came. Finally, he simply gave the doors a hard, rough kick and they opened inwards, allowing Renault, Braddock, and the rest of their mob to swarm in.

They had plenty of room, since the church was empty, even though it was Sunday. A month was all it took for the authorities to make clear their distaste for religion, after all. At the end of the rows of empty pews stood the priest alone, who had been tending to the altar, trying to ignore the commotion at his church’s doors before Tassar’s entrance forced him to do something.

He didn’t do much. In fact, he didn’t even turn, something which annoyed Renault. He did speak, though, and didn’t bother with the pleasantries. “You’re not here for worship, are you? Please leave.”

Tassar merely grunted in response. “Sorry. You’re not getting rid of us that easily.” He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small sheaf of important-looking parchment. He held it out to the priest, who still didn’t turn away from his altar. Even as the shouts and jibes from the mob (with Renault and Braddock chiming in) rose in volume, it was only when Tassar grabbed the elderly, gray-haired man by the shoulder and roughly spun him around—bumping him into the altar behind him. The mercenary shoved the piece of parchment in his face. “Gresco,” said Tassar, not bothering to call the man “Father” or even “Brother” as a good revolutionary would, “sign this.”

“Your Loyalty Oath? I will not! I have done nothing to hinder your revolution, but neither will I support it! The Supreme Church has condemned all sedition and rebellion, and it is their dictate I will heed! Surely you revolutionaries have better things to do with your time than harass an old man simply trying to worship God? I ask you again, leave!”

“I’m leaving either with you or without you. If you want the latter, you’ll have to sign the oath. Even the Bishop of this diocese has done so, I’ve heard, and Layzner over in Padstow was one of the more eager ones to fall in with us. Don’t be a fool. Just put your signature here, pledge your allegiance to liberty, the people, and our Revolution, and we can go.”

“I don’t care what the apostates might have done,” sputtered Gresco angrily, “I only know what I am commanded by God! I. WILL. NOT!” With that, he puckered up his mouth and hocked a big wad of spit at the document Tassar held out to him.

This did not faze Tassar in the least, and was exactly what Braddock and Renault, and their mob were expecting. The veteran merely shrugged and said, “Well, you’ve made your choice. All of you,” he turned to the mob, “the proprietor of this church has demonstrated himself to be an enemy of the revolution and a foe of liberty! He has relinquished any rights we are required to respect! By the authority given to us by Nerinheit and Paptimus, we therefore have the right to requisition the building and everything valuable in it for the Revolution’s coffers! EVERYONE, HELP YOURSELVES!”

Renault and Braddock couldn’t hide their enthusiasm as the desecration and despoliation began. And since they were at the head of the mob, they had first dibs. They rushed forward, pushing past the outraged priest as they greedily scooped up the golden goblets with which he was supposed to dole out milk to the believers, and taking several ornate candlebras and other religious trinkets as well. They’d make some good money off of those. Around them, the mob was going crazy with gleeful sacrilege—they overturned pews, smashed the beautiful stained-glass windows of the church (not enchanted, but which had taken years to create anyways), gathering up the shards to sell later. Closer to the back of the building, several ruffians were happily working on the most valuable—and irreplaceable—monument in the otherwise unassuming of house of worship. It was a life-sized icon of Saint Elimine, commissioned by the Bishop himself from a famous sculptor and given to this Gresco as a reward for his tireless pastoral work. The mob didn’t care, of course—they just wanted something to sell. A small group of them had deployed at the pedestal on which it was situated, pushing it back and forth in an attempt to dislodge it and carry it off for sale. They were none too gentle, though, and their efforts were for naught—the men on one side couldn’t balance it, and it toppled over, crashing into thousands of pieces on the floor. Everyone groaned, since it was worth a lot less now, but the valuable stone used in its construction was still good, and the mob wasted no time grieving for the statue as they immediately lept to the ground to stuff its remnants into their pockets.

Gresco, obviously, was completely outraged. “YOU BLASPHEMOUS THUGS,” he shouted, “IN GOD’S NAME, STOP!”

Unfortunately, no God would end up helping him. As he moved to try to get at even one of the sacrilegious goons, a swift punch in the face from Tassar left him stumbling back, straight into the uncaring arms of Braddock and Renault, both of whom smiled at him with faces that looked almost like those of sharks circling their prey.

“Gresco,” said Tassar, “Your refusal to pledge your loyalty to our cause marks you as our foe. Those who aren’t with us are against us. We can’t allow you free reign to spread your subversive, uh, “counter-revolutionary” propaganda in this city, right? You’re under arrest. Come with us.”

Gripping the priest by his arms, Renault and Braddock dragged him out of his church, following Tassar away from the bacchanalian revelry behind them—Renault looked back for a moment after he heard a loud crash to see an entire pew having been tossed out of a now-broken window, to which a loud round of cheers emanated from the building in response.

“You lawless barbarians,” the priest growled, “what right do you have to do this? This isn’t liberty, this is anarchy!”

“You’d say that, wouldn’t you,” replied Braddock angrily has he continued to drag the priest to one of Nerinheit’s jails—which had seemed quite full recently, “after all, you priests are the ones who hide behind those laws to take advantage of everyone else, right? You don’t do anything but fleece the people while hiding behind the armies of whoever’s in charge! You scumbags don’t even take your own ‘holy’ texts seriously, you just use them as an excuse to get away with things nobody else would be able to!”

Even as much as he hated the clergy, even Renault was a bit surprised at the level of Braddock’s venom. He didn’t disagree, though. “You do know what’s gonna happen to you, right?” A vicious grin spread across Renault’s face. “You’re gonna be sent to a…what’s the word, “re-education” camp or something like that. Hope you’re ready for manual labor, Your Excellency. That’s what scares you more than anything, right? The fact that for the first time in your entire life, you’ll actually have to do real work instead of just mooching off your collection plate!”

Surprisingly enough, the priest did not have anything to say to that, at least not directly. He merely closed his eyes and chuckled bitterly. “Short-sighted fools,” he muttered. “Yes, suppress the ‘parasitic’ clergy. Yes, send the ‘oppressive’ nobles to the guillotine. But a Revolution like this is always searching for enemies, my oblivious young mercenaries. After we are all dead, to whom do you think your masters will turn their eye on next? You’re deluding yourself if you think we are the only threats men like Paptimus and Glaesal see.”

Braddock gave the man a harsh shove and looked as if he were about to unload a blistering retort, but he was cut off by a dry chuckle from Gresco as the priest lifted a wrinkled hand to point at a small house not far off from where they were walking. Braddock, Renault, and Tassar stopped for a moment to see just what he was gesturing at.

It was a disturbing sight. A small band of men and women—not so different from the mob Tassar had led, though smaller in number—had taken hold of the family which had previously resided there. They were ordinary civilians as well, but the leaders wore crimson patches of cloth on their shoulders—they were Red Shoulders outside of their armor. One detachment none too gently dragged a middle-aged couple towards the same prison that was Gresco’s destination. Neither the man nor the woman seemed particularly threatening, in fact neither of them seemed to be anything more than a pair of modest shopkeepers. That did not dissuade their captors, though, who simply dragged them off to the prison with as much kindness as Renault and Braddock were showing the priest, heedless of their wild, desperate cries for their children.

Those children were not faring much better. Though the mob’s other detachment treated them with a bit more kindness, the grim-face revolutionaries paid no more attention to their plaintive cries for “Mama!” and “Papa!”

“H…hey, Tassar,” said Braddock, “what’s going on? Why are those people getting punished? They don’t look like priests or nobles…are they?”

“Probably not,” came the unemotional reply. “They’re just counter-revolutionaries. The Red Shoulders are very, very good at rooting out that sort of thing. They hear everything people whisper in dark corners. Those two old people probably got caught speaking out against Paptimus or expressing sympathy for the King or something similar.”

“Are you serious?” Braddock’s grip on the priest seemed to have weakened significantly. “How…how’s that possible?”

“Intuition, keeping their eyes open, that sort of thing. What, it’s not like they’re creeping around everywhere, spying on folks. We don’t have anything to worry about, Braddock.”

“But still…those people are being punished just for…what, speaking out? And what about the kids? They didn’t do anything!”

“Uh-huh. Nothing’s going to happen to them, don’t worry. They’ll be sent to a formal school and given a proper training in revolutionary precepts. ‘Least that’s what Paptimus tells me.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem so bad. But still, getting separated from their parents like that…”

The conversation was interrupted by another harsh burst of laughter from Gresco. “I love that ‘revolutionary lexicon,’ I really do. When people close their eyes to the truth of God, they open them to the lies of everyone else. ‘Red Shoulders?’ They’re just mercenaries who signed on to Paptimus’ payroll a bit earlier than everyone else. A formal school? Those children are being sent to be brainwashed into good little soldiers who won’t mind being sent off to die! I hope you’re enjoying yourselves now, you freebooting scum. The Revolution has barely started and it’s already turning on the ordinary people. It won’t be long before it turns on you too.”

The priest would have continued, but a swift, hard smack to the face from Tassar silenced him for good. “Shut up,” growled the veteran. “Braddock, Renault, don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to save his own skin. Let’s just dump him and get on with our jobs.”

“Exactly,” echoed Renault. “There’s no reason to believe those guys. None at all, Braddock. The kind of people who’d kick their own kids out for not being ‘pious’ enough are the kind of people who don’t have anything to say worth hearing anyways!”

“I…yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right, Renault.” Braddock still didn’t seem to convinced, however.

Not that it really mattered, as those were the last words of that particular conversation. With no further ado, the three men entered the dingy prison and tossed their ward into one of the dingier cells—which was one of the few left unoccupied. With that, Tassar took his leave of them—“I’ve got some things to take care of, and you guys have to attend some new recruits soon,” he said. That was precisely what they did; Braddock and Renault promptly headed back to the plaza they had left from, not having had the time to get a bite to eat as they originally planned. The students were already there and waiting, after all.

“Come on, man,” said Renault, noticing his friend still had a distinctly gloomy, uncertain expression on his face. “Are you still worried about what that stupid priest said? He was full of it. Just tryin’ to get out of his punishment, that’s all! Don’t believe a word of that crap! It’s the nobles and the priests that are our real enemies, why would Paptimus ever turn against us?”

“I…I guess so. But those kids…”

“They’re probably better off now. “Brainwashing?” Hardly! They’re actually gettin’ an education, which is more than you can say for a lot of folks up north. You’re overthinking this, Braddock. I mean, we’ve always hated the nobles and the clergy, and now we’re getting paid to fight against them rather than for them! What’s the point of thinking our leaders are gonna betray us, huh?”

“Heh. Yeah, you’re probably right. Just that bein’ a little paranoid’s helped keep me alive for this long…it’s a hard habit to break.”

“Well, don’t let it get out of control, that’s all I’m saying.” He gestured to the recruits, still waiting. “We have a job to do, after all. Let’s stop worrying and get down to it.”

“Alright.”

With that, the two men turned their attention to their wards, who seemed as eager to learn as their previous class was. Renault, at least, instructed them with all of the aplomb he’d displayed earlier in the day. So did Braddock, though Renault couldn’t help but suspect that the Ostian still had something distracting him from his teaching.

 _Eh, it doesn’t matter,_ thought Renault. _He’ll get over it soon enough._

-X-

“I…I’m not sure I approve of this, Paptimus.”

Paptimus blinked as he poured himself another glass of the wine he so loved—Vinland ’24 this time. He took a sip, leaned back on the comfortable (though not lavish) couch in Glaesal’s room, and gave his friend a smile. “Approve of what?”

Glaesal was standing near one of his room’s and looking out of it rather than sitting in front of his friend, as he usually did when they had their daily meetings. It wasn’t hard to tell what he was looking at, as the noise could be heard even from this high up and far away in his manse. Outside, yet another small mob led by those seemingly loyal—yet suspicious—Red Shoulders, had gotten hold of yet another pair of “traitors”—there were two of them, though Glaesal couldn’t make out the details.

“This…no, not just all these arrests, Paptimus, but some of the other policies you implemented. I agreed to all of them, but at the time I wasn’t…wasn’t expecting this. Burning churches? The Red Shoulders acting as police, sending ordinary citizens to prison—or worse!—for…for what? I don’t know. Paptimus, this isn’t liberty! This isn’t what we’re fighting for!”

“Glaesal, my friend, all this is _necessary_ for liberty. Remember what is at stake. If we fail now, not only will we watch as our friends die and our city burns before we are sent to the guillotine ourselves, but the flames of revolution will be quenched for decades, perhaps even centuries, if not forever! This is Etruria’s one chance at throwing off the shackles of the aristocracy. We cannot allow anything to stand in our way! If that means arresting a few reactionary dissidents and requisitioning their resources for our cause, surely that is a small matter?”

“Yes, but is any of this truly necessary? The Elimineans were always annoying, but not criminal. And the people being arrested have done nothing at all! How is this helping our cause?”

“You underestimate the threats to us, Glaesal. First off, the ‘commoners’ you see arrested are civilians only in name. In truth, they are under the pay of the Crown, either metaphorically, or in many cases, quite literally! The cult of the aristocracy has a deep hold upon the minds of our citizens, and many of the people of Nerinheit still hold a misguided loyalty towards those who oppress them. It is lamentable, but it is also a threat. How can we be sure such reactionaries will not lead their own rebellions against our rebellion? At the very least, they could leak information to our enemies or give harbor to the King’s spies.”

“Impossible! My citizens wouldn’t do that!”

“Again, do not underestimate the ability of the Crown to corrupt. The nobility has always specialized in turning those who should be allies against one another. Remember how Exedol used Malonda to rob you of your position as Mage General. If he could seduce your own wife and turn her against you, surely the coffers of the King could do the same to your citizens. We must be vigilant! And that is the only thing my Red Shoulders are—eternally vigilant. Honest citizens and true, brave revolutionaries have nothing to fear from them. These watchmen are merely keeping an eye out for the King’s schemes of subornment. They are not spies, they only know how to mingle among the people and keep an eye out for mischief!”

If Glaesal had been paying a bit closer attention, he might have seen a small smile play across Paptimus’ face, and a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in the shadows behind him—punctuated by the smallest, briefest flash of what might have been golden eyes.

But, of course, he didn’t, and Paptimus continued. “Those they catch falling under his sway are only held so long as it takes to disabuse them of their false and misguided loyalties. Not only are they looking for our best interests, but they are absolutely indispensable to our struggle!”

“Hmph…that Exedol…and yes, the king was always working with him, wasn’t he?” The mere mention of Exedol—even though he’d been dead for weeks—was still enough to bring Glaesal under his friend’s sway. “Yes, yes, and his spies always were everywhere, weren’t they? Careless, careless…careless of me to think I’d be safe in my own city! Galahad, you blackhearted, conniving schemer! I’ll never forgive you!”

“Exactly, Glaesal! And don’t forget about the Elimineans. Surely you’ve heard of their “Loyalist’s Creed,” yes? The Supreme Church,” and this was spat out with distaste, “has explicitly set itself against our rebellion. Well, rebellions in general, in fact. Given how deep its claws have sunk into the population of this country, it’s only prudent to take precautions against it. Requesting all the clergy of the lands we have liberate pledge their allegiance to our Revolution does not seem at all a bad idea to me. And of course, those who refuse would quite naturally be considered threats, and likely to work against our plans! Surely such people ought to be removed from the population, to keep them from causing trouble, yes?”

“Yes, yes…Exedol and Khyron were devout as well. I’d wager their sticky fingers are behind the machinations of the Church as well! Yet I wonder, how much of a threat are the…refractory, I think was the word they used, the refractory priests? The Church could never hold a candle to men like Exedol in terms of raw power. Would the King really enlist them against me?”

“Yes, yes. Why, one of my agents just recently passed on to me a letter from the Supreme Church to one of its priests here—I think his name was Gresco or something—instructing him to undermine our efforts in any way he could, ranging from sabotage to fostering insurrection! Here, look at it yourself.”

Reaching into the folds of his robes, Paptimus took out the small sheaf of letterhead, which Glaesal promptly snatched up and examined greedily. The more he read, the redder his face became.

“I can’t believe it!” he shouted. “Were they really plotting this right under my nose? Paptimus, is this letter genuine? Who was it from? I don’t recognize the handwriting!”

“Archbishop Toras. I’m not surprised you haven’t read much of his writing, he typically pays little attention to politics, not nearly as much as Gosterro and Aleffine, at least. He’s taken a marked interest in us, though. That letter is proof of that.”

“I…I will take your word for it, Paptimus, but still—“

“Come now, I can’t imagine your opinion of the Church to be too high, Glaesal. You more than anyone else knows how deceitful ‘true believers’ can be. Malonda said Mass every Sunday, yet she whored the rest of the week away with Exedol. If a Church is composed of members like that, such underhanded sabotage of our cause is nothing unexpected from them.”

Once again, mere mention of Malonda and Exedol’s affair was enough to set Glaesal off. “Yes, yes, Paptimus! You’re exactly right! You can’t trust anyone like Malonda! Not one bit! Yes, yes, we’ll crush the churches, and then we’ll see what she—“

“Easy, easy, my friend. Don’t let that wretched woman trouble you overmuch. Exedol’s dead, so take solace in that…and when we take Aquleia, she will suffer for her crimes against you, rest assured.”

“…Hmm. Yes. Paptimus, give me a bit more wine, would you?”

“Of course.” With a bit of magic Glaesal’s cup and the bottle of wine floated into the air, Paptimus lazily waving two of the fingers on his right hand as the bottle levitated back to its place on the table and the now-full cup soared to Glaesal’s welcoming hand. The Count gladly accepted the proffered drink and took a gulp from it with gusto.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve (he found himself paying less attention to manners the busier he got with his rebellion) and sighing deeply, Glaesal continued. “Still, Paptimus, I’m surprised you’re the one who came up with all these anticlerical policies. I knew you never liked religion—we wouldn’t have gotten along in the first place if you did—but I could never figure out why. One of the few things I can credit the Church for is its opposition to the coliseum games. I always thought a former gladiator like you would be more inclined to support the clergy than oppose them.”

Paptimus chuckled, but this time there was no humor in it—in fact, it seemed more like repressed anger. “Understandable, I suppose. But still wrong. Glaesal, let me ask you a question. Do you know why I became a gladiator in the first place?”

“I…I have some ideas, but…no, not really. It was a sensitive topic for you, so I never broached it. Every man has things he’d rather not remember, and I imagine the hell you went through as a youth would be one of them.”

“Very true, Glaesal, and I thank you for your concern. However, I suppose it’s time you knew the truth…although there actually isn’t much of it to tell.

“I was born in a small, poor village in this very countship, Glaesal. I was the younger of two sons…my father was a merchant—not a rich one, but the only merchant living in our town. My elder brother was his favored…the apple of my parent’s eyes, actually. They loved me, but it was obvious my brother was the one they were placing all their hopes on. Intelligent and talented, my father saw him as his successor.

“Then…then, my brother died. Flu struck our village particularly hard one winter, and he was carried away with it. My parents were devastated. My mother, very much, but my father…

“He went mad, Glaesal. And do you know what I mean by that? I mean he got religion.” Paptimus’ hand clenched around his glass, and he would have broken it had he not regained control of himself in time. “He couldn’t understand why this had happened. Why did the light of his life, his hope and his dream, his firstborn have to be taken away from him? He couldn’t make sense of it. As a result, he turned to God. He thought the Creator must have punished him for some infraction or another, for not being pious or charitable or something or the other.

“He sold everything we had and gave it to the Church—and of course, the greedy priests ate it all up without question. My mother pleaded with him desperately, telling him that he was wrong, that God wouldn’t want this, and finally, that he had gone mad. He wouldn’t listen. He gave and gave, until he—we—had nothing left to give. Then he sacrificed himself to his worthless, avaricious Church. He went on a pilgrimage—supposedly to the Tower of the Saint. He planned to give up the worldly life and become a monk, and he left my mother and I behind in our village.

“That was the last we ever heard from him. I don’t know what became of him, and I don’t care.

“But my mother and I…we had nothing left. Absolutely nothing. We couldn’t even feed ourselves…and the people of my village, generous as they were, had enough trouble keeping food on their own tables. There was nothing to be done. Almost nothing, but for one thing…

“I still remember when the man came to visit our village. It was just a little over 25 years ago…I was only fourteen. He was fat…but there was a strength beneath the flab. He was tanned, and bald, and his face was hard…I can still see his twisted nose and hear his horrible laugh as if it were yesterday. He and his band of thugs came to us, claiming to be just merchants looking for a new assistant. But we know what they really wanted to buy. My mother…she hadn’t eaten for days. She offered me up to the man…she told me he would take care of me, and that she would see me again soon. I just had to spend a bit of time in Aquleia, that was all. Hadn’t I always wanted to see the capitol?” Paptimus’ voice had begun to tremble slightly. “I truly believed her…even when she started crying, even when the man held out a bag full of gold to me, even when she cried for me to run away, to come back to me, even when the man smashed a fist into my face when I tried to come back to her, even when the man dragged me to the greatest city of Elibe in chains.

“I really believed I would see her again, Glaesal. Right up to the day my captor tossed me into the coliseum, handed me an axe, and told me he’d lose a thousand gold if I was dumb enough to get myself killed. Only then did I realize I would never see my mother again.”

That was the last of Paptimus’ speech, and both men fell to silence for a few moments, Glaesal being forced to take his regular seat—he could no longer stand, being so shocked at Paptimus’ revelations. “M-My God,” he finally stammered after almost half a minute had passed. “Paptimus, I never knew…I—“

“It is alright, Glaesal. You…you are my friend. I feel I should have told you this earlier…it would have taken a great weight off my chest. But now you see why I despise the Church so. Why I despise religion so. My father…he brought all this misery upon me. Prayers to a nonexistent God rapidly turned to abject, pointless self-sacrifice in the service of that same nothingness. Do you realize how much easier my life would have been had my father merely been rational? Had he realized his favored son’s death was nothing but the whim of fate, had he known it had nothing to do with any God or supernatural force, maybe he could have concentrated on his own life. Maybe he could have concentrated on providing for his wife and surviving son. But no…thanks to religion, thanks to his wretched irrationality, my life was turned into a hell worse than anything any deluded adherent could possibly imagine.”

The big man closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then looked at Glaesal with perhaps the saddest expression he’d ever seen. “And you know what’s the most important thing, my friend? Today, even today, I cannot hate my father. I cannot bring myself to blame him. For despite everything, I know it was not truly his fault. How could it be, when so many others across Elibe might do the same thing in his position? How could it be, when he was only following the Church’s teachings? No, it was not my father’s fault, Glaesal. It was religion’s. Eliminism, the animism of the Sacaens, the heathenism of the old faiths…they are all the same. Worthless facades that bring only the illusion of comfort to their followers and inflict upon them every variant of irrationality, ignorance, and outright madness. These religions…all religions…they’re like…like a plague, like a disease. A disease of the mind rather than the body, spread from place to place by priests and missionaries, vermin more pestilent than rats or crows. One cannot blame a man taken by Bramimond’s Warts or the wasting sickness for his misfortune, or his family’s. Thus, I cannot blame my father for being carried away by an infection of religious faith.

“But I can blame the problem itself. And I will destroy it, Glaesal, once and for all. I will destroy the epidemic of faith along with the wretched nobility, who profit from its propagation and cast their own foul shadow upon the land. Over time, gradually, even if it takes a hundred years…someday, the word ‘priest’ will be a bygone relic of a forgotten time and every church in the realm will be forever empty. Someday, every last man, woman, and child on Elibe will be equal, having to bow to no worthless count or king. No one…NO ONE…will ever suffer for the twisted pleasures of bored nobles like I did as a gladiator, or be forced into such a life because of the Church’s propaganda, like I was.

“Glaesal…you will help me, won’t you?”

The lord of Nerinheit fixed his friend with the most sincere, solemn look he could manage. “Paptimus, I fully believe in you and your cause. Everything, my friend, everything I have and everything I can do is yours.”

The turncoat Prime Minister smiled, and reached out a hand to Glaesal. The two men shook, and neither believed that grip would break anytime soon.

-X-

“Lady Malonda, you have a visitor.”

The former Countess of Nerinheit turned on her luxurious, almost throne-like chair (being the favored of King Galahad had its perks, after all) to regard her attendant. “Who?”

“The Mage General, milady,” replied Ethlea. “Lord Khyron wishes to speak to you. He has a request.”

Malonda sighed, brushing a few strands of her long black hair—in which there were a few stray flecks of gray—away from her eyes. “Very well. Send him in.”

“Of course, milady.” Ethlea bowed and took her leave, the young woman’s modest (but not very modest—being the favored attendant of King Galahad’s favored had its own perks as well) blue blouse and skirts rustling softly as she took her leave of her mistress and went to bring in her guest.

Malonda was quite happy for this—she would need a few moments to gather herself before enduring what would almost certainly be an unpleasant conversation. She’d always been friendly with Exedol, of course, but his brother was much harder to deal with. Thus, she glanced around her large, opulent room in the Royal Palace—she wished she could just share Galahad’s personal bedroom, but even now they still had niceties to observe—to make sure nothing was out of place, smoothed out a few ruffles in her purple robes, and demurely clasped her hands together on her lap.

Just in time, for no sooner had she done that than Ethlea returned to her, Khyron in tow. “It’s good to see you again, Lady Malonda,” said the Mage General stiffly, breaking into an equally stiff bow.

“Same to you, my lord. Please, take a seat.” She gestured to the ornate chair in front of her, which Khyron gratefully accepted. Ethlea took this as her cue to make her exit—she was always a perceptive girl—and bowed before taking her leave of the both of them.

“You’re looking very well, Khyron,” Malonda began. “Your wounds seem to have completely healed.”

He nodded in response. “They have. I am more than ready to assume my duties. Paptimus killed my brother…I’ll never forget that. That blackhearted, traitorous knave, I’ll bring him to justice! Glaesal and Paptimus, both of them! They’ll pay for what they did to Exedol!”

The Mage General, now somewhat angry—he was still grieving, Malonda knew—cast her a suspicious glance. “You’ve no objections to this, I presume?”

She grimaced. “None whatsoever. There was never any love lost between Glaesal and I, even if I was never as close to Exedol as he thought I was. Thinking of his death brings me no joy, but after what he’s done…the deaths of so many of my friends in front of Nerinheit, what he tried to do to my Galahad…I have no sympathy for him. Do as you must, Khyron.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, and leaned back in his chair, satisfied with that response. “But that’s why I’ve come here today, Malonda. I need your help.”

“Excuse me? Khyron, what could you possibly want from me? You know I’m neither a fighter nor a mage.”

“Obviously,” said Khyron in irritation, causing Malonda’s brow to furrow at his typically rude demeanor, “but you do have the King’s ear, which is most important. I’ll not dance around the subject, Malonda. It’s been a month since the disgrace at Nerinheit and my brother’s death, but still the king has not given us the order to mobilize! In fact, I haven’t even seen him in weeks! He’s not gone hunting, or to visit the training grounds, or to do anything he usually does! Malonda, what is wrong with him?”

“Nothing at all,” she replied evenly. “King Galahad has turned his mind to other things. Aside from being with me, he has been praying, reading the Scriptures, and also, he’s recently taken an interest in the arts, the theater specifically. A group of traveling minstrels will be coming to Aquleia within the next week; they’ll be performing ‘The Song of Roland,’ I believe. It’s really—“

Khyron couldn’t hide his disbelief. “Th-theater?” he sputtered. “Not hunting, or military games? Galahad always had a respectable appreciation for the military, but just as the rebellion begins he’s found new interests?!”

“He has lost his taste for war!” Malonda raised her voice slightly, indicating to Khyron how strongly she felt. “Think of how he feels. He watched his Mage General and almost all of his friends and associates in the Court die. He wants nothing more than to forget all about war, all about violence, and live in peace. Can you blame him?”

“Blame him? I don’t know what to say! I would expect such cowardice from you, Malonda,” and at this the woman had to clench her hands on her lap to restrain herself, “but Galahad is our king! We cannot afford such a lack of strength in our leadership when Glaesal and Paptimus are coming to destroy us all!”

“Oh, is that so? You believe my lord Galahad is an unfit leader?”

“N-no!” The slightest questioning of his loyalty sent Khyron on the defensive. “I have nothing but absolute faith in my King! Do not insult me by doubting that faith, woman! I…I simply wish my liege would take more decisive action. We have no time to waste, after all!”

“If you feel so strongly about it, Lord Khyron, then please, discuss it with our liege yourself.”

“I have tried! For weeks now I have tried to gain an audience with him! But he refuses to see me. He refuses to see anyone! You are the only one he will listen to! You must convince him to call the country up to arms!”

“And why should I?” she shot back. “Not everyone has the same fascination with war you do, Khyron. There are some of us who don’t want to deal with crying widows and legions of orphans, who take no pleasure in watching miles of devastated land and piles of corpses. I’m glad Galahad has finally joined our ranks! He and I, now we finally have all the time in the world to spend together without worrying what that wretched Glaesal might think. Your brother’s death grieves us, Khyron, it truly does, and we are sorry he had to endure so much in his life on our account. But please, can you not allow us our happiness?”

“Such selfishness!” Khyron thundered. “No, woman, I can’t ‘allow you your happiness.’ Do you think Paptimus will? Do you think _Glaesal_ will?”

“Khyron, don’t—“

“You know I’m right! He didn’t start this rebellion because he loved you or the King. He will not stop this campaign until he’s burnt Aquleia to the ground and sent both you and King Galahad to the guillotine! Perhaps my brother’s death means little to you, but I hope your own is at least a bit more concerning!”

“ENOUGH!” shouted Malonda, surprising even Khyron for a moment. “Enough! I don’t want to hear any more!”

“I. Will. Not!” Khyron had regained his footing and was raising his voice to match hers. “You WILL hear of it, Malonda, no matter what you wish! The only thing you can choose is who you’ll hear it from. Me, or the revolutionaries! For your own sake, woman, and for all our sakes, I hope you choose the former!”

That was the last thing he had to say. Beside himself with anger, the Mage General got up and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he left. Once again, Malonda found herself alone in her room, nothing but her thoughts to keep her company.

She sat their quietly, for what seemed like ages to her. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to fall deep into her thoughts, Khyron’s visit bringing up unbidden and unwanted memories of the man she was still forced to call her husband. They were not pleasant, but she could not escape from them, no matter how she tried. And as a result, she finally made her choice.

-x-

“Galahad?”

He hadn’t even noticed her slip in, so engrossed was he in studying the text in front of him. She had to call his name a second time before he looked up—Galahad was still nestled in the thick blankets of his massive bed, clad in nothing more than his sleeping robes—despite the fact that it was late in the afternoon.

“Ah, Malonda!” He smiled widely as he put down his copy of St. Elimine’s Journey, and the affection on his face was so true and genuine that Malonda felt a surge of warmth rush through her as she watched it. She’d always adored the boyish enthusiasm he displayed for his interests—even though he was twenty years her senior, he still seemed to take as much joy in his hobbies as a young man. Of course, it had always irked her that his proclivities had been oriented towards the martial, but now that he had turned to the true path of God, she couldn’t be happier.

That was why it broke her heart she would have to bring war back into his life once more.

“Galahad, my dear,” she purred, placing herself next to him on his bed. “May I have a moment?”

“Of course, of course!” He sidled up closer to her, allowing himself to be wrapped up in her embrace. “I’ve always all the time in the world for you, Malonda. Yes, for you!”

“Ah…my lord, something has been troubling me?”

“Oh? Speak of it to me. The King of Etruria needs only to wave his hand to wash it all away!”

“My lord…I…I have heard terrible things. The revolution in the north…with every passing day they grow stronger. They are building up a great army, and with it they will come to Aquleia…for us, my dear Galahad. With Glaesal at their head, I…I am afraid. They will…”

Galahad had grown very quiet. He said absolutely nothing—his expression did all the work, as Malonda watched his already wan face grow even paler and his eyes widen.

“L…Lord Galahad—“

“NO!” he shrieked, turning away from her and burying his face in his lavish pillow. “NO! NO! God, no!”

She reached over to try and calm him, and he swatted her hand away. “Galahad, please—“

“NO! No more war! No more, no more! Never again! I never want to see it again! Never, ever, ever—“

“Oh, Galahad.” Malonda reached over to wrap him up in a tight embrace. He pushed against her, but she would not let him go, and soon he had no choice but to relent—he returned her hug, burying his old face in her chest and sobbing uncontrollably.

“M-Malonda,” he bawled, “It was horrible! HORRIBLE! HORRIBLE! Nothing like…n-nothing like it was s-supposed to be! It…it was supposed to be an easy victory, a-a s-short, invigorating e-excursion, a-a l-lot of f-fun! Th-that’s how it always was in the books! A-all the tales of the S-Scouring, w-with their g-glorious heroes, all the m-military histories, with th-those exciting campaigns, b-but,” he sniffled, “Not that! NOT THAT! The screams, Malonda! Th-the screaming, everyone d-dying, DYING! All the b-blood on the ground, all m-my friends screaming, all of them-all of t-them dying, and Exedol, oh, oh God help me, E-Exedol…I saw it, Malonda! He-he fell apart! He-he just FELL APART! I—“

“Shhh.” Glaesal’s wife wrapped up his former king even tighter, and Galahad clung to her as a small child would his mother, losing himself in his incoherent sobbing. She cooed to him and softly stroked his graying hair, attempting to calm him down.

“Horrible, horrible,” he muttered, his voice muffled in her chest, “so horrible! M-Malonda, I don’t want to see war ever again! Never! I-I just want to stay here with you, with Elimine, with my f-friends! I don’t want…don’t want…”

“I understand, Galahad, my darling. Of course I understand. I want the same thing. But I’m so scared…scared of everything I hear, scared of the Revolution, scared of Glaesal…please, my darling, you have to do something. Please…”

“I…s-sh, I d-don’t want to…I’m scared too, Malonda!”

“But you don’t have to do anything, see anything, yourself, my lord.” Her voice grew somewhat angrier. “It’s Khyron’s responsibility, all his, now! He’ll deal with it! He’s the Mage General, after all. That’s all you need to do, darling. Just give the order to mobilize, just tell the troops of the realm to move out in defense. Khyron will take care of the rest. He has to!”

Galahad stopped his crying for a moment to whimper, sniffle, and then lock his big brown eyes into hers in the most pitiful, heartbreakingly sincere expression of fear, anguish, and desperate hope she had ever seen. “R…really?” he stammered. “I…we…we won’t have to worry? K-Khyron will take care of everything?”

“Yes, my lord. Of course. You need only make an announcement, give him his orders, and all will be well.”

“M-Malonda…” He was no longer sobbing, but he snuggled into her again all the same. “Th-thank you. Strength…you give me such strength. Yes, y-yes…K-Khyron has to avenge E-Exedol, after all. He’ll b-be able to do it! Tomorrow…tomorrow I’ll g-give him his orders. And then we won’t have to worry about this anymore. You and I, Malonda, we won’t have to worry. All the time in the world, from now, we can spend with each other, and w-with God.”

“Yes, Galahad. Everything will be fine. Rest for now, and tomorrow, Khyron will take care of everything. But for now, just rest.”

Sniffling, he continued to cling to her, and she kissed him softly on his head—ordinarily, she would want more, but recognized he wouldn’t be up to it in this state.

But soon enough, after he gave the order for Khyron to begin mobilization of his forces, he would no longer have anything to worry about, and everything would go back to normal. At least, this was what she firmly believed.

-X-

“So we’re finally heading out? About time.”

Renault heard the proclamation of his new orders just a little under a month after he and Braddock had participated in the apprehension of Gresco. Not long afterwards they had heard of King Galahad’s official declaration of war, and the next few weeks had been spent in even more frantic preparation for the Royalist counter-attack. It had taken some time for the Mage Knights and their auxiliary forces to be gathered (many thousands of them—the five hundred who had died in the first battle of Nerinheit may have been their best, but not their only) but now they were ready, and with Khyron at their head they were marching north.

Paptimus, of course, had been quick to respond—it seemed to Renault that traitor held almost as much influence in the revolutionary government as old Glaesal did (and of course he didn’t mind, since Paptimus paid his wages). Right now, he, Braddock, and Tassar were standing along with a large crowd of what seemed to be the entire city flanking much of the Revolutionary Army in the great square in front of Glaesal’s manse, listening to Glaesal and Paptimus give the speech that heralded their first real action against their Royalist foes. He hadn’t started shouting orders yet, however—as he liked to do, he began by thanking his citizens and the mercenaries for their support and exhorting them to believe in the justice of their cause (which also included some rather bitter insults directed towards the dearly departed Exedol and his still-living brother and king), all of which could be heard thanks to Paptimus using the old voice-enhancement magic. Renault found no particular reason to pay much attention to this, so he took the opportunity to make small talk with Braddock.

“I kinda wish we had more time,” he grumbled quietly. “All the recruits I’ve trained have improved a lot, but I think some are still a little shaky. But they’re gonna be sent into battle? I’m not sure I like the sound of that…”

“I know how you feel, bud,” said Braddock sympathetically. “I mean, 2 months is a pretty generous amount of time to prepare that our enemies gave us…even so, right on the eve of battle it always feels like all the preparation in the world wouldn’t be enough. Still, at least our students are more skilled now than they were at the beginning, aren’t they? I’m not gonna lie to you and say they’re gonna be fine, but…at least they have a better chance than they did. That’s the best we could do, so I guess we can take some comfort in that, huh?”

Renault smiled. “Yeah. Besides, we’ve got the Red Shoulders and Paptimus on our side. With their magic I don’t think our guys will have much to worry about from the Mage Corps!”

Braddock was about to respond, but he was interrupted by Glaesal handing the stage over to Paptimus. “Friends and comrades,” the turncoat began, “By now, I’m sure my dear friend’s speech has more than proven to you the righteousness and necessity of our cause. But the time for talk is over. Now, we must act! The king has announced his intention to crush our revolution all across the land. Of course, considering that we no longer listen to any of his orders, I believe he’ll find it much easier to issue a proclamation than actually carry it out, yes?” A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd. “Well, it seems he does have some vague idea of this truth, so he has allowed Khyron to mobilize the full might of the Mage Corps and their allies against us. I will not lie to you, my friends, though they may have an incompetent leader, the full power of the Mage Corps is nothing to mock, even when compared to my Red Shoulders. But worry not! With your courage and my plans, even the best of the Etrurian military cannot succeed!”

This was met with wild cheers from both the civilians and the mercenaries and recruits, and Paptimus waited a moment for all of it to die down before he continued. “Of course, since you will be the ones fighting, brave warriors, your role in our battle plan is obviously crucial. Khyron and his forces are heading straight to Nerinheit, taking the most direct path available to them. When we ride out to meet them, we will allow them to come to us, on our own ground! Our diligent builders and craftsmen have been very hard at work repairing, renovating, and strengthening one of our bastions—the former castle of Nerinheit, our comrade Glaesal’s birthplace, in fact.” He nodded to his friend, standing beside him. “Today, it is that fortress you warriors will be setting out towards. With you defending our mighty stronghold, Khyron will crash his forces against it and break like a wave against the rocks!”

This announcement provoked another round of even wilder cheers from the audience, but some of its members weren’t quite convinced. “Hey,” asked Braddock, “Nerinheit Castle? That old place we camped in back at Scirocco?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” answered Tassar. “The very same. You’ll be impressed when you see it, Braddock, believe me. Remember how the few of us defended it against a whole wing of Pegasus Knights? After the improvements we’ve made to it, it could hold off the whole Pegasus Knight Fleet!”

“I sure hope so. But I don’t get it. From what I’ve heard, that castle’s pretty deep in friendly territory, and our guys have captured a good deal of ground. Aren’t we just letting Khyron march all over our land?”

Tassar nodded. “You’ve got a good eye for tactics, Braddock. You’re exactly right. Believe me, though, that’s intentional. Khyron’s being led straight into a trap. You know how bull-headed he is, he’ll take our bait without even thinking twice. Can’t say any more here, though…you’ll learn more when we get to the castle. Paptimus is worried about leaks and spies, after all, that’s why he’s not giving away the most important parts about the trap. You’ll see why. Just watch.”

Indeed, it seemed that Paptimus intended his troops to move out very soon, and wanted to end his speech with quite a bang. “Of course, my friends, for all the success you will meet against our enemies on the field of battle, we must be equally firm against our internal enemies. To mark the beginnings of our glorious campaign, I will demonstrate this personally! BRING OUT THE PRISONERS!”

A small clamor arose from the crowds as they parted to make way for a quartet of Red Shoulders in their full plate armor to bring the shouting, struggling pair of dissidents to the square, forcing them to kneel in front of Paptimus and Glaesal.

Renault’s eyes widened. Those were the same dissidents he had saw arrested a month ago.

“These two traitors,” said Paptimus with enthusiasm, “were found and convicted of spying and sabotage and have been justly interred in a labor and re-education camp for the past month. Yet they have proven to be utterly intractable and resistant to all our efforts to teach them. Thus, we give them one final chance to change their ways.” He looked down at the couple, and gestured from them to Glaesal. “Take a good look, both of you. Look at the man who has sacrificed EVERYTHING for your welfare, even his position as Count of Nerinheit, and has dedicated himself to the hard struggle for your freedom. How have you repaid him? With betrayal! This is your last chance. Apologize to your benefactor and you will be allowed back into our society. Refuse, and—“

They did not give him the opportunity. “TO HELL WITH NERINHEIT!” shouted the kneeling man. “GLAESAL AND THIS WHOLE STUPID REBELLION CAN ROT! WE WERE BORN IN THE KING’S COUNTRY, AND WE’LL DIE IN HIS COUNTRY, NO MATTER WHAT YOU PEOPLE SAY!”

His wife echoed his sentiments. “FOR KING AND COUNTRY! FOR GALAHAD AND GOD!” She puckered up her cheeks and hurled a wad of spit at Glaesal, which landed at his feet. His face reddened slightly, and it was obvious how genuinely angry he was.

The pair had sealed their fate, and it would not be pleasant. “As I expected,” said Paptimus, “you are recalcitrant to the end. However, even if you have made your choice, let it not be said the Revolution is without mercy. I will allow you to see your children one more time. Bring them forth!”

Once again the crowd parted, allowing another quartet of Red Shoulders through. This time, though, they were not dragging anyone—rather, they were gently leading a pair of children, a boy and a girl, towards the square where all the action was taking place. Once again, Renault’s eyes widened as he recognized them as the children of the couple he’d seen last month.”

“The son and daughter of these counter-revolutionaries have also spent the last month in our hands,” cheered Paptimus, “but since they are innocent, they have naturally been treated much better than their parents. Indeed, our most fervent patriots and revolutionaries have been inculculating our virtues—liberty and reason—within their young minds. See what they have become, Royalist filth! My dear children, what do you think should happen to your mother and father?”

The world seemed to move in slow motion as Renault focused on their glassy stares and the somewhat mechanical nature of their response. “These people are a threat to our way of life and an impediment to the spread of liberty across Elibe,” said the girl. “They must be liquidated for the good of all freedom-loving people as a whole,” said the boy.

The parents, naturally, were quite shocked. “ELINE! DALIS!” screamed the mother. “HOW COULD YOU?” The father was just as angry, shouting at Paptimus, “YOU FILTHY SCUM! WHAT IN GOD’S NAME HAVE YOU DONE TO THEM?”

The dark magician merely smirked. “We have done nothing to them, counter-revolutionary filth. We have merely educated them to the realities of their world and the necessity for drastic action in trying times. But you have heard their judgment, and in the name of the people, I shall carry it out on you. Look well, all of you witnesses! This is the ultimate fate of those who stand in the way of progress! Let the guillotine of liberty purge this stain from our midst! FIMBULVETR!”

Lifting his left hand out of the fold of his robes to reveal the bright blue book he held, Paptimus raised his right into the air. Renault felt a rush of cold wind wash over him—and everyone else in the crowd—as the air around Paptimus began to freeze. Small shards of ice appeared in the space over the head of the two unfortunates, and Renault was expecting them to coagulate into the massive, multifaceted crystal prison characteristic of the spell—he had seen it used a few times before by a fellow mercenary in Sacae, and had a very healthy respect for its power.

Paptimus, however, brought his own spin to the magic. Rather than crystal, the shards of ice came together to form a gigantic blade hanging over the head of the victims—the crowd gasped in awe, for all recognized its distinctive shape as belonging to the guillotine. The chill disappeared as the great blade of ice continued to hang in the air for a few moments, glinting in the sun.

Then it descended.

The crowd broke into a wild fury as the icy blade smashed into the ground, shattering into thousands of pieces alongside the softly rolling heads of the man and woman. The children looked on impassively, no trace of emotion on their faces, as the Red Shoulders once again gently led them away. Indeed, the only one Renault could see who seemed the least bit troubled was Glaesal, and aside from a slight paling of his complexion he apparently could not find it within himself to raise any objection to what had just occurred.

“Let the blood of these traitors serve as a reminder to our enemies,” shouted Paptimus as the crowd roared, “that nothing can stop us! Now, brave warriors, mercenaries and recruits into our Revolutionary Army alike, march onwards! March to victory!”

The crowds cheered even more wildly as their soldiers turned and began their organized march out of the gates of the city in a series of columns. The men were in high spirits, their bloodlust stoked by the execution they had witnessed and gladdened by the cheers of their countrymen.

In fact, aside from Glaesal, Renault could find only one other man who was troubled by what he had seen.

“Renault,” asked Braddock softly enough that Tassar could not hear them, “what the hell did we just watch?”

His friend had no answer for him. “I…I don’t know, man. I mean…they were spies, right? They deserved it, right?”

“But those kids, the expression on their faces…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I…neither have I.”

Neither of them said anything more. They had jobs to do, after all. But the shadow which fell over them now would linger for the rest of the time they spent with Nerinheit’s “Revolutionary Army.”

Which, it turned out, would not be as long as they expected.

_::Linear Notes::_

As you can probably tell, I’m drawing on a lot of history from the French Revolution and the Russian Revolution (of 1789 and 1916, respectively).


	18. The Fortress of Spears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khyron launches a counterattack against Paptimus' new Revolution. But things do not go as planned...

Wayward Son

Chapter 18: The Fortress of Spears

“God damn. You really weren’t kidding when you said this place’d been touched up.”

Renault and Braddock were standing next to Tassar as they looked with something not too far off from awe at what had once been the decrepit Nerinheit Castle. Renault calling it ‘touched up’ was a very, very great understatement.

He’d forgotten most of what he knew as a stoneworker over the years he’d spent as a mercenary—fighting left little time for pondering the finer points of architecture, after all. However, even at this point in his life he could appreciate the massive amount of effort which had gone into the castle. The detritus of time and neglect had been almost completely washed away, for one, and more importantly, the decaying walls and battlements had been almost completely repaired, in some cases having been overhauled and replaced entirely. The barbican and gatehouse had been rebuilt, looking larger and more intimidating than ever before (Renault remembered the portcullis had rusted away to nothing the first time he was here, but now the castle sported a huge, gleaming steel gate), and the rotting oak doors had been turned into a particularly inventive mini-portcullis, a smaller version of the one outside which provided roughly the same degree of protection.

All that would have been impressive enough on its own, but the fact that the castle was not merely being renovated but _expanded_ made Renault even more impressed. Around the castle was scaffolding and the beginnings of extra rooms, perhaps even an entire wing—more armories and barracks for troops, Renault assumed. They were still incomplete, and given that the Royalist army was supposed to be arriving here within a matter of days he might have been rather worried…if he hadn’t noticed the last aspect of Castle Nerinheit’s additions.

These had definitely been completed, and they were the most intimidating facet of castle, at least from a military standpoint. A good-sized stone wall had been hastily erected around the structure, providing it with yet another layer of defense. The wall was not the largest, thickest, or sturdiest Renault had seen, but that wasn’t what made it dangerous.

No, it was the dozens of battlements on that wall, each topped with a nasty-looking ballista armed with huge, sharp, vicious-looking bolts, which really made it a threat. Atop the castle itself, where Braddock, Tassar, Khyron, and Apolli had fended off a wing of Pegasus Knights so long ago, the single worn-down ballista Apolli had used had been turned into about another dozen brand-new ballistae, the serrated points of their giant bolts gleaming in the sun as if they were spears.

“It’s not just Castle Nerinheit anymore. Some have started calling it the Fortress of Spears,” chuckled Tassar, almost as if he’d read Renault’s mind. “The loyal, industrious workers of the Revolution have been very busy, as Paptimus might say. Well, you can see why we chose this location to take our stand, right?”

“Yeah, definitely,” replied Braddock. “This place would be a hard nut to crack even by Ostian standards!”

“I guess so,” said Renault—even as impressed as he was, he was still a bit doubtful. “Still, boss, like you always say, it’s never a good idea to underestimate your foe, right? I know for a fact the Mage Corps has a lot of long-range magic, and Khyron’s gonna be serious this time. You think even all these ballistae’ll be enough?”

The veteran mercenary simply grinned. “Good thinking, Renault. That kind of caution will keep you alive a lot longer. But with Paptimus’ plan, we definitely have the upper hand.”

“His plan? He didn’t talk much about that. He just told us to head over to this ca—uh, fortress.”

“Of course. You didn’t think he’d give it away in a public speech, did you? That’s the sort of thing any good commander wouldn’t do. Spies and leaks, after all. Let’s head over to our rooms and I’ll tell you how the battle will play out.”

Renault and Braddock looked at each other and blinked. “Wait, rooms?”

“Uh-huh. As you can see, the accommodations for the rest of the troops haven’t been finished yet, so most of the mercenaries and recruits will be sleeping outside. However, the more experienced among us have been awarded some of the old rooms in the castle itself. I’m one of ‘em, and since you two are under me, I requested you be given rooms nearby. Yours are right below mine, actually.”

“Whoah, nice,” said Renault happily. “Thanks, boss!”

Once again, Tassar merely grinned in response. “Don’t mention it. Let’s get moving, then.”

The trio did this with haste, passing through the gates of the first wall, then through the double portcullises of the castle itself, all while the recruits keeping guard and manning the ballistae saluted them assiduously.

Renault allowed himself to preen a bit, taking more than a slight amount of pride in the deference he was shown by the younger recruits, but that pride quickly turned to admiration for them once again when he stepped inside the castle and saw the work they’d done.

It wasn’t anything extraordinarily impressive, but it was nothing to sniff at either, especially given the hurry they must have been working in. The entrance hall was still dark and grey, but the floors and walls had been thoroughly cleaned—they no longer felt covered in dust and grime as they had when Renault had first encountered them. The throne room had really been done over. Lamentably, Nerinheit had not seen fit to return any of the carpeting the room probably once possessed, but at least the floors were clean, and the throne itself had been restored. No one sat in it at the moment, but rather than the rotting heap Renault remembered, it was a fine example of Northern Etruria’s best woodwork, a sturdy oak frame anointed with beautiful gilding of gold and silver.

Most pleasingly, the entire room was lit quite well by light filtering through the newly-made stained glass windows which now adorned the once-empty holes in the walls. Of course, these windows were very different from the originals—Renault didn’t know what those looked like, but he would have bet every gold piece he had that they did not depict images such as the Holy Royal Palace burning or a crowned figure being eaten up by purple flames.

Renault liked them quite a bit.

Of course, he and Braddock were the only ones busy admiring the scenery—all of the soldiers and civilians around them, each one devoted to the revolution, were busy on patrol, hurrying towards the site of their next job, carrying equipment to be used in the ongoing construction, or occupied with some other duty or another. Tassar was no exception, since he apparently already knew all about the improvements to the castle. “Enough gawking,” he chuckled, “let’s head up.”

The three men made their way through the dark, narrow stairwell which led to the living quarters they’d requisitioned the first time they’d stayed here. As he passed them by, Renault noted that most were occupied and had been cleaned, refurnished, and restocked—they each had amenities such as dressers and large, comfortable-looking beds.

“You’ll be staying in the last room at the end of the hall. I’ve got one right above yours—the former Count’s, in fact.”

It was there they headed, taking another flight of stairs, and when they arrived, Renault actually found himself somewhat underwhelmed for the first time in the day. The former Count’s room was as large as he expected, but not particularly well-decorated. The same bed, dresser, and basic amenities as Renault had seen in all the other rooms were this one’s most prominent features, and the only other furnishings that really stood out were a couple of extra chairs and a good-sized weapons rack on the far end, which actually did look impressive on its own.

Braddock was apparently thinking the same things as his friend, “Hey, boss, is this all you got? I was kind of figuring there’d be more in here, since you’re one of the most experienced guys in the army.”

“Yeah. I was actually offered a few more decorations, but I turned ‘em down. Those kinds of ostentatious displays are for nobles. Women might like ‘em,” and at this, his eyes narrowed in slight anger, “but not me. Everything I really need’s right here.

“Enough of that, though. Let me tell you what our job’s going to be when Khyron’s forces arrive.” He took a sit at the edge of the bed, and invited Renault and Braddock to pull up the chairs in front of him. Tassar reached to his belt and pulled out a small scroll, which he carefully unfurled and presented to Renault and Braddock.

The two of them peered at it with great interest, blinking as they attempted to parse it. It was a rough map of Nerinheit Castle and its environs. There were several blue dots along the walls and on top of the castle, and in front of the walls was a large blue circle. In front of _that_ was a large blue triangle and a pair of large blue rectangles with an arrow pointing behind them. At the south end of the map was a large red triangle with a large arrow pointing straight towards the blue triangle and big blue rectangle, and at the east and west sides of the map there were dozens more detachments of smaller blue rectangles, particularly among the green dots which seemed to represent the foliage surrounding the castle.

It took Renault a bit of time to figure out exactly what he was looking at, but Braddock got it right away. “Hey, isn’t this the layout for a battle map?” asked the Ostian. “They made me study a bunch of these back when I was a kid. Been a while since I’ve seen one.”

“You’re exactly right,” replied Tassar. “Let me explain what all this means. The big red triangle is Khyron’s army. He’s got about two-thirds of the entire Mage Corps with him—five thousand good men, with a few hundred archers, cavaliers, and other regular warriors he managed to cobble up from a few militias and town guards. On our side, we have all of the Red Shoulders, both veterans and new recruits Paptimus picked up who showed an aptitude for both dark magic and horsemanship. They’re just about a thousand strong, represented by that blue triangle, and beside them are two more contingents of cavalry, represented by the two blue rectangles. The ballistae are the blue dots, and the blue rectangles to the side are the mercenaries and recruits. Us. In fact, we three are exactly here,” he said as he pointed to one of the rectangles just outside the forest to the west. “And that big blue circle in the center is where we want the red triangle—Khyron’s forces—to end up.”

“Really? I think I see where this is going,” said Renault. “If those’re the forests, we’re supposed to be hiding in ‘em, right? It’s a surprise. And I saw how fast those Red Shoulders were on their horses. The dark magic guys are gonna hang around in front for a while, bait Khyron, then retreat back to the front of the castle. Khyron, assuming he’s still the same idiot I remember, is gonna charge after them blindly and get his forces stuck straight in the middle of the ballistae’s firing range, in that circle on the map. They’ll launch everything they’ve got, decimate his mages, and to top things off, that’s when we’ll rush out of the woods, trapping him in a pincer attack with the Red Shoulders and the recruits supporting them in front and us behind, all while the ballistae are tearing his guys apart. That’ll completely annihilate him!”

Braddock and Tassar looked at each other and grinned, then chuckled loudly, appreciative of Renault’s acuity. “Damn, bud,” Braddock chuckled, “you sure this was your first time doin’ tactics? You pick up pretty quick.”

Renault smiled back in response. “Hey, I’ve been hanging around you all this time. Some of your know-how rubbed off on me, is all!” His face quickly became more somber as he pondered the particulars of the plan in more depth. “Still, even though these tactics sound good, I dunno…what if Khyron catches on? If I were him I’d just ignore the Black Knights when they retreated, stay where I was, and hammer away at the ballistae with that long-range thunder magic. I mean, you guys taught me never to take unnecessary risks, right? What if Khyron’s learned the same thing?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tassar laughed. “Paptimus has been keeping an eye on the Mage General. He has…well, not spies, but methods, let’s say. We know for sure that Khyron is heading straight towards us—we’ve seen his army’s movements. He’s the same bullheaded, obstinate fool he was three years ago. He isn’t the slightest bit suspicious that the Revolutionary Army has given up so much land—he thinks we’re just running away. He has no idea we’re leading him into a trap.”

That was enough to assuage Renault’s fears, though Braddock still looked slightly suspicious. “Doesn’t surprise me,” said the young swordsman, “these nobles never learn. Right, Braddock?”

“Damn right. I dunno, though…Tassar, you said Paptimus is getting all this information on the enemy’s movements, right? How? You sure you trust him?”

“Definitely. Look…I don’t know all the exact details myself, but Paptimus can do some real amazing things with that magic of his. The shadows…talk to him, or something like that. He can keep tabs on pretty much anybody in Elibe if he wants.”

Braddock let out an appreciative whistle. “Damn. That dark magic’s some pretty potent stuff. Kinda scary, if you ask me.”

“Well, he’s on our side, so we don’t have anything to worry about, right?” smiled Renault. “But I do wonder…I remember you telling us you first met this guy after about ten years as a mercenary, right? So you and he aren’t that close? I thought you might have been lifelong friends or something.”

“Oh, we are close,” said Tassar. “You’re right, we haven’t known each other long, but our feelings about the nobility are exactly the same. I’d trust Paptimus with my life.” Both Braddock and Renault stared at him curiously. “Hm. Here, let me explain. I’ll tell you why I became a mercenary in the first place. Neither of you know, right?”

“I don’t,” said Braddock. “We’ve known each other for years, but, uh…well, you never asked me why I joined up with you, so I figured I wouldn’t ask you either.”

“Hm. That’s understandable. Well, don’t worry about it. I might as well tell you now. I have to warn you, though, it’s nothing too impressive. Just me learning some harsh realities about the world, really.” Tassar had a sardonic grin on his face as he said this, but the hardness in his blue eyes indicated the memories he was reliving weren’t easy for him to relive. He leaned forward, towards his two friends, and began his tale.

“I grew up in a little village not too far away from Thagaste. Just a commoner…son of a farmer, in fact. Thought I’d follow in his footsteps. We weren’t too rich, but we were pretty well off, especially compared to the hicks in places like Scirocco or Austros. All things considered, I was pretty happy. Really happy, in fact. See, I was in love.”

His hands clenched slightly. “Her name was…is…Elicia. She was a real beauty. Pretty much every guy in my village wanted her, in fact. Long blonde hair, a body out of a man’s best dreams…She was a hell of an archer, too. Could outshoot even the best of our hunters. Hard to believe she was the daughter of another farmer. But we’d known each other since we were kids, so when I was about 20, I scraped together every spare gold piece I could find and bought her this fancy ring. Real fancy…gold, tipped with a ruby and everything. She said yes, so I thought I was set for the rest of my life…

“Hah. Well, I hope you two take this lesson to heart. Never trust a woman. Just a few days after the engagement, Count Barim of Reglay passed through town. That bastard was notoriously picky…his parents had tried to marry him off for months, but he never found another noble girl he liked. He came to my village on his way back from a failed meeting with some girl from…Verelecht. Padstow. Forgot which. Big commotion when he stayed—he wasn’t stingy with his money, and provided more for lodging than most of us had seen in our lives. But, of course, being a noble, he wasn’t too bright. He headed out one day for a bit of ‘fun’ and managed to get himself almost gored by a wild boar in one of the nearby woods.

“It was Elicia…my wife-to-be…she saved his worthless hide. Took one shot at the beast and killed it on the spot. And when she ran up to the Count…” He grimaced. “Guess it must have been love at first sight. I know how it happened…every damn soul in the village couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks. The Count asked her if she had someone…I guess she forgot about me. He asked her what she could offer a man besides her beauty…and she said something along the lines of, ‘I would pledge my life to defend my beloved, milord.’ And that was that. He asked her hand in marriage, and she accepted.

“Naturally, I was completely shattered. But nobody else cared. Elicia wouldn’t talk to me, and a few days later she left the village with Count Reglay—never saw her until we three left Aquleia on this campaign, in fact. My father and all my friends told me to stop whining, that this was good for our village. Maybe they were right. I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is that I hated the nobility…hated them for just being able to sweep in and take whatever they wanted, the wishes of us petty commoners be damned. And I hated Elicia…I trusted her, and she betrayed me.

“I didn’t want to live in a world like that, and I still don’t. I wanted nothing more to do with my family, with the life I’d previously led. I wanted to change it all. I knew I couldn’t then, but someday…someday, I knew, if I became strong enough, I could make Elicia and Reglay and all of them, I could make them bow before me rather than the other way around. I could control them…but for that, I needed power.”

“So you became a mercenary,” said Braddock, an unreadable expression on his face.

Tassar nodded, a wide grimace on his face now. “Exactly right. I left my village, sold that stupid ring, and bought myself a sword with the money. I trained, and trained, and trained, then left Etruria, then fought, and fought, and fought, until I was as you see me now. And I’m not done yet, boys. Not even close. I’m going to gain power…more and more power, until I’m one of the strongest men on Elibe. Alongside Paptimus, I can gain that power. Then I’ll march on Aquleia, kill that Reglay bastard…and I’ll leave her alive. Leave Elicia alive. I’ll make her sorry for making a fool out of me. I’ll dominate her…control her like nobody could before. She’ll go from a nobleman’s wife, a great Countess, into a pathetic chamber maid, coming and going at my every whim. And then…then, she’ll really regret mocking me.

“Paptimus…he understood. He understood how it feels to be a stooge of the nobility, to have something you want taken away from you simply because some worthless popinjay has more ‘peerage’ than you, has more money and land than you, through no merit of his own. Do you see, Braddock? You understand, right, Renault? Why I believe in Paptimus, and why I’ll support him to the end?”

“I…I guess,” said Braddock, looking rather disappointed. “Damn, boss, I…I’m sorry. I never knew any of this before. I…I guess I’m sorry for asking.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it. You’d hear about it sooner or later, after all.”

“But…I mean…isn’t that kind of, well…look, I’m not one to talk, but there are better reasons for supporting a revolution…hell, becoming a mercenary than over a girl leaving you, aren’t there?”

“Oh, really?” Tassar grew a little angry at this, which unsettled Renault quite a bit. “So what’s your story, eh, Braddock? You have a better reason for joining up with me back when the war broke out in Lycia?”

“I…that’s…” Braddock recoiled and looked away, unable to meet the man’s gaze. “I just… ended up that way,” he mumbled.

Tassar sneered. “Hmph. Well, you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine with me. But somehow, I doubt you have much room to talk down to me.” He looked at Renault, then waved a hand in the air, almost to dismiss what he’d just said, and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Enough of this nonsense. Both of you, get back to your rooms and get some rest. Khyron’s going to arrive within the next couple of days, and we have to be ready.”

That essentially ended the conversation, and the two men followed their boss’ orders, Braddock mumbling a small apology as they exited the room.

Renault was now curious about Braddock’s past as a mercenary, but he realized that if his friend wouldn’t tell his own boss, he definitely wanted that part of his life kept shut. Thus, Renault turned the subject into something they were more likely to agree on—the nagging sense of disappointment they felt for the man they’d considered a leader for years.

“I know how you feel, Braddock,” said Renault. “I mean, Tassar’s one hell of a fighter…I thought there’d be more behind him than some gold-digging whore,. Still, I guess that just goes to show you can find great people from the weirdest backgrounds. Look at me! I became a mercenary just ‘cause I hated living with my mom. Compared to that, Tassar’s story wasn’t so bad, eh?”

Braddock couldn’t stifle a chuckle at this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. And his advice is as good as ever, anyways. Let’s get some sleep. I sure as hell wouldn’t want those nobles to catch me flat-footed, after all!”

Laughing, the two men entered their room and prepared for bed, the strange revelations of their leader’s past already fading behind them.

-X-

“Is there a problem, m’lord?”

Gafgarion asked this as he, Apolli, and Rosamia trudged wearily behind Khyron, the rest of their army doing the same. The marching was fast, but fortunately spring had begun to lay her blessings on the land as the Month of the Knight dawned, so the middle-aged—almost elderly Cavalier at least did not have to deal with the cold which so irked him.

The Mage General, of course, was more than capable of dealing with any weather, hot or cold, which was why Gafgarion found it a bit odd that his pace had suddenly slowed, and thus inquired as to his lord’s welfare. Fortunately, though, there didn’t seem to be anything seriously wrong with Khyron.

He simply shook his head to dismiss his retainer’s concerns. “It’s nothing, Gafgarion. I’m merely consumed with anticipation! Those blackhearted traitors…even at this pace, I still feel we’re moving too slowly! Exedol’s blood cries out for me to avenge him!”

“I certainly understand that, m’lord,” and Gafgarion wasn’t being dishonest either—in the days after Yulia’s death, there were times he felt the same way. But, of course, enough time had passed that he could look at his emotions with a more level head. “Uh…but if y’d pardon me sayin’ so, I’d—“

“What, do you have more objections to our course?” Khyron shot him an irritated, angry look. “I know commoners cannot be expected to be as courageous as members of the Mage Corps, but I’ve had more than enough of your lily-livered whining. All this nonsense about ‘traps’ and being ‘baited’ into their territory…you’re simply deluding yourself! We’ve been given a great opportunity, and we must take it! The rebels are fleeing before us because they know our strength! And we shall prove it to them! We know the cowards are gathering at old Nerinheit Castle, and that is where we will deliver the killing blow! We’ll destroy them all in one fell swoop, then march on to the city of Nerinheit and bring the leaders of this disgraceful rebellion to justice!”

Gafgarion shut his eyes and sighed, hoping Khyron wouldn’t notice. He’d tried to convince the Mage General to show some caution, to at least consider the possibility that the rebels’ “retreat” was just a ruse, but he knew by now it was an utterly pointless enterprise. Thus, this time he tried another tack. “Yes, m’lord,” he said, “But, uh…could I, uh, just make a lil’ request in regards to our tactics?”

“No, no turning back, no slowing down! I’ve already told you—“

“Er, ‘twasn’t that, Lord Khyron…”

“Well then, what is it?”

“Well, when we get to the castle, your Mage Corps’ll be heading the attack, right? That’s what y’ told me, and all the other knights and cavaliers y’ managed to find.”

“Yes, that’s right. Your men are reserves, nothing more. I was told to bring you along just in case, but you won’t be necessary. The Mage Corps will destroy them all by ourselves!”

“Er…yes sir, m’lord. But I was just wonderin’…d’you think you could let my men and I lead the assault?”

Khyron turned to look at him suspiciously. “Hmm? And why’s that? You were the one always voicing doubts about this campaign before. Have you suddenly found your nerve?”

“I, uh…y-yeah, that’s it! Exactly it, m’lord. I may not be a member of the Mage Corps, but, uh, I’d like t’ show my devotion to King Galahad, and all my men feel the same way. Please, give us a chance!”

Gafgarion thought he didn’t sound nearly sincere enough, but apparently he did a good enough job to please Khyron, who grinned widely. “Hah! I suppose my criticism has finally encouraged you to straighten out that old spine of yours. Good to see! Very well, Gafgarion, I’ll allow you an opportunity to prove yourself. You and your men will head our charge! I’ll change our planned formation when we arrive, which should be…about two days, given our pace. I expect great things from you, Gafgarion!”

“Thanks, m’lord,” Gafgarion mumbled with no enthusiasm whatsoever. Khyron, of course, didn’t notice, and picked up his own pace, energized by the thought that his retainer was finally as eager for the campaign as he was. This allowed Gafgarion enough space to slow down his horse ever so slightly, bringing him back to Rosamia and Apolli, who were marching behind him.

Apolli shot him a look of pure confusion mixed with just a slight bit of fear. “P…Pops!” he stammered, taking care not to be overheard by Khyron. “W…what’s all this about? You’re goin’ up front? Why?”

Gafgarion sighed. “I had to, lad. I got a duty to this country, and even to Khyron, no matter what kind o’ bull-headed foolishness he gets ‘imself into. You won’t have t’ join me, Apolli—you can hang back with the rest of th’ mage force, I won’t—“

“N-No! No way, pops! W-where…where you go, I go! Y-you’re m—my—Yulia’s dad, I’m not lettin’ anything happen to you!”

“Then y’r gonna have to fight up front beside me, lad.”

“Sir, why?” Rosamia seemed to be just as concerned as Apolli. “There’s no reason for you and your men to risk yourselves like that! We are the Mage Corps, this battle is our responsibility, not yours!”

He chuckled in response. “You’re a good lass, Rosamia. Believe me, I’m grateful f’r your concern. But like I said, I gotta think about the future o’ this country. We’re headin’ into a trap, plain as day, even if Khyron can’t see it. But he’s still the Mage General, and the Mage Corps are the strongest part of Etruria’s army. Whatever happens, I can’t let ‘em go down here. I dunno what’s waitin’ for us at Nerinheit…but if I can help Khyron and the Mage Corps survive a lil’ longer, maybe even escape, that’s what I’m gonna do. And that’s why I’m askin’ my men to keep ourselves right in the front o’ battle. Like I said, I can’t ask either o’ you to do the same, but…”

Both Rosamia and Apolli looked at him sadly, pleadingly, but the expression on his face let them know he wouldn’t be swayed.

“Well…Gafgarion, my duty is to my master, so I will stand by both of you no matter what,” said Rosamia. “But…Apolli? You don’t have to do this. No-one will condemn you if you—“

The youth shook his head. “N-no…I said it already. Where Pops goes, I go.”

“That settles it, then,” Gafgarion replied.

Nothing more needed to be said. The trio continued to march forwards together, the determination and resignation on their faces foreshadowing what they knew their fate would be.

-x-

“READY YOURSELVES, LADS! YOU CHARGE ON MY MARK!”

Gafgarion yelled this as he sat astride his horse, brandishing his trusty Short Spear—part of some spoils of war he’d acquired in his younger days, and something he was glad to have now. At his side and behind him, the Knights, Cavaliers, and Archers (Apolli among them) who had both accompanied him from Caerleon and signed up for the campaign from other countships nervously brandished their own weapons, regarding the great fortress they stood in front of with a combination of fear and anticipation.

Both he and Khyron knew the rebels had been preparing for them, but neither of them expected anything like this. The old Cavalier had to give credit where credit was due—that Paptimus had kept himself busy. Even at this distance, and squinting slightly because of the light produced by the mid-day sun, his old eyes could make out the good-sized wall which had been erected around the structure, and the castle itself didn’t look as dilapidated as Apolli had described it when he first returned from his journey to Scirocco.

More worrisome was the force waiting right outside those walls. They were a great black mass that appeared to be a mounted force of about two thousand men. He was still too far away to tell exactly, but Gafgarion wagered those Red Shoulders Khyron had warned his troops about were among them.

That was what worried him. The Red Shoulders were strong, but not that strong. Were they planning to take on the Mage Corps with just two thousand men? Not likely.

“Somethin’s definitely up,” Gafgarion muttered to no-one but himself. “There’re some woods nearby…least on the map of this place I looked at. The enemy general’s got reserves in there? Probably.” He sighed to himself, knowing it was pointless to think any further—Khyron wouldn’t listen. He turned back to regard the man, who was standing next to Rosamia at the head of the Mage Corps formation behind Gafgarion’s non-magical warriors.

“Lord Khyron,” he called, “Everything’s set. Are your men prepared!”

“Of course!” Khyron called back. “Stop wasting time! I gave you the privilege of leading this attack, now use it!”

“Thanks,” muttered Gafgarion in response. Turning back towards Nerinheit Castle, he raised his spear in the air. “YOU HEARD THE MAN,” he yelled, “EVERYBODY, CHARGE!”

A rousing cheer emanated both from his men and Khyron’s mages, and with a great clatter of hooves and stomping of feet the Royalists began their charge, Gafgarion at their head. A similar cheer could be heard from the black-clad rebels defending the castle, and they began their own charge straight towards their enemy.

It seemed as if not even a second had passed before the spells started flying. The Red Shoulders—they were close enough now that Gafgarion could see their distinctive pauldrons—raised their hands in the air, and that disgusting magic that Khyron said had killed crashed against his troops. Dozens of black domes popped up among the charging warriors, the air crackling with violet energy. They disappeared in a flash, leaving behind pale, shaken, troops—the veteran watched one rookie actually fall off his horse.

 _Nothing to do about that,_ Gafgarion thought to himself. Spurring his horse to run even faster, he shouted, “DON’T WORRY ABOUT THEIR RANGED MAGIC! IT CAN HURT, BUT IT WON’T KILL! LET’S BRING THE FIGHT T’ THEM!”

Khyron’s boys (and girls), of course, already had. Gafgarion watched with more than a bit of grim satisfaction as great bolts of thunder rained down from the sky upon the rebel cavalry. He had little time to appreciate the fireworks, though, for his enemy was already upon him. Khyron had briefed him well on the effects of dark magic, and he grimaced as he pulled on his steed’s reins to veer it to the right—just in time to bring him away from the black sphere coalescing in the air over the purple sigil on the ground he just passed.

In response, he unlimbered one of his short spears and tossed it at his attacker, not bothering to note the spurt of blood and cry of pain as it embedded itself into a Black Rider’s torso and sent him tumbling off his mount. He was already occupied with taking out another short spear and using it to keep another Cavalier’s sword thrusts at bay.

All around him, similar clashes were occurring as the Royalists and the revolutionaries tossed themselves at each other. Gafgarion’s fellow Cavaliers acquitted themselves well, comparatively; when their swords and spears vied with those of Paptimus’ cavalry, almost as many of his men dropped as did Gafgarion’s. The Red Shoulders did more damage, their dark magic turning several brave fighters to dust (it took all of Gafgarion’s self-discipline not to retch at the effect the spells had on one Cavalier—a good thing, too, for if he’d paused at that moment, he himself might have suffered the same fate), but fortunately, their efforts were quickly disrupted by a small shower of arrows—some launched by Apolli, Gafgarion hoped. He was glad Khyron had agreed to bring some archers with him, and even more glad for the power of the mages as they sent another barrage of bolts screaming down from the sky, further hampering the efforts of the Black Knights.

Yet he still felt little cheer. “This is too easy,” he muttered to himself as he ducked under another Cavalier’s jab, retaliating with a successful one of his own. Gafgarion was proud of the men he led, but he couldn’t lie to himself—no-one could besmirch the bravery of the five hundred or so town guardsmen and militia Khyron had managed to cobble together, and almost all of them had some experience in battle, but up till now they had mostly faced gangs of bandits and brigands. They were not true soldiers, and against a two-thousand-strong force led by those terrifying Black Knights, they shouldn’t have stood a chance, even with the Mage Corps backing them up.

Yet the attack of the rebels seemed curiously tepid. The enemy horsemen fought less as if they wanted to crush their foes and more as if they merely wanted to do a little damage while they stalled for time. And Gafgarion’s suspicions were confirmed when he saw the enemy general—a Black Knight whose ebony armor covered all but the wan skin around his pale lips—raise a hand in the air and shout, “Fall back, men! FALL BACK!”

The rebels had not suffered many casualties—just about as many as Gafgarion’s men, most struck down by the mages—but still, they obeyed the order, quickly turning tail and rushing as fast as they could back to the walls of Nerinheit Castle. A cheer rose up from Gafgarion’s forces, and a few soldiers looked as if they were ready to give chase. Their leader wouldn’t let them, however. “WAIT UP!” he yelled, stopping his horse, “DON’T GO AFTER ‘EM! THEY’RE UP T’ SOMETHING!”

Unfortunately, Khyron would have none of it. “WHAT IN BLAZES ARE YOU DOING?” Khyron shouted this as he raised his own hand in the air, preparing to give his forces the order to advance. “GET MOVING, GAFGARION! THEY’RE GETTING AWAY!”

“But Lord Khyron,” he called back, “It might be—“

“ENOUGH OF YOUR WHINING! IF YOUR MEN WON’T FIGHT, THEN GET THE HELL OUT OF OUR WAY! MAGES, IGNORE EVERYONE ELSE! WE ATTACK THE CASTLE!”

The Mage Corps yelled their assent, telling Gafgarion that they’d plow right over him and his soldiers no matter what his objections may be. Sighing inwardly, he pointed forwards, yelling, “ALRIGHT LADS, YOU HEARD HIM! CHARGE!”

Shouts and hollers greeted Gafgarion in response, and as one the entire Royalist army began to move once again. The former mayor’s Cavaliers headed the formation, their mounts rushing quickly but taking care not to outpace the rest of the army—the archers running behind them and the many mages behind those. The rebel forces had reached the castle’s outer walls, and they seemed to be waiting for the royalists—somehow, Gafgarion suspected they weren’t feeling fear, but rather anticipation.

In any case, his suspicions would be confirmed quite soon, as the distance between the two armies was rapidly closing. Even in his wildest nightmares, however, Gafgarion did not expect what would happen next.

The leader of the Black Knights pointed a finger in the air, and Gafgarion thought he would be casting a spell. He did, of a sort. Purple flame blazed across the sky above the armies, forming a sigil…

“Wait a second,” said Gafgarion, as he and the entire army slowed slightly to get a better view of the spell above them. “That’s not some sigil, those’re…what the hell?!”

Something was definitely floating in the air, but it wasn’t the mark of a spell. Rather, it was a single word, traced in black energy and purple flame across the sky.

_FIRE!_

“DAMN IT,” Gafgarion hollered, “EVERYBODY, WAIT—“

It was already too late. The distinctive twang of immensely heavy ropes being released echoed across the battlefield, immediately followed by the deep, bellowing whoosh scores of massive bolts produced as they soared through the air. Gafgarion and his troops could only watch in dismay as the missiles soared over their heads and into the Mage Corps, powerless to stop the screams of pain and horror as the magicians began to fall.

Those screams were overwhelmed by the loud yell of the Black Knights and their allies as they began a second charge, ramming into the Royalist ranks and stopping their advance in its tracks. Screams and yells echoed all around him as Gafgarion once again found himself fighting for his life—the moment he heard the rebels begin their charge he had slowed his mount and veered it slightly to the right, which saved him from slamming right into a black-clad Paladin. He instinctively thrust one of his Short Spears at the man’s head, but the rider blocked it with his shield, and prepared a counterattack which would have skewered the old veteran had one of the Mages not sent a bolt of thunder to strike the rebel off his horse.

The Black Knights and their fellows were serious now, and it took all of Gafgarion’s skill to avoid both the black magic being thrown at him and the javelins, hand axes, and sword thrusts aiming for him. He didn’t have time to mount any attacks of his own, and had no choice but to guide his mount slowly backwards as several of his soldiers immediately rushed to his aid. They performed well, taking down several of their foes, but it was clear the Royalists no longer had the upper hand.

And it would soon be obvious that the Royalists no longer had even a faint hope of victory. As he began his retreat, Gafgarion heard Khyron screaming, “STAND STRONG, MEN! THIS IS ONLY A MINOR SETBACK! TARGET THOSE BALLISTAS AND THEN WE’LL DEAL WITH THE BLACK KNIGHTS!” Already, a few scattered bolts of electricity were falling upon the outer walls and parapets of Castle Nerinheit, and though another volley from the ballistae struck down even more mages, Gafgarion thought that if he and his men managed to delay the black cavalry and keep them from reaching the mages for just a while longer, they could take out the artillery and then concentrate all their energy on the Black Knights, breaking what seemed to be the castle’s main means of defense.

Unfortunately, that prospect would be dashed the moment he heard a massive hue and cry arising from the east and west—from among the small woods and copses of trees to the sides of the castle. As he tossed another Short Spear at a Black Knight (managing to embed it squarely in his horse’s side, sending it to the ground and providing an opportunity for an archer to plant an arrow in his chest), he glanced around to see what all the fuss was about.

His eyes widened and the color drained from his face as he watched two large groups of infantry emerge from those woods, masses of swordsmen, archers, and knights screaming wildly as they charged into the fray. There were thousands of them—this was the true strength of Nerinheit’s defenders, Gafgarion realized.

Khyron noticed it too, and he screamed for his men to turn their energies towards their new foes, but it was too little, too late. Electricity arced across the entire battlefield, striking the ballistae, the Black Knights, and the new infantrymen who had joined the battle, but since they were attacking foes all around them, the mages’ magic was too dispersed to do any real damage. And, of course, as strong as magic-users might be at a distance, spells afforded them little defense against cold steel, and scores of them began falling as soon as the Mercenaries, Myrmidons, and Knights reached them. The Mage Corps was outnumbered, quite badly, and the line of infantrymen at the east and west was more than long enough to wrap around the entire Mage Corps formation the moment they came within range. The king’s men were surrounded and trapped.

As if to punctuate their misfortune, a third time the ballistae of Castle Nerinheit released their loads, sending another volley of those huge, destructive bolts flying down upon the beleaguered royalists. And now, the attack wreaked even more destruction—with little room to maneuver, the mages were almost completely unable to dodge any of the attacks, though several of them bravely and skillfully attempted to shoot down some of the missiles with spells. But it was a futile gesture—surrounded on all sides by the surprise attack, unable to retaliate against any of their foes effectively, and stuck in the middle of the battlefield as more ballista bolts rained down upon them, the Mage Corps was getting slaughtered.

Gafgarion, for all his self-discipline and experience, had never seen any defeat as horrible as this. So demoralized was he that he sat dumbly upon his horse for a moment, unable to notice the black sigil forming beneath them. And when he did, it would have already been too late—had the caster of that spell not tumbled off his own mount, an arrow through his forehead. Gafgarion turned to look at his savior, and saw Apolli, eyes wide in shock, numbly holding his bow in his hands—and shocked, almost traumatized by the fact that he had killed a second time, but also possessed of a resolute determination to save the life of his would-be father-in-law.

‘POPS,” he screamed, “W-WE GOTTA DO SOMETHING! HELP!”

That was enough to snap Gafgarion out of his trance. “Damn right we do, lad! C’mon! I gotta get to Khyron! It’s our only hope!”

With renewed vigor, Gafgarion rejoined the battle, sending his Short Spears flying left and right, and when he ran out of those, brandishing his trusty steel sword and hacking away at any swordsman, cavalier, or dark magician who dared to get close to him. Several of his fellow cavaliers backed him up, giving their lives to provide enough time for the veteran to reach the army’s leader, and of course Apolli and his fellow archers worked as hard as they could to provide some support from behind. The mages were far too occupied with fending off the infantry ambush (and dealing with the ballista attacks) to help, but Gafgarion didn’t mind—if he could just get Khyron to agree to his plan, the battle could be salvaged.

It couldn’t be won, but God willing, they could be saved from total defeat.

-x-

“LET’S GO!”

Renault had been waiting to hear those words. His blood had boiled with anticipation when he saw the signal in the air, large enough to be seen from the outskirts of the woods he, Tassar, and Braddock were hiding in, and he could barely hold it in when he saw the ballisticians unleash their first barrage, and then a second. But he had learned enough self-restraint to wait, and only when his boss had shouted his command did he leave his position.

Cheering at the top of his lungs, he ran as quickly as he could towards the unsuspecting mages in front of him. Beside him were the rest of his fellow ‘flanking forces,’ Renault knew another line of infantry was closing in on the enemy from their positions in the east (Dina and many of their trainees were over there, if Renault had heard correctly), and right next to him was Braddock—the Ostian wasn’t as enthusiastic as he was, but no less determined and no less prepared to fight, and he easily kept pace with his best friend as they rushed forwards. Tassar seemed to have forgotten all about the unpleasant conversation they’d had about his past a few days ago, and while Braddock still seemed a bit perturbed, Renault was glad to see it didn’t seem to hamper his performance in battle.

That would be important, because it wasn’t long at all before the mages took note of the new combatants. Renault heard panicked shouts and cries for assistance coming up from within the Mage Corps formation, and directly afterwards thunderbolts began falling all across the battlefield—Renault didn’t even bother to look as electricity fried a Knight just a few feet behind him, cooking the man alive in his own armor. This only encouraged Renault to pick up his pace and for Braddock and the rest of the soldiers to do the same. Their charge might have been broken by a focused attack, but the mages were too distracted by the eastern ambush forces, the Black Knights, and the ballistae to concentrate their Bolting spells on any one target.

Thus, Renault and his fellows had an easy time reaching the magic-users. And up close, they were much easier prey. Screaming, Renault jumped forwards and slashed down with sword, sending a mage to the grassy ground in a spray of bright-red blood. Beside him, Tassar’s silver sword separated a Sage’s head from his shoulders, and a well-timed throw from Braddock’s hand axe left another mage screaming and clutching the bloody stump where his right arm used to be. All around them similar scenes played out, Paptimus’s mercenaries and conscripted soldiers laying into the Mage Corps with the viciousness of piranhas devouring a fresh meal. The ground around him was soon deeply wet with blood, and Renault had to pause a moment to avoid slipping in order to keep from losing his footing after jamming his sword through another Mage’s gut.

He heard the loud clomp of hooves behind him, and quickly rolled to the side to avoid getting trampled by a Troubadour rushing to the aid of some wounded Royalist in the distance. She’d never get there. Renault may have gotten out of her way, but the same couldn’t be said for a Knight nearby. The armored warrior turned and managed to get his spear up in time to score a gash on the horse’s side, but not before it crashed into him, tripping over itself and falling on top of him, unseating its mistress.

The girl’s head hit the ground with a thump, and though the soil was soft it still dazed her enough that she couldn’t get up right away. That was all the time Renault needed to rush over her, grab a handful of her hair, and yank her head back to slit her throat.

As he dropped the girl’s corpse, Renault’s attention was drawn to something white he noticed in one of the folds in her blouse. Even in the midst of battle he couldn’t resist his curiosity, and quickly and surreptitiously knelt down to feel around under the dead Troubadour’s clothing. His efforts were rewarded when he felt something soft and fluffy, and pulled it out to reveal what looked to be an amazingly detailed, life-like replica of a pair of Pegasus wings. As he held it before him, he saw it glowing softly, indicating it was a magical relic—Speedwings, according to some tales he had heard.

He’d little time to appreciate his prize, for the moment he pocketed it he heard a voice yell, “RENAULT! DUCK!”

Without thinking, he obeyed the order, just in time to avoid a fireball that whizzed over his head and ended up slamming into an unfortunate young axeman—Renault groaned when he realized the boy had been one of Braddock’s trainees.

 _Well, no time to dwell on it,_ he thought to himself as he picked himself up and returned to the battle, yelling, “THANKS!” To his surprise, it was Dougram, not Braddock or Tassar, who nodded his head. Faster than Renault’s eyes could see, the Nabatan carved two deep gashes in the torso of the mage who’d fired that spell, stepping back lightly and gracefully as the cadaver fell to the earth.

“Be careful, Renault,” admonished the Swordmaster, “Finding a trinket won’t do you any good if you end up dead right afterwards!”

“I know, I know, replied Renault sheepishly, still keeping his head low to avoid any more errant spells, “Braddock keeps telling me the same thing. Whoah, hey, speaking of,” Renault looked around, suddenly very concerned, “Where is he? He was right next to me just a second ago!”

“Right over there!” Dougram pointed to a spot to the east just a few paces away, where both Braddock and Tassar were fighting side-by-side against a pair of Mages and a small group of archers who’d found their way back to assist their noble masters. Tassar grimaced slightly as an arrow grazed his shoulder, and Renault noticed Braddock was holding his axe with one hand—his other hung painfully at his side; one of the Mages must have managed to hit the mark with a Fire spell, Renault realized.

“We gotta help him!” he cried. “COME ON!”

“Right behind you!”

Both Braddock and Tassar jumped to the left and right, respectively, to dodge the Elfire spells and arrows their enemies loosed at them (Braddock landing painfully on his burned arm), and Renault knew they were vulnerable. Wasting not a moment, he leapt forwards as high as he could, enough to bring him over the head of the Archer attempting to draw another arrow from his quiver to launch at Braddock. By the time he saw Renault’s shadow over him, he didn’t have time to scream before the sellsword brought his weapon crashing down into his head, cleaving it almost in two and embedding itself in the mangled stump of his neck. At the same time, Dougram dashed forward, almost seeming to float upon the ground as he dispatched one Mage with a swift slash to the neck, and then as his arm moved in the arc of the same strike, spun around and brought his blade across the neck of the other nearby Mage as well.

Only two Archers were left, and one was quickly dispatched by Renault as the swordsman gave the corpse of the first archer a good kick to dislodge his blade, then darted forward to slam its pommel into the archer’s temple. The young man crossed his eyes and fell to the ground, out cold. Choosing to deal with the other active foe before killing the unconscious one, Renault turned to the remaining archer, prepared to eviscerate him, but found it unnecessary when a hand axe slammed into the man’s shoulder, forcing him to keel over as Tassar rushed up and put him out of his misery.

The immediate threats dealt with, Renault put everything else aside to rush up to his friend. “Braddock,” he yelled, “What happened?!”

“Ugh,” winced the Ostian, “Yeah, you noticed my arm, right? Sorry…one of those mages blasted me when I wasn’t looking. I managed to avoid the worst of it, but—“

“Don’t worry about it, bud, I’m just glad you’re still breathin. Hah, I knew it’d take more than a couple noble idiots to put either of us down! Here, drink this.” Renault unclasped one of the Vulneraries at his belt and handed it to Braddock, who gratefully took a swig. Almost immediately, the charred flesh on his arm began to flake off, revealing healthier skin beneath, though it was still red and raw.

“Feel better already,” smiled Braddock. “Thanks for the save, Renault. Now let’s get back to the fight!”

Helping his friend to his feet, Renault was about to jump back into the fray when he noticed Tassar and Dougram kneeling over the prone body of the Archer he had knocked out.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Renault asked as he and Braddock scurried up to the two of them, wary of the spells and arrows flying all around them. “We got a job to do, if you hadn’t noticed?”

“Renault,” replied Tassar, “take a look at this kid. You recognize him?”

Both Braddock and Renault knelt down to see what their leader was talking about, and the swordsman’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the Archer’s sandy blond hair and youthful features. “Hey, he does look familiar. I think I’ve seen him before. Wasn’t he at…yeah, Scirocco?”

“I think you’re right, bud,” said Braddock, crouching down next to him. “Yeah, I remember him! A…Apolli, that was his name. Yulia’s…aw, man, Yulia’s fiancée.”

“I thought so,” said Tassar. “What do we do with him? Kill him?”

“You can’t do that!” Dougram clearly felt strongly about this. “If he really was your friend, you can’t just toss away his life that easily! That…that’s not justice at all!”

“I agree, boss,” added Braddock, “I mean, hell, it never hurt to have another prisoner, right? Who knows, maybe we can get him to join our side, especially if we tell him about what really happened back there!” When he said this, though, Renault noticed the expression on his face wasn’t the most sincere.

It didn’t matter to Tassar, though. “Yeah, you’re probably right. We still have to live through this battle, though, and we can’t look after an unconscious man. Let’s get back in action, and if the kid’s still lying here when we come back, we’ll put him in one of Nerinheit Castle’s cells.”

Braddock still didn’t look so happy about that, but Dougram and Renault found the prospect reasonable, so in the end the decision was unanimous. All four of them readied their weapons and prepared to rejoin the battle. It had already moved beyond them, by now—the Mage Corps formation became smaller and smaller, and though they were fighting admirably—scores of Paptimus’ soldiers fell by the moment to thunder, flame, or ice—it was clear they were being overwhelmed. About half of them had already fallen, and the number seemed to be growing by the moment. The few hundred regular troops Khyron had brought along (which Renault hadn’t been expecting, for that matter) had all but been annihilated, and the frantic, unfocused attacks of the Mage Corps could not stop the incessant barrages of the ballistae, the terrifying magic of the Black Knights, or the merciless onslaught of the mercenaries and recruits.

Apparently, their leader could not come to terms with this. Renault heard a voice carry across the battlefield, amplified by the enchantment he had already become used to, courtesy of Paptimus. “STAND FIRM, MEN!” Renault sneered when he recognized the affected, pompous voice of Khyron Caerleon now trembling with panic. “PUSH THEM BACK! PUSH THEM BACK!”

“Fat chance,” the sellsword grinned to himself as he, Braddock, Tassar, and Dougram charged forward, quickly slaughtering another small group of mages as their allies around them continued to press the attack. It seemed as if it would be a total victory, but all of a sudden, the course of battle was changed—at least somewhat—when new orders began to echo across the wind.

“DAMMIT, KHYRON,” yelled a man’s voice Renault couldn’t recognize, “WE CAN’T WIN LIKE THIS!”

“SILENCE, GAFGARION! HOW DARE YOU—“

Renault blinked—he had no idea who could be talking, and neither did his friends. All four of them stopped for a moment to peer into the distance. Although it was too far to make out, near the center of the beleaguered Mage Knight formation Renault saw a Sage who had to be Khyron, but on a horse right next to him, within the field of his voice-enhancement, was a Cavalier. Renault couldn’t make out any of the man’s features, and that probably wouldn’t have helped anyways—he didn’t recognize the name ‘Gafgarion’ anyways.

Whoever this guy was, though, he now seemed to be in command of the battle. “EVERYBODY, LISTEN!’ he called again, either not knowing or not caring that the whole battlefield could hear him. ‘THROW EVERYTHING Y’GOT AT THE LINE O’ REBELS BEHIND US! IF Y’ CAN SCATTER ‘EM OR JUST BREAK THEIR FORMATION, WE MIGHT BE ABLE T’ GET OUTTA HERE! COME ON!”

“What the hell,” Renault began, “They can’t—OH, SHIT!”

The air itself seemed to grow heavier around him and his vision swam as huge amounts of magical energy gathered around the area he and his allies were standing, and the world flashed blindingly white as a flurry of thunder crashed around them. Renault stumbled backwards, and it was only pure luck none of the bolts struck him. His friends were not so lucky—the screams of dying men echoed from all around him, and when he opened his eyes the first thing he noticed was Dougram, who had been thrown more than twenty feet away and was loudly groaning in pain, lying flat on his back, his long blond hair sticking out straight in every direction. Renault would have laughed, but he was too busy stumbling off to the side in order to avoid the sudden blasts of electricity, fire, and ice which further scattered the mercenaries who had been happily eating away at the Mage Corps’ rear flank just moments ago.

Like a well-oiled machine, the Mage Corps had followed their new set of orders almost as soon as they were given. Khyron, of course, protested loudly (and for everyone to hear, since his enchantment was still active), but his mages were too concerned about survival to worry about whether or not Gafgarion or the Mage General was their true leader. With the discipline they were most known for, they ignored the continuing volleys from the ballistae and the assault of the Red Shoulders and the associated cavalry to concentrate everything they could on the soldiers blocking their escape route.

“Damn,” yelled Trunicht, the leader of the rebel forces in this battle, enhancing his own voice with his magic, “Reform your position! Don’t let them run away!” The Red Shoulders tore into their opponents with newfound vigor, but it was already too late—the Revolutionary line had been broken. Renault and his fellow mercenaries were too busy trying to save their own skins to hamper the full-blown retreat of the Mage Corps in any way.

In fact, saving his friend’s life was what took priority in Renault’s eyes at the moment. Looking away from Dougram (and Tassar, who was carrying the still-dazed Sword Master away just in time to save him from being frozen by a Fimbulvetr spell), he noticed Braddock, who had apparently been grazed by a Bolting strike, staggering backwards and holding his head.

There was no way he’d be able to dodge the Elfire spell from the Valkyrie charging towards him, leading a column of battered, fleeing mages behind her.

Without thinking, Renault sprinted towards his friend, pushing his body to go faster than it ever had before. ‘BRADDOCK, WATCH OUT!” He arrived just in time to slam as hard as he could into the Ostian’s armored frame, pushing the man out of harm’s way at the cost of a hefty bit of pain as his unarmored shoulder rammed into the solid metal of Braddock’s cuirass.

Of course, that pain was absolutely nothing compared to what he felt when the orb of fire slammed into him, turning everything he could see into a burning maelstrom.

Renault shut his eyes, screamed in agony, and fell down, rolling on the ground in a desperate and futile attempt to beat out the eldritch flames searing his flesh. He heard Braddock cry out his name in terror, heard the wild beat of hooves on the ground around him, and the staccato tramp of fleeing mages’ feet carrying them away from the battle as fast as they could, but he was too preoccupied with his injuries to pay them any heed.

Fortunately for him, though, the same could not be said of Braddock. After a few moments, the flames burning Renault winked out of existence as suddenly as they had appeared, but the pain they left behind wasn’t going away anytime soon. Renault was in too much pain to think clearly, and even after the flames disappeared he continued to roll around frantically, screaming.

Braddock, who had fallen on the ground next to him, had regained enough of his wits by this point to realize what had happened. “R…Renault, you saved my—aw, hell! Stop it, Renault! Stay still!”

The sellsword was in no state of mind to listen to his instructions, and Braddock had to turn over and pin him forcibly to the ground to stop his flailing. It was only a stroke of the most propitious fortune that all of the Mage Corps and their allies were too busy fleeing to attack the pair of vulnerable mercenaries. Grunting in exertion as Renault jerked beneath him, Braddock brought a hand to Renault’s belt, unclasping the same vulnerary his friend had given him just minutes earlier. He brought it to Renault’s burned lips, and the mercenary sputtered and coughed up most of the foul-tasting liquid.

It did its work, though, and Renault’s jerking around gradually eased. “G, gah…Braddock?”

“Yeah, I’m here. C’mon, take another gulp.”

Renault did as he was told, and though his lips still trembled, this time all of the liquid found its way into his belly, every last drop. Instantaneously, the burned skin all across his body began to regenerate itself, though the repaired flesh was still red and raw, just as Braddock’s was. It was good enough that he could stand, albeit with some effort. Braddock, of course, wasted no time helping him up.

“Renault,” he began, “Th…thanks. That’s the second time you’ve saved my life today, and you might’ve—“

“Don’t mention it, man.” Renault managed to painfully twist his still-sore face into a grin. “We’re both still here, so that’s what counts, right?”

“Heh, heh. I guess you’re right.” Renault and Braddock heard the crunching of grass ahead of them and looked up, watching Tassar and Dougram limp towards them.

“H, hey, boss,” said Braddock, “Is…is it over?”

The veteran pointed to the south. “I’d say it is.”

The retreating Royalists could still be seen, but the tattered remnants of their army were growing smaller and smaller in the distance by the moment. A few eager mercenaries attempted to give chase, but were quickly dissuaded when the retreating Mages sent them a few parting Bolting strikes. The Red Shoulders and cavalry divisions would have pursued, but the Mage Corps had managed to execute the same retreat maneuvers that had served them so well before—a contingent of brave, selfless mages had stood their ground, spending the last few moments of their lives exhausting every ounce of their magical strength in order to distract their pursuers and give Khyron, Gafgarion and the rest of the survivors enough time to make a clean getaway.

Orders from on high confirmed Tassar’s analysis. “Do not bother pursuing them,” echoed Trunicht’s voice across the battlefield, “there is no need! They are thoroughly defeated and broken, and are no longer any threat to us. It might even be better for them to make their way back to their capitol, their tails between their legs! After all, when the people of Etruria see how weak and pathetic the King’s men really are, they’ll come to realize the strengths of our cause! So there is no need to fight any more today, my brethren. For now, we celebrate!”

A great cheer rose from all of the rebels who remained on the battlefield—their victory had been sealed. They did not sound as enthusiastic as one might have expected, though—despite the successful execution of the ballista attacks and pincer attacks, the enemy had not been completely annihilated, as they had hoped, and he had fought very fiercely as well—casualties on their side were somewhat higher than initially anticipated. Still, even if it was not a perfect, crushing victory, it was a very sound one—almost two-thirds of Khyron’s mages and virtually all of his other warriors were dead and bleeding on the field, which would prove to be a staggering blow to the battle strength of the King’s forces in the future.

Thus, with little hesitation the victors turned to their next most important duty—looting the corpses. Tassar had managed to find an intact Elfire tome, and even though he couldn’t use it he could sell it for a decent amount of cash. Dougram had taken another iron sword as part of his spoils, and Braddock, lucky as he was, had managed to filch an icon of an ancient goddess named Lushiris off of a Sage’s corpse.

“Hey, Renault,” he said, leaning on his friend as they sat beside each other—both of them too exhausted and still in a bit too much pain to enjoy pilfering more corpses, “you wanna have this?” He held out his icon. “After what happened today, I think you could use it more than I do.”

“Hey, really? Thanks.” Renault happily took the lucky charm, and in return reached into his pocket—wincing as his still-raw skin scraped against the burnt fabric of his pants--and pulled out the Speedwings he’d found, taking pleasure in the way his friend’s eyes widened. “Here, then you have this. It’s a fair trade.”

“Renault, are you sure? I—“

“Just take it. An armored guy like you needs it more than I do.”

He smiled. “Thanks, bud.” Reaching out, he took the glowing Pegasus wings out of Renault’s hand, raised them over his head, and crushed them. The wings didn’t crumble but rather seemed to disperse, scattering in the form of small, softly glowing white particles which floated down towards Braddock’s body, flowing into his skin.

“Ahhhh,” he sighed in satisfaction, “That…that’s nice. I can feel the power flowing through me. Thanks again, Renault. Thanks to this enchantment, next time I’ll be the one saving your life, huh?”

“Hah! Yeah, right.” Renault chuckled a bit, then his face suddenly grew somber. “Hey, what happened to Apolli? You were worried about him, right?”

“Y-yeah! C’mon, let’s go back to where we left him. Hope he’s alright…”

Laboriously, the two men managed to get themselves back on their feet, and quickly hobbled over to the spot of ground they’d last seen the sleeping Apolli. The corpses of his fellow Archers and the pair of Mages were still there, but of the youth himself, there was no sign—no dead body, no broken weapons, nothing.

“Aw, man,” said Braddock, “did he wake up or something? I hope so…but then again, if he did, maybe somebody got him…”

“Maybe,” said Renault nonchalantly, “but on the other hand, maybe he got rescued by one of the mages as they ran away. A Troubadour or Valkyrie might’ve picked him up.” He shrugged. “Either way, it’s not our problem, bud. These things happen in war. We’re mercenaries, yesterday’s buddies might be today’s enemies, remember?”

“Y-yeah.” Braddock tried to smile, though it wasn’t very sincere—he was kind of hurt by his friend’s callousness. Still, he couldn’t deny Renault had a point. “Well, c’mon. I dunno about you, but I need a rest. This arm still hurts!”

“Yeah, and so does my entire body! Let’s get Tassar and go back to the castle. Those vulneraries can’t cure everything; these wounds need some proper attention!”

And so ended the First Battle of the Fortress of Spears, at least for the two mercenaries. The gates of the outer wall and inner fortress opened, and together with Tassar and Dougram, they headed back to the castle, heading first to the makeshift hospice where their burns could be healed completely. After a few more hours scouring the corpses clean, the rest of the rebel army would join them, and judicious use of Trunicht’s Warp staff allowed news of the Royalist’s smashing defeat to spread all across insurgent-held land even before the corpses had cooled.

Every member of the Revolutionary Army was in the highest of spirits, including Renault and Braddock. As the two of them made their way to the dining hall, their wounds having been healed by the apothecary but still needing something to regain their energy after such a hard-fought battle, even Braddock, despite all the misgivings he’d always had about Paptimus’ cause, had to admit it felt very good to be on the winning side. After all, at least he and his friend would be enjoying a good meal while the Royalists would be slinking back to Aquleia as quickly as they could. And, of course, once they got to the dining hall, there was the happiness of reuinion. Both men were pleased to see many of the recruits they’d trained (though unfortunately, not all) safe and sound. Dina, in particular, was overjoyed to see Renault again—she’d acquitted herself well in battle, thanks to his training, and had actually attempted to show off some of the home cooking she’d learned in Nerinheit to her teacher. Braddock had chosen to abstain, and it turned out it was for the best—Renault commented later that it had been the strangest rabbit stew he’d ever tasted. Still, even beyond their still-aching wounds and Renault’s trouble with his student’s cuisine, both men were probably the happiest they’d been in quite a while. Flush with victory, they both thought being a part of the Revolution was one of the better things that had ever happened to them.

Neither had the slightest inkling of how quickly those feelings would change.

-X-

Sometimes Archbishop Gosterro found his job to be terribly inconvenient. He didn’t hate it, of course—it paid so well, after all! Still, at times like these he felt even the nice clothes and beautiful crosier weren’t worth it.

It was the middle of the night, and he was leaning over his opulent oak desk in his personal room in his great cathedral located not too far away from the Holy Royal Palace itself. His hands were running nervously through his grey hair as he mulled over the breathless report Bishop Le-Cain of Nerinheit had given him.

Horribly, horribly, horribly distressing. Although Gosterro had made it clear that any member of the clergy who signed any sort of treaty with the revolutionaries could consider themselves expelled from the Church—they were violating HIS edict condemning rebellion, after all!—Le-Cain had seen fit to use his personal Warp staff to pay Gosterro a visit in-person, not even minutes after the battle at Nerinheit had ended. The toadying pig hadn’t spared any details, either—though he acted unhappy, Gosterro could almost smell the slight hint of mockery in the man’s voice as he described in lurid detail the utter destruction of Khyron’s forces and their panicked retreat. Gosterro realized that access to such powerful magic such as Warp was a privilege he himself had given to his bishops, and now he regretted it—ordinarily, it would have taken days for the news to reach him, but thanks to the spell Le-Cain was able to come and rub his face in the bad news even before the corpses had cooled.

Gosterro had not taken it well—he’d shouted that Le-Cain was a “lying traitor” and had ordered the man away before he called the guards, and the faithless bishop had quickly brandished his staff and Warped his way back to Nerinheit. But now, having had a few hours to digest the news and consider it with a cooler head, Gosterro couldn’t deny it—the man was telling the truth. The Archbishop had had very deep reservations about the campaign almost the day it had been announced, after all—he was no fool, and when he heard how the rebels were giving up so much land he knew something very suspicious was going on. And he also knew how thickheaded and incompetent Khyron could be as a leader, despite his formidable command of Anima magic.

“If only Exedol were still alive,” Gosterro muttered, massaging his temples. This was very, very bad news indeed—though thankfully, Khyron had been saved from total defeat, the Mage Corps as a whole was looking almost gutted. For the first time, Gosterro had to seriously entertain the possibility of his side _losing_ the war. If the Rebels triumphed, he simply didn’t know what would become of his Church…and more importantly, what would happen to himself.

A sudden flash of light and the distinctive whiff of ozone brought the elderly man out of his unhappy thoughts. He furrowed his brow in irritation. “Damnation, Le-Cain,” he snarled as he turned around, “I told you to get—“ His eyes widened and his voice stopped cold when he saw his visitor was not at all who he had expected.

The man who stood before him was a bit taller than average height, and lanky. His entire form was obscured by the black armor he wore, save for his pinkish lips and the pale skin around them. His most distinctive feature was the red pauldron on his right shoulder.

Those pale lips turned up slightly in the briefest wisp of a smile. “Greetings.”

Gosterro immediately leapt out of his chair and stumbled backwards, his heart racing. “Y-YOU! WHO THE DEVIL ARE YOU?”

The man chuckled and raised his hand in what looked to be a gesture of reassurance but could just as easily be the beginnings of a spell. “Easy, easy, Your Excellency. I bear you no ill will! I merely hope to present you with a proposition you might—“

“Stop with your lies! I recognize that armor! You’re a Black Knight! One of those abominable Red Shoulders that worthless turncoat Paptimus relies on to carry out his underhanded deeds! Begone from here, accursed heathen!” Gosterro quickly reached out to the Lightning tome resting on his table. “Your fell magic may surpass Anima, but the light shall always dispel the darkness! Beware, for—“

“Archbishop, please relax, please! I mean no—“

“You won’t fool me! DIE, HEA—mmmph!“ Gosterro’s spellcasting was suddenly interrupted when the Black Knight, quick as a flash, tossed something both hard and leathery at the clergyman’s face, hitting him in the mouth. He stuttered in surprise and stumbled backwards again, falling to the floor.

“Loathsome cur,” he spat, “Go ahead and kill me now! It will do you no good! Your rebellion is still doomed to failure! You’ll—“

“Your Excellency, please, just look the gift I’ve given you.”

“YOU—wait, what?” So surprised he couldn’t help but follow the Black Knight’s instructions, Gosterro turned his eye towards the mysterious object which had been thrown at him. The small leather pouch lay on the floor, its contents spilling out.

Gosterro’s eyes widened when he caught the tell-tale glint of gold and small rubies. “You…what in the world is this?”

“Nothing much, Archbishop Gosterro. Merely a token of our…well, my goodwill.”

He shot the interloper a suspicious glare. “This is a trap, isn’t it? You can’t fool me!”

“I assure you it is not. The gold is nothing but gold, the gems nothing but gems. See for yourself.”

Still looking at the man suspiciously, Gosterro cautiously reached out a hand and snatched away the small pouch. He carefully reached in with two fingers and pulled out one of the coins, holding it warily before him.

He could detect none of the tell-tale tingles of magic, nor did it seem to have been tampered with in any way. It was just a coin.

“What is the meaning of this?” Gosterro picked up the pouch and got to his feet, still regarding the visitor with suspicion but no longer so afraid. Gold went a long way towards establishing good faith in his book, after all.

“Your Excellency, allow me to properly introduce myself.” The Black Knight took a sweeping bow. “My name is Job Trunicht, and as you correctly guessed, I am the leader of the Revolutionary Army’s Red Shoulder Battalion.”

“If you are one of those traitors, what business have you with me? Your revolution has set itself against my Church and the Loyalist’s Creed I dictated. Why are you here?”

“I’ve paid you this visit because I know you are a reasonable man, Gosterro. I have…not even a proposition, but a small suggestion for you, if you are interested.”

“Hah! Why should I be interested in anything an infidel rebel has to say?”

“Such hurtful words, Your Excellency, especially after I gave you that gift. Surely you know there is more where that came from, just waiting for you, personally? And in any case, this…suggestion, of mine might very well be in your own interest, brother.”

The prospect of more “gifts” was enough to convince Gosterro it might be worth it to hear out whatever this Trunicht had to say. “Oh, really? So tell me, intruder, how could I possibly benefit from treating with you?”

“I could understand you saying that just a few months ago,” replied the Black Knight with a sly smile on his face, “but as you’ve no doubt heard, the circumstances have changed. You are aware of Khyron’s defeat earlier today, are you not?

Gosterro said nothing.

“Heh, heh. In any case, the rebel cause no longer seems quite so hopeless, does it? You must be entertaining the same possibilities we are…the chance that we might actually succeed in overthrowing Galahad.”

“Never! So long as God reigns, so shall the King!”

“Well, let’s leave aside the question of God for a moment. Please just consider, Your Excellency…surely there’s a chance King Galahad might lose? Surely it isn’t something beyond imagining? And in that case…well, you are a practical man. Your God has given you reason, surely not to waste it, yes? And thus, don’t you think it would be prudent to make…preparations, just in case the unthinkable comes to pass?”

Once again, Gosterro said nothing.

“After all, well…the elder magic of my Red Shoulders is more than capable of dealing even with the might of the Mage Corps, and in addition to that, the regular Revolutionary Army already numbers tens of thousands and continues to grow. The King, on the other hand…well, much of his Mage Corps now lies dead and broken, and the Mage General is certainly no leader. While it is far from me to lecture you on theology, perhaps God has deemed it such that Galahad’s reign may end sooner than anticipated?”

Gosterro’s silence continued, punctuated only by a slight twitch of his lips.

“Thus, Archbishop, while I certainly don’t expect you to betray the King or anything like that—aside from the fact that your loyalty is of course unshakable, and it isn’t as if I’m trying to bribe you or anything so crass, no, not at all!—I think you can see the wisdom in not going _too_ far out of your way to make an enemy of the Revolution, yes?”

“Enough of your games, Black Knight. Just what do you ask of me?”

“Nothing much, nothing much at all! Merely this: That you keep your Church from getting directly involved in this war. I mean, that is what you were planning to do anyways, correct? War is such an unpleasant matter—surely you don’t wish to risk your life on the battlefield, trudging miles and miles without the comforts of your cathedral, yes? And surely you don’t wish to waste much money on the King’s cause, yes? It is his fight, after all, why should you bail out the king’s coffers if he finds himself in dire financial straits?

“No, we do not expect you to join our cause, nor do we even expect you to rescind the Royalist’s Creed, or welcome the bishops and priests who have signed their allegiance to us back into your fold! Please, we only ask that you keep your opposition to us limited to rhetoric, moral support, and, of course, prayer.”

“Oh? Is that it?” Gosterro wasn’t convinced. “How do I know you’ll keep your word? I know that you Red Shoulders were responsible for the disappearances and murders of many priests in the past years, and I also know the fate of many clergymen who have crossed you in the lands you’ve taken. Why should I believe I will not share their fate?”

“Very true, Your Excellency, I understand your suspicions. But do keep in mind,” and at this Trunicht’s smile grew even wider, “that we Rebels are rational, reasonable people as well. Indeed, Reason is what we fight for! We can recognize someone who might be useful to us, and we are not so irrational as to disregard his possible uses due to prior disagreements!

“You may find, Gosterro, that if you do as we ask, your position in the future might very well become much more secure…and much more profitable. I will be honest with you, Archbishop—as you said, we have little love for your Church, and if we do win—once again, a prospect that may not be certain, but does seem increasingly likely—it will probably not survive so long…in its present form, at least. But that does not mean we cannot appreciate intelligent, capable men. And you are one such man, Your Excellency.

“If you were to…not even assist us, but simply refrain from hindering us, once we achieve victory we will remember that, Gosterro. And we would be more than happy to offer you a position in our government, one you may even find preferable. Being an Archbishop on the Head Church of Etruria is certainly very nice—you have so much money from tithes, a beautiful cathedral, and so many other benefits—but might you not want more? Isn’t it annoying always having to vie with the King, his counts, and other secular authorities for power? Wouldn’t it be nice to have a real military force at your disposal? We can give you such things. You are an able administrator, after all…we could make you Governor of one of our provinces. Virtually all of the benefits of your archbishopric, and more! Doesn’t that sound…interesting?”

“Hmph,” Gosterro frowned. “You are trying to bribe me, that is all!”

“Oh, no, no, I wouldn’t call it that. Merely providing suggestions with a few incentives! I don’t expect you to reply in the affirmative immediately, Your Excellency. I merely ask that you give my words some consideration”

“Enough! You should be grateful that I am so merciful that I haven’t struck you down with Elimine’s Lightning. Out of that mercy, I give you a chance to leave. Get out of my sight!”

These words were spoken loudly, but there was a distinct lack of conviction behind them. Trunicht merely chuckled once again. “Very well, very well, Archbishop Gosterro. I still hope you’ll consider my offer. In any case, as thanks for your patience, I have one more gift to give you. Catch!” His black-gauntleted hand flashed out for the last time, and Gosterro quickly reached out to catch the sparkling thing that flew through the air. In that brief span of time, the Black Knight brandished the Warp staff which had brought him to the cathedral and disappeared in a flash of light.

Blinking, the Archbishop brought his hand to his face and opened it, giving a small gasp of surprise when he saw what it was holding.

The small golden ring glittering in his hand didn’t seem like much, but the pure, sparkling stone set in its middle was what was really worthy of attention. Pure, perfect diamond—a small specimen, but still very rare, and worth more than a bit of money.

Gosterro did not smile, but he did purse his lips thoughtfully as he slipped the ring onto his index finger—it fit perfectly. He set his chair back on its feet and sat down before his table, closing his Lightning tome and setting it away. He’d have no need for it, at least not at the moment.

No, he had too much thinking to do. Trunicht’s proposal deserved some serious thought. Very serious thought indeed.

-X-

“Vyrleena…Vyrleena…”

Once again the Wyvern General of Bern was roused by a voice softly emanating from her small crystal ball, but this time it did not wake her—she was already up, having too much work to deal with this night to allow for sleep just yet. The attractive green-haired woman rubbed her bleary eyes and walked over to the device, seating herself on her ottoman. “Paptimus,” she began, “I hope you’ve got good news.”

The image within the crystal ball’s depths grew clearer, and she could clearly make out the man speaking to her. Paptimus was sitting upright in his bed, the ball placed before him, clad in his warm but modest sleeping robes. Vyrleena could see something shift beside him, and her brow furrowed slightly when she saw a brief flash of red hair she knew belonged to Paptimus’ lover.

Some time ago, she might have been jealous. Not anymore, though.

“Ah, forgive me,” said her friend in hushed tones, “try to keep your voice down, if you please? Meris needs her sleep…she’s been feeling a bit ill recently. Flu, perhaps, not unheard of at this time of year.” When Vyrleena nodded, he continued, “Anyways, I do indeed,” he smiled. “Our forces engaged Khyron’s at the Fortress of Spears earlier today. Trunicht gave me the news just a few hours ago. It was a smashing victory, the Mage Corps has been gutted.”

“How badly?”

“He brought five thousand of his best troops with him—two thirds of the total strength of the Mage Corps. He lost nearly thirty-five hundred of those. You can see why I’m in such good cheer, right, Vyrleena?”

“Hm.” The woman didn’t seem quite so happy. “An impressive victory indeed, but…Khyron is still alive? And some of his forces got away? You didn’t annihilate them completely, as you planned.”

“Yes, that is true.” Paptimus’ expression grew less cheerful. “Our casualties were also somewhat higher than expected—I had hoped to begin our advance tomorrow night, but we’ve decided to give the troops three extra days to regroup and recuperate. However, even if it wasn’t a total victory, it is still a great accomplishment. It’s probably for the best Khyron is still alive, as he’s an utterly incompetent leader. And the Mage Corps have been so broken and demoralized that they should provide almost no resistance. If we march on Aquleia, we are almost certain to win! All we need is your assistance, Vyrleena!”

“What about the Church? If the Elimineans turn their hand against you directly, I won’t be able to do anything. The Church is immensely strong in my country, and most of my men are believers as well.”

“That, my friend, has already been taken care of. Trunicht paid Archbishop Gosterro a visit…with a bit of convincing, the clergyman seemed to be fairly amenable to our proposals. I believe he will be able to keep the Etrurian Head Church in line, which will of course restrain the Elimineans in Bern.”

“I…I see.”

“So everything seems to be proceeding well, yes? Thus, my friend, might you forgive me if I ask how you’ve performed on your end of things?”

Vyrleena sighed and ran a hand through her long hair. “I’ve made some progress, Paptimus, though perhaps not as much as you’d hoped. King Arbain was quite impressed by the humiliation of the Mage Corps a few months ago, and when he hears of this latest victory, I think he’ll almost definitely be willing to lend you his assistance. When I spoke to him earlier today, he said he would offer you five hundred men if you succeed in taking Thagaste.”

“Vyrleena, that’s wonderful! Most excellent news! With the Mage Corps in such disarray, taking Thagaste will be no problem for us! I—wait, wait, Vyrleena, how many men did you say he’d lend? Five thousand, right?”

“No. Five hundred. In fact, probably closer to four hundred.”

“Vyrleena!” The disappointment on Paptimus’ face was evident, and he quickly lowered his voice to keep from waking his bedmate, who had shifted and groaned. “While I appreciate your efforts and your king’s generosity, that’s hardly enough to make a difference! As strong as my Red Shoulders and Revolutionary Army may be, Aquleia is still a very well-defended city. Even we may have trouble taking it without help from Bern.”

“Arbain has offered you five hundred men, Paptimus. Five hundred men…and Barbarossa.”

Nothing could be heard in Vyrleena’s room but a long silence for a few moments. The former Prime Minister seemed to be completely taken aback by what his friend had told him. “B…Barbarossa?” he finally stammered. “I…I’ve heard rumors about…Vyrleena, are you serious? That experimental weapon…King Arbain is really giving it…him…to me?”

“He may,” cautioned the Wyvern General, “again, only if you take Thagaste. And besides, it’s not as much of a sacrifice as it may seem. Our breeders and Sages have been working on him for years. In the case of the former, decades, perhaps even more. As strong as he is, our military has little need for him…our castles are so well-defended in the mountains that we’ve little need for a siege unit. However, if he could help you bring low our Etrurian rivals, and secure our place as the only true military power on Elibe…then the years of time, effort, and money spent on him will truly have been worth it!”

“Vyrleena, I…” Paptimus paused thoughtfully. “I truly don’t know what to say. This is more than I ever expected. Although I…forgive me, but I do have to think rationally about this. As grateful as I am, Barbarossa is still little more than half-shaded rumors and whispered tales to me. With only five hundred men, can this beast truly make a difference in the battle?”

“Of course, Paptimus,” replied Vyrleena with just a hint of injured pride in her voice. “The strength of Bern has always lain within its wyverns. Barbarossa will not fail you!”

“Very well, Vyrleena, I believe you. You haven’t failed me yet, so I assume the same can be said of Barbarossa. Once again, thank you. If there is anything I can do to repay you…”

She shook her head. “I only want one thing, Paptimus.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to win. Achieve victory in your struggle. Topple the Kingdom of Etruria. No more will my countrymen have to spend their sweat and their lives in so many petty conflicts with our primary rival. And then…I want your revolution to spread. I want all of Elibe united under one banner. I want this to be the last war in this continent’s history. Perhaps then…perhaps then, my grandfather can rest in peace in his Sacaen grave and my husband can sleep undisturbed buried in the Western Isles. If war became just a distant memory, and no-one had to endure what they did ever again, that…that would bring them some measure of solace.”

Paptimus nodded his head. “Your wish is my command, milady.”

His image in the crystal ball dimmed, and once again Vyrleena could see nothing within it but its cloudy, opaque interior. She sat on her ottoman for a few moments more, simply staying still, allowing her body to relax. Then she closed her eyes, stretched, and yawned heartily, leaving her seat to begin changing into her sleeping dress.

She still had a few more affairs to take care of, but they could wait until tomorrow. She had done more than enough for today.

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say for this chapter except that I hope you liked the battle scenes, and also, at a reviewer’s suggestion I made a lil’ change to the previous chapter—the role of the ‘Revolutionary Vanguard’ has now been taken by the Red Shoulders. It ties in well with what previous chapters mentioned (specifically, go back to ch. 12 and think about how Rosamia was feeling watched when she caught a glimpse of those passing-through Red Shoulders ;) ) and also some big events in the upcoming chapter…which is the second thing I wanted to mention, while I won’t spoil anything, there will definitely be some major BRICKS = SHAT moments there! :D Also, just as a note, Tassar is who Renault was referring to in his support with Bartre, when he mentions “I have seen many warriors. Most sought power for their own reasons…to acquire something or control someone.” Tassar is the latter ;) And you’ll also remember the woods around Castle Nerinheit from the earlier chapter, they’re obviously smaller than the Lurkmire but they were where Roberto got firewood and Apolli hunted while the crew was hunkering down there. Anyways, I hope to see you next time!   



	19. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth behind Braddock's identity--as well as the Revolution itself--is finally revealed. And now, there's no going back.

Wayward Son

 

19: Revelations

 

(MAJOR thanks to Chaos Hero Mark and Enilas for Beta-ing!)

 

_“I DIDN’T DO IT! PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME, I SWEAR—“_

_“LIKE HELL YOU DIDN’T, YOU WORTHLESS SWINE! I’M NOT DUMB ENOUGH TO FALL FOR YOUR LIES!”_

_“PLEASE, FOR GOD’S SAKE—“_

_The bishop’s words were cut off as he wrapped his hands around the man’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could, throttling him back and forth. The deceitful clergyman struggled, jerked around, but quieted after his head was slammed into the hard stone wall of his room once, twice, three times._

_He coughed, sputtered, once again and for the last time attempted to reason with his assailant. “I—gah, gack—c-calm down, p-please, I can ex—GAAAH!”_

_Once again his hands wrapped themselves around the fat man’s throat, the fingers digging into flesh. The man’s eye’s rolled back in his head._

_“I—gchk, gaaah—“_

_He sputtered and wheezed, his corpulent cheeks expanding, and the color of his face starting to turn a shade not so different from his purple hair. He flailed around for a little while longer, managing to knock an ampoule of holy water off of its perch on a nearby table, and his jerking grew more desperate when his assailant slammed his head against the wall with one hand and brought a fist into his face with the other. And after that punch was followed by half a dozen more, his movement stopped entirely. It was impossible to discern what expression would have been on his face, for his entire head was a bloody, shattered mess, partially caved in on itself with small chunks of bone peeking out from here and there, sheathed in little bits of grey._

_“YES. YES! THAT’S WHAT YOU GET, YOU LYING, MURDERING, FILTHY SON OF A WHORE! YES!!”_

_His killer started laughing, a manic, high-pitched screech that sounded more like an enraged man’s screams than anything borne of good humor. Revenge felt good, so very good. So good that he didn’t care about what he had just done, didn’t care about what would happen to him, so good he didn’t care when the guards got their hands on him and—_

“SHIT!”

 

Braddock jolted straight up in his bed, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. _Damn it_ , he thought, rubbing his eyes, _that dream again? And after this many years? Ugh. Now I’ll never be able to get back to sleep_.

 

Not that it’d make him feel much better, but he wasn’t the only one awake at the moment. “S-sorry!” came a quiet, sheepish voice from near the room’s doorway. “Did I wake you up?”

 

“Huh?” Braddock blinked and squinted; he saw the flickering light of a small tallow candle illuminated the face of his roommate, Renault. “N-no, don’t worry about it. I just had a…ah, I just woke up myself, that was all. But what’re you doing up at this hour?”

 

“Uhh…” Renault shifted as though he was both anxious and in quite a hurry. “My stomach’s been giving me some trouble all day. I really gotta get over to the privies, man.”

 

“Seriously?” Braddock was a bit concerned. “Aw, hell, Renault, it’s not the flux, is it? If it is this whole army’s got problems. What did you drink?”

 

“N-no, nothing like that, Braddock! It was something I ate…uh, r-remember my student, Dina? She wanted to cook me something personally to thank me for all the training she gave me, said she wouldn’t have lived through this battle without it. Turns out her attempt might end up killing me instead!”

“Ahhh, is that it? That’s a little better then…well, I mean, not for you, but, uh…sorry. You know what I mean.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll probably feel better after this anyways. Now I gotta get going, and fast!”

 

With that, Renault made his hasty exit, leaving Braddock to sigh deeply and collapse back into his bed, steadying his breathing in a vain attempt to get back to sleep. Not that it’d probably do him much good, given how wound up he was now.

 

“Just my luck,” he mumbled to himself, stretching out his still-slightly-aching-left arm—the rebel apothecaries had done their best on him and Renault, but they were severely undermanned (aside from the Red Shoulders, the rebel forces didn’t have that many members who could use staves, and most of the clergy, who traditionally took care of tending the wounded, had reservations about healing rebels, even those who signed the loyalty oaths), and thus, a good amount of rest was still what both of them needed most at the moment. “Well, at least we’ve got…what, three more days before we move out? Plenty of time for relaxation, I guess.” Sighing again, he turned around in his bed, attempting to get comfortable.

 

It was the weirdest thing, though. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched.

 

He raised his head, attempting to get a look at the room’s door. No, Renault wasn’t there, and from what he could tell, nobody else was either.

 

“Must be my imagination,” he muttered, but he didn’t manage to convince himself. He sat up again, gazing at the darkness, looking up, down, then up again…

 

When, just as his eyes passed over the foot of his bed, he thought he saw something move.

 

Not even move. More like flicker, really. For a moment, it seemed like a small patch on the floor managed to be even darker than its surroundings, even though it was already pitch black anyways. Wasn’t very big at all; according to Braddock’s bleary eyes, it didn’t occupy a space much larger than the palm of his hand.

 

Well, that explained things. “Don’t tell me we got a rat infestation,” Braddock groaned. He was now quite annoyed—aside from the fact that this little jerk had been peeping on him, he certainly didn’t want it crawling into his bed and giving him fleas (or worse) while he slept. “Sorry, but I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson.”

 

Surreptitiously reaching to the side of his bed, Braddock’s hand clasped around the handle of his trusty Wolf Beil (never sleep with your weapon outside of easy reach, Tassar had always taught him), and reaching around a bit, his other hand came across another tallow candle resting on the nearby dresser. Grinning slightly, he got out of bed, sidled up to one of the nearby stone walls, and swiftly rapped his fine axe against it. The action produced a couple of small sparks, just enough to light the little candle he held near it.

 

He’d always loved practical Ostian craftsmanship. Not only could the Wolf Beil make short work of armored men and those on horseback, but it could also serve as a handy flint in a pinch.

 

Alright, now it was time to go rat hunting—or at least drive that little thief away. Had he been here, Renault might have protested Braddock’s methods, but the pragmatic Ostian was all too aware of the problems rats brought along with them to have the same patience with them the lad from Thagaste did. Stepping forward slowly, quietly, Braddock held the candle before him, leaning low to the ground, attempting to get a good fix on Sir Rat’s position. He grinned viciously when the light came close enough to the small patch of darkness on the ground.

 

Weird, though. Although he could only see a bit of it, it didn’t seem to look much like a rat at all.

 

“Hey!”

 

Almost faster than his eye could see, the little…thing, whatever it was, darted off to the left. Braddock was almost sure it wasn’t a rat now, because he couldn’t see anything resembling legs, and he didn’t hear the scratching of little claws on the floor, either.

 

“What the hell are you?” he murmured, his curiosity now thoroughly piqued. As quickly as he could he brought the candle over to where his mysterious little visitor had rushed. And this time, he moved fast enough to actually get a decent look at it—more like a glimpse, but good enough for him.

 

It was the oddest little thing he’d ever seen. It was literally no more than a shadow, a small, nondescript patch on the ground that was no bigger than his hand, and the only things that seemed out of place about it were the fact that it was incredibly dark, blacker even than the darkness around him, and moved on its own, almost seeking to get away from the candlelight when ordinary shadows would have simply receded.

 

That was all the information he had time to glean, though, for immediately after the candle came near it the strange creature darted away again, this time towards the wall—and although he could barely see, the weird thing seemed to be going _up_ the wall.

 

“You’re not gettin’ away!”

 

Braddock swiftly jumped on his bed and held the tallow candle in front of where the creature seemed to be going. Thinking fast, he held his Wolf Beil across the path of the thing’s retreat—the finely polished axe reflecting the candle’s light, which he hoped would be enough to keep it where it was.

 

Braddock’s guess turned out to be correct. The little black patch had almost reached its target but the Ostian had got his candle up just in time, and when it tried to go the other way, it found its path blocked by the reflected light from the axe. It tried to dodge back down the wall, but Braddock quickly pushed the candle and the axe closer together, making it so the shadow couldn’t go anywhere without running into a bit of the light it so despised.

 

“What the hell _are_ you?” Braddock repeated, because now, standing on the bed and holding his two weapons near each other, he had stilled the creature trying to get away to the ceiling and could now get a decent look at it. And he no idea what in the world it was.

 

It looked to be a small black circle, entirely two-dimensional, much thinner than a sheaf of parchment. It seemed to be shaking and quivering between the light of the candle and the light reflected off of the axe, as if it were a tiny, terrified animal. Braddock could swear it was making little noises—a series of almost inaudible squeaks and moans that sounded vaguely like the whimpering of a frightened child.

 

The Ostian could have chalked almost all of it up to nighttime hallucinations, or even a continuation of the dream he’d been having earlier, if it wasn’t for the final characteristic of the shadow creature. Right in the center of the undulating black circle was a pair of small, gleaming golden dots that might have been…eyes.

 

He brought his face closer to it, bringing the candle in as well. Braddock was really curious now. He’d never seen anything like it before, but somehow he felt it was familiar. He could feel the faint presence of magic around it—the same aura he’d felt from the Speed Wings Renault had given him earlier, but fainter and much more sinister. Even more puzzling, though, he got the distinct sense he’d felt it before, in this very castle. Two years ago, so distant it felt now that it could have been twenty years ago, when he and Renault had first made their base of operations in the decrepit Castle Nerinheit. He’d felt something very similar to this, as if he was being watched, as if there was something lurking in the shadows, something small and insubstantial…

 

Was this it? Why was it watching him, then?

 

_The Red Shoulders are very, very good at rooting out that sort of thing. They hear everything people whisper in dark corners._

“Dark corners…?” Braddock’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What the hell…this couldn’t have been what Tassar was referring to, could it? He said we had nothing to worry about…why the hell is it watching me?”

 

Braddock’s attention slipped for a moment, and the little shadow-thing attempted to make a break for it—further up the wall, to a small section of the ceiling. Fortunately, Braddock caught it in time, and he moved fast enough to once again trap it between candle and axe.

 

“Pretty quick, aren’t you? Let’s get a better look at you.”

 

Braddock, already standing on top of the bed, raised himself up to his toes to move his face closer to the shadow-creature. He also moved the candle closer to the thing, to better illuminate whatever features it had, but unfortunately, that proved to be its undoing. When Braddock moved the candle right over it, its quavering grew more furious, and squeaks and moans seemed to grow louder, and then, with a distinctly audible (but muffled) ‘Eeeee!’ it simply vanished. Winked straight out of existence. Braddock was sure it had been destroyed rather than merely escaped, because he felt its odd magical aura dissipate as well.  


“Damn, you really must’ve hated light. What the hell…Never seen anything like you before. Where were you trying to go?”

 

Still on top of his bed and on his toes, Braddock turned his face upwards to get a better look at the thin ceiling of his room, right below Tassar’s. He was tall enough that his head came close to it easily, and as he raised his candle upwards he could see clearly the target of his little visitor.

 

It was a small hole in the thin ceiling. Not large enough to be easily noticeable, but more than large enough for a tiny little scrap of shadow to slip through.

 

There were two things that really caught Braddock’s attention this time, though. First off, he detected a very strange smell—a faint whiff of ozone, rapidly fading, but seeming to waft in from that little hole. Secondly, and even more importantly, Braddock could hear…voices. Faint and quiet, he had to strain to hear them, but the ceiling was thin enough and the hole was large enough (the talkers were apparently sitting close by) that Braddock could make out more than a few snatches of their conversation.

 

And the thing was, he recognized both voices. The first was his boss, Tassar. The second was…Braddock was sure it was Paptimus. It wasn’t easy to forget the man’s dulcet tone, after all (especially if one recognized his previous mode of speaking). But what was the turncoat Prime Minister doing here? Braddock remembered him seeing the army off, and thought he had remained back in Nerinheit City with Glaesal.

 

In any case, answers to that question would come by later. Braddock put his ear closer to the little hole, hoping to hear more of the conversation— _Never thought I’d be an eavesdropper,_ he thought to himself (not saying anything—perhaps Tassar and Paptimus could hear him from down here as well), _but hell, maybe that shadow thing has something to do with Paptimus. Certainly looked like it was made out of that black magic he and the Red Shoulders use…_

The Ostian ended up getting much, much more than what he bargained for.

 

“..for dropping in on you like this, but you should have expected me, of course. I’ve already met with Trunicht and Yazan, and since you’ll be in a position of leadership in the upcoming advance, I obviously had to come and brief you as well. Anyways, would you care for some wine?”

 

“I’d prefer ale, but fine.”

 

Braddock could hear the muffled sounds of soft chuckling and the clinking of glasses before the conversation began again. “Here,” said the man who sounded like Paptimus, “take these. They’re the plans for the rest of the war against Galahad. Although nothing is certain, of course, I predict the rest of our struggle should be straightforward—these first triumphs over the Mage Corps were the hardest. We’ve dealt them such a crippling blow that the Etrurian military won’t be able to put up much of a fight. Add to that the strategic incompetence of Khyron and the rest of the nobles, and things are looking very good for us indeed.

 

“From what I’ve heard, Galahad and his Royal Court will be terrified out of their minds when they hear of Khyron’s defeat. The cowards will abandon the rest of the country and concentrate all the defenses they can muster in Aquleia. Truth be told, that’s actually not a bad decision…out of all the cities in Etruria, Aquleia is easily the most well-defended. If I wanted to make a stand and preserve as many of my troops as I could, I’d concentrate them in the city as well.

 

“Still, by this point, even Aquleia won’t be able to stand. The Mage Corps is down to about half of its former combat strength, while our forces are growing by the day. The entire Revolutionary Army is several times bigger than the Mage Corps and still larger than its regular reserve militias. The King would have to draft an army to match our numbers, and given that our forces are led by the Red Shoulders as well as a mercenary corps of experienced veterans like you, he couldn’t possibly match our skill if he tried. Not to mention the help we’ll be receiving from Bern…”

 

“Alright.” Now Braddock could hear Tassar’s typically laconic speech. “So what’re my orders specifically?”

 

“The entire Revolutionary Army is going to make a clean sweep southeast, from here to Thagaste. You’ll be working alongside Yazan, Trunicht, and Dougram to capture that city. You’ve been there before, so I expect your knowledge of it to come in handy.”

 

“It’s been a while since I’ve set foot in there, but yeah, I remember it. Renault was born there, he knows it even better. Good thing I’ll be bringing him and Braddock along.”

 

“Indeed. Thagaste will serve as the staging area for our assault on Aquleia—it’s an excellent choice, given its proximity to the capitol. Reaching it and taking it should be easy enough—like I said, the Royalists will be concentrating on building up Aquleia’s defenses; with their current forces it’s the only stronghold they would be able to effectively defend. Their defenses around Thagaste will be minimal and easy to overcome.

 

“This is where you come in, Tassar. It is integral we maintain control of that city, and I want you to be in charge of it. Even if the assault on Aquleia doesn’t succeed, so long as we can keep a grip on Thagaste we’ll be able to maintain pressure on the capitol. Thus, when we capture Thagaste I want you to stay there, leading an occupation force of several thousand men. Aside from maintaining order within the city, I’d also like you to raid the coffers of the nobles as well. My personal fortunes can’t last forever and the Revolution might end up running out of money soon…what we can seize from Thagaste will likely help our financial situation quite a bit.”

 

“Understood. Do you want me to get what I can out of the clergy as well?”

 

“Hmm…that would be nice, but show circumspection about it. It was fairly difficult for Trunicht to convince Gosterro that we might be able to have a…mutually beneficial relationship in the future. He doesn’t care much about the lower clergy, but if we commit violence against higher-ranking members of the hierarchy, such as his bishops, he may feel threatened and take more direct action against us. That could prove very annoying.”

 

“Makes sense. So what’s the plan for taking Aquleia?”

 

“While you’re holding Thagaste, Trunicht will lead all of the Red Shoulders and Yazan will lead most of the Revolutionary Army to Aquleia. Those two alone should be able to take it, especially with what Bern will be giving us. In the meantime, though, Dougram will be leading a small force of soldiers and moving northeast. He probably won’t make much progress, but he should be able to distract the Royalist forces in that area enough to prevent them from launching any unwanted attacks on Thagaste or our rear. If the attack on Aquleia fails…again, an unlikely proposition, but one we have to prepare for…we’ll then turn this war into one of attrition. You’ll continue to protect Thagaste, while I’ll send Yazan and Trunicht back to the Northeast to assist Dougram in subduing it. If we can reify our hold over the rest of the country, Aquleia will have to give in eventually. Again, though, our victory at Aquleia is extremely likely, thanks to our advantage in numbers, skill, and the assistance of Bern.”

 

“Hmm…I can see that. But what, exactly, is Bern sending to us?”

 

“Vyrleena has told me that she can send a small number of soldiers, but more importantly, they’re bringing their secret weapon…Barbarossa.”

 

“Barbarossa? What the hell is that?”

 

“Truthfully, I’m not sure. Even Vyrleena isn’t entirely sure. All I know is that it’s an incredibly powerful siege weapon, a hundred times stronger than any beast of war on Elibe, even the wyverns themselves. It could tear apart Aquleia’s defenses like paper.”

 

“If you don’t know exactly what it is, I’m still suspicious, Paptimus.”

 

“Yes, I can understand that. However, rest assured that Vyrleena would never lead us falsely. I’ve known her even longer than you, and trust her just as much. If she says this weapon will be of great assistance to us, you can be certain it will be.”

 

“Hmph. Even so, it’s still a bad idea to leave anything to chance. Remember what happened at Scirocco? After my men and I proved our mettle in combat, you were supposed to come in and take care of the whole town, but we still ended up losing Yulia.”

 

Braddock heard another low chuckle and the shifting of someone’s feet. “Well, first off, you won’t be fighting at Aquleia anyways, so you don’t have to worry about it. Secondly, really, Tassar, don’t tell me you’re still holding grudges over something that happened so long ago? It’s not as if Yulia was any great loss. Indeed, since she would have been a Royalist anyways, it worked out for the best—we have one less enemy to worry about, and even better, we gained a competent axeman in the form of her brother!

 

“Yeah, but that’s not my point, Paptimus. I’m saying you shouldn’t take any more chances than you have to,” came Tassar’s reply. “Again, look at Scirocco. Your poison was supposed to have killed every last person in there by the time we arrived, but one kid managed to hang on, and he was the one who took out Yulia. We knew _exactly_ what was supposed to happen and something still went wrong. It might have worked out well, but if Renault or Roberto had been there instead of Yulia, it could have worked out much worse. Now, you’re relying on assistance from Bern without even knowing what, exactly, they’re sending over? You’ll forgive me if I’m a little worried—if the plan at Scirocco messed up even when you accounted for all the factors beforehand, I get the feeling that relying on this big unknown Bern is sending us is not going to turn out well.”

 

Braddock’s eyes widened in pure shock, and his mouth drifted open slightly. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Thinking all this had to be a mistake, he leaned forward on his toes and put his ear even closer to his small listening-hole.

 

“Yes, yes, Tassar, I understand your concerns. Indeed, I share them—rational men take no more risks than absolutely necessary, after all. However, to be honest, I don’t think this is much of a risk. Even if she isn’t perfectly certain on the details, Vyrleena is not our foe and is doing everything she can to assist our cause. She is one of the most reliable and capable people I have ever known. The chances of her aid backfiring on us are, quite frankly, infinitesimal.”

 

“Hm. Well, whatever. So long as it doesn’t interfere with my job at Thagaste I guess it’s not my concern. But I want to make this clear, Paptimus, your revolution isn’t my primary concern either. I support you, sure, and I hate the nobility, but because of what Count Reglay did to me…that bastard and his whore are my main targets. I don’t care whether Aquleia stands or falls, but whatever happens, Barim is mine.”

 

“Again, I understand, my friend. Rest assured, Barim and his wife will answer to you _personally_ when our forces capture them. But surely that will not mark the end of our…partnership, yes? We’ve been so good to each other over the years, won’t you continue to aid me even after you’ve had your revenge on Reglay?”

 

“Yeah, don’t worry about. Like I said, I hate the nobility in general—Reglay just happens to be the man I hate most in particular. I’ll be more than happy to help you take down that stupid Galahad and his worthless aristocracy. Besides, you’re paying me better than anybody else has in the last few years. You keep this up and I’d accompany you to the ends of Elibe.”

 

“My friend, I cannot begin to tell you how glad I am to hear that.”

 

Tassar chuckled. “You definitely should be, especially since I’m starting to think you may have enemies outside of Etruria. Lycia, for instance. Aren’t you worried about them? They’ve traditionally been allies of the Etrurian Crown. They’re not the strongest power on the continent, but they’ve still got enough military strength to give our forces some serious trouble if they decided to back up Galahad. Wouldn’t it wreck your plans if they got involved?”

 

Braddock heard another low chuckle in response. “Very astute, my friend. You’re correct, the Lycians would prove to be extremely troublesome…but fortunately, of course, I neutralized them long ago. Why do you think I engineered that civil war they had over there? Trust me, Tassar. Lycia is in shambles. Read through the plans I gave you…I’ve accounted for every possibility I know of in those, and Lycia is among them. Even if they wanted to, there’s no way any of the cantons, much less all of them, could send any appreciable assistance to Etruria. You were there for a while, weren’t you? You met Braddock just after you left that country, you told me. Right near the Etrurian border, in fact. You should know how diminished Lycian military strength is at the moment.”

 

 _‘Engineered’ the war in Lycia?’ What the hell is he talking about?_  
  


“Maybe,” said Tassar. “Still, can you be absolutely sure? Like you said, rational men don’t take any more risks than absolutely necessary. The Lycians have generally been a pretty tight-knit lot, despite the disorganization of their government. Are you certain your little civil war really dealt them such a strong blow? And it’s already been almost a decade since Ostia managed to regain control of things. How do you know they haven’t regained their national unity? If they’ve got that…despite the losses they suffered, they might prove to be stronger than you think, and end up becoming a thorn in our side.”

 

“You raise a good point, Tassar, but again, rest assured that the rifts I created are nowhere close to healing. I mean, don’t you know what happened? After hearing the story I’m surprised you would think the cantons are anywhere close to regaining their former unity.”

 

“I don’t really know the background of the war. I never cared much for history, just living through one battle to the next. I know it started because of some scandal, but that’s all I heard.”

 

“Oh, really? Would you like me to tell you, then? I’m sure this will clear up any lingering doubts.”

 

There was a brief pause. “Alright, fine. But this had better be good, Paptimus.”

 

“Believe me, Tassar, it is. You see, just a little over seven years ago the scion of Marquess Ostia was set to marry the Princess of House Cornwell—the objective being to cement good relations between their cantons. However, Marquess Volker of Laus had long had eyes on the Cornwell girl, and was very, very angry about not being able to get her. There was already a lot of resentment festering in Lycia, and all it needed was a little spark to set it all off. At the time, Glaesal was the Mage General, and he had taken me under his wing to prepare me for a position in government. When he was invited to the wedding, he took me along with him to Lycia, and, well…you know I’ve never been one to give up an opportunity. I thought the most I’d be able to do was disrupt the wedding and start a bit of petty infighting that would lessen the amount of support they’d be able to give to Etruria.

 

“When I got wind of Lady Pamela’s travel plans, though…that was a chance I just couldn’t resist. It’d create quite a scandal if the bride never showed up to her wedding, after all! It was easy for me to convince Glaesal to give me a bit of time to myself to sightsee. After that…my Warp magic was able to bring me to her location, just as she was passing through Laus. Her guards were no match for me, and the girl…well, I have to admit, I took little pleasure in killing her, even though she was a noble. I took even less pleasure in making it seem as if I’d raped her. But some indignities had to be suffered, I suppose…

 

“I thought that would be the end of it, honestly. The bride was killed by bandits, Cornwell and Ostia would be unable to cement their ties of friendship through marriage…a bad situation, one that would sow discord among the cantons and keep them too busy to meddle in Etruria’s affairs. But it just so happened some wandering peasant caught a glimpse of me as I escaped. In other circumstances this would have been troublesome, but here…rumors of a purple-haired man in Laus having fled the scene of Pamela’s murder started flying around all over Lycia, even after Glaesal and I left. And the best part of it is,” Paptimus chuckled again, “Pamela’s would-be husband believed all of them! Granted, Volker did have a reputation, but still, it’s hard to believe Maxim would have considered him guilty just because of his hair color. Lycians are so lamentably credulous, aren’t they?”

 

Braddock barely heard Tassar’s dismissive snort of agreement. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he mounted an increasingly futile attempt to control his growing anger. But he wasn’t done listening yet.

 

“Still, in this case, it worked out in our favor even better. Maxim killed Volker, straining relations between the cantons even further, and when I heard about it I saw yet another opportunity I couldn’t resist. I contacted Trunicht and had him send one of his agents to free the imprisoned Maxim. If the son of Ostia’s marquess were to escape his captivity, Laus and Cornwell would think Ostia was shielding him from his crimes, and they ended up going to war over it, just as I predicted.”

 

“Damn.” Tassar chuckled appreciatively. “I have to hand it to you, you certainly don’t do anything half-assed. Even I wouldn’t have been able to come up with a plot like that. If that’s the case, I guess we don’t have to worry about any unpleasant surprises from the eastern front…Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Lycians remain at each other’s throats for another ten years. How long did it take you to come up with that plan?”

 

“I’ve wanted to destroy the nobility ever since they sent me to the fighting pits, Tassar. You share my hatred of them; that’s why I recruited you, after all. But yes, for years, even before Glaesal emancipated me, I’ve been thinking of the best ways to overthrow this wretched monarchy. I realized early on that neutralizing Lycia would be necessary. When Glaesal invited me over there to attend the wedding with him, and told me the background of it…well, it fit in perfectly with my plans.”

 

“Did you overlook something, though? I have to wonder what happened to Maxim.”

 

“Oh, that’s no problem. He should be dead. It would have been troublesome if Maxim brought himself back to stand trial, after all. That might’ve stopped the war before it started! Trunicht’s agent was supposed to kill him and dispose of the body after springing him out of the prison. I assume the Silent Chief met with success—from what I heard, Maxim put up a bit of a fight, but ended up getting tossed down a cliff into the Tiberon River. Either the fall or the drowning killed him. I wish I could have seen the body, to make sure, but since the war proceeded without any problem I think it’s safe to assume he’s quite dead.” There was a brief pause. “Tassar, you look troubled. Is something the matter?”

 

“I…probably not. When I first met Braddock, it was near a riverbank…he looked like he’d been in a fight and almost drowned. You don’t think—“

 

“No, that…it couldn’t be. He uses the Wolf Beil, yes? Only the royal guards and pit fighters of Ostia use those weapons. A marquess’s son would never have had access to them. Ostians are more pragmatic than most, but even their nobles have some separation from their underlings.”

 

The conversation continued, but Braddock didn’t care. He’d heard enough, after all—much, much more than enough. He jumped from his bed and picked up his weapon—his hands, trembling with pure rage, could barely hold it.

 

“You filth,” he growled, a line of spit making its way from his open mouth, “you conniving, manipulative pieces of shit, you had me in your pockets all these years? It ends now. NOW!”

 

He dashed from his room, the darkness not bothering him—in his anger, he had tossed his candle aside, the flame sputtering out as it hit the floor—and ran upstairs, the dim moonlight filtering through the slit windows and his own fury being the only things he needed to guide him to his target.

 

There had been a great deal of bloodshed earlier today, outside of the Fortress of Spears. And when he burst into Tassar’s room, screaming and hurling himself at its two shocked occupants, he intended to make a whole lot more.

-x-x-x-

 

It had been a long, harrowing battle, but Renault had finally achieved victory. He pulled up his breeches and emerged from the smelly confines of one of Castle Nerinheit’s privies. He felt quite tired but also very relieved—it had taken him a solid twenty minutes, but for the first time since eating Dina’s attempt at cooking his stomach no longer churned and ached. It seemed as if he’d managed to get…whatever it was she’d put in there completely out of his system.

 

“Damn, girl,” he muttered to himself, holding up his tallow candle in annoyance (it had burned out), “were you trying to kill me? Even I wasn’t this bad when I first learned how to cook. How the hell did you manage to mess up rabbit stew that badly? First thing tomorrow Braddock and I am gonna teach you the basics of cooking caught—hey, what the hell?”

 

He looked upwards, where he could hear shouts and a very angry scuffle coming from above him. He definitely wasn’t the only one—a few other curious mercenaries had exited their residences, wondering what all the fuss was about. Renault quickly followed them upstairs, wanting to find out what was going on.

 

When he reached Tassar’s room, however, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

 

There was definitely still a lot of screaming, and Renault knew very well who it was coming from. Braddock—still dressed in the sleeping clothes Renault had last seen him in barely twenty minutes before, was pinned to the wall by some invisible force, gripping his Wolf Beil and straining as hard as he could to get at his target, screaming incoherently and sounding angrier than Renault had ever seen him—or anyone else, for that matter.

 

That anger was directed towards the other two occupants of the room. Tassar was standing in front of the restrained Ostian, in his sleeping clothes as well, looking as if he’d been woken up not too long ago. The other man was the real surprise. Renault thought he was back in Nerinheit, but in the center of Tassar’s room stood Paptimus, clad in light but practical black robes. He was holding a hand out towards Braddock, and judging from the troubled expression on his face, he was the one keeping the mercenary pinned to the wall. He also seemed to be making a very studious attempt to ignore Braddock’s screams.

 

“YOU KILLED HER!” A foamy coating of saliva surrounded Braddock’s mouth as he ranted at the former Prime Minister—it was almost as if he were rabid. “YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU KILLED MY—“

 

“Enough of this.” Paptimus flicked his hand out towards Braddock, and the Ostian’s head jerked back, his eyes rolling backwards. A few tortured, strained gurgles and gasps managed to escape him before he stilled, his body pinned to the wall quiet and motionless.

 

“BRADDOCK!” cried Renault in absolute horror, and he rushed to the head of the small crowd gathered in front, rushed into the room to help his friend—

 

And was stopped cold by Tassar, who stepped in front of him and grabbed him firmly. Strong as Renault was, the veteran mercenary was stronger, and Renault couldn’t do anything but cry out “Braddock! BRADDOCK!” a couple of times before finally attempting to break out of Tassar’s grip and ask him, “What the hell is going on, Tassar?”

 

“Calm down, Renault,” came the veteran’s controlled, quiet reply. “Hold on, and just listen for a second.”

 

He pointed towards Paptimus, who had released Braddock from the spell and allowed his prone form to slump down to the ground, the Wolf Beil slipping from his fingers. The dark magician turned to look at Renault, then the small crowd of curious mercenaries, sighed, and begun the explanation Renault was desperately waiting for.

 

“My friends,” he began, “Believe me, I’m not much less surprised here than any of you are. I know my presence here is unexpected. However, I wished only to survey our forces after their victory, as well as to congratulate all of you personally for your efforts. I had prepared a speech I intended to give to all of you tomorrow, but for tonight, I had wished only to meet with the leaders of this army—Trunicht, Tassar, and others—to discuss our future plans.

 

“Unfortunately,” and at this he gestured to the unconscious Braddock, “it seems that even among our mercenaries, we have spies and subversive elements. This axeman you see here was actually a Royalist, an assassin who feigned hatred of the nobility and allegiance to our cause in order to undermine us from within. He thought tonight would be a good time to murder one of the Revolution’s top leaders, but,” and at this Paptimus chuckled, “as you can see, I am not very easy prey.

 

“In any case, this is a mere distraction, unworthy of any further attention except to make clear the fact that we must be vigilant at all times. Someone put this man in the castle dungeons, please. We’ll deal with him soon.”

 

This seemed to satisfy the small crowd, though it didn’t please Renault, obviously “WORTHLESS TRAITOR!” came one call. “LET’S HANG ‘IM RIGHT NOW!” came another. Paptimus, though, defused their anger.

 

“I appreciate your support, my friends,” he said, “but let it not be said the Revolution is unmerciful. If this traitor proves impervious to persuasion, we will kill him, of course, but let us at least try to win him over to our cause. If not, though…” he shrugged. “Well, then, let us make his death a performance for our entire army!”

 

This was more than good enough for the gathered mercenaries (who really wanted to see that flashy ice guillotine Paptimus used again) who muttered their assent among themselves and began to disperse, eagerly awaiting another public execution for their entertainment. A pair of the bigger men walked over to Braddock and picked him up, a smaller man holding a torch in front of them as the trio exited the room and made their way down to the old Nerinheit dungeon cells.

 

Renault attempted to stop them, calling out, “Wait! This can’t be right! Braddock! BRADDOCK!” But once again, Tassar blocked him.

 

“Don’t bother, Renault,” said the man, who still seemed calm, though Renault detected a small tremor in his voice which indicated he was a bit more shaken than his professional demeanor would allow him to express. “I’m sorry, but…it’s just as Paptimus says. I mean, look at what he was trying to do. He brought his axe in here and would’ve killed us both if Paptimus’ magic wasn’t strong enough to subdue him.”

 

“But…Tassar, you know Braddock! You know how much he hates the nobility! There’s no way he’d turn on us! All this has to be a mistake!”

 

“I wish I could believe that, Renault. It sure surprised me. But think about it. Braddock never talked much to either of us about his past, right? I guess it was my fault for not prying further, but…it looks like he hiding a lot from us. Turns out he just wanted to get closer to rebel leaders like us so he could take us out.”

 

“Tassar, I’ve known Braddock for years, that can’t—“

 

“It is. The evidence is right in front of you.” Tassar pointed to the discarded Wolf Beil on the floor. “Did you hear how he was screaming? He’s crazy, Renault, he just did a good job of hiding it. I’m sorry, but…well, we’re mercenaries. Even our allies can turn out to be enemies, sometime. We just have to move on from this.”

 

“I…Tassar, I can’t do that! Braddock’s my best friend! I can’t just—“

 

“And I’m your teacher.” Tassar’s eyes narrowed, and though Renault detected no change in the man’s voice, his demeanor suddenly became more threatening—enough to cow the younger mercenary into silence. “You’re not going to choose Braddock over me, are you? The man who made you into a mercenary in the first place? The man who taught you swordplay? The man without whom you wouldn’t even be here?”

 

“I…I—“

 

Tassar smiled knowingly. “Good, I knew you wouldn’t let me down. I can understand how troubled you must be, Renault, but just think about this for a little while, and you’ll know I’m right. After all, if Braddock was such a good friend to you, why didn’t he ever tell you much about himself, eh? He was from Ostia, he lost someone important to him, that’s all he ever said to either of us. If he never trusted us enough to tell us more, why should we trust him?”

 

Renault had no answer to that.

 

“You see my point. So just go down and get some sleep, Renault—you have the room all to yourself now, and you sure don’t want to miss the speech Paptimus is gonna give. Maybe this really is a misunderstanding, and if it is, we’ll hash it out later. But for now, get some rest. That’s what I’m going to do.”

 

Renault didn’t bother to say anything—with an expression of shock and dismay still on his face, he nodded his head and returned downstairs to his room.

 

Not because he planned to sleep—he knew he wouldn’t be able to. But because he’d have to spend this wide-eyed night doing a lot of thinking.

 

-x-

 

Renault was very, very tired. What else would he be after getting maybe two hours of sleep? But he wasn’t tired enough to miss the sound of Tassar’s voice rousing him from bed.

 

“Paptimus is gonna start soon. Let’s go.”

 

The veteran exited his room, waiting outside patiently for his charge to change his clothes and get ready to attend their leader’s speech. Renault, however, had no plans of the sort.

 

“Boss, I…look, I’ll catch up to you. You go on ahead, don’t wait for me, I…”

 

Tassar seemed rather suspicious. “What’s the problem? Are you still—“

 

“N-no! It’s…Tassar, it’s my stomach. I ate something weird yesterday, and it’s still—“

 

An expression between bemusement and disgust crossed the veteran’s face. “Oh, right, that’s what kept you up last night, anyways? That girl’s cooking? Well, your fault for leaving it up to her.” He chuckled. “Well, you won’t have to worry about enduring it again…we just put her on watch duty. Braddock always had that white-knight thing, so we figured having a woman keep an eye on him would keep him in check. Hell, maybe she’ll convince him to come back to our side.”

 

Dina was Braddock’s prison guard? That might make things a bit easier.

 

Renault forced a weak smile. “Really? That…that sounds good.”

 

“Yeah. Anyways, go do what you have to. But try not to take too long, eh?”

 

Tassar nodded his student off, and Renault hurried to the privies he’d spent so much time in last night.

 

But, of course, they weren’t his real destination.

 

As he rounded the corner on the way to the privies, Renault stopped and peeked out from behind it. Tassar was gone, fortunately—making his way down to join the rest of the army as they gathered to hear Paptimus speak. Renault was now free to make his way to where he really wanted to go.

 

He hastily entered the small stairwell, taking one of the torches from a stand nearby (even during the day many parts of Nerinheit Castle could be as dark as night, which was why part of its renovations included adding many torchstands in areas that didn’t have windows, like the stairs) and made his way down. Down past the floor his room was on, down past the main hall (and Paptimus’ speech), and down until he reached the very bottom.

 

The renovation work had reached even to the dungeons, Renault noted—the Revolutionaries really were very precise. Torches had been added to the walls, and while the cells were as dank and oppressive as they ever were, they had been given new steel doors.

 

The only other person he could see in the gloomy, torchlit dungeon was standing in front of the cells—it was, as he had expected, his lone female student from Nerinheit City. “Hey! Dina!” he called, forcing her to look up—she hadn’t been sleeping, but she had been watching a small spider munch on a captured fly on the ceiling to pass her time. “What’re you doing down here? Don’t you know Paptimus is giving a speech?”

 

“B-Brother Renault!” The young woman hastily stood up straight and gave him a salute, which he cheerfully waved off. “I…I know Brother Paptimus is speaking today, but…but he gave me this duty himself! I have to watch over Bro—I mean, the traitor Braddock, to ensure he doesn’t escape before we can mete out our justice to him!” The words were spoken with conviction, but her expression still looked a bit unsure.

 

“You’re doing a good job of it,” smiled Renault. “But that’s the reason I’m down here. Dina…I want to talk to Braddock.”

 

This really got her attention. “I…I can’t allow that! He’s a traitor! I was instructed not to let anyone see him! He…he tried to kill Brother Paptimus, didn’t he?”

 

“Come on, Dina. You remember he’s my friend, right? And he was one of your teachers, too. There’s nobody more devoted to the Revolution than he is.”

 

“I…I remember that, but—“

 

“Look, I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. Remember, Royalist spies are everywhere, right? And one of their favorite tactics is to sow discord among our ranks, or whatever it was Paptimus said, right? This is just another one of their plots. They’re trying to set us against Braddock! Be we aren’t gonna fall for their schemes, right? Let me just talk to Braddock for a bit. I’ll be able to get the real story out of him, and then we’ll be able to work together to punish those damn Royalists who tried to frame him!”

 

“I—what you say makes sense, but…”

 

“Look,” said Renault, beginning to lose his patience, “The sooner you let me see him, the sooner we can get back to business fighting the Royalists. You don’t want the criminal who set up my friend to get away, do you? I’ll talk to him, set things straight, then I’ll tell Paptimus what really happened and everything will be back to normal. After we catch the spy who started this mess…we’ll celebrate together, all three of us. I’m sure Braddock’ll be eager to try your cooking!”

 

At this, Renault shot her the widest smile he could, hoping she wouldn’t detect how false it was, but fortunately, she was fooled. “R-Really?” she beamed, quite overjoyed. “You mean you really liked my cooking? I just wanted to thank you for everything you taught me, but—“

 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Renault, lying through his teeth, “and look, once we get all this over with, Braddock will be able to enjoy it too. So how about giving me just a few minutes with him, huh? I guarantee we’ll be able to clear all this up.”

 

“I…well, alright. He’s in the last cell in this block.” She stepped aside, still looking a bit uncertain. “Please be quick, though, Brother Renault. I can only give you a small amount of time.”

 

“It’ll be more than enough. Thanks!” Smiling out of genuine triumph this time, Renault stepped past her and walked past the rows of empty cells. “Sorry, Braddock,” he mumbled to himself, knowing full well the terrors his friend would be subject to if he actually kept his culinary promise to Dina. Still, if it was enough to convince her to let him see Braddock…

 

It wasn’t long before he managed to make his way to the last cell in the area, growing quite concerned when he raised his torch and saw its contents. Though their doors may have been renovated, the cells themselves seemed to be as gloomy and dreary as anyone would expect, and the occupant of this one seemed to reflect that.

 

Whereas Braddock had been angrier than Renault could imagine anyone getting last night, now he seemed more despondent than ever before. He was sitting slumped on the floor, clad in the same clothes he’d worn to bed. He was staring at the ground, looking at nothing in particular, his long hair falling downwards in messy, unruly waves. Renault might have thought he really was dead, if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew they wouldn’t try and imprison a corpse.

 

“Psst! Braddock!” he whispered. The form on the floor gave no response. Actually worried now, Renault repeated his greeting a second time, louder, and was very gratified when he actually elicited a response.

 

The man in the cell lifted his head and blinked a pair of red, bleary, tired eyes that seemed glassy and lifeless. “Who…who’s there?”

 

“It’s me, man! Renault!”

 

That really seemed to pick Braddock up. Faster than Renault could imagine, he seemed to slip from despondency to mania. In a flash he lept up and jumped at the steel bars of his cell doors, forcing Renault to take a frightened step back as he throttled them. “RENAULT! You have to help me! Get me outta here! I have to get to Paptimus, I have to—“

 

“Braddock, just calm down, I—“

 

“DON’T TELL ME TO BE CALM!” he shouted, much to Renault’s dismay. “I GOTTA KILL HIM! THAT BASTARD, HE—“

 

“Dammit, Braddock, I told you to calm down! Don’t do this, I won’t be able to—“

 

He was interrupted by Dina rushing over to prove his point. “Renault, what’s going on?” she asked, having heard the commotion. “Has Braddock—“

 

“No, he hasn’t,” replied Renault in irritation. “Look, listen to your teacher and just leave us alone for a bit, alright? I guarantee I’ll calm him down and get to the bottom of this. Just give me some time.”

 

“O…alright. But don’t let him out! At least right now, I won’t be able to allow that!”

 

“Fine, fine. Just leave us!”

 

She nodded and followed Renault’s orders, leaving him to try and keep his friend under control. Bringing his face right up to the bars Braddock was throttling, he growled, “look, man, I’m never gonna be able to spring you out of here if you keep this up. You’re my best friend, and I want to help you, but I can’t do that if you don’t CALM DOWN!”

 

This seemed to get through to the enraged Ostian, as he took a few deep breaths, stepped back, and quieted down. “Alright. Alright, Renault.”

 

“Good. Now I need an explanation, Braddock. What the hell happened last night?”

 

Braddock didn’t say anything. He merely continued to grimace.

 

“Last I saw you were trying to carve up Paptimus and Tassar, man. What’s going on? What’s up with you? Why’ve you betrayed the Revolution?”

 

“THEY BETRAYED _US!”_ Braddock roared, and once again Renault had to encourage him to quiet down. “Dammit, Renault, they’ve been playing us for fools all this time! Paptimus was the one who set up everything at Scirocco! Him and Tassar! And that’s not all,” Braddock’s face contorted with rage, “in Lycia, he…he killed her! Paptimus, that fucking son of a whore, he killed my fiancée! Just so he could—“

 

“Damn it, Braddock, calm down, start at the beginning! I don’t have any idea of what you’re talking about! Just tell me what happened last night. I leave the room just to head to the privies, and when I come back everything’s gone to hell. Fill me in, man!”

 

Once again, Braddock took a deep breath, stepped back, and attempted to calm down.   
“All right. All right, Renault. But first, lemme see that torch.”

 

“Huh? Why? I can’t let you out yet, man, I have to prove you’re innocent first!”

 

“Damn it, just trust me. I know what I’m doing. I’m not gonna try to escape. Just let me see it.”

 

“I…alright.”

 

With a suspicious expression on his face Renault passed the burning torch to Braddock through the bars of his cell. What the Ostian did next made him very confused. A determined expression on his face, Braddock ran the torch through every corner of his small cell, seeming as if he was trying to scour every inch of darkness he could. He gave a small shout of triumph when the torch passed over a small spot near the ceiling—Renault couldn’t see it clearly, but it seemed as if a black spot on there seemed to _move_ —but disappeared with a small squeak when Braddock stabbed at it with the torch’s flame.

 

“Alright, Renault,” he said, a grim smile on his face as he passed back the light, “we oughta be safe now. Smoked out that little dark magic spy bastard.”

 

Renault was now thoroughly and completely befuddled. “What the hell is going on?”

 

With another deep breath, Braddock began his story. “It was just last night, Renault, exactly like you said. Remember when you had to dart off to the privies? That was when it all started.

 

“I couldn’t get to sleep. I felt…something was watching me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, so I trusted my instincts, got a candle, and looked around. What I found was some sort of…I have no idea what it was. All I know is that it hates light.” He grinned. “You just saw me kill one of the littler bastards. It was a little shadow thing…Paptimus must’ve summoned it to keep tabs on all of us with his dark magic. It’d been trying to escape up to the ceiling before I trapped it with a candle and killed it.

 

“The ceiling’s pretty thin, though…and it looked like that messed up Paptimus’ little plans. From where I was standing on my bed, I could just hear him warp in to discuss his damn schemes with Tassar. I…I heard everything. Tassar was talking about the battle plans for Aquleia, and mentioned he didn’t want any ‘nasty surprises’ like back at Scirocco…he said he was never expecting Paptimus to poison the town!”

 

“What the hell? Braddock, you must’ve heard wrong, man! It was Exedol who did it!”

 

“No, I know what I’m talking about, Renault! Don’t try to tell me I’m lying! I know what I heard! Paptimus didn’t even try to deny it! I heard him…everything! That he’d intended to kill everyone there from the beginning, that he wanted a way to frame Khyron and Exedol…and he used us to do it! We were just tools to him, Renault! You can’t be so blind that you can’t see it. Paptimus fooled Exedol, he fooled EVERYBODY into thinking he was a loyal servant of the Crown, why do you think he wouldn’t be able to fool the rest of us into thinking he actually cared about us, about his damn ‘Revolution?’”

 

Renault could say nothing in response. It was his turn to be rendered speechless by shock.

 

“And he doesn’t care, dammit! Not about us, not about anything else but bringing this whole continent into chaos! Scirocco wasn’t the only thing he mentioned, Renault. He talked about Lycia, too. My homeland! Tassar was worried about Lycia coming to the King’s aid…and you know what Paptimus said? He said he took care of it. He engineered that whole damn civil war just for his own convenience a few years down the road! Glaesal…that guy took him to Lycia to visit my…d, dammit, and he took that time to send everything to hell! Straight to hell!” Braddock lost control of his emotions and charged right at the bars of his cell. “I have to kill that bastard, Renault! I HAVE TO! You should feel the same! They’re just manipulating you too, man! Help me! HELP ME! I’ll never be able to rest until I crush that worthless bastard’s skull!”

 

Once again, Renault didn’t say anything. Braddock simply looked at him with a desperate, pleading expression as a long moment of silence stretched between the two men.

 

It finally ended when Renault took a step back, nodded, and then turned and walked away.

 

“R-Renault!” Braddock called plaintively. “Where’re you going? Haven’t you listened to what I just said?”

 

Renault kept walking.

 

“Renault, don’t you believe me? I’m telling the truth, man! You’re my best friend! Please!”

 

No response.

 

“Renault! RENAULT! PLEASE!”

 

By this point, Renault had reached Dina, who had once again become concerned by Braddock’s continued shouting. “Brother Renault…how did it go?”

 

“Well enough,” came Renault’s quiet response. “Uh…it’s just that…the, uh, Royalist spies have really sunk their claws into him. They…cast a spell on him, or something. Once I get Paptimus to take a look at him, we’ll be able to undo whatever they did. So just keep watching him ‘till then, okay? I guarantee all this will work out.”

 

“All right!” This seemed to cheer up the young woman quite a bit. “Thank you, Brother Renault! I’ll make sure Braddock’s restrained until we can help him!”

 

“Thanks.” Renault smiled at her, and she smiled back in response, but the good cheer of both of them was wiped off their faces when Braddock let out one last, despairing wail: “RENAAAUUULT!!!”

 

That was all his best friend listened to. He returned to the dark stairwell, torch in hand, and made his way upstairs, wanting to meet up with Tassar and listen to the last bits of Paptimus’ speech.

 

After that, he’d spend a long day sleeping. Tomorrow morning would be very, very busy.

 

-x-

 

Armor, sword, a pack full of vulneraries, food, a large pair of good traveling cloaks and other assorted travel supplies, along with most of the other things he’d had with him when he arrived…Renault was ready to go. He had pretty much everything he needed. Now all that was left was to make his exit. And it was going to be something to remember.

 

It was very early in the morning, but Renault wasn’t tired at all. After listening to Paptimus’ speech with Tassar last afternoon (he’d missed most of it, but had managed to catch the last bits of the turncoat Prime Minister exhorting the mercenaries to show no mercy to the Royalists after they’d won such an incredible victory), he and his boss had parted ways. He’d told the man he really needed some rest, given how little he’d gotten the night before, and of course, Tassar, though still slightly suspicious, had understood.

 

Now, he was more than ready to start the day’s business. Although parts of the Revolutionary Army kept themselves busy almost every minute of every day, Renault knew that at this early hour, there would at least fewer soldiers, guards, and workers wandering around.

 

For him, it was perfect.

 

Wasting no time, Renault fetched one of his tallow candles and lit it, walking to and fro, scouring the room with it. To his surprise, as he neared the wall he saw something move, and instinctively, he did what Braddock had done yesterday—he thrust the candle towards it, as fast as he could, and was rewarded with a small, pained squeak and a small puff.

 

Braddock really hadn’t been kidding about being watched.

 

“Hope you’re the only one around here,” Renault said quietly. If there were more of those little spies hanging around, he couldn’t possibly expect to hunt them all down. He’d just have to hope Paptimus or the Red Shoulders or whoever didn’t have enough magical ability to put them everywhere in the castle.

 

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Candle in hand, he exited his room, carefully looking left and right to ensure no-one was watching him, and made his way downstairs—the few people he passed paid him no heed, as they were occupied with their own duties. It didn’t take him long to reach his destination—a small room on the first floor whose original purpose was unknown but had since been turned into a storage area.

 

Apparently, there was a little overseer there, too—as he waved his candle to and fro, searching for the objects he wanted, he came across another suspicious black patch and burnt it out as well. And as good fortune would have it, the little thing was waiting just near what he was looking for—a couple small casks of oil.

 

He’d have to be quick about this. Hastily, Renault took the oil and made his way over to his next destination—the castle’s kitchenette. It was so early that no-one was around—they wouldn’t start making breakfast for at least half an hour. The mercenary opened up one cask and began pouring out the oil—not much of it, of course, but starting from the hearth, he made a small trail—near the walls, so as to be almost un-noticable—to the wooden tables and chairs nearby. He did the same with the spits and other fireplaces of the good-sized kitchen, making small trails of oil over to anything flammable, whether it was nearby wooden furniture or even pantries. Calmly, he bent down, removed a bit of fresh tinder from his supply pack, set it into the main hearth, and lit it up with the flame from his candle.

 

As he expected, a larger fire sprang up and immediately began spreading, but Renault was surprised by its speed. It’d take a little time for someone to notice that the place was getting a bit too hot before anyone was supposed to have started cooking, but not as much time as Renault had initially thought. Now he’d have to be even quicker about this.

 

His job in the kitchen done, Renault ran over to his next target—the scaffolding on the east side of the castle. Once again, this early in the morning, the workers wouldn’t have started their jobs yet, so aside from avoiding the patrol of a couple of lonely guards, Renault had free rein to do his business. Crouching low to the ground, he made his way to the bases of the wooden scaffolds, emptying the contents of the oil casks onto them and around them. Once again, he knelt down to start a fire, then hastily blew out his candle and stuffed it into his pack. The sun was coming up, so soldiers and workers would be waking up soon, meaning he didn’t want to be caught anywhere near the area, at least not before the fires had a good chance to spread. Walking upstairs as quickly as he could—but not too quickly, to keep from arousing the suspicions of the few people he passed—he surreptitiously made his way to his room and returned to his bed, not to sleep, but to wait.

 

He knew he had just a bit of time to go before his little distraction had its effect—at least as he intended. All he could do now, for the moment, was wait.

 

-x-

 

“Renault. RENAULT! Get up, we’ve got a problem!”

 

Renault wasn’t sleeping, and he’d expected Tassar to pay him a visit, especially once he’d heard the beginnings of panicked shouts from outside his room. However, when he raised his head, he pretended to be both tired and surprised. “Boss? What’s goin’ on?”

 

“Fire in the kitchens. Don’t know how they got started. We have to go help put ‘em out.”

 

“A fire? Now?” Once again, Renault feigned surprise and dismay. “What kind of idiots do they have cooking for us?”

 

“Stop your whining and come on.”

 

“Alright, alright. Ugh…” Renault hopped out of bed and followed his leader downstairs, where many other soldiers and workers were heading, rushing around with buckets of water and calling for help.

 

When they reached the first floor, though, as Renault expected, yet another panicked messenger ran up to them and the other fire-fighters, screaming “Fire! FIRE!”

 

“We know, calm down. We’re heading to the kitchen right now,” said Tassar irritably.

 

“No, no! There’s a fire on the east side too! It’s the scaffolding! It’s going up in flames, brother!”

 

This stopped Tassar cold, and Renault too. “On the scaffolds?” he said suspiciously. “Can’t be coincidence. Renault, have you seen anybody strange around here?”

 

“No, not that I know of. And I haven’t seen Braddock, either. As far as I know he’s still locked up, isn’t he?” Renault tried to keep faking his surprise, and when Tassar looked at him for a moment, he thought the jig was up.

 

Fortunately, though, the veteran mercenary still trusted him, it seemed. “Damn it. Alright, Renault, go to get some men together and head for the kitchens. Try to put out the fire. I’ll deal with whatever’s going on in the east wing.”

 

This was exactly what Renault had wanted. “Alright!” Tassar made his way to the kitchens, and Renault made his way outside—or at least, appeared to. He paused as he rounded a corner, anonymous among the many rushing, panicked rebel soldiers and workers. He looked back, and when he was satisfied that Tassar was out of eyeshot, he doubled back to where he really wanted to go.

 

Reaching the stairwell, he brushed past all the firefighters trying to get down (who were too busy to pay him much attention) to get back to the third floor, where he made his way over to Tassar’s room. Just as he’d hoped, the door to the room was closed, but not locked—Tassar had been too busy.

 

Now it was time for him to learn the truth. He’d trusted Tassar for years, but the same could be said of Braddock. “I don’t wanna believe they were playing with us, man, but if you said so, it’s what happened, isn’t it?”

 

Once he got a look at those plans he suspected were lying in Tassar’s hands, Renault knew he could be sure. Renault went over to Tassar’s dresser and pulled all of its cabinets open—on the third one, he found what he was looking for, a pair of small scrolls stashed away in a corner. He picked them up—the first was the plans for the defense of Castle Nerinheit, which he’d already seen, and the second was the attack plan for the rest of the campaign. That was interesting, and might prove useful but wasn’t quite what he was looking for.

 

There was more to search, though—Renault couldn’t put his finger on it, but when he opened the third level of the dresser, he felt that something was off. A hidden compartment? Maybe. He continued digging around—hastily, for he knew he was running out of time—but found nothing more—no secret compartments, no nothing. In frustration, he grabbed the whole thing and shoved it off to one side.

 

It fell over—and underneath it, Renault saw, was a small partition cut into the bottom of it. Was this what he was looking for?

 

He reached for it, felt around it, and lifted the small panel out from under the dresser. What came out was…a small, decently thick yellow book. Renault recognized it as the Secret Book they’d gotten in Sacae a few months back. He picked it up, cautiously, but also noticed a few pages sticking out. He opened up the book and found they weren’t pages, but rather, sheafs of paper—actual paper, not the vellum the book was made out of. Letters, actually.

 

He picked up the first—it had stains on it, as if it had been in the rain at one point, and the ink on it definitely wasn’t fresh, either—and began to read.

 

_Tassar, my friend,_

_Your work at Scirocco was top-notch. I expected no less from you. I am sorry for Yulia’s death, though I suppose it’s no real loss. I’m more concerned about the fact that someone was actually left alive to kill her. The poison apparently was not as potent as I thought. Rest assured, the dealer I purchased it from will be properly recompensed for his shoddy workmanship…_

_Anyways, I also apologize for the trouble you’ll almost certainly run into if you stay in Etruria—although the primary purpose of this operation was to tarnish the Crown’s image, you and your fellow mercenaries will unfortunately but necessarily be the object of many rumors as well. They will die down in time, since in a few years Scirocco will be the least of Galahad’s problems by far, but until then, why don’t you leave the country for a bit? There is a great deal of work to be had in Sacae—the tribes living around Bulgar often seek mercenaries to do work for them, as even thirty years later they haven’t quite recovered from Bern’s intrusion into their territories. In any case, wherever you choose to go, do keep me apprised of your location—when I’m ready to begin the second phase of my plan, I’ll send Trunicht for you. Also, don’t forget to destroy this letter after you’ve finished reading it—I know you are a cautious man, but there’s no need to risk it falling into hands which don’t need it…_

 

Renault’s face contorted with rage, and before he could think about it, he’d crushed the letter in his hand. “Never…never told me about this, you bastard,” he growled to himself. “He was right…Braddock was right! Everything…right from the day you met me at Lisse’s place, you were just lying to me! Manipulating me! Looking for a fucking recruit!” The grimace on his face turned into a vicious grin. “Yeah, well, nobody uses me. And I think I’ve gotten a bit of use out of you. I’m a lot stronger now than I was back then. Strong enough to control my temper, strong enough to control myself, at the least. And in just a little while, I’ll be strong enough to pay you back for stringing me along all these years.”

 

He noticed he was in danger of damaging the letter and the plans, and quickly relaxed his grip and stuffed them back into the book. They’d come in handy later on, after all. But ‘later on’ was the important phrase. He had one more important task to complete, and a very short amount of time in which to do it.

 

-x-

 

“Dina, what the hell are you still doing down here? Haven’t you heard about the fires?”

 

Renault called out to the girl as he stepped into the gloomy, torchlit depths of Castle Nerinheit’s dungeons. She looked up at him, more than a little surprised to have a visitor again.

 

“Brother Renault! Yes, I’ve heard, but that makes my job even more important…with all the chaos going on around us, this would be the perfect chance for Braddock to escape, after all! And…wait, then, what are _you_ doing down here? Shouldn’t you be out helping with the fires?”

 

“I am. It turns out they were the work of an arsonist…the same spy who tricked Braddock into turning on us!”

 

“R…really? You’re serious?”

 

“Yeah. Now you gotta let him out, Dina. The two of us have a score to settle! We can’t let that bastard get away!”

 

“Okay, I…wait.” Dina, who had reached for the keys to the cells she kept on her belt and had begun to move, suddenly stopped to look at Renault. “I…Brother Renault, I’m sorry, but I haven’t received any orders regarding this! Unless Brother Paptimus or Brother Trunicht tells me, my orders are to keep Braddock in his cell, no matter what! How can we be sure he’s recovered from the spell the put him under?”

 

“Listen, Dina,” Renault growled, trying to be as intimidating as possible, “we don’t have time. Are you really going to defy me? I’m your teacher.”

 

She quailed, but still stood firm. “B-Brother Renault, I…I have to follow orders! The Revolution depends on it! No matter what, not even for you!”

 

Renault was silent for a moment, scowling at her. Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to deflate, letting out a heavy sigh. “So…you’re not gonna give in, huh? Absolutely nothing I do or say will make you give up those keys?”

 

“I’m sorry, b-but…”

 

“Alright, fine. Sorry, Dina.”

 

“Wait, WHA—“

 

Faster than the girl could react, Renault whipped out his sword from its scabbard and slammed its pommel into her forehead. Her eyes rolled back, and she slumped to the floor, out cold.

 

“Just be glad you’re not dead,” Renault grumbled as he reached down to get at the key ring she had. “Hangin’ around Braddock’s made me too soft.”

 

He promptly headed over to the Ostian’s cell at the end of the block. Braddock was sitting slumped in a corner, looking as despondent as he’d been the last time Renault saw him. He didn’t even raise his head when he heard footsteps coming towards him, or Renault’s hushed whisper of, “Hey, Braddock!” Indeed, the only thing that actually got his attention was when he heard the creak of his cell door opening.

 

That finally got him to look up. “Who…Renault? What’re you…why?”

 

“C’mon, man, what the hell do you think? I’m springing out of here!”

 

At last, the Ostian seemed to perk up. “S…seriously? You just left me yesterday, I thought you’d—“

 

“Hey, that hurts,” said Renault, kind of sad. “You’re my best friend, you don’t really think I’d abandon you, do you? I was just getting some stuff ready for our escape. Now, c’mon, lets go!”

 

“All right! ALL RIGHT!” Now that his hope had been restored, Braddock flicked back to what was the only other emotion besides despair he could apparently feel—rage. He attempted to burst past Renault, screaming, “I’M GONNA KILL THAT BASTARD! I’M GONNA RIP HIM TO PIECES!” before Renault grabbed onto his arm and attempted to hold him back with every last bit of his strength.

 

Braddock, of course, did not take this well. “Renault, what the hell are you doing? You…” he shoved his friend away, a grimace on his face. “What the hell, are you in cahoots with them? Huh? HUH? I’m gonna kill that son of a whore, and I’ll kill you if you try to stop me!”

 

Now it was Renault’s turn to be angry, and he shoved back. “Dammit, Braddock, listen to me! Do you think you have even the tiniest chance of getting at Paptimus! You’re just gonna get yourself killed! How’re you gonna get revenge then?!”

 

“I DON’T CARE, I—“

 

“Think about it, Braddock! We’re deep in enemy territory, surrounded by his little servants on every side, AND this guy is apparently one hell of a dark magician! I saw you the other night, man! He had you pinned to the wall with one hand! Barely looked like he was having trouble at all! You try to take him out now and he’s the one who’s gonna tear you apart!”

 

“Damn it! DAMMIT!” As much as he wanted to, Braddock couldn’t deny what his friend was saying, and slammed his fist into the nearby stone wall in frustration. “So what the hell do you want me to do, huh? Just let those scumbags get away with it?”

 

“NO! What I’m saying is we get the hell out of here until we’re strong enough to face ‘em on equal terms! Look, we need training to deal with that dark magic Paptimus uses, and when he’s got a fifty thousand strong Revolutionary Army with him, there’s no way we have even a shot at beating him. So what should we do? Let’s join up with the Royalists! If we can help them win this war, crush this Revolutionary Army and everything, we’ll be able to get our shot at Paptimus and Tassar!”

 

“You’re crazy! Maybe you haven’t been paying attention, Renault, but the Royalists have been getting their asses kicked. They don’t have a chance!”

 

“They might with these,” Renault grinned, and he held out the second prize he’d filched from Tassar’s room—the attack plans for the Revolutionary Army’s upcoming campaign. “We get these to the Royalists, and they’ll be able to find a way to counter Paptimus’ schemes. It’s about time that asshole got a nasty surprise of his own, right?”

 

“That’s a pretty big risk, Renault. What if we don’t get there? This might be my only shot at Paptimus! I can’t just give it up!”

 

“Yeah, your only shot to die. Surrounded by his little soldiers everywhere, in his own castle, when his dark magic was powerful enough to knock you out when he didn’t even have a tome? Yeah, that’s a great idea. Face it. No matter what, anything’s preferable to trying to get at him in his own turf on his own grounds. You ever wanna get revenge for your homeland, you’re gonna wait until you’re actually strong enough to break through that guy’s defenses.”

 

Braddock’s face twisted, and he looked as if he’d strike out at Renault, who simply stood his ground. But in his present state—wearing nothing but a pair of pants, totally unarmed—he couldn’t help but realize how right Renault was.

 

“Fine,” he spat. “FINE! We’ll get the hell out of here and link up with the Royalists somehow. So then how do we do that, huh?”

 

“Take this,” Renault responded, unlimbering the pack on his back, fishing around inside of it and tossing what he found at Braddock. It was one of the traveling cloaks he’d taken.

 

“This is all I could give you,” Renault apologized, “My distraction’s not gonna give us enough time to go to the armory and get your stuff back. Just put it on and pretend you’re…I dunno, Roberto or something. I set fires in the kitchen and the east scaffolding, if they haven’t put those out yet we’ll have enough time to head over to the stables on the west side and get ourselves a horse.”

 

“Do you even know how to ride?”

 

“No, but how hard could it be? We sure as hell can’t just walk. We’ll get ridden down within hours!”

 

“This doesn’t sound like a good plan, Renault, we—“

 

“Look, you have a better one? I’d like to hear it!”

 

Braddock just grimaced again. “Alright, fine, you win.” He hastily donned the cloak, taking care to pull the hood over his face and cover up as much of his body as possible. “Let’s go!”

 

The two men rushed past the unconscious Dina, up the stairs, and out into the first floor. “I just hope Tassar doesn’t catch on to us,” Renault muttered. When they reached the great hall, he noticed fewer people heading towards the kitchen and more heading outside, still carrying buckets.

 

“Renault, what the hell’s going on?”

 

“I set a couple of fires to distract everybody in here while we made our exit. Looks like they put out the one in the kitchen, but we should still have a bit of time before they finish off the one I set on the east scaffolding. We gotta hurry!”

 

Together, the two men dashed outside, but they headed to the west rather than the east—and everyone around them was too concerned with the fire to pay attention to Renault’s familiar face or to the big guy clad in a big cloak right behind him. The two men reached the stables quite easily, and virtually no-one was around—only a single seemingly slow-witted stablehand was still loitering in the area, tending to the horses.

 

Good enough for Renault. “Hey, kid!” he called. “Get us a horse ready, would you! Me and Roberto have to ride!”

 

“Uh…what?” The lad looked up at Renault, utterly confused. “Why?”

 

“Haven’t you heard about those fires in this fortress?”

 

“Yessir. They told me to keep an eye on the horses in case the fire gets here or they get spooked or…”

 

“Yeah, well, it turns out the fires were arson. The spies who did it are gettin’ away, and me and Roberto have to chase ‘em down! So give us a horse, unless you want to explain to Tassar why we couldn’t catch the traitors who did this!”

 

Behind him, Braddock grunted angrily in what he hoped was a very Roberto-ish gesture. It apparently succeeded, as the boy’s eyes widened. “Y-yes sirs!” He hastily made his way over to one side of the stable and returned leading a middling-sized brown courser, which happily had saddle and reins. “Take him! He ain’t the strongest, but he’s pretty quick and don’t mind whoever rides ‘im. You’ll be sure to catch those Royalist scum soon on his back, for sure!”

 

“Thanks, kid!” Renault smiled, and was about to get on, when Braddock put a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Renault,” said the Ostian quietly from underneath the folds of his traveling cloak, “let me take the reins. I’ve had a bit of experience with horses.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“I was never good at it and I haven’t even been near a saddle for ten years, but that’s still better than you.”

 

“Alright.” Turning to the stablehand, Renault told him, “B—I mean, Roberto’s gonna be leading the chase. You did well, kid. Keep an eye out for us, we’ll be back before you know it!”

 

As best as he could, Braddock climbed onto the courser’s back—it wasn’t a comfortable matter, barefoot as he was, but he knew full well they didn’t have time to get him his boots and traveling armor anyways. Renault followed, clambering up behind the Ostian and clinging onto him tightly. “Alright, we have to get moving!”

 

“Right!” shouted Braddock. “Dammnit, horse, move! YAH! GIDDYUP! JUST MOVE!”

 

This last shout was accompanied by a harsh kick to the sides, and the horse took this as its signal to take off—as fast as it could. Both Braddock and Renault were nearly tossed off the animal as it charged forward, out of the stables, and within a few moments, out of the gates of the fortress’s newly built outer walls, which had been opened in order to allow the firefighters to get more water from the nearby streams and springs in the woods. Within a very short span of time, the two men were being carried far, far away from the Revolutionary Army behind them.

 

And as all this happened, the unfortunate boy could just stand dumbly in the stables, pondering why Roberto hadn’t sounded much like Roberto at all when he called for his horse to move.

-x-

 

“H-hey! Braddock! I think we gotta stop soon. This horse looks like it’s gonna keel over!”

 

Nodding, the Ostian shouted down to his mount, “Hey! You can slow down!” When that didn’t do much, he remembered that one ought to pull on the reins to convince a horse to halt, and he did so harshly, which resulted in the beast, already exhausted, coming to such a sudden stop that Braddock was almost thrown off of it—and nearly fell when Renault grabbed him as hard as he could in an attempt to keep himself from sliding off the animal. Fortunately, Braddock was able to hold on as well, and both men managed to dismount without too much pain.

 

The two men were happy at making an apparently successful escape, but not nearly as happy as their weary steed, who had been running as fast as he could for several hours. The fugitives had been lucky to find him—though he wasn’t as tough as a real knight’s destrier, he was one of the faster coursers in Nerinheit’s stables and had a great deal of endurance as well. Braddock and Renault had little knowledge of horses, of course, and thus gave little thought to how thankful they should have been to their mount, but he didn’t care—all the mattered to him now was finally getting a chance to relax and enjoy drinking out of the nearby stream as the sun began to set beneath the canopy of the large tree under which all three of them had taken shelter. They weren’t planning to sleep here—within half an hour they hoped to regain enough strength (and give their mount enough of a rest) to continue their journey. They knew Khyron’s forces were still heading down the path to Aquleia, tails between their legs, and figured that hooking up with them and handing over Paptimus’ battle plans would ensure their safety. But for now, no matter how much they wanted to join up with the Mage General and his soldiers, they both knew they wouldn’t be going anywhere if their mount was exhausted.

 

“Damn, bud,” Renault grumbled as he sat down, leaning on the tree’s trunk, “don’t you have any idea how to ride? I could’ve smashed my head open if you managed to make that horse toss us off!”

 

“Hey, I said it’s been years!” Braddock shot back. “I only took a couple riding lessons when I was a kid, and I’ve been an infantryman ever since I joined up with Tassar! So unless you think you could do better, lay off!”

 

Renault had apparently angered his friend much more than he’d intended. “Whoah, hey, sorry, sorry, man! I was just kiddin’ around. Even if you’re no Paladin, you’re still a better horseman than I’d be.”

 

“Uh? Y…yeah.” This seemed to calm Braddock down, and he took a deep breath, sighed, and then looked at Renault with an oddly tired, sad expression. “Sorry, Renault. I’m just on edge, these last couple of days…yeah. They haven’t been good. I shouldn’t have—“

 

“Nah, it’s alright. Here,” and at this Renault reached into his traveling pack to bring out a couple of the rations he’d thought to filch from Castle Nerinheit’s stores, “let’s make camp for the night, eh? We’ll start again as soon as we’re able.”

 

“Alright, sounds good.” Braddock accepted one of the proffered morsels, and both men began their meal. “But where’re we going?”

 

“Like I told you, we’re joining up with the Royalists. Khyron’s army should still be making their way back to Aquleia, right? Most of ‘em are on foot, so by ourselves we should be able to meet up with them pretty quickly on horseback. We give Khyron the plans I got, then we can start taking back Etruria from these Revolutionary jerks and give Paptimus what he deserves!”

 

“I…well, Renault, I still don’t think it’ll work, but…yeah. Yeah, I don’t think there’s any better option.” His eyes narrowed. “And I’d rather have a slim chance at killing Paptimus than none at all!” However, at this he looked at Renault suspiciously. “But you were always enthusiastic about this Revolution, Renault. Why’re you suddenly betraying it now?”

 

Renault blinked, once again hurt by his friend. “You’re still suspicious of me? C’mon, man, you’re my best friend. Yeah, you’re right, I did love the Revolution, and what it stood for. I hated the nobles, I really hated religion, and I wanted to see all of those things burn down. But I go where you go. I don’t care who they are or what they stand for, any enemy of yours is an enemy of mine. If the Revolution’s turned your back on you, then I’m gonna turn my back on it. If Paptimus threw you in a cell, then I’m gonna break you out and help you get back at him. I don’t care about causes, I don’t care about loyalties, I don’t care about anything but you.”

 

Braddock really didn’t know how to reply to this. “Renault…really? I—“

 

“Yeah, really. You’re the closest thing to a…hell, Braddock, you’re the only family I’ve go. You stood by me, you saved my life, and you talk to me like my mom, like Serapino, like nobody else ever did. I don’t really have a home, I don’t have anyplace to go, nobody who cares if I come back alive or not…except you.”

 

“What about Tassar?”

 

“He was my teacher, but he’s not my friend. He was my teacher…but I could never talk to him, confide in him, like I could you. He may have brought me into the mercenary life, but you’re why I wanted to stay a mercenary. And besides… he never was my friend. He used me!” Renault’s face twisted in anger as he brought out the letter from Tassar’s room and showed it to Braddock. The Ostian’s face twisted into the same expression as he read it.

 

“It’s just like I said, Renault,” he spat, “I told you! Tassar, Paptimus…they’re both liars! They were just using us!”

 

“Uh-huh,” grunted Renault. “Too bad for him we found his little missive, right? Guess he’s not as smart as he always thought he was…should’ve followed Paptimus’ advice and burned this thing as soon as he read it! Well, his foolishness is our gain, eh?”

 

“You got it. Hah, hah, Tassar always was a pack rat, and reading this, I think I know why he kept it around. Insurance…I get the feeling he still doesn’t trust Paptimus entirely. He’s probably worried about that bastard turning his coat a second time and throwing him to the Royalists, so he thought having a piece of evidence like this would come in handy someday. Yeah, well, it sure has…but for us, not him!”

 

“Yeah. And now you see why I’m not having any second thoughts about leavin’ that guy far behind me. Him, Paptimus…I admired both of them, I thought they were the kind of guys I could be happy about serving! But they lied to me…set me up! All this time, Tassar never cared about me. He was just looking for a recruit! And Paptimus…everything went according to his damn plan! He set me up—set us all up—ruined my reputation, and framed me for poisoning a whole damn town! Even my own mother fell for his scheme! Well, you know what, Braddock? I’m nobody’s damn puppet. Nobody uses me. And anybody who does is gonna pay! So don’t you worry about it, bud. I’ve got as much of a score to settle with those bastards as you do! And once we’re stronger, once we’re in the right position…we’re gonna teach all of ‘em a lesson for playing us like fools!”

 

At this, Renault’s expression softened, and he looked at his friend with an oddly contrite expression. “Agh, that reminds me. Braddock, I think…look, I think I’m the one who owes you an apology here.”

 

“Huh? What’re you talking about, Renault? You just busted me out of a prison cell, I owe you my life! And besides…if it wasn’t for you, I probably would have headed up right to Paptimus’ room and gotten myself killed. I definitely wasn’t thinking straight…now, thanks to you, it won’t be impossible for me to get a decent shot at that bastard!”

 

“Yeah, but it’s kind of my fault we ended up on his side in the first place. From the very beginning of this campaign you smelled something funny. You knew something wasn’t right…but me, I was the one they had completely blinded. Every time you said something about your suspicions, I’d make some excuse for Paptimus or Tassar…dammit, I was such a fool! I—“

 

“No, don’t beat yourself up over it, Renault. They had me too. Until last night I never even suspected Tassar…he saved my life back in Ostia, he’s watched over for years, and for all that, I was loyal to him…I never once suspected he was just using me, like you. Never suspected he was part of that damn Paptimus’ plans! But I should’ve seen it coming a long time ago. So you don’t have much to apologize for. I…at least…” Braddock seemed to have lost his line of thought, and the anger on his face turned to sadness and contrition even deeper than what was on Renault’s.

 

“Whoah, look, man,” said Renault, “don’t you start going crazy on me either! They fooled both of us, right? So let’s just call it even. You don’t have anything to apologize for to me, and I don’t have anything to apologize for to you. Only thing I need from you is to watch my back when we go up against those Revolutionaries, and the only thing you need from me is the same. Right?”

 

“I…No, Renault, that’s not it. I…I have to be honest with you, if you’re doing all this for me. I have…a lot more to apologize for than just that, especially to you. I…

 

“Huh? What d’you mean?”

 

“Renault, I…I’ve been keeping things from you too. For years, since we’ve known each other…now, I don’t think I can…I have to tell you everything.”

 

Renault said nothing, simply keeping his eyes focused on Braddock.

 

“If you want to kill me for this, fine, I guess I deserve it. Only thing is you wait until we’ve done in Paptimus. Then I’ll take whatever you want to give me.”

 

Renault still said nothing.

 

“I…alright, first things first. Renault, my name…My name’s not really Braddock. I…they used to call me Maxim.”

 

Renault blinked, silent for a moment, digesting his friend’s confession. He finally replied with,“Maxim? I thought I heard that name before, but—“

 

“Maxim. As in, the Marquess of Ostia’s youngest son.”

 

Once again, Renault was completely silent.

 

“Renault, I—“

 

“Just keep going with your story,” said Renault—and his voice was neither angry nor accepting, just neutral. “Tell me the rest.”

 

“A…alright, Renault.”

 

With a pause to clear his thoughts and a deep breath to give him strength, the Ostian began his tale.

 

“I was Dad’s…Marquess Raion of Ostia’s third son. Right from the start, nobody wanted me. My older brother saw me as a threat to his inheritance…and my older sister adored my brother and took his side, no matter what. My parents…they had hopes for me, I guess. But by the time I was born, my brother had already shown he had what it took to be a great leader. Unless I could live up to him, they wouldn’t want me…

 

“Yeah, well, you can guess what I was capable of. Growing up, every time it even looked like I was about to beat my brother in something, whether it was swordsmanship or scholarship, he and my sister would…well, they were both bigger and stronger than me, so I guess it’s a miracle they didn’t just kill me, but they were more than enough to make my life miserable. And my parents didn’t care…if I wasn’t strong enough to stand up for myself, I wasn’t a worthy heir, anyways.”

 

The Ostian’s voice grew distinctly bitterer. “Inheritance? I didn’t care about any of that garbage. I didn’t care about any stupid social positions or anything. But no matter what, I could never convince my brother…even though he was my own flesh and blood, he thought I was always out to get him, so that I’d become Ostia’s only male heir. And my parents…they didn’t care about me at all, they just cared about their god-damn position! It didn’t matter that I was their son…if I couldn’t ‘prove’ myself worthy, then I didn’t deserve anything at all!

 

“So I just stopped caring. I didn’t want anything to do with the nobility, with their stupid games of succession, with their worthless hypocrisy…I gave it all up. By the time I wasn’t even a teenager, I was barely seen around Castle Ostia, almost never to be found at any of those damn balls and parties the nobles loved to throw. My tutors had to spend hours searching for me in the city to get me to attend any of their damn classes…just as well, I was never much good at any of ‘em. Only thing I had much of a mind for was military history and tactics, and when my brother heard I was starting to outshine him in those, well, he made it so I had no reason to take ‘em anymore.

 

“I had to get away from it all, so I spent my time away from the castle, in the city…among the commoners. The Royal Guards didn’t mind me hanging around them. I’d go to the barracks and watch them train…and after a while, one of ‘em saw me interested and decided to give me a little hands-on practice. Even after I told him who I was, he didn’t care. I wasn’t as tough as my brother, but I was still a pretty strong kid. From his perspective, a member of the nobility who knew how to take care of himself would mean less work for the Guards in the future. And I put what he taught me to good use. The boys running Ostia’s fighting pit don’t care who you are so long as you can provide a good show. And when I was sharpening my skills with the axe, anybody who wanted to watch got one hell of a show.”

 

“You…that’s where you learned how to use that Wolf Beil?” asked Renault.

 

“Uh-huh. Nobles almost never use those weapons, even though they’re so effective. Ostians take pride in our pragmatism, but even we make a big deal about the differences between the aristocracy and everybody else.

 

“Well, it never mattered to me. The more I saw of the world around me, the more I thought that it was all a load of shit. Nobles, commoners…what the hell did it matter? If a so-called ‘noble’ was willing to trample all over his own brother just because he was afraid for his ‘inheritance,’ the whole concept was a lie! But I was the only one who felt that way…my family didn’t agree, obviously. They were just about ready to disown me, and they probably would have if the fact that I stayed away from Castle Ostia most of the time meant that almost none of the other nobles ever saw me…so no matter what I did, it wouldn’t make them look bad in the eyes of their fellow aristocrats. But even the people I knew among the commoners couldn’t understand how I felt…even if they were jealous of noble privilege, they couldn’t imagine any other way of organizing the world, and couldn’t imagine why a noble like myself would hate it either. I was alone…totally alone. Until I met her…

 

“It was…dammit, I don’t even remember. Fifteen years ago…I was twelve, maybe thirteen. I was forced to go to this stupid ceremony I couldn’t get out of. It was the Lycian oath rites…we’ve had ‘em since the time of Roland. Every twenty years the lords of Lycia get together to confirm their unity in times of war…”Should one land of Lycia be attacked, all will fight as one,” or something dumb like that. A real joke, with the civil war, right? Well, they took it seriously back then. My parents had to attend, along with their entire families. I didn’t want to be anywhere near them…didn’t wanna be anywhere near my brother and sister. But I couldn’t skip out of it…my brother literally threatened to kill me if I made the family look bad. So even though I was probably the biggest screwup of a noble in Ostian history, they still forced me to attend that stupid, meaningless ceremony.

 

“’Attend’ isn’t even the right word. All the adults took the actual oaths, while their kids got shunted off to a side room in order to wait for ‘em. We had to act like proper nobles, and I guess that was supposed to involve all of us sitting in our little chairs making small talk with each other. I sure as hell didn’t have anything to say to any of my fellow nobles…at least, except for one.

 

“There was a girl sitting to my right. She was…her name was Pamela. She was the Marquess of Cornwell’s only daughter. She was alone…her dad and big brother were out taking their oaths. She was being chatted up by the idiot on her other side…a self-centered popinjay named Volker, Laus’ oldest son. There wasn’t anybody who was as obsessed about his appearance as that guy was…I don’t think he stopped fiddling with that long, purple hair of his even in his sleep. And even when he was just thirteen he was worrying about an heir…he was slimy, filthy, perverted scumbag. There’s an old superstition in Lycia about red-haired girls being more…well, you get the idea.”

 

Renault only nodded in affirmation. He would have made a snipe at Lycians for being so superstitious, but given everything his friend has just told him, right now he was far, far too surprised to provide anything even remotely resembling a sarcastic quip.

 

“So he was puttin’ the moves on Pamela, and she…heh, she was too smart to fall for any of it. The only thing I really remember about that day is what she said to him: ‘If you’re a ‘real man,’ Volker, why do you spend even more time on that long hair of yours than I do? Maybe girls would be more attracted to you if you didn’t act like one.’

 

“Damn, the whole room shut up after that. Nobody could possibly believe the daughter of a noble actually said something as ‘unladylike’ as that…nobody, that is, except for me. Just when every single person in the room was staring at her with the most horrified expressions on their faces, I burst out laughing, so hard I could barely stay in my chair.

 

“Volker…well, he got really angry. Looked like he was gonna try and kill both of us! And all the other noble kids looked like they were behind him. So naturally, me and Pamela got the hell outta there. We knew our families would’ve gotten furious, but we’d already made a hash of things as it was. There was no point in sticking around. Pamela’d never been in Ostia before and had no idea of where to go or how to blend in…good thing I was around. I knew the city like the back of my hand, better than pretty much anybody else, even my parents. I knew some places we could lay low for a while to wait for things to blow over, so I offered her a guided tour of the town. And things…well, we hit it off from there.”

 

“I…I’d never met anybody like her before. We talked, and she told me about where she came from…her parents didn’t like her either. They already had Char, who was this great warrior and leader. They didn’t have any use for a girl, especially not for one who wasn’t as ‘feminine’ as Pamela. They’d gotten her the best tutors for poetry, singing, and art, but she hated all of that. Never had the patience or the piety to get sent to a convent, either. Only thing she really had a talent for was dancing…passed it on to me, in fact. She also loved animals, horses in particular…she’d wanted to be a Cavalier, but of course,” and at this, he sneered, “no proper daughter of a noble could ever take part of a man’s profession. And she had a hell of a mouth, too, as Volker found out. In short, she represented everything the nobility hated, she was completely unmarriageable, and was a complete embarrassment to her family. She was…she was just like me.

 

“A few hours after the ceremony finished, our parents sent out search parties to look for us. By the time they found us…it was like me and Pamela had known each other for a whole lives. We got taken to Castle Ostia, where my brother and hers were waiting for us…he looked like he was gonna make good on his promise to kill me, but when Pamela spoke up for me, said the whole thing was her fault, and then when I said it was all mine, well…Char told him to just forget the whole thing happened, keep both of us away from our fellow nobles for a while, and let everything die down. And that’s pretty much how it went.”

 

A small, soft smile began to play upon the Ostian’s face. “What didn’t die out, though, was what was between us. From that day on, every time I got a chance to go to Cornwell—which was whenever my family either wasn’t looking or thought it didn’t matter what I did—I took it. And whenever she got the chance, she’d come over and visit me. We were inseparable…whenever we were together, it was like the whole city was ours to play with. It was like we were the only two people in all of Lycia who could see what a sham the whole system of aristocracy was, and what a miserable, pathetic lot the nobles and their stupid rules were. Pamela, she…she was my best friend. Probably the closest thing I really had to a friend. Back then, when we were together…those were the happiest years of my life.”

 

The smile on his face started to waver. “We…we were like that for almost a decade. But just seven years ago…dammit, just when I’d turned twenty, it all went straight to hell.

 

“We thought we’d be together for the rest of our lives. But somebody wanted Pamela too.” His face twisted into an expression of utter disgust. “Bishop Volker. He’d joined the clergy, for no other reason than to get Laus even more money from the collection plates, and by the time he was twenty-one he’d already gone through two wives. Both of them died…and under suspicious circumstances. Everybody knew he’d killed the first when she didn’t give him a kid as quickly as he wanted, and the second went out the same way. Poison…and, of course, he was both a bishop and a noble, so nobody dared say anything, because of the political trouble it’d cause with both Laus and the Church if he got deposed. This scumbag…he was the one who had his eye set on Pamela…he’d wanted her ever since that damn oath ceremony, and he was dumb enough to believe those stupid superstitions about redheads. Cornwell never heard the end of it from him…barely a week went by without him sending some letter begging for an audience with her, and soon enough he’d just stopped even bothering and flat-out begged Char for his sister’s hand in marriage. Offered a huge sum, too, but Cornwell’s oldest wouldn’t hear anything of it.

 

“On my twentieth birthday, we got engaged. It was the best thing from everybody’s perspective. Laus was on fairly good terms with all the cantons, but Ostia and Cornwell had just gotten over a territory dispute and everybody thought a bond of marriage would be enough to wash away any lingering bad feelings. So that meant Ostia finally had a use for me and Cornwell finally had a use for Pamela. ‘You’ve humiliated us for twenty years, well, after this you’ll never be our problem again,’ said my brother, and that was the plan—we’d be given a little manor on the outskirts of Ostia, a pocket of farmland to oversee, and the two of us would be able to live out our lives as far away from our families as possible. Since this was what both of us wanted, we couldn’t be happier.”

 

His hand twitched, and his face contorted into what Renault knew was barely suppressed rage. “But…but two days before our wedding, when Pamela was going over to Ostia to meet me…she…she had to pass through Laus. And, and…she never left. Her body was found, along with the wreckage of the caravan…looked like she’d been, like she’d—DAMMIT!”

 

He slammed a fist into the ground, and it was a few moments before he was able to compose himself enough to continue. “Everybody said it was a tragedy…but that there was nothing that could be done about it. Bandits, highwaymen, she was just too careless, garbage like that…Everybody, Laus, Ostia, Cornwell, they made a big noise about how they’d bring the perpetrators to justice, but I heard the rumors…some villagers in the area, they said they saw a man with purple hair fleeing from the scene. And when I heard that, I knew that Laus…he…he’d never be brought to justice.”

 

His hands clenched and unclenched. “So I did it myself. Sneaked all the way into Laus, got my way into the castle—he wasn’t expecting anything, and Volker’s security was a joke compared to what my dad kept around Castle Ostia—and smashed his head in.

 

“I sure wasn’t quiet about it…when his guards finally caught me, I was still screaming. It’d been bad enough when Pamela died, but locking the heir to Ostia up in Laus? That pretty much wrecked diplomacy all over Lycia. Volker’s younger brother took the throne and demanded I be executed…he even spread rumors that I was the one who killed Pamela, and…dammit, even Cornwell, even Char believed it! My family…there was nothing they could do. Their only request was that they be the ones to do me in…to ‘take responsibility’ or whatever. So I was sent back to Ostia, to my castle’s dungeons, just to wait to have my head chopped off.

 

“Back then…I didn’t think I did anything wrong. He killed my fiancée…the woman who would’ve been my wife! And he wouldn’t be punished for it, just because of his damn position…I only wanted to see justice done. I thought Volker deserved to die! And when I was sitting in that prison…a complete, utter failure, a shame to my family, unable to keep my fiancée from gettin’ murdered…despite messing up like I did, the only thing I could think of was that I didn’t want to die. Even though I had nothing, I still wanted to live. But locked up in the dungeon, my execution just two days away…it sure as hell didn’t seem likely. That is…was…well, until he came.

 

“It was the dead of night…exactly midnight. I was sleeping on the floor of my cell…when I was woken up by the sound of its door creaking open.

 

“I couldn’t tell who it was. It was pitch-black…too dark to see. I asked who was there…no answer. I didn’t expect one. But I asked again anyways…why, I don’t know. And I heard it…it sounded like a man’s voice. A…a dead man’s voice, low, deep, and gravelly. That…that should have been the first clue that something was up. But when he told me he’d come to help me, that he’d come to get me out of this place, to lead me to safety…it was the only thing I wanted to hear. I didn’t care about anything else.  


“I followed him outside…away from Castle Ostia. Even at night, there were supposed to be guards patrolling, but nobody stood in our way. I could barely see him…he moved real quickly, but he was wearing this weird chain armor…his helmet covered his entire face, and I could only see two horns sticking out from on top of it. A weird costume? Clue number two something was really wrong. But I didn’t care. All I knew was that I wasn’t gonna die. At least that’s what I thought. I was an idiot for being so naïve.

 

“He led me away from Ostia for…I don’t even know. Hours. Sure felt like it. He kept me moving, running, until I could barely stand. Kept telling me they were after me, that I had to move quickly or they’d find me. But it eventually got to the point where I couldn’t run anymore.

 

“It was a pretty good distance away from Ostia…almost in Etruria, actually, since our city’s close to their border, near the mountains. We’d passed through the mountain trail connecting the two countries, and we’d reached a cliff overlooking the beginnings of that river…whatever it was called, Tiberon I think. When he saw I couldn’t go any further…well, those were the last words he said to me. ‘You’ve gone far enough. You’re not going any further.’”

 

“He took out his weapon…this curved sword I’ve never seen before…and lunged at me. He must have been waiting to exhaust me, bring me far away from Ostia, and score an easy kill in a location they’d never find my body. But…I guess I surprised him. I…I wanted to live. And I didn’t want to die at the hands of some maniac with a bizarre sword. Tired as I was, I still managed to dodge his first strike…tossed myself to the side. He leapt on top of me, but by then, I was pissed. He may have been a professional, but they don’t breed weaklings in Ostia. I hated him, whoever he was, I hated Volker, I hated my family, I hated everything…and that hate gave me strength. He was quick, but I managed to get a hold of him, and I was gonna squeeze the life out of him…

 

“But he was too quick. Even in that chain armor he was as slippery as a snake. He moved faster than I could see…one second, he was in my arms, the next, he’d disappeared, and the next thing I knew I felt his blade bite into my back. I stumbled forwards…straight over the cliff…and straight down into the river.

 

“I should’ve died. I probably would have. The fall…straight into the cold water, felt like I broke every bone in my body and was getting’ frozen to death. But I guess I was tougher than he expected from a noble. I managed to get myself washed up on shore a good distance downstream. And even then, I should’ve died…I was half drowned, bleeding out, and I was lying there for…I don’t know how long. Hours, probably. But then…I heard something walking up to me. Not supposed to happen when you’re dying. Something slammed my chest, and I coughed up all the water in my half-dead lungs. And then something got forced down my throat. Most disgusting thing I ever tasted, but I gulped it down…’cause when it hit my belly, I felt the wound on my back disappear and my bones start to heal. When I woke up…I saw the guy who saved my life. It…it was Tassar.

 

“I saw he had an axe by his belt. A Wolf Beil…I recognized it. First thing I did was make a grab for it. He shoved me right down, naturally…told me it wasn’t good manners to greet the man who saved my life like that. I told him I needed to defend myself…that somebody was after me…and that axe was just the thing I needed.

 

“Well, that got his attention. He said he was a mercenary leaving Ostia because of a job that turned bad back there. He was heading back to Etruria…his homeland. He picked the Wolf Beil off of a warrior he’d killed…least so he said. Couldn’t use it, though. If I could…well, he suggested we team up together if we were both on the run from Ostians looking to kill us. And I was desperate…I needed some protection. A stranger had almost done me in, but at this point I would’ve taken anything I could get. So I accepted his offer without a second thought. If whoever that curved-sword guy was tried to come at me again, if my family tried to hunt me down, at least they’d have to deal with that mercenary.

 

“So that was how me and Tassar met up…and that was how I met you, Renault. All this time…all this time, I’ve been…keeping things from you…no, not that. Lying. When Tassar asked me my name, I sure as hell didn’t want to tell him I was Marquess Ostia’s wanted son. So I just told him the first name that popped into my head. Braddock. And that’s what I’ve been known as ever since. We traveled through Etruria for weeks…nobody came after him, and whoever my would-be assassin was, he didn’t come back for me either. Guess he thought I was dead. Tassar offered me a living as a mercenary under him, and since I didn’t have anyplace to go…and didn’t know how to do anything but swing a Wolf Beil around…I accepted.

 

“And all the while, my homeland burned down. Laus and Cornwell accused Ostia of letting me go free…Ostia denied it…and when they couldn’t bring me in for execution, that sparked off the whole war. If…if I really had died, it would’ve been for the best. The entire war…everything that happened, everyone’s death, all that destruction…all because of me. And even when I heard about it, I couldn’t bring myself to return, to turn myself in. I…I was a coward. Despite everything, I wanted to live. So I just kept pretending…kept pretending to be just some random Ostian who knew how to use a Wolf Beil. Just living as a mercenary with Tassar. And I kept pretending…I was pretending three years ago when I first met you, and I was pretending all the way until I heard those two bastards talking to themselves last night.”

 

The man’s countenance looked as pained, miserable, and haunted as Renault had ever seen his. And since Renault continued his silence, the Ostian could only assume it was because his friend was condemning him—justly condemning him.

 

“Renault…please, I…I can’t ask you to forgive me. Not after all this. But please, man, whatever happens, please, just help me! I know you hate me for lying to you. I know you hate me for keeping all this from you, for using you like Paptimus did. But I never wanted to hurt you. You were my best friend, Renault, the only real friend I’d had since…since Pamela. Tassar saved my life, but for all the years we knew each other, he was just my boss. He was just using me…only cared about me because I knew how to use some good Ostian weapons! But you, you talked to me, you stood by me, no matter what.

 

“I just ask that for now, till all this is over…just…you don’t even have to…just fight with me! For years I wondered who that assassin was, why he’d break me out and try to kill me. It never made sense…until two nights ago. I heard Paptimus…that worthless bastard, that fucking scum…talking about what he did to me, what he did to Pamela, like it was nothing at all, like it was justified! When I killed Volker, the guy kept screaming that he didn’t do it, that he had nothing to do with Pamela…I thought he was lying, but when I heard Paptimus, I realized he was telling the truth…that he really was innocent. Paptimus had framed him…snuck into the country, killed my fiancée, and blamed it on Laus…and he…he played me like I was a damn puppet! I did just what he wanted me to do! Killed Volker, thinking he was the purple-haired bastard who killed Pamela…and then even when his assassin didn’t kill me, I still disappeared out of Lycia, meaning Ostia and Cornwell had an excuse to go to war! Everything…just like he wanted, everything!

 

“I know I can’t be forgiven for any of this. I’ve got an innocent man’s blood on my hands, and the blood of every person who died in the Lycian Civil War. When all this is over, you can kill me, send me back to Lycia, let me die the most horrible death imaginable, whatever. But until Paptimus is dead…I can’t die! He was the one, Renault! He killed my Pamela, and played me…my whole country for fools! I can’t let him get away with that! I can’t let this damned Revolution continue! I have to make him pay, Renault. I have to make ‘em all pay! It won’t make up for what I’ve done, for all my mistakes…but it’s the only thing I can do!”

 

This time, there was no long silence from Renault. The mercenary simply blinked, nodded, and said, “Alright.”

 

Quite naturally, this was the absolute last thing his friend had been expecting to be the response to his long, drawn out confession, especially given the fact that he’d just revealed himself to be not only lying to Renault but a murderer and the instigator of a bloody civil war. It took him a few moments to regain enough control of his slack jaw to blurt out a stammered “W…what?”

 

“Hah!” Renault grinned sardonically. “Weren’t expecting me to take all this so well, right? Yeah, well, I gotta be honest with you too. I was actually suspecting this for a while. You’ve always been a lot smarter than any average guy has a right to be…it’s not the typical commoner who knows about the intricacies of Etruria’s government, or the sort of tactics you’ve got a hold of. The nobility may be stupid—for the most part—but even I know that they’re the only ones besides the clergy who can afford decent educations. And since you sure weren’t a clergyman, I figured you must’ve had some noble background to know all the things you do.

 

“Honestly, when you started the whole story I was worried. I thought you might’ve had some secret plan of your own, and that you were using me, like Tassar! Stupid of me. Yeah, you’re a former noble, a former bigshot, and you changed your name. But none of that was to manipulate me, or to force me into doing something I didn’t wanna do, or turn me into something just so you could use me. You just wanted to protect yourself. I’m kinda mad you didn’t tell me earlier, yeah, but hell, given the circumstances, I sure can’t blame you.”

 

“But…Renault,” came the response, still utterly shocked, “what about everything else? Volker’s murder…you can’t—“

 

“Nah, I can’t condemn you. Not one bit, at least not if everything you told me is true. And you know what? I’m absolutely certain you’re not lying, because I know you couldn’t have been faking your hatred for the nobles and the clergy for all these years, and that white-kni—uh, sorry, chivalry thing you’ve got…that’s definitely for real. After listening to your story, about your fiancée, I know why you’ve got that…and after looking at this,” Renault angrily shook the letter from Paptimus, “I’m absolutely certain none of what happened was really your fault.

 

“Look, man, Paptimus didn’t just poison a whole village, he made them fight against us too. The Pegasus Knights, the villagers…all of it was just to test us as mercenaries, and to top it all off, just damn sacrifices so he could make the King look bad! If he could do all that and then…then apologize for it in a letter, like it was nothing at all…starting a whole war would be nothing to him!

 

“And he was the one who started the war in Lycia, not you. He killed your wi…your fiancée, and that’s why he framed Volker! Nobody can let another man kill his woman and let him get away with it. If somebody’d done that to my mom, not even my dad would’ve forgiven him, and he was the only Eliminean I’ve ever respected! You did just what any other guy would do. It was just like back at Scirocco…the first time I ever killed someone. It wasn’t my fault…that guy just tossed himself at me, he was trying to kill me! And why? Because of Paptimus. Because that bastard set us up, set us all up! It’s the same thing with you back in Lycia. It wasn’t your fault you killed Volker…Paptimus set you up, made everything so you had no other choice…just like he did to me! You didn’t turn yourself in? So what? Everybody wants to live, it’s hardly your fault. Again, it’s Paptimus who was counting on that…he knew you’d feel just what any normal person would feel! That’s how he started all this, manipulating us, manipulating everybody! Paptimus…everything, no matter how you look at it, everything comes back to PAPTIMUS!”

 

Now it was Renault’s turn to take a few breaths in order to calm down. After he did so, he chuckled self-effacingly.“Besides, even if it actually was your fault, I sure as hell don’t have any reason to moralize to you. I’m no saint, man. Hell, I punched my own mother in the face, once.”

 

“Uh…wow. Really?” The Ostian blinked. “That…that is pretty awful, but you gotta admit, that’s not really as bad as—“

 

“Yeah, but I did that out of my own free will. Nobody forced me to. You? You had to kill Volker. Paptimus might as well have been holding your hand and leading you every step of the way. That bastard forced you into your circumstances and you only did what you had to do. His death, the civil war…you weren’t responsible for any of it.

 

“And even if you don’t believe all this? Fine. Then I’ll just say the only thing that’s important. You’re my friend, Braddock. I don’t care about civil wars or any of that crap, I don’t care how much blood you’ve got on your hands. You’re my friend, and if I have to stand against the whole damn world to stand by your side, that’s what I’ll do.”

 

At the height of this impassioned speech, though, Renault suddenly stammered. “O-oh yeah,” he mumbled, “wait…you want me to call you…Maxim? If that’s your name, it’ll take some getting used to, but—“

 

A smile spread across Braddock’s face. It definitely wasn’t happy—it was more of a timid grin than anything else, and there was only the tiniest flicker of genuine good cheer nestled among the combination of anger and despair echoing in the man’s eyes. However, it was still the brightest expression Renault had seen on his friend’s face all day, indeed, since they’d began their own little rebellion against the Revolution. This was the response he received, along with a slight shake of the head. “Renault…don’t…don’t worry about it. Maxim…that’s a name I tossed away a long time ago. I don’t deserve to be called that any more than I deserve to be called the Prince of Ostia. Braddock…that was my name when I met you, and that’s the only name I want to go by.

 

“Together, Renault. No matter what, we stand together. You…after all this, you’re still standing with me without even a second thought. I can’t imagine anybody else doing this for me.” A shimmer of anger passed over Braddock’s face as his thoughts turned to what their objective was. “So we’ll fight together. Back-to-back. We’ll meet up with the Royalists, help them mess up Paptimus’ God damn plans…and then together, we’ll give him, Tassar, everybody who’s hurt us, everybody who manipulated us…we’ll make them pay for their crimes!”

 

“Exactly right, my friend,” Renault beamed—and in his own smile, hatred and joy went hand-in-hand; happiness at his comrade accepting his offer and vicious anticipation of how they’d repay Paptimus and Tassar for manipulating them all these years linked with each other. “They’re not gonna get away. Because _we_ won’t let them.”

 

He held out his hand to Braddock, and his friend took it without a second thought, gripping it as tightly as he could. Both men knew how uncertain their future was. And in the world they were living in, as mercenaries who’d betrayed the King they’d initially served and found out they were being betrayed by the Revolution they had joined, they knew there was virtually nothing for them to trust, to believe in. But both of them could be absolutely sure of one thing:

 

The bond between them would never be broken.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

WHOOO---EEEEE! Longest chapter yet, my friends, but it was also one of the most important…this marks something of a watershed for me, honestly, I’m surprised I managed to get this far :o I owe a lot to your support :D Anyways, notes:

 

First off, again, MAD props to Chaos Hero Mark and Enilas for beta-ing. I would not that I only asked them for their general thoughts on this chapter, looking out for continuity, that sort of thing, not grammar and writing. So any errors you see here are ENTIRELY, 100% my own. 

Maxim—well, he wants to be called Braddock, hehe—his description of the Lycian oath ceremony is from Hector and Eliwood’s A support in FE7. Also, his note about learning how to use the Wolf Beil from the guards and his time in the fighting pit is extrapolated from various things Hector said in FE7—specifically, his B support with Oswin, where he mentions learning how to fight in the ‘ring.’ Aside from pit fighters, I thought Ostia’s royal guards (or Huscarls, hehe) would be able to use such weapons due to the noble Hector being the only one who can use them in FE7—since they don’t show up in other arenas throughout Elibe, I figured Wolf Beils must have been a specifically Ostian specialty used by men close to the nobility but not nobles themselves (otherwise Uther and other high-ranking Ostians would use them).

In reference to Braddock’s past, did any of you guys catch the lil’ hints scattered throughout previous chapters? Now you can see why he would have had his little white-knight thing, along with why he’d *hate* guys like the slavetrader from chapter 12. His guilt complex—where he feels responsible for Yulia’s death because of his failures in leadership and tells Renault several times “A lotta people have died on my account” refer to his guilt over (kind of) starting the Lycian Civil War. Finding out it was all Paptimus’ plot was quite a shock to him. You can also tell where he gained his knowledge of battle tactics and such ;)

Also, was anybody suspicious of Tassar before this chapter? His character specifically didn’t get a *lot* of exploration previously, but read chapter 10, his lack of surprise at what happened at Scirocco is evident. ;)

See you next chapter :)


	20. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Braddock attempt to defect again, but this time back to the Royalist forces. Their former masters will not make it easy for them...

Wayward Son

 

20: Escape

 

(Thanks to Enilas and CHM for beta-ing :D )

 

“I’m disappointed, Tassar. Very, very disappointed.”

 

The veteran mercenary had to be honest with himself—Paptimus had every right to be unhappy. This whole sordid brouhaha looked to be one of the biggest screwups Tassar had made in his career. However, he wouldn’t let himself shoulder all of the blame, especially when it seemed as if Paptimus had made a few miscalculations of his own.

 

It was early evening—just a few hours after the fires had been put out—and the two of them were sitting in Tassar’s room, just as they’d been last night before Braddock—well, Maxim, or whatever the hell he wanted to call himself—had so rudely interrupted them. _Ought to have known that was just the start of my problems,_ Tassar thought to himself. He’d been very annoyed and displeased when Braddock had been imprisoned, as it made him look quite the fool, as well as the fact that he wasn’t happy over losing a mercenary he’d trained and fought beside for years, but Tassar knew well enough that bonds between hired swords were ultimately transient things. A fire after that was an inconvenience, but nothing too severe, comparatively. When a second fire started, though, and it was apparent that an arsonist was lose, Tassar knew that things were going to get worse.

 

He had no idea how worse, though. Only after the last flames had been put out, when he couldn’t find Renault anywhere, did he begin to suspect. Only when a guard came in from the basement dungeons, carrying Dina’s unconscious form and reporting that the prisoner was nowhere to be found, did his suspicions really take root. And only when he’d reached the castle stables, looking for further clues in the area, to hear that idiot stablehand blurt out that Renault and Roberto had taken a horse to pursue the ‘arsonists,’ but it was weird because Roberto wasn’t wearing shoes and didn’t sound like Roberto…that was all it took to confirm his suspicions, and to tell him that things had gone very wrong.

 

Paptimus definitely shared those sentiments, which was why he was in Tassar’s room to lecture him yet again, this time bringing with him a friend—that greasy Black Knight, Trunicht. Tassar didn’t dislike the man, but their relationship was professional rather than cordial, and he didn’t know why he had to be here. Still, given how angry Paptimus was—and it wasn’t often the schemer allowed himself to grow even mildly emotional—Tassar figured that defending himself took precedence over contesting an apparently neutral party’s presence.

 

“I am too,” replied Tassar, “definitely in Braddock and Renault, but in you too, Paptimus. Don’t act as if I’m the only one at fault here.”

 

Paptimus was already frowning, and one corner of his downturned mouth twitched. “Hm. Well, let’s look at the situation, Tassar. First off, one of your men tried to kill me just two nights ago, and not only that, but he turned out to be Prince Maxim, the Marquess of Ostia’s missing—and wanted!—son! You’ve had him under your nose for years and you never figured it out? ‘Disappointing’ would be an understatement, especially for someone with your reputation.

 

“But fine, I can forgive that. In fact, it might have even turned out for the best! After all, you delivered him right into my hands. Having a bargaining chip like a runaway prince might have come in handy if we wanted to exert our influence on Lycia later on, correct? That is why I imprisoned Bra—Maxim rather than just killing him. But Tassar, a prisoner is only useful so long as he is imprisoned.” Paptimus’ mouth twisted again, while Trunicht couldn’t keep himself from letting out a small, soft chuckle. “If he is set free…well, that’s a problem. And if his rescuer was one of your men—your other recruit, in fact—that seems to be an even bigger problem. The damage Renault did to our fortress is only icing on that disgraceful cake. Again, Renault was _your_ man, Tassar. _You_ found him at Scirocco. Both of your ‘loyal and capable’ mercenaries have betrayed our cause, and if what you’ve told me is true, that they’ve made off with the battle plans I gave you…to call this an inconvenience is an understatement. What do you have to say for yourself?”

 

Now it was Tassar’s turn to grimace. “A lot, actually.

 

“Lemme start at the beginning. First off, how the hell was I supposed to know the man I found dying by the river all those years ago was an Ostian noble, much less a son of its Marquess? They don’t typically imprison and leave for dead members of the nobility, and there are even fewer nobles who know how to use weapons like the Wolf Beil. It was always the most rational assumption that he was a Royal Guard or former pitfighter who’d betrayed his masters. Just why would I think a half-drowned axeman near the Etrurian border would be someone so important?”

 

“Surely you could’ve made an effort to pry more deeply into his past?”

 

“I did. He wasn’t talking. Paptimus, nobody gets into the mercenary business because they’re proud of who they used to be. It’s not as if he acted particularly strange, and asking too many questions about a mercenary’s past is a good way to get him pissed at you. I didn’t want to alienate what seemed to be an extremely promising recruit. Again, the most rational assumption for me was that he was a deserter from Ostia’s Royal Guard or a pit fighter running away.”

 

“Hmm.” Paptimus still looked rather displeased, but Tassar could see the unpleasant expression on his face had receded softly. He took this as a sign to continue his defense.

 

“About Renault, alright, I admit that was definitely a miscalculation on my part. A major miscalculation. I never imagined his loyalty to his friend was so strong. I knew he and Max—Braddock, whatever—were close, but I also knew how much he hated the clergy and the nobility. I also knew that I was the man who rescued him from his pathetic, aimless life in Thagaste, the man who taught him virtually everything he knew, the man who turned him into a damn mercenary! If he ever had to choose between Braddock and the Revolution…between Braddock and me…I was certain he’d choose me. It was a rational assumption…but one that turned out to be wrong. And before you start gloating, Paptimus, let’s not forget that you were wrong about quite a few things here yourself!”

 

Paptimus’ grimace returned. “Oh, is that so? Well then, enlighten me, Tassar.”

 

“First off, why the hell did Renault even get a chance to pull all this off without you noticing, huh? You’re supposed to have those little shadow spies everywhere in this castle. Wasn’t one placed in his room? Braddock’s prison cell? Around the castle?”

 

Paptimus had to concede this point. “Hm…yes, you are correct. Indeed, they’re everywhere in this castle. One should have been keeping watch over Maxim on that unfortunate night…yet as I recall, it never reported back to me. In fact, neither did several other ones, like those you mention. I…I don’t see how. Could the spell have failed? Impossible!”

 

“Yeah, well, that has to be the case. Either that or those two figured out a way to kill those things.”

 

“I…well, as hard as it is to believe, I suppose that there is no other conclusion, at least none that I can come to. But how? They were never told—“

 

“It doesn’t matter how,” Tassar spat, “all that matters is that they did, some way or another. So if you want to blame me for ‘miscalculating’ about Braddock and Renault, then you’ve got to blame yourself for putting too much faith in that black magic of yours.”

 

“Hm.” Paptimus nodded, the only sign Tassar needed to see that indicated he accepted his reprimand. But he wasn’t done yet.

 

“And then there was the whole trouble with Braddock in the first place. Shouldn’t you have figured out he was Maxim a long time ago? In fact, why was he even still alive? You were the one who placed the hit on him, weren’t you?”

 

At this, Paptimus frowned. “True, but first off, keep in mind that I never knew much about Maxim personally. His family made an effort to keep him out of eyesight, and he greatly aided them in that regard. He was almost never seen around court, so naturally a foreigner like me wouldn’t know much about his looks or personality. All Glaesal ever told me was that he was a delinquent and a failure. Even I would never imagine he’d been training in the fighting pit or with the Royal Guards. The Ostian nobility does maintain at least a bit of distance from the common people, so to have one of their own utilizing a weapon as ‘low’ as the Wolf Beil…unthinkable! I never would have anticipated it.”

 

“Yeah, well, now you can see why I didn’t either,” grinned Tassar. “So I guess we’re even on that score. But I wasn’t the one who tried to kill him, and then failed. I gave you my explanation about Renault, now you owe me an explanation for why your little assassination attempt didn’t work.”

 

“Hmph. Well, first off, it wasn’t my assassination attempt. It was Trunicht’s,” and at this, he gestured to the Black Knight sitting on the bed next to him. “Indeed, I think you owe us both an explanation, friend.”

 

The dark magician nodded his head—which was even here still clad in his pitch-black helmet. “Of course, Brother Paptimus,” he said. “Believe me, I was as surprised to hear of all this as you.

 

“You see, Brother Tassar, about seven years ago, after Paptimus had finished up his unpleasant business with Pamela, and after he’d heard of Maxim’s incarceration, he thought the troubles in Lycia could be magnified to an even greater degree if Maxim simply disappeared…and never showed up again. He couldn’t do it himself, of course…at that time, infiltrating someplace as heavily guarded as Ostia was beyond his abilities. However, I had a personal friend of mine who was more than up to the task…”

 

Tassar blinked. “Paptimus told me about this…the Silent Chief. You…he couldn’t have been referring to…you mean Yurt?”

 

Trunicht chuckled warmly. “Yes, exactly. Yurt, the Silent Chief. His reputation has preceded him, I suppose…”

 

This elicited only a disdainful grunt from Tassar. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him, and I can guess the rest. He’s supposed to be one of the most feared assassins on the face of Elibe…even I’ve heard stories about him. Nobles, soldiers, merchants…everybody’s afraid of him. He’ll kill anyone, anywhere, no matter what, so long as the price is right. Hah. Thinking about it, I guess it’s really not surprising a guy like you’s utilized his services before.”

 

Trunicht didn’t seem offended at this little jab. He simply turned his lips upwards in another tiny grin.

 

“Apparently, though,” continued Tassar, “his skill’s been exaggerated. Maxim is quite obviously not dead. How do you explain that?”

 

“Yurt put a shotel in the man’s back and kicked him down a cliff into a river. That should have killed anybody, Tassar. In fact, it would have killed Maxim if you hadn’t come along and shoved that Elixir down his throat.”

 

“A real professional would’ve checked to make sure he was dead.”

 

“And risk detection? Even for Yurt some things aren’t possible. The Ostians realized someone had broken into their cells, killed their guards, and released one of their prisoners, and sent out search parties to boot. If Yurt had lingered around any longer they probably would have caught him. Really, there wasn’t any point checking up on someone who was almost certainly a corpse. The only thing unfortunate there was that you happened to come along just in the nick of time to bring the man back from the brink of death.”

 

“Hm.” Tassar could tell the shifty Black Knight was trying to pass the blame onto him, so he decided to cut off further attempts as quickly as possible. “Alright, well, no point mourning a broken blade when it’s too late to reforge it. So what does all this have to do with what we do now?”

 

“Well, let’s look at the situation,” said Paptimus. “It would be nice to capture or kill those two before they reached Khyron. However, at present we cannot spare many resources to look for them. This area of Etruria has no shortage of abandoned houses and settlements to hide in, or caves and woods to take refuge in. Even if they’ve only been riding south for a few hours, by this point it would be difficult for even our proper cavalry to find them. If the shadows could spy on them, it would be child’s play to hunt them down, of course, but since either my spell is ineffective or they’ve found a way to counter it, I doubt that is a possibility. Making things worse, according to that fool of a stablehand, they took one of the best horses we had. Catching up to them would be very difficult by this point.

 

“And the simple fact of the matter is, we can’t afford to spare any men for the chase. We must begin our march to Thagaste as quickly as possible. We suffered worse than expected losses during the first battle with Khyron and now Renault’s little arson attacks have forced us to delay our progress even more. Sending our best riders or Wyvern Knights to search for two men on a fast horse in the vast wilderness of Northern Etruria…it is a fool’s errand, I think.”

 

“Alright,” asked Tassar, “so what do we do?

 

Paptimus grinned devilishly. “Simple. We allow them to reach their destination.”

 

This surprised Tassar even more. “What the hell do you mean?”

 

The turncoat’s grin grew even wider. “Sometimes what seems at first to be a setback can be a blessing in disguise, old friend. Look at it this way. If those plans find their way to Khyron, and he finds his way back to Aquleia…he’ll think he’s scored a great victory. He knows exactly where we’re coming from and the distribution of our forces. He’ll set up the city’s defenses to prepare for a direct assault from us and a nasty surprise from Bern. This is correct, yes?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“But what happens if our actual plan is different from the one described on the maps he has? What if, say…we launch an assault from the sea when he’s expecting only an attack from the north and south? He will be caught completely flat-footed, will he not?”

 

Tassar blinked. “Damn. Sly as always, Paptimus. So you want to let these plans fall into Khyron’s hands, have him organize Aquleia’s defenses against one kind of attack, and then surprise him with another?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“But do you even have another attack plan?”

 

“Yes, I do. It was a backup, actually, in case we found ourselves more delayed than we already have.” He grinned at Trunicht. “You, my friend, will be making your way back to Nerinheit, while Yazan, Tassar, and Dougram advance as described in the original plan. Nerinheit is a coastal city, close to the Western Isles, and thus has a sizable merchant marine, does it not?”

 

The Black Knight nodded. “Exactly right, brother.”

 

“Excellent. That will prove to be Aquleia’s downfall.”

 

“Oh yeah,” asked Tassar, “how so?”

 

“As I said, once the Royalists receive these plans they’ll be preparing everything they have for an entirely land-based assault. Thus, the docks of the capitol city will be almost entirely undefended. By placing Trunicht and his Red Shoulders on boats…they’ll be able to sail right into the city almost uncontested.”

 

“Wow. You really are sly, Paptimus. However, don’t you think they’ll suspect something? If Braddock and Renault just happen to fall into their hands with some secret Revolutionary plans, the first thing any competent leader would think was that his enemy _wanted_ him to find those plans. I know Khyron’s not exactly competent, but even he’s not that stupid. Hell, even those two might begin to smell something funny if nobody comes to pursue them.”

 

“Correct, Tassar. However, I think the pursuit we have arranged will be more than enough to convince them—and their Royalist captors, when they meet up with Khyron—that they are definitely wanted men.”

 

“What kind of pursuit are you talking about?”

 

“They are talking about me,” came a low, gravelly, almost corpselike voice from right behind Tassar.

 

Lesser men would have panicked, but the veteran mercenary was too experienced to allow himself to be overcome by such an emotion. As Paptimus and Trunicht looked on in amusement, he instinctively whipped a fist behind him, but his swipe only passed through empty air. He leapt up, allowing his chair to tumble over onto the floor, and turned to face whoever this interloper was.

 

It was not anything like he was expecting.

 

The man who stood before him was of only average height, yet the sinister, almost palpable aura of threat that surrounded him made him seem much bigger. He carried a small knife in one hand, but in his other was a bizarre sword the likes of which Tassar had never seen before—the blade was attached to a simple wooden hilt, slightly over three feet in length and curved so greatly that it was almost crescent-moon shaped. He seemed to be clad in armor similar to Trunicht’s, though it was much more exotic—apparently foreign in make. Over his black chain mail he wore brownish-black greaves, cuirass, cuisse, gauntlets, and pauldrons which seemed to be made out of some unknown material. Small grooves and lines had been etched into each piece of his equipment, which were strange for other reasons as well—his greaves terminated in narrow points and on his pauldrons were a pair of prominent, splayed crests which looked almost like grasping hands or claws. His face could not be seen—it was covered entirely by a single-piece full helm even more concealing than Trunicht’s helmet. It was similar to an armet in the amount of flesh it covered, but unlike that type of helm it had no movable visor or cheek pieces, only a single slit which allowed the wearer to see and a pair of long, sharp horns at the very top. Tassar had no idea how the man took it on or off, but then again, he had no idea how he’d managed to sneak into his room completely unnoticed, especially wearing chain mail and plate as he was.

 

“Didn’t even notice him,” chuckled Trunicht as Tassar shot him and Paptimus an angry look. “You can see why he has the title of ‘The Silent Chief,’ yes? Only an absolute master could move like that in that sort of armor. But be at ease, brother. He is here at my behest, which means he is on our side.”

 

Tassar wasn’t so easily convinced. “How the hell did you get in here?”

 

Saying nothing, the Silent Chief merely raised a hand and pointed behind him. The windows of Tassar’s room were fairly large, and he could see the shutters had been moved—just far enough to permit a man of Yurt’s size entrance.

 

“Relax, Tassar,” said Paptimus, “As Trunicht said, this man is our servant. I understand your unease, but he’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Let us just give him his orders and he will be on his way.”

 

Tassar definitely did not like this assassin, or this latest turn of events, but saw that protesting would do him little good. He simply nodded and returned to his chair, keeping an angry eye on the Silent Chief.

 

“You owe us, Yurt,” said Trunicht, apparently still feeling rather happy. “The asking price for this job is nothing more than regaining your pride as an assassin.”

 

“I do not owe anything to anyone,” replied the killer. “Do not waste my time, Trunicht. I care not how many times you have utilized my services in the past. Call upon me for no good reason and you shall regret it.”

 

“But I called you for a very good reason. You need to finish something for me, something you’ve left undone for seven years. Do you remember your assassination of the prisoner in Ostia?”

 

“I never forget a kill. That one…his soul was stronger than I expected. But he lies broken, dead, and rotting in the Tiber river.”

 

“Sorry,” said Tassar, “but you’re wrong about that. The guy you were supposed to kill has been one of my mercenaries for the past few years. Now he’s betrayed us. We wouldn’t be having this problem if he was as dead as you thought he was, but…”

 

So fast he could barely see it, Yurt whipped out his shotel and leveled it in front of Tassar’s neck. “Anger me not, mercenary. I have _never_ lost a mark. I did not come here to listen to you impugn my skill.”

 

“I’m afraid he’s right,” said Trunicht. “The Ostian has recently escaped our hands, aided by a friend of his. Had you arrived just a few hours earlier, you might have stopped them, but unfortunately, they’ve already been riding south for several hours. We—“

 

“You want me to find them and kill them?” Yurt completed the Black Knight’s sentence. “Very well. If what you say is true, and I actually have an uncompleted mission on my record, then I must erase this black mark from my name. I will hunt down these two men and bring you their heads.

 

“However, I warn you, Trunicht. I do not like being lied to. If neither of those heads belongs to…Maxim, yes, that was his name, your head will join them.”

 

“Fair enough,” came the reply. “However, I have only one more request.”

 

“Name it.”

 

“Those two men have with them maps…our battle plans. We want you to—“

 

“I will bring them back to you.”

 

“No, no. You see, we _want_ the plans to fall into Khyron’s hands. His forces are currently retreating back to Aquleia, and Renault and Maxim, if they keep a fast pace, should reach them within a few days. What we want you to do is give them the impression of being pursued. Make them think we want those plans back. And when they reach Khyron’s men, ensure that Khyron thinks the same thing.”

 

“I will kill Maxim.”

 

“Yes. That would definitely be best, as it might prove inconvenient for the Royalists to have the Prince of Ostia to use as they wish. However, let his friend, Renault, fall into Khyron’s hands at least, bringing the plans with him.”

 

“Understood.”

 

That was all Yurt had patience for, since in what seemed to be one swift movement he nodded, bowed, and disappeared through the open window—silently, of course.

 

Paptimus and Trunicht thought that settled things, but Tassar wasn’t done yet. “You’re sure he won’t kill Renault?”

 

Trunicht paused for a moment. “Not entirely sure. If Renault gets in his way, he’s dead. Why do you ask? Surely you can’t still be concerned about them. They betrayed you, didn’t they?”

 

“Yes, they did.” Tassar allowed an angry grimace to spread across his face. “And that’s why I want them alive. Nobody makes a fool out of me. Reglay and Elicia are going to pay for it…and now, Renault and Brad…Maxim…that Ostian are on my list. If I can’t have the pleasure of paying Maxim back, fine, but I want to deal with Renault personally.”

 

This merely elicited another chuckle from Trunicht and a shrug from Paptimus. “We make no guarantees,” said the former Prime Minister, “but rest assured, Tassar, if Renault lives through this, you will be the one to deal with him in the end.”

 

Apparently, those two thought the conversation was over, for they both stood up (Trunicht offering a ‘revolutionary salute’ when he did so) and left the room, presumably to begin preparing the Red Shoulders to head back to Nerinheit and onto that city’s boats. Tassar was left alone with his thoughts, and it was his turn to leave his seat and toss himself onto his bed.

 

Those thoughts were not pleasant. Paptimus knew about the stolen battle plans, but Tassar had noticed that his Secret Book from Sacae was missing as well—with it, several of the missives Paptimus had sent him, which he had wanted destroyed. All Tassar could do was hope Renault didn’t realize what those letters could actually mean—the veteran mercenary had kept them to keep himself safe in case Paptimus ever betrayed him,but he hadn’t expected Renault to be the one to turn his coat.

 

Well, no matter. What would happen would happen—no point worrying about it. But as his thoughts turned towards the traitor, Tassar found one desiring burning constantly in his mind.

 

“Stay alive, Renault, “ he muttered grimly to himself, “and try to keep Braddock alive too. Both of you…I want to be the one to kill you.”

 

He knew he’d get his chance. All he had to do was wait.

 

-X-

 

“Sort of weird, Renault.”

 

The mercenary blinked and looked over the still-warm embers of their fire to his friend. It had been a little over a day since they made their initial rush from Nerinheit, and though they were keeping a very fast pace (they would catch up to Khyron’s army within a few days, Renault estimated) their mount still needed rest and so did they. Not wanting to waste the limited supplies he’d managed to steal from Nerinheit Castle, Renault had done a bit of trapping while the horse grazed and managed to catch a rabbit. He and Braddock were having their present conversation over the remains of the fire used to cook their meal. The sun had long since set, and they were both feeling very tired. Not so tired, however, that Braddock couldn’t ponder something that seemed a little strange about their flight.

 

“What do you mean?” asked his friend. “You see the guys after us yet or something?”

 

“No, I haven’t. That’s the weird thing. They should have sent riders or something for us by now…maybe even some of Yazan’s wyverns. But it’s quiet…”

 

“Too quiet. I see that. But what do you think they’re doing?”

 

“I dunno. I guess…” Braddock’s voice trailed off as he lowered his head to take a bite out over the single piece of roasted rabbit he hadn’t yet finished. This saved his life, for just as he did so something small and sharp gleamed in the moonlight as it whizzed over his head and embedded itself into the tree behind him.

 

Both men barely had time to let out a stunned “What the hell?” before a silent black shape flashed out of the shadows and hurled itself at Braddock. The Ostian instinctively dropped to the ground and scuttled to his right—once again saving his life as a sharp blade bit through the air he’d occupied a moment ago.

 

Renault, of course, was not one to stand idly by as his friend was attacked. He’d kept his mentor’s advice close to heart and kept his sword near him, even when enjoying a meal. Gripping his weapon, Renault jumped up and charged at Braddock’s assailant, but his enemy seemed to disappear as he thrust his blade, hitting nothing.

 

This enemy was either a magician or incredibly fast, for the next thing Renault heard was a low chuckle coming from behind him, a voice that sounded as if it came from a cold corpse. As Braddock got to his feet both men turned to look, and Renault’s mouth gaped in surprise while his friend’s face turned sheet white at the view.

 

It was too dark to see clearly, but what stood before them was a man who held a strange curved sword in one hand and plucked his knife out of the tree with his other. Only his silhouette was visible, but Renault could just make out what seemed to be a pair of horns jutting from the top of his helmet.

 

“So they were correct,” the man said. “You still live, Maxim. How shameful. I will have to rectify that.”

 

“W-what?” Renault turned a panicked eye to his obviously terrified friend. “Braddock, you know this guy?”

 

“I-IT’S HIM!” The Ostian’s eyes were wide with fright. “SHIT! HE’S THE ONE WHO BROKE ME OUT OF THAT PRISON! HE’S THE ONE WHO LEFT ME FOR DEAD!”

 

“Ah, you remember me,” said the assassin. “I’m glad. Thus, you know what I came here to do.” He turned to Renault, who had taken a few steps back. “I have no quarrel with you, boy. I care nothing for the Revolution you used to serve or the Royalists you seem to have betrayed it for. However, I never leave a job undone. I will let you live if you stay out of my way, but your friend dies.”

 

This was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Sorry, asshole,” growled Renault, brandishing his sword before him. “You got a problem with Braddock, you got one with me.”

 

A small shrug was his response. “Very well. DIE!”

 

The assassin rushed forward, and Renault had a moment to ponder how he moved so quietly in that armor before raising his sword to block a pair of lightning-fast blows from that curved blade. He could not, however, block the assassin’s knife, and he turned awkwardly before grunting in pain and falling to the ground near the still-hot embers of his fire as he brought a hand to the deep gash the assassin’s knife left in his leg.

 

Braddock, however, wasn’t out of the fight either. The assassin probably wasn’t expecting an unarmed man to put up much of a struggle (and to be honest, neither was Renault), which was why both of them were fairly surprised when the Ostian slammed into his foe, sending them both crashing to the ground. To his credit, Braddock managed to keep the man pinned for more than a few seconds before he broke free and got back to his feet, readying his weapons to deal the axeman a fatal blow.

 

Both of the escaping mercenaries knew they were good as dead if the fight continued much longer. “RENAULT, NOW!” Braddock screamed, and his friend heard him. While Braddock had wrestled with the assassin, Renault, gritting his teeth, shoved one of his hands into the smoldering remains of the firepit they’d made. It was his turn to get back on his feet (ignoring the burning pain running through one leg, and the literal burning of the hand holding the embers) and make a final, mad rush at the assassin. As expected, the preternaturally fast killer darted off to the side, away from the sword Renault held in one hand, but not far enough to avoid what he held in the other.

 

The mercenary managed to stumble forward just far enough to get in a good swing at the assassin’s head. Obviously, a punch to the face wouldn’t do much good against an opponent wearing a helmet. But punching wasn’t Renault’s aim.

 

Grimacing, he opened his hand and finally let go of the burning cinders. His wounded leg couldn’t hold out any longer, but it had sustained him long enough. The assassin jerked back in surprise, most of the embers splattering harmlessly across his helmet…but more than a few managed to find their way through his narrow vision slit and into his eyes.

 

He screamed and staggered back, still holding onto his weapons. “I-Impressive,” he sputtered, keeping his weapons defensively over his helmet’s slit, “once again, you surprise me, Maxim. But rest assured, I will be back very soon, and your death will be all the more painful because of this!”

 

Silently, he turned and sprinted away into the darkness—even with wounded eyes he neither fell nor made a sound, leaving Braddock and Renault alone, the latter to nurse his wounded leg and burnt hand.

 

“B-Braddock,” he said, “get me a vulnerary from the pack, then find our horse. We gotta get going.”

 

The Ostian merely nodded and immediately went over to Renault’s pack of supplies to find something to help his friend. A couple of swigs from the small yellow bottle and Renault’s hand was as good as new and his leg was almost as repaired, though he still limped slightly. After that, the two of them set out to find their horse—fortunately, though he’d been somewhat frightened by the assassin’s arrival, he hadn’t run off far at all and had actually been in the process of wandering back in order to graze some more. He wouldn’t get the chance. As quickly as they could, the two men clambered onto the beast’s back and set him again on his course south, as fast as they could possibly make him.

 

For the rest of the night, as they raced past the empty wilderness on horseback, neither said anything to the other.

 

“Hey, Renault,” said Braddock as he held on to the horse’s reins, spurring it on. “Uh…”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Guess I spoke too soon about not being pursued, huh?”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

And with that, they continued riding on into the night.

 

-x-x-

 

“Hmm. Glaesal took that better than I expected, actually.”

 

It had been a night since Paptimus had seen the Silent Chief off on his quest, and Paptimus was sitting in his room next to Meris, discussing his attempt to inform the former Count of the sudden change in battle plans. “He was less than pleased to hear we’d been betrayed by a pair of our own mercenaries, but as I told him, spies are everywhere. And he has a great deal of pride in his city’s merchant marine. They haven’t been getting much work ever since the war broke out, but with this new plan they’ll finally be able to be put to use ferrying the Red Shoulders into Aquleia’s back door!”

 

“Ah…y-yes,” said Meris. She actually seemed somewhat perturbed tonight—in fact, had seemed so for the past few days, actually. Paptimus would have asked her about it, but she interrupted with a question of her own. “But…are you sure? The expression on his face as he left…it wasn’t happy.”

 

“Of course it wasn’t. Betrayal is never something to be happy about, after all. However, the important thing is his anger is directed at the Royalists, not us, and that he goes along with our plan. Braddock and Renault both used to work for Khyron, after all…I suppose they were still loyal to him. The present Mage General seems to be as adept at sinking his claws into people as his brother was, and Glaesal is well aware of that. And you know how he disdains mindless killing…it’s inconvenient launching a sudden naval attack on such short notice, but if it can reduce casualties he has no reason to complain. We can turn Khyron’s scheming against him! He’ll be so full of yourself, preparing for an attack as described in those plans we leaked, that our forces can sail right into Aquleia and take the city with very little loss of life. It is to Glaesal’s credit that he can see that so easily.”

 

“Indeed, I…I suppose so,” she replied. “L-er, Glaesal is such a good man. I can’t understand why anyone would want to betray his cause…M-Master, are you certain the two men who turned their backs on us were in Khyron’s pay?”

 

“Absolutely certain. Braddock admitted it while we imprisoned him, and when the friend who broke him out, Renault, just happened to have served alongside him, under Khyron, well…you don’t need to be a genius to put two and two together. I agree, my dear, it is horribly shameful, and I feel very badly for my friend. But that is precisely why we must persevere.”

 

“Yes…yes, I understand.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” he smiled. “But I must admit, I am feeling a bit concerned about you, Meris. You haven’t called me ‘Master’ in some time, but you just did today. What’s the matter?”

 

She fidgeted nervously, clasping her hands on her lap. “Ah…you see, Ma—Paptimus, I, er…”

 

“There’s no need to be so reticent with me. Remember who I am, Meris.” He reached out to stroke her hair. “Just tell me what’s troubling you. No matter what, I’ll take care of it.”

 

She smiled nervously. “I…I hope that’s the case, my—Paptimus. See, I…er, I haven’t had…this month, I haven’t—“

 

A long, awkward silence stretched between them for a long, awkward moment as Paptimus blinked and regarded her curiously. “Meris, you’re pregnant,” he deadpanned.

 

“I…I’m fairly certain I am.”

 

For another moment there was silence, until Paptimus smiled broadly—indeed, as broadly and genuinely as he had in weeks—and, laughing, reached over to embrace her. “My dear, what propitious news! I had thought being a leader of the Revolution was good fortune enough, but now I’m blessed to have fathered one of its children! This is wonderful! Truly, truly, wonderful!” He drew back for a moment, suddenly. “Unless, of course, you do not wish to keep the child. It would be a simple matter to—“

 

“M-Master,” she stammered, “If you don’t wish it, I will…accede to you, but…I…I truly would like to…”

 

Paptimus’ smile returned, and once again he ran a hand through his lover’s hair. “What you desire is my command, Meris. If you want a child, a child we’ll have.”

 

This was exactly what the young woman wanted to hear. She let out a small squeak of pure, unadulterated joy and dove into Paptimus’ open arms, her eyes watering with tears of happiness. Paptimus quite naturally returned her embrace, yet the expression on his face as she sniffled ebulliently into his shoulder was decidedly more somber.

 

Odd as it sounded, his mind kept turning back to the two fleeing traitors he was allowing to run off to Khyron. Renault might still be alive—indeed, should have been if Yurt knew how to follow orders—but the assassin definitely knew how to hold a grudge, and loathed leaving a job undone. If the Ostian wasn’t already dead, he would be very soon.

 

 _Unfortunate,_ Paptimus thought to himself, _but I suppose even the conception of my child would be heralded by someone else’s death. Such are the times we live in…the times we will eventually bring an end to._

 

-X-

 

They were almost there.

 

It had been three days since the assassin had attacked them, and Renault and Braddock had kept the fastest pace they could, hoping to outrun him. They had slept little, and slept in shifts—Renault was no horseman, but Braddock had taught him the basics (the most basic of the basics), allowing the Ostian to get a bit of rest when they rode while Renault handled the reins. That way, at least one of them would be on alert at all times in case their pursuer paid them another visit. The pace was definitely taking a toll on their horse—he looked very haggard indeed—but they wouldn’t have to maintain it for much longer. Over the past day the traces Khyron’s army had left behind them—footprints, the remains of campfires, that sort of thing—had grown much fresher and more obvious, so the two men knew they’d be in Khyron’s hands very soon. In fact, within the next few minutes or so—under the light of the mid-day sun, it was easy to see that the tracks their horse was galloping over had been made not even a few hours ago.

 

Of course, whether or not they’d truly be safe once they tossed themselves at Khyron’s mercy was another matter. “Renault,” said Braddock, who was currently holding the reins, “What’s going to happen to us once we reach Khyron’s army? You really think they’re just gonna let us walk right up to them with open arms?”

 

“Probably not, but if we make it clear we want to defect…well, what military commander wouldn’t want the sort of information we can give them? Khyron may not be the sharpest sword on the rack, but even he’s not dumb enough to pass up a chance to get his hands on Paptimus’ battle plans. At worst, they’ll take us prisoner in order to interrogate us…and then, that crazy assassin will find it at least a little harder to get close to us.”

 

“Yeah, that is a good point.” Braddock grimaced. “We haven’t seen him for the last couple of days. I get the feeling he may be…”

 

“Waiting for something? Yeah, me too. Damn…just our luck. The guy’s left you alone for seven years, and now he’s back…shit. Well, I guess—“

 

His sentence was cut off by a sudden scream from Braddock, who jerked and slumped over in pain. “BRADDOCK! What the hell?’ Renault immediately moved to keep his friend from falling from his saddle, and looking at his shoulder, he could see what the problem was.

 

The hilt of a small dagger was protruding from the Ostian’s flesh.

 

“Shit! SHIT!” Renault turned to look back, and to his utter shock he saw a dark form, almost like a shadow flitting over the ground behind them. At first, he thought it was a huge version of the shadow creatures Paptimus employed, but then he saw the gleam of metal and the distinctive pair of horns that protruded from the top of the shape, and realized their assassin friend had come to pay them another visit, this time determined to keep them from getting any closer to the (relative) safety of Khyron’s army.

 

The assassin was gaining on them, and Renault couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the man was on foot. Only his upper body and arms could be seen, for his legs were moving so fast as to be a blur. That should have been impossible for an ordinary human being in any case, but that this guy could keep it up wearing that strange chain and plate of his…

 

“What the burning hell are you?” Renault muttered to himself as he turned back to his friend. “Braddock, can you still ride? Get this horse moving faster! He’s after us!”

 

“G-got it,” came the response through teeth gritted in pain. He jammed his feet into the horse’s side and yelled, “FASTER! FASTER!” The animal was on the verge of utter exhaustion, but whether it was the pain in its rider’s voice or the fear it felt from having the assassin closing in on it, it sped up as fast as it could go, surging forwards with all the strength it had left. And to their relief, it seemed their destination really was in sight—though he had to strain his eyes to make it out, Renault thought he could just barely see the rear guard of the Royalist forces on the horizon.

 

Unfortunately, it seemed likely they wouldn’t survive long enough to reach them—even though their horse was galloping as fast as he could, he still couldn’t quite match the apparently superhuman speed of the assassin. The sinister figure was now beside them, close enough that Renault could make out the details of his armor and even hear his voice.

 

“I do not owe anything to anyone,” he growled, “but now that my eyes have healed, I see that you owe me something, boy. Your life!”

 

A curved sword flashed out twice at Renault’s legs, and he took his sword from his sheath just in time to parry both strikes, albeit awkwardly. He wasn’t at all relieved, though—the assassin’s moves had been slower than they were the first time they fought, and he was quite obviously only testing the mercenary’s skill, which was quite obviously lacking, at least on horseback.

 

“Shit,” Renault grunted, “I’m no Cavalier! I’ve never fought like this before!”

 

“First time for everything!” Braddock shouted, leaning down on the horse, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder.

 

His friend ended up saving him from something much worse than a knife in the shoulder. With a cruel laugh and a sudden burst of speed the assassin sprinted forwards and leapt through the air, his strange blade scything directly towards Braddock’s head. The Ostian grimaced and closed his eyes, preparing for the inevitable deathblow, but opened them in surprise when he heard only the clang of metal against metal and the whoosh of the blade flying just over his head. Just in time, and without thinking, Renault had swung his sword upwards, scoring no real wound upon the assassin but striking one of his greaves with terrific force. This was enough to disrupt his balance and foil his aerial maneuver, for he let out a shouted curse as his leg changed direction and forced the arc of his swipe just over its intended target.  


But, of course, for him this was merely a minor setback. With astonishing skill the assassin spun in the air, landing silently on his feet and continuing his incredible run. He’d lost a bit of distance, but he’d make it up within a few moments.

 

Without assistance, both Renault and Braddock knew they were as good as dead—and the Royalists were the only ones who could assist them. And at the moment, some of their stragglers—a few Mages, it seemed—were just barely in view. “HELP!” called Braddock at the top of his lungs. Renault aided him by screaming the same thing as loud as he could, and also by holding his sword high in the air, hoping the sun glinting off of it would catch somebody’s attention.

 

It seemed to work—although he was still too far away to make it out clearly, Renault thought he saw one of the distant Mages turn back to look at them. Once again, he yelled, “HELP! HELP!” in the hopes it would catch their attention.

 

Unfortunately, if it did, it wouldn’t come soon enough, for the assassin had almost caught up to them. And he was on their left side now—with his right hand, his sword hand, Renault wouldn’t be able to parry any attacks this time.

 

So he did the first and only thing that came to mind. “GOD DAMMIT,” he screamed, “LEAVE US THE HELL ALONE!” Reaching into the pack on his back, Renault grabbed the first thing he found and threw it at his pursuer.

 

As skilled as the assassin was, even he wasn’t expecting a pack of rations to the face, and Renault heard an angry “Why, you—“ as he stumbled for a couple of steps. However, wearing his armet, of course he was completely unhurt, and just as quickly regained his footing and came even closer to the horse, who by now was beginning to slow down. In panic, Renault once again grabbed into his pack and threw the first thing he could find, but this time he was rewarded only with contemptuous laughter as the assassin’s blade flashed out in front of him, shattering the pack of rations aimed at him into so many tiny pieces.

 

For one moment, as he saw the killer’s blurry legs carry him within striking distance, Renault thought he was dead. The very next, though, he knew he was saved—for he felt his hair stand up and his skin prickle in the distinctive prelude of a Bolting spell aimed at him.

 

“DAMN YOU!” This was all the assassin had time to say as he was forced to quickly jump to the side, a massive bolt of electricity slamming onto the ground nearby. Any hope he may have had of continuing his pursuit was thwarted when he was forced to jump back in order to avoid a second and third bolt.

 

Renault and Braddock were safe for the day. The assassin stopped his run, standing stock-still while the two men watched his form grow smaller. He held his curved sword in the air, shouting only one sentence:

 

“YOUR DEBT WILL BE COLLECTED LATER!”

 

With that, he disappeared, sprinting away from his quarry just as fast as he had pursued them.

 

“YES! BRADDOCK, WE LOST HIM!” Renault shouted ebulliently, a huge smile on his face. Even through his pain, Braddock had to share his good cheer—though he couldn’t shout anything himself, he nodded happily even as he winced to bring a hand to his shoulder, tearing out the dagger and tossing it away.

 

However, his good cheer would evaporate instantly when another thunderbolt crashed into the ground just in front of him.

 

The horse reared up in terror and confusion, and it took all Renault had to keep from falling off, and everything Braddock had to do the same while pulling back on the horse’s reins.

 

“W-what the hell,” he cried, “do they think we’re enemies?”

 

A second and third bolt which barely missed them seemed to answer his question in the affirmative. “HEY,” Renault screamed, now utterly panicked, “WE’RE NOT YOUR ENEMIES! WE SURRENDER! _WE SURRENDER!_ ”

 

The last thing he could think about was why they wouldn’t believe him when one last bolt of thunder slammed into the ground directly in front of the horse, blowing him backwards and sending Renault and Braddock flying straight off of his back and into unconsciousness.

 

-x-

 

“You know ‘em?”

 

“I’d recognize them anywhere! I hired them for my duties in Scirocco, and now look at them! They betrayed me and my brother! Worthless freebooters! Why did my men bring their unconscious bodies to me rather than just killing them like their horse?”

 

“W-well, m’lord, there were only two of ‘em…them n’ that other guy. Maybe something was up with ‘em.”

 

Groggily, as his mind came back into focus, Renault realized three things. First, he was on the ground, apparently tied and bound somehow. Second, his entire body ached. And third, there were voices echoing above him—he recognized one’s as Khyron’s, but the other…he couldn’t place.

 

“P…Pops,” piped a third voice—a young man’s which sounded vaguely familiar to Renault. The archer from Scirocco…Apolli, maybe? “Renault, he…he was at the battle. Knocked me right out…he…he’s one of ‘em. He—“

 

“Maybe, but I’m not so sure of that, lad. We don’t know what brings ‘im here. It could be—“

 

“Probably spies, launching a surprise attack! Just kill them now and be done with it!”

 

By this point, Renault had regained enough of his composure to defend himself, or at least say something. “Uhhh…oh, man, what the…where am I?” He raised his head, and through bleary eyes saw that he was surrounded by a host of angry-looking magi. Right in front of him was a Sage he recognized as Khyron, a familiar green-haired woman standing by his side with a stony expression on her face, a similarly familiar young Archer besides her wearing a similar expression, and a older man with graying orange hair looking at him impassively. Beside him, lying on the ground, was Braddock, who seemed to be in a similar state—bound and just waking up, although given the wound on his shoulder he was probably in even more pain than Renault was.

 

This was enough for Khyron to address them directly. “Ah, traitors, waking up, are we?” the Sage looked down disdainfully at both of them. “Have you anything to say for yourself? Give a good answer, and your deaths will be painless. It’s more than you deserve, but we nobles have always treated you better than you deserve, haven’t we?”

 

“Yeah, right,” growled Renault under his breath, but before he could say anything too insulting he remembered why he was here. “Look, you’ve got it wrong! We…we’re traitors,” and at this, Khyron smiled viciously, but Renault quickly continued. “TO THE REVOLUTION! WE’RE TURNING FROM THE REVOLUTION! KHYRON, WE WANT TO JOIN YOUR SIDE! JOIN WITH THE ROYALISTS!”

 

This elicited only a contemptuous smirk from Khyron. “You expect me to believe that? What sort of fool do you take me for?”

 

“Er…m’lord,” said the older man, “it may be true. There were only two of ‘em here, and the mages said there was a third one after ‘em…looked like he was chasin’ em. Movin’ real fast, too. They might very well be…er, they might’ve changed their minds ‘bout the whole revolution thing. If they wanted to attack us, why wouldn’t they’ve brought along a larger force with em?”

 

“They might be saboteurs, or something like that.” Once again, Khyron turned his jaundiced eye towards his captives. “Why would they want to defect in any case? They were all too happy to leave our service the first time, after all, even though they fought beside us in Scirocco! Why should we trust them now?”

 

“BECAUSE PAPTIMUS BETRAYED _US!_ ” Braddock virtually roared this as he struggled against his bonds, flecks of spit flying from his mouth. “EVERYTHING! _EVERYTHING!_ EVERYTHING WAS SET UP BY THAT BASTARD! HE KILLED MY—HE KILLED MY—“

 

A quick, surreptitious boot to his leg from Renault was enough to tell the Ostian to calm down at least a little bit and reconsider the wisdom of telling more about his past than he intended to this unsympathetic audience. Taking a deep breath, he continued down a different path, saying, “L-look. Paptimus, he…he set us up. At Scirocco…everything that happened there, he was behind it. We have proof! PROOF! Look in Renault’s pack. The battle plans for Paptimus’ attack on Aquleia are in there, and we also have a letter from Paptimus where he ADMITS poisoning the whole damn town! He was in cahoots with Tassar the whole time! He—“

 

Listening to this admission, the eyes of everyone watching went very wide. “Is…is it true?” Apolli stammered. “Th…that means…Yulia…”

 

The older man, whoever he was, seemed unfazed, though the angry spark in his eyes told Renault he’d been hit hard by the revelation as well. “Enough talkin’. Let’s see what he’s got in that pack.”

 

Khyron was glaring at them. “If you’re lying…”

 

Braddock glared right back. “Go ahead, look for yourselves. Kill me if it turns out I’m lying. If I was, I wouldn’t have anything to live for anyways.”

 

Khyron motioned towards one of the guards. “One of you picked up their belongings, yes? Bring it here?”

 

“Y-yes Lord Khyron,” the mage said. “Uh…the thunder attack damaged it a little, though…”

 

Inwardly, Renault groaned—if the plans or the letter had been burnt, he and Braddock didn’t have any hope. The only thing he could do now was pray—except he remembered how little good that had done his father. So he just waited, sweating as he watched the Mage haul over the singed traveling pack he’d brought from Nerinheit Castle.

 

The man opened it, peered in, blinked, then began to rummage around inside of it. Suddenly, he stopped. “My lord, I think I’ve found them.”

 

The Sage nodded. “Bring them here.”

 

His underling handed to him a pair of papers—slightly singed, but apparently still readable. Khyron regarded the first, a map, with a great deal of interest. “These…these are the plans for Scirocco’s assault on Aquleia?”

 

“Exactly,” said Braddock. “Now you know just what he’s gonna do. You’ve got a fighting chance now, Khyron! With these, you’ll be able to spring a surprise on him, right? Turn the tide of this war!”

 

“They…they seem legitimate, m’lord,” said the older man, peering over Khyron’s shoulder. “Then again, I haven’t seen too many. Er…how ‘bout the other?”

 

Khyron nodded, turning his attention to the second missive Renault and Braddock took with them. “This is…I believe this is Paptimus’ handwriting,” he said, his brow furrowing as he took a closer look at the letter. “The poison was not as…” As he continued to read, his face grew red and his hands began to tremble.

 

“You can see why we wanted to defect,” said Braddock triumphantly, looking at his audience. “He manipulated us. Me and Renault…Paptimus and Tassar were using us like puppets! When we found out, how the hell could we continue serving him? And that’s not all. I…I overheard him. He was talking about his plans with Tassar, and he admitted it. ADMITTED IT! He killed my…he…he was the one who started the Civil War in Lycia, all those years ago. Just so he wouldn’t have to worry about his back when he pulled this off! That miserable bastard…he’s been orchestrating everything for years, before we even met!

 

“You know I’m telling the truth. A man capable of killing Exedol like that’s more than capable of doing everything I just described. I know you don’t like us, Khyron, and I don’t care. I just want one thing…a chance at revenge on that son of a whore. Even if I die in the process…I want that filth to pay for how he used me at Scirocco…and what he did to my motherland!!”

 

“I dunno about Lycia,” Renault chimed in, “but I got a score to settle with Paptimus for what happened at Scirocco. You have any idea what it’s been like for me these past two years? I was practically run out of the country…my own mom kicked me out…because of those worthless rumors about what happened at Scirocco! And it was all Paptimus…with Tassar helping him. He knew about what would happen…but all he wanted was another recruit, so he let every stupid rumormonger in Thagaste to slander my name! I don’t like you either, Khyron, but I hate Paptimus a lot more. If helping you’s the only way to wreck this little revolution of his, I’m all for it!

 

“And I’m not the only one who ought to have a reason for seeing that traitor dead. He killed your brother, Khyron, you hated him enough as it is. But Apolli,” he looked at the Archer, “it was Paptimus’ fault Yulia died. If that bastard hadn’t launched his poison attack…hadn’t engineered the whole damn incident at Scirocco, she’d still be alive! Roberto…Roberto doesn’t know any of this, we didn’t get a chance to tell him. But if we meet him in battle, no way he’ll keep fighting for that scheming wretch. And you…what was your name, it was Rosamia, wasn’t it?” Renault turned to face her—despite the shocked expressions of everyone around her, she was still wearing the same stony mask she’d started with. “Braddock…Braddock told me of what you had to go through just because you were with us at Scirocco. It ruined your reputation! Paptimus was behind it too. You…all of you…all of you have to understand what we’re saying! You’ve got every reason to let us join your side! Together, we’ll make sure Paptimus is punished for everything he’s done to each and every one of us!”

 

Renault was sure he’d won over Apolli, Khyron, the older man (who had seemed particularly struck by mention of Yulia) and virtually all of the demoralized, battle-worn magi witnessing his confession, but it was Rosamia who ended up surprising and dismaying him.

 

“Even if all this is true,” said the woman, “we still can’t just trust you. How do we know you weren’t part of Tassar’s plans as well? How do we know all this isn’t yet another one of Paptimus’ elaborate schemes? It is very possible the plans you’ve delivered to us are fake, and the letter a forgery from Paptimus.”

 

Neither Renault nor Braddock were expecting that from her. “R-Rosamia…how could you?” The Ostian asked, betrayal evident in his voice. “After all this…after we risked our lives to come here, after we’ve given you all that damned evidence how can you continue to doubt us? And you KNOW me! How—“

 

“If it’s foolish to trust the word of a traitor,” she shot back, “isn’t it even more foolish to believe the words of a traitor twice over?”

 

“That…that is a possibility, I hafta admit,” said the older man, still looking shocked, “but I’m not sure—“

 

“ENOUGH! ENOUGH OF ALL THESE GAMES!” Khyron was clearly fed up with everything. “FIRST THE WRETCHED STRATAGEMS WHICH DEFEATED US AT NERINHEIT CASTLE, AND NOW THESE…TRAITORS, THESE FALSE PLANS, THESE…WHATEVER? ISN’T THERE AN HONEST MAN IN ALL OF ELIBE?” He glared down at the prisoners, panting, his face red. “I haven’t the time to deal with this nonsense! I shouldn’t HAVE to deal with this nonsense! I’ll spare your lives, traitors, but only until we return to Aquleia. There, while we formulate our plans for the counterattack against Paptimus, we’ll examine the ‘evidence’ you’ve brought us. If it’s true, you’ll go free, but if not, your lives are forfeit!

 

“But we’ll do all this AFTER we return to Aquleia! I can’t…I WON’T deal with it now! With the Revolutionary Army advancing on our heels, we haven’t time to waste on them! Tie these men up, keep a watch on them, and GET THEM OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

 

He stormed off, heading back to the front of the Mage Corps formation, shouting orders for everyone to march. Apolli and the older man joined him, the young Archer shooting them one last backwards glance—some strange cross between fear, betrayal, and resolve—before following the middle-aged man. Rosamia herself stood over them a few moments longer, regarding them coldly, before doing the same.

 

After that, both Braddock and Renault were hauled roughly to their feet, hands still bound behind their backs, escorted by a quartet of grim-faced mages with magic tomes in their hands. At the back of the formation they began their march with the rest of the army—an almost grueling pace, for Khyron wanted to reach Aquleia as quickly as possible.

 

The two men walked forwards with their heads turned to the ground, saying nothing to each other. What could they say? All they knew now was that joining up with Khyron had definitely not been the salvation they were hoping for.

 

-x-x-

 

“Uh, Brother Dougram, can I talk to you about something?”

 

The leader of the Revolutionary Army’s Eastern Liberation Force heard what his soldier had said, but he didn’t really listen to it. He leaned back in his chair in the office of Sorveno’s former magistrate, given to him by the loyal citizenry of the town who were more than happy to do what they could to support the rebel cause. His forces had started their march just a few days ago and it had been very easy going—most of the villages in the area joined the Revolution when it had been announced, so he hadn’t had to do any actual fighting. However, he fully realized that the farther south he ventured the stiffer resistance would become, so he wanted to give his troops as much time to rest in friendly territory as they could, so they wouldn’t be exhausted when they came up against some serious opposition.

 

Of course, that also meant Dougram had plenty of time to dwell on some recent events which had disheartened him quite a bit.

 

“B-Brother Dougram?” The voice was louder this time, and it finally caught the Nabatan’s attention.

 

“Huh? Oh, y-yeah, sorry about that,” he said, sitting up and giving the soldier addressing him his full attention. “What is it?”

 

The younger man—Forel was his name--shuffled nervously. “Uh, I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I? Were you thinking of plans or something? It’s not that important, so—“

 

“No, no. I was just thinking of a couple of my friends…”

 

“Uh…you don’t mean those two traitors? Renault and—“

 

“Yeah, them.” Dougram noticed the expression on his soldier’s face. “Don’t worry about asking me something like that, I can understand how you feel. I just don’t get why those two decided to run off like that…and now we have orders for their heads if we find them. I can’t figure it out! They were devoted to justice…why would they turn on us?”

 

“I…I dunno, brother. Maybe we’ll find out…”

 

“I hope so. Anyways, that’s enough of this.” Dougram smiled reassuringly. “What’d you want to talk to me about?”

 

“Er…well, I’ve known this for a while, and I know I should’ve told you a while ago, but I’ve just been so busy I haven’t found the time. Er…there’s a priest in this village, sir—I mean, Brother. He…I don’t think he’s signed the oath. What should we do?”

 

“Ugh, a priest?” Dougram made the disgust on his face evident, and reached into one of the folds in his robes for the forms he’d been ordered to bring with him—he knew they’d come in handy eventually. “Well, you know the laws…we don’t want any of those fools spying on us. Bring him here and have him sign. If he doesn’t, we’ll send him away.”

 

“Uh…oh. Okay. Uh, I mean, yes, Brother Dougram!” Forel sounded enthusiastic, but Dougram detected a very distinct hint of hesitation in his voice. It didn’t really matter—the soldier promptly left the office, and after just a few minutes, returned with the priest he was talking about.

 

The man looked to be in his early twenties, clad in only a simple brown cassock and carrying a Mend staff. He had brown hair and sallow cheeks which indicated he may have been plump a while ago, but had since lost quite a bit of weight. However, he didn’t seem much worse off for it—his countenance and voice were didn’t seem at all sad. “What is it, Forel,” he asked cheerfully as he entered the office. “Your wound still isn’t hurting, is it?”

 

“Uh, n-no,” said the soldier sheepishly as he led the priest into the room. “I, uh, I just gotta have you take care of something.” He pointed at Dougram, who was giving the Eliminean a cold, stony look.

 

He was completely oblivious. “Hello! My name’s Serapino. Can I help you with something?”

 

“Yeah,” said Dougram brusquely. “You’re a priest, aren’t you?”

 

“Uh…n-no,” mumbled this Serapino, looking down and shuffling his feet.

 

Dougram wasn’t expecting this. “Wait, what? Forel said you were.”

 

“W-well, I was training to be a priest, but a few months ago I had a vision! Elimine called me and told me to head north, spreading the Word and tending to the people! I was in Austros for a while, but my journey’s taken me to Sorveno now. Maybe I’ll finish my work in the seminary when it’s all over, but for now, I-I’m just a mendicant.”

Dougram let a distinctly nonplussed expression spread across his face, making no secret of his disdain. This guy had “visions?” The Nabatan wasn’t sure which was worse, the plain old dumb Elimineans or the outright crazy ones.

 

Well, it didn’t matter too much. Rolling his eyes, Dougram removed one of the slips of parchment from his robes and held it out to Serapino. “Well, you’re a clergyman of some sort, aren’t you? You have to sign this. The Revolution demands that all…people…like you pledge their loyalty to their cause.”

 

Serapino’s eyes widened and he stepped back, as Dougram thought he would. “I…I can’t do that! My loyalty is to God, not to a Revolution! I…I won’t renounce my Church!”

 

Dougram sneered in response. “Hah! You hypocrite! But you’re in Revolutionary territory, and you’re leeching off rebel citizens! The only thing we ask of you is promise you won’t rebel against us, and you can’t even do that? What makes you think you deserve to be tolerated, then? You can either sign the oath, or get sent to one of our camps. Your choice, cleric.”

 

Dougram may not have liked religion, but he wasn’t particularly vicious, at least for a mercenary, so he took little pleasure in watching Serapino’s face whiten as he heard this ultimatum. However, he was even more surprised when he heard an unexpected source of defense for the mendicant.

 

“Uh…Brother Dougram,” said Forel, still very sheepish, “I don’t mean to countermand your authority, and I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, but…well, look. Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

 

Dougram blinked. “Huh? Why would you say that?”

 

“W-well, don’t get me wrong, Brother, I hate the clergy as much as anybody. I’m from Sorveno, and believe me, everybody here agrees! We don’t have any patience for those parasites. But…but Serapino here, he seems to be an exception.”

 

Dougram looked back at Serapino, who seemed to be as surprised at Forel’s admission as he was. “Forel, what do you mean?”

 

“Well, he’s just a good kid. Everybody in this village hates priests, but I can’t think of anybody who hates him. He’s great with a staff, so he’s helped almost everybody around here with any kind of injuries which’ve befallen them. He takes care of the sick, helps with village life, and doesn’t ask for much more than a bed to sleep in a few meals a day. He, uh…” and at this, Forel shifted uncomfortably, “he’s even helped out some of us, sir. Some of us in the Army. I…just yesterday I was pickin’ some fruit from a tree when I, uh, fell. Real stupid, I know, and I broke a leg for the trouble. But Serapino fixed me right up! Didn’t even ask me any questions about it. And it’s not just me. He’s done the same for a few other soldiers too, I know! We’ve only been here a few days, but a lot of my friends don’t even know he’s with the Church. Hell, I didn’t know until he mentioned it! That’s why I thought I had to bring him here.”

 

Well, now. Dougram certainly wasn’t expecting this—though naturally, he was still quite suspicious. He glared at Serapino. “Forel’s an honest man, so I trust his word. You should be thankful, priest.”

 

“M-mendicant,” corrected Serapino meekly, “b-but yes, yes, I am! I…I’m sorry if I caused any trouble, I just wanted to help, I didn’t mean to—“

 

“But there’s something I don’t understand,” said Dougram brusquely, cutting him off. “Serapino, your Church has set itself against our Revolution. I don’t know much about all your Eliminean creeds and edicts and all that, but I have heard about that Loyalist’s Creed. So why have you been helping your men? Aren’t you worried that God or whoever is going to punish you?”

 

“W-Well, it’s true that the Church has condemned the Revolution,” said Serapino sheepishly, but suddenly something which seemed uncomfortably close to conviction sparked in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t…shouldn’t help people! All human beings were given life by God…all human beings are my brothers and sisters! And that includes those in the Revolutionary Army! So if God called me here to help my brothers and sisters, I have to help those in the Revolution too! E-even if I disagree with them, and the path they follow…I…I can’t withhold compassion from them! How could God show _me_ any compassion if I did?”

 

Dougram blinked again, not quite sure what to make of any of this. He’d never heard anything quite like that before. Despite his disdain for the Eliminean religion, what Serapino had just said certainly wasn’t the worst he’d ever heard from a member of the faith either.

 

And as he thought about what would happen to the man if he really was sent to one of those camps, Dougram’s resolve began to falter. He believed in the Revolutionary cause—he hated the King, he hated the Church. But he remembered Paptimus’ demonstration just a short while ago…those glassy-eyed, “re-educated” children who’d watched as their parents died. Dougram hadn’t seen any of the camps, and he could understand the rationale behind Paptimus’ explanation of their existence and their purpose, but…no matter how he tried, Dougram just couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing camps like that could produce could truly be called justice. No matter how stupid his beliefs, was it worth subjecting a man to that fate just for failing to sign a piece of parchment?

 

And then there was the matter of simple military necessity. Although the Revolutionary Army had a few Sages and other magic-users in their ranks, largely part of the mercenary divisions, Dougram knew that aside from the Druids and Black Knights in the Red Shoulder Battalion, few people knew how to use those incredibly useful healing staves. Serapino, even though he wasn’t part of the Revolutionary army, was more than willing to put his skill with the staff to use for them. Even though the ‘mendicant’ was a fool, even if he believed in that Eliminean nonsense, would it truly be just to send him off to the same camp that had produced those glassy-eyed children? Especially when his staff could be put to help their cause?

 

Dougram closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, looking evenly at Serapino, who was still stark white and looking distinctly fearful. “Alright,” said the Nabatan, “I’ve made my decision. Serapino, you don’t have to sign the pledge. I won’t turn you in to the Revolutionary authorities, either.”

 

“R-really? Th-that’s wonderful,” exclaimed the pilgrim, “thank you so much! Thank you, Sir Dougram! I-if there’s ever a way to repay you…oh, may the Saint bless you for your kindness!”

 

Though Forel seemed to share quite a bit of Serapino’s relief—Dougram noted with satisfaction the smile on the other man’s face—he was still a bit peeved by Serapino’s praising of the Saint. However, he was even more concerned with telling Serapino his conditions. “Wait a second, Serapino,” he said coolly, which promptly dispelled the clumsy mendicant’s joy—so strongly, in fact, that he actually stumbled a bit, and had to be held up by Forel to keep from falling. “I’m only doing this under a condition.”

 

“Uh…w-what?” Serapino looked at him pleadingly.

 

“I won’t force you to sign the oath. However…I _do_ want you to accompany my men on our march. I want you to use your staff for our cause. To heal our injuries, to ease our pains…that kind of thing.”

 

“I…I won’t fight for you!” Defiance had once again entered the young man’s eyes.

 

“I won’t ask you to.” Dougram smirked. “Honestly, if I did, you’d probably end up being more trouble than it’s worth—you sure don’t look like you’d live too long on a battlefield. All I want is for you to spread that ‘compassion’ of yours to my troops. And not just them, obviously. You’ll be helping out the villagers at all the towns and settlements we come across, especially if we have to subjugate them. Justice demands we cause as little suffering as possible, after all! So you’ll be looking after the wounded and sick of the common people too. So essentially, Serapino, you’ll be doing the exact same thing you’re doing now, just heading south. Does this sound acceptable? If not, it’s either the pledge or the camp. Make your choice.”

 

Serapino was silent for a long moment, seeming to argue with himself. Finally, he gave his answer. “I…if there’s no other way,” he said resolutely, “then I’ll go with you. I-if the war front expands, that means lots of people will need help, right? This must be God’s will!”

 

“Whatever,” replied Dougram, “but one more thing. You’re going to be under my direct command. You’ll be sticking close to me so I can keep an eye on you. You try to pull anything seditious, or undermine my forces, I’m sending you to the camp. Understand?”

 

Serapino gulped and nodded his head. “Th-that’s fine! I-I don’t want to get involved with the war anyways. I-I just want to help people! I don’t need to spy or do anything like that, right?”

 

“It better be,” growled Dougram. “Now, my first order to you is to make your rounds around my men’s housing first, then to the village generally. I want you to see if anyone’s sick, and isolate them to take care of them if necessary. I don’t want any outbreaks of disease before we begin our march. You think you can do that?”

 

“Y-yes!” Serapino nodded happily; so terrified was he that Dougram thought he’d say anything to get out of the room and back to his business. He hastily padded out the door to the office, his footsteps growing fainter as he left the building entirely. Sighing heavily, Dougram once again leaned back in his chair and looked at Forel. “He’s your friend, isn’t he? Follow him and keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t do anything suspicious.”

 

“I-I think he’s a good guy,” replied Forel. “He’s a priest…or, mendicant, or whatever, but I still think we can trust him.”

 

“Well, if we can, then if he asks you for any help with medicine or treating a patient or anything, then help him. In any case, just keep an eye on him, alright?”

 

“Okay, can do.” With a smile, Forel turned to leave, following his Eliminean friend. Before he stepped through the door, though, he turned. “Oh, B-Brother Dougram…thanks.”

 

Dougram waved. “Yeah, I know. Just don’t make me regret this, okay?”

 

“I definitely won’t!”

 

With that, Forel finally made his exit, leaving Dougram alone with his thoughts. Renault and Braddock were far from his mind—now, he was occupied with thoughts of that Eliminean.

 

He really, really hoped he made the right decision in allowing this Serapino to tag along with him. In the end, though, he’d have to wait and see.

 

-X-

 

“Rosamia…what…what the hell’s your problem?”

 

It was late at night, the sun having fallen far below the horizon, and Renault and Braddock had been traveling with Khyron’s army for another three days. The Mage General was keeping a grueling pace, meaning that they would likely arrive at Thagaste within another couple of days, but it also meant the two men (and admittedly, much of the rest of the army) were being pushed to a state of near-exhaustion. The only things they were thankful about was that the army had set up camp, affording them a small chance to rest, and that the assassin pursuing them hadn’t made an attack over the past few days. Of course, they knew better than to let their guard down, since the man was likely formulating a plan to infiltrate the camp and take them out at this moment.

 

Thus, they both had to be as aware as possible…even when one of their old friends was bringing them their dinner. However, that didn’t stop Braddock from asking why, exactly, the woman was being so cold to them.

 

Rosamia finished untying Braddock and Renault’s hands so they could eat the small bowls of stew placed in front of them (as they were being watched by another quartet of suspicious Mages, naturally) and stepped back to regard both of them coldly. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Is there a problem with the food? You ought to talk to Apolli. Though he often cooks for the rest of us, he cooked this specifically for you. Why, I don’t know. Maybe Gafgarion asked him to.”

 

“Huh? Who?”

 

“Gafgarion. The older Cavalier. He…he would have been Apolli’s father-in-law…he was Yulia’s father.”

 

Braddock’s expression softened. “Yulia…Yulia’s father? I…uh…oh, man, I have to…”

 

“If that was your question, I believe I’m done here,” said Rosamia, but as she turned to leave a further query from Braddock stopped her.”

 

“That’s not what I was wondering about,” growled the axeman irritably, not paying attention to the food (although Renault was happy to start on his stew, while shooting Rosamia and the other guards an angry glare). “It’s you, Rosamia! Me and Renault, we just risked our lives to join your side, to help you against Paptimus, even give you his most secret plans, but you’re still treating us like your enemies. And you know us! We went through Scirocco together! We…I thought we were friends! So why are you doing this?”

 

The woman blinked, allowing the wind to ruffle her green hair and regarding them coldly with her similarly-green eyes for a moment before answering. “You’re traitors,” she said simply.

 

“What are you—“

 

“I remember the battle outside of Nerinheit City,” she said, and this time, even her stony, professional demeanor showed a few signs of cracking as a distinct note of resentment and betrayal entered her voice. “You…you were supposed to be fighting alongside us. You were supposed to be our allies! But the moment Paptimus showed his true colors…the moment he offered you all that money…you turned your coats as if it was nothing!

 

“I thought you were an honorable man, Braddock. I thought your honor was worth more than mere money. I’m sorry to see I was wrong.”

 

Against this scathing, blistering condemnation, Renault opened his mouth in the beginnings of an angry retort, but a quick glance from Braddock stilled him. Turning to his accuser, the Ostian glared at her for a moment, looked as if he was going to say something equally angry, then took a deep breath and thought better of it. Starting again, he began his defense.

 

“So that’s what you thought, huh? Honestly, I can’t blame you,” he said in tones which were still angry, but also measured—and low enough that the other guards couldn’t hear; Rosamia, perhaps inadvisedly, had to lean in closer to hear him. “I’m definitely no paragon of virtue…I’ve been an idiot, and I’ve definitely done some things I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for. But, Rosamia…money wasn’t the only reason we joined up with Paptimus at first. We didn’t betray Khyron and Exedol because we had something against you personally, or because the only thing we cared about was getting rich—“

 

“Oh? So then why?”

 

“Because he offered us a cause we could believe in!” Braddock snapped. “Rosamia, you know how much we hated the Royalists and Etruria’s government. Exedol stiffing us, that fool Galahad joining our campaign? Nuisances compared to all the other things we’ve seen. We know how incompetent the nobility is, how poorly they treat the common people…just look at Scirocco. If it hadn’t been for Khyron and his idiot pride, if he’d just retreated instead of carrying on such a suspicious mission, Yulia might still be alive. And afterwards…you remember how the court treated us. The nobles mocking us, the King caring more about ballistae than one of his own subjects dying…you said it yourself, Rosamia. ‘The hearts of the nobles are often as black as their dwellings are white,’ or something. Even two years later I still remember that.

 

“But Paptimus…he gave us an opportunity. Finally, we’d be able to strike back against those God-damn wretched nobles who made our lives miserable, and ruined the lives of so many other people! The Revolution was dedicated to the people! Paptimus said we’d be fighting for liberty, equality, and brotherhood! Even if he hadn’t paid us at all…Rosamia, can’t you see? Given a choice between fighting for a miserable bunch of exploitative fools like Khyron and Exedol and fighting for the people…how could we refuse Paptimus’ offer?”

 

Braddock’s line of argument seemed to have an effect on the woman, for she drew back, looking considerably less angry and considerably more uncertain. However, she wasn’t still entirely convinced. “If all this is true,” she said defiantly, “then why did you turn from him as well? Why did you come back to us?”

 

“BECAUSE PAPTIMUS IS A DAMNED LIAR!” shouted Braddock, his face red, hands clenching as he once again relived his terrible discovery of the former Prime Minister’s schemes. He was so loud that it took spilling his stew, Rosamia’s shocked expression, and the guards nearby brandishing their tomes to get him to calm down. But at this point the Ostian was too wound up to stop.

 

“I’d had my suspicions for a while,” he hissed, sheer hatred for Paptimus dripping from every word. “The story he gave us about his struggle against Exedol always seemed fishy. And the Revolution itself…it wasn’t freedom, it was barbarity. Me and Renault…we’ve lived in occupied territory for months. We’ve seen all these things. Anybody who doesn’t agree with the Revolution, even if they’re just civilians…they get sent to the guillotine. Children get sent to re-education camps…they’re brainwashed! And with that damnable black magic of his, Paptimus sends spies everywhere he can, watching his ‘loyal soldiers’ wherever they go, while they sleep…does that sound like liberty to you? Equality? Does it sound like ANY of those things?”

 

Rosamia was speechless. “I…I didn’t—“

 

“And that’s not all.” Braddock’s voice was trembling, almost manic. “I _heard_ him, Rosamia. That’s what set off our whole escape in the first place. Late at night, when he thought nobody was listening…I heard Paptimus talking with Tassar. Talking about how he’d set everything up at Scirocco…how he’d poisoned the town and manipulated us all like puppets as if it was nothing! He…he was using Renault and me! And that’s not all! NOT ALL! HE ADMITTED IT! HE KILLED MY—“

 

“Braddock!” Renault hissed, once again kicking the Ostian as hard as he could, catching the attention of Rosamia and the guards. “Look,” he said, “just look at Braddock. He’s almost gone crazy out of anger. You think he’s making this up? Say what you will, but he really, REALLY hates Paptimus. And I do too. Khyron may be an idiot, but at least he’s an honest idiot. He may not have any idea how to lead, but at least he didn’t lie to his men. Paptimus, on the other hand…that bastard, he gave us nothing but lies! It’s just like Braddock said…he used us!

 

“And you know what, Rosamia? Nobody uses me. Nobody uses my best friend. So we don’t care what it takes. We wanna pay Paptimus back, and if it means working with you Royalists, that’s fine. No, we don’t like the King, we don’t like the Mage General, and even though we used to like you, Rosamia,” he gestured disdainfully to the guards behind her, “we don’t like the nobility or their cause. And I think the feeling’s mutual. But we _hate_ Paptimus. As far as we’re concerned, you people are the lesser of two evils.”

 

“Renault’s right,” Braddock nodded, having managed to calm down. “Look, Rosamia, I still remember what I said to you. About not sacrificing my honor, about fighting for something I believe in…yeah, well, in this world, I guess that’s much easier said than done. I may not believe in your cause, but if it’s the only way to stop Paptimus, to get him to pay for everything he’s done…then even if I have to cast away my honor, even if it means fighting for something I don’t really believe in, I’ll fight beside you.

 

“If you still want to hate me after this, that’s fine. You can think I’m a criminal, you can think I’m just another amoral, freebooting mercenary, you can think I’m an unprincipled scoundrel. That’s fine…hell, to tell the truth, it’s probably more accurate than not. But I only want one thing from you, Rosamia—your cooperation. Hate me all you want, but as long as you give everything you’ve got to defeat Paptimus, I’ll be a happy man.”

 

Rosamia drew back, the condemnatory expression previously on her face having completely disappeared, replaced entirely now by confusion and uncertainty. “I…Renault, Braddock, I—“

 

“Interesting story, freebooters,” grunted one of the guards who’d listened to Braddock’s little outburst. “I’ve nothing but disdain for mercenaries like you, and you obviously need to be taught your proper place, but your hatred for our foes…though you may be turncoats, it seems genuine, and that I can—“

 

He didn’t get a chance to finish. All of a sudden his eyes almost seemed to pop out of their sockets as his head separated from his neck in a massive spurt of bright red blood.

 

Both Braddock and Renault saw the black, shadowy shape moving behind him, almost too fast to see, and caught the distinctive gleam of moonlight off of a bloody curved blade, and knew exactly who it was.

 

“SHIT! ROSAMIA, WATCH OUT!”

 

Without thinking, Braddock leapt from the ground and tackled Rosamia, who was too completely stunned and flat-footed to do anything but crumple to the ground. For one crazy moment she thought Braddock was the one who had attacked, but that was before she heard his scream of agony as he lay atop her.

 

She felt something warm and sticky fall onto her legs, and when she looked she saw to her horror that a deep gash had been rent into Braddock’s side. The assassin had scored that blow when he’d passed by the tumbling Braddock after decapitating the Mage, and with his superhuman speed he’d be more than capable of slicing the Ostian to ribbons if he stood over him for more than a moment.

 

Fortunately, that was more than Renault was willing to give. Yelling obscenities, the swordsman tossed the remnants of his stew aside and rushed over as the assassin raised his curved blade, grabbing and pulling his arms, trying to restrain him.

 

“Worthless cur,” spat the black-clad killer, “you’ve humiliated me far too much to be allowed to live. I’m going slaughter you just like your precious friend!”

 

On pure instinct, Renault let go of the assassin’s arms to bring his own to protect his head and neck—a very good move, for the knife that buried itself into his forearm would have found his neck if he hadn’t done so. Yelling in pain, Renault stumbled back, and again he avoided a deathblow, for a second upward sweep of the assassin’s blade that would have disemboweled him simply cut a lighter gash across his chest instead.

 

It was more than he could handle, and Renault collapsed onto the ground, groaning in pain. The assassin would have finished them off then had not the other three remaining guards made their presence known. With the classic discipline the Mage Corps was known for, not even the killer’s surprise attack could keep them shocked for long. “How the hell did you get in here?!” yelled one guard as he cast a bolt of Thunder at the interloper, which the second and third guards followed with a pair of fireballs.

 

Alas, even that assault was not enough to stop the assassin. Thunder and flame converged on empty air as he dove forwards and rolled, as quick as a ghost. He was now right in front of one guard, and as he rose his blade rose with him, slicing a deep vertical cleft from the unfortunate Mage’s groin right up to his neck, sending him crumpling to the ground in another horrible spray of crimson. Wasting not a moment, the assassin turned his attention to the two remaining guards—a few lightning-quick steps to the side took him close enough to slice off one mage’s still-outstretched hand, and as he screamed in pain and staggered back to grasp his bloody stump, his foe executed a fast, perfect backflip to deal with the remaining guard, embedding his knife in the man’s forehead as he spun in the air above him.

 

However, this last bit of show proved to be more trouble than it was worth. Just as he landed, the assassin staggered back gracelessly, for another fireball from the side had slammed into him almost directly. His armor protected him from most of its effects, however, and he turned his baleful gaze to the right to see Rosamia, who had managed to extricate herself from under Braddock and stood over him protectively, holding out her hand as she prepared to cast another Fire spell.

 

“Foolish woman,” he grunted, “must I kill you as well? Very—“

 

He didn’t have time to say any more. He jumped backwards to avoid a small volley of thunderbolts which crashed down on his position, and cursing, he turned backwards to see that he’d taken too long and drawn too much attention to himself—the camp had heard the commotion, the shouts, and the firing of spells, and angry mages were coming from all around him, led by a Sage who cast some very powerful magic who was flanked by a Cavalier and an Archer.

 

“Damn! Not again! I’ll never let you go, you fools! Not until our business is finished!” Silently, the assassin turned and dashed away to the north, moving far too quickly for any of the confused magi to catch or aim at. Within just a few moments, he had disappeared so completely it was as if he’d never been there.

 

The bodies and the wounded—Braddock, Renault, and the screaming guard being among them—were the only evidence of his visit, and the first thing Khyron came across as he ran up to the scene of the battle. “W…what the devil happened here?!” He turned a furious eye to the two mercenaries lying on the ground. “Worthless vermin! So they’ve finally turned on us, have they? I KNEW IT! Prepare to die!”

 

“Khyron, NO!” Rosamia shouted, still trying to guard Braddock. “This wasn’t their doing at all! We were attacked! It was an assassin!”

 

“Think she’s right,” said Gafgarion, inspecting one of the corpses with distate. “These wounds look like they came from a…damn. Real curvy kinda weapon. Where the hell would they find that?”

 

“Oh?! So it wasn’t them. Then who was it?” Khyron still held his Thunder tome in one hand and kept his other stretched towards the downed, wounded Braddock and Renault, preparing to fry them.

 

Rosamia narrowed her eyes. “It was…I don’t know who it was. A man in black armor, wielding a dagger and this strange curved blade. He moved too fast and it was too dark for me to get a good look at him. His armor was dark as well.”

 

“Wait…” Khyron’s grip on his book slackened and his face grew noticeably paler. “A man with a curved blade and a dagger…in black armor? It couldn’t be…”

 

“DAMMIT, KHYRON,” Renault shouted in pain as he attempted to get to his feet or at least his knees, “WHAT’LL IT TAKE FOR YOU TO BELIEVE US! THAT GUY’S BEEN AFTER US EVER SINCE WE ESCAPED FROM NERINHEIT CASTLE!”

 

“He-he did say something about searching for the both of them,” said Rosamia. “And another thing, his helmet had two tall horns protruding from the very top. I think—“

 

That was more than enough for Khyron. His face went sheet-white and he dropped his tome. “I…impossible! It can’t be! Yurt! Yurt, the Silent Chief!”

 

“Eh?” Gafgarion shot his lord a quizzical look. “Who?”

 

“Th-the most feared assassin on all of Elibe,” cried Khyron, absolute fear evident on his features. “He commands an incredibly high price, but if one can pay it, he’ll kill any target without question! Just five years ago he murdered one of Count Vinland’s most powerful barons, and before that, he even slew Vyrleena’s predecessor…one of the Wyvern Generals of Bern! The Silent Chief…he’s a man-shaped nightmare!” He looked at Renault. “And he’s after _you_?!”

 

Rosamia, Gafgarion, and Apolli looked at the two wounded men in astonishment. “If…if Paptimus sent s-such a guy after you two,” stammered Apolli, “he must be serious ‘bout huntin’ you down!”

 

“Damn,” muttered Gafgarion. “Guess this clinches it. Those plans must be pretty valuable to Paptimus if he sent this Yurt to get ‘em back from you.“

 

“Finally,” groaned Renault through gritted teeth, “somebody understands, even if they are the country bumpkins! Now Khyron, please, stop standing there and do something! Heal us! You haven’t forgotten how to use a staff, have you? At least get to Braddock! Dammit, he’s bleeding out!”

 

The Ostian definitely wasn’t looking too good—he’d lost consciousness and his breath was growing shallower. However, Khyron still stood there, dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t decide what exactly to do. It took a piercing scream from Rosamia for him to finally take action.

 

“KHYRON, FOR GOD’S SAKE, DO SOMETHING!”

 

The Sage started and sputtered indignantly, but when he saw the Ostian’s state, along with that of the guard who’d lost his hand, he didn’t bother upbraiding his apprentice for ordering him around. Without saying anything more, he unlimbered his Mend staff and turned its power to Braddock. As the soft blue light washed over him, the man’s bleeding stopped and his breath grew steady once again, though he did not wake up. He was no longer in danger of death, though, and that was all that mattered. Without wasting any more time, Khyron tended to the other wounded—a shouted order from him was enough to keep the handless mage from squirming around on the ground, and as soon as his lost limb was found the Sage held it close to the stump and once again used the power of the Mend staff, grinning in a sort of grim satisfaction as the hand reattached itself. As the Mage flexed his almost good-as-new hand in wonder, Khyron finally tended to Renault, who after a few moments under the staff’s healing light found he could walk and move quite easily—and though his clothes were damaged, there was only a faint scar on his chest.

 

The Sage glared at the two mercenaries, then at Rosamia, but only for a moment. “Everyone,” he called, “Let us resume our march! Our foes nip at our heels, and we haven’t a moment to lose!” Turning to Renault, he said disdainfully, “I won’t tie you up again. That way, you can help keep an eye on your friend there. If either of you falls behind us, we won’t stop for you.”

 

With that he turned and strode off to the front of the formation, as the unhappy mages all around him began dismantling their camp to get back on the road. Rosamia, Apolli, and Gafgarion quickly followed Khyron, merely sparing the two mercenaries a few backwards-looking glances as Renault attempted to wake up his friend.

 

He knelt on the ground and nudged Braddock gently, and was greatly relieved to see the Ostian’s face scrunch up as he hesitantly opened his eyes. “Uh…Renault? What happened? I—“

 

“Yeah, that assassin guy…his name’s Yurt, I think…he carved you up pretty good. Khyron arrived just in the nick of time, though. Managed to patch you up with that Mend staff of his. Now that he knows Paptimus has hired somebody to come after us, I think he’s realized we’re serious about going over to his side.”

 

“Great,” mumbled Braddock as he attempted to get up (Renault lent him a hand to steady himself), “so what does that mean for us?”

 

“It means we gotta march. No time for rest, bud.”

 

As he stood up, Braddock looked at his friend, who merely shrugged helplessly. Both of them knew they could say nothing that meant anything. Together, they simply followed the rest of their new army south.

 

-x-x-

 

“Make this quick, Vyrleena. The other Wyvern Generals have much to tell me about the situation on the Western Isles and I also must attend a meeting with the Head Church about this Revolution you’re so fond of. I hope you’ll bring me good news.”

 

As she bowed before King Arbain of Bern, who was sitting in front of her on his grand throne (alone—he trusted his Wyvern Generals so much he felt no need for guards when in discussions with any one of them), Vyrleena bit her lip when she thought of what she had to tell him. She had an immense amount of respect for the man, and knew he wouldn’t be pleased.

 

“Ah…no, my liege. I apologize, but I actually have a request.”

 

Arbain frowned, bringing up a hand to scratch at the pale blond goatee adorning his middle-aged but still strong-looking face. “Vyrleena, tell me this isn’t about Barbarossa. I’ve already taken enough of a risk authorizing his dispatch to Etruria. Although the prospect of finally triumphing over them after so many years is tantalizing, I don’t want to plunge Bern into war again. Five hundred soldiers accompanying Barbarossa is the best I can give you. We can plausibly claim them to be traitors and deserters if the attack fails, but if we send a larger force there’s no way we can maintain that argument. I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do!”

 

Vyrleena took a deep breath as she stood up. “I understand, King Arbain…that’s why…that is why I announce to you my resignation as Wyvern General and my intention to accompany Barbarossa myself.”

 

King Arbain said nothing. He was not a man given to sudden displays of emotion and he lived up to that reputation now, a slight downturn of his mouth being the only indication of the shock he felt. Truthfully, Vyrleena was quite shocked herself—she hadn’t expected it to come to this. However, after Paptimus had contacted her just last night warning her that the Royalists might have gotten their hands on their battle plans, and that they might be preparing for an assault from Bern, she knew a degree of extra protection was necessary for Barbarossa.

 

That was why she _had_ to continue on the path she had chosen, even if she had to sacrifice her position and reputation to do so.

 

“Of course,” continued the Wyvern General, now blushing slightly, “this will not be the official story. What you say publically, I hope, will be…will be that Paptimus, one of the leaders of the Revolution, seduced me and convinced me to betray my liege in order to come over to his side. I coerced a contingent of my best men into following me, stole Barbarossa, and launched a futile attack on Aquleia simply out of misguided love for a revolutionary. Of course, this is only if the attack fails…if we succeed in taking Aquleia, Etruria will be ours, and we’ll have nothing to—“

 

She was cut off by Arbain’s terse response. Once again, to his credit, his voice did not betray much emotion, though it was obvious he was angry. “Vyrleena, this is absurd. Why are you doing this?”

 

She gulped, unwilling to tell Arbain the truth, that she had been in contact with Paptimus for a very long time. “My liege, even with Barbarossa, even with the strength of the Revolutionary Army, their victory over Aquleia is not assured. While I realize you are not willing to throw the full might of Bern behind their cause—indeed, you cannot, due to how much influence the Church wields—I still believe we must do more for them. Despite the risks, I can’t allow this opportunity to--“

 

“Vyrleena, you are one of my Wyvern Generals. One of the most capable leaders and warriors in this country. Losing you would be a _tremendous_ blow to our strength. Why do you wish to leave me now? Why? Your family has served this country well for generations. You yourself took the same oaths the other Wyvern Generals did, and swore to serve King and country to your life’s end. Why have you now decided to abandon all this?”

 

“I am not abandoning you! Your Majesty, it is because of the vows I took that I made this decision. What I wish to do is for the good of Bern! For the good of our people! The rivalry between our nation and Etruria has lasted almost ever since humanity defeated the dragons. Is it not time for it to finally end? If the Revolution succeeds in overthrowing the Etrurian government, the first thing it will do is make an alliance with us! Finally, we will stand unopposed as the strongest power on Elibe!

 

“My liege, is this not a goal worth fighting for? Is it not worth risking one’s life for? It is a great risk, I understand that. Even with Barbarossa, even with my assistance the Revolutionaries may not win. But I must at least try! If my position won’t allow me to do that, to do my best for my country and my king, the vows I took obligate me to give it up! To protect you, to protect Bern, I am willing to be exiled, to be branded a traitor so that if I fail, my people will not be blamed. My men feel the same way. So please, Your Majesty, let us go!”

 

King Arbain remained quiet for a long moment. As Vyrleena looked at him, her breath caught in her throat, he finally spoke. “You will take only those who are willing to go with you. No Wyvern Knight or any other warrior of Bern will accompany you by my command. If you succeed, you will return as heroes. If you fail, however, you will not return at all. You and yours will be executed the moment you return to the Fatherland’s soil.

 

“Are you willing to pay that price to fight for what you believe in?”

 

She nodded. “I am.”

 

Arbain leaned back in his throne, suddenly looking much older than the Wyvern General had ever seen him. “Very well, Vyrleena. Go, and aid Paptimus. I pray for your success. May luck favor you and the Revolution.”

 

At this, the woman knelt before him, so deeply that her head touched the floor. “King Arbain…th-thank you. I will not disappoint you! I promise!”

 

And with that, she stood up, whirled around, and strode out of the great throne room as quickly as she could. She didn’t have any time to waste, after all—finding a contingent of soldiers willing to conduct a surprise attack on an enemy capitol and exile from their Fatherland if they failed was easier said than done, and she had to get Barbarossa and his escort ready to move out very soon. However, those were not the only reasons for her haste.

 

The longer she waited, Vyrleena knew, the greater her doubts would grow.

 

-X-

 

Of all the ways he could have returned to his hometown, Renault figured this had to be the strangest.

 

Like the rest of the mages who marched through Thagaste’s streets as crowds of curious onlookers watched, Renault was utterly and completely exhausted. However, according to what Khyron had told them, they’d finally be getting a few days of rest before continuing on their journey to Aquleia. They might have worried about finding accommodations if it wasn’t for a fact their army was undoubtedly small enough by this point to fit in easily in a city like Thagaste.

 

“Yulia,” muttered Apolli to himself, walking as he was along with Gafgarion and Rosamia next to Braddock and Renault. The two men were far from being accepted as comrades among the Mage Corps, but after Yurt had tried to assassinate them three days ago, it was obvious to all that Paptimus didn’t want them to reach their destination, which was enough to make them valuable assets. Thus, the two men were no longer relegated to the back of the army’s formation, and had gravitated much closer to the front, nearer to their old comrades from Scirocco.

 

In Apolli’s case, that was not necessarily a good thing, for though he’d intended his reminiscences to be heard by no-one but himself, Braddock had a good ear. “This city must bring back a lot of memories,” said the Ostian sympathetically. “It’s where we all first met, after all…though I guess not where it all started.” His face twisted into an angry grimace. “Paptimus…it all started when that worthless bastard first made up those schemes of his. Even before any of us knew it, we were drawn in…”

 

“That’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to ask you, lad,” said Gafgarion. “Aside from these plans y’ brought us, d’you remember if you heard Paptimus say anything about Scirocco? About…”

 

“About Yulia?” Braddock looked at him for a moment, his grimace receding slightly. “Right, you’re her…were her father.” The grimace returned. “Yeah, I remember. Don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

 

“It was late at night, and I couldn’t sleep…I felt something watching me. I got up, looked around, and saw this little shadow thing in front of my bed…I had no idea what it was, and when I tried to catch it, it fled up towards the ceiling. I managed to trap it with a candle, but it was killed by the light. But by that point, standing on my bed, my roof was thin enough to hear what Paptimus and Tassar, my former boss, were talking about above. I heard him mention how he was surprised at what happened at Scirocco…that the poison was supposed to kill everyone in the town, but one of ‘em was left alive to…to murder Yulia. Paptimus just laughed…he said it was for the best, because Yulia was a Royalist. One less for them to kill in the future.”

 

Upon hearing this story, Apolli’s eyes went wide, and his arms trembled slightly. “Y-Yulia…My Y-Yulia…she…Roya…Royalist…how could he? HOW COULD HE?! I—“

 

Braddock clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I can understand how you feel, man. But that’s how Paptimus is. A complete rat bastard. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone. Not just Scirocco, he even—“ This time, just a stern glance from Renault was enough to keep him from giving in too far to his anger, and he took a deep breath to avoid revealing any of his secrets. “Yeah, well, the point is that we’re gonna kill that bastard, Apolli. No matter what happens, he’s gonna pay for what he did to us.”

 

“And f’r what he’s doin’ to this country,” said Gafgarion calmly. The older man didn’t display it openly, but there was a hardness, a determination in his voice which indicated he had heard everything Braddock said and wanted revenge just as much as he did. “Those Red Shoulders…they were definitely his. The first time I saw ‘em was with Rosamia, a few years back…all in black armor, creepin’ around one of the villages in Caerleon. I shoulda paid it more heed then…that Paptimus had been sinkin’ his claws into Etruria for years. Yulia…she was just ‘is first victim.”

 

“And one of mine, I guess,” said Braddock, regret momentarily winning the war against anger in his mind. “I never got the chance to apologize to you for what happened, did I? I…I was in command of Yulia and Apolli when it happened, I—“

 

“Wait,” said Renault angrily, “Braddock, don’t tell me you’re still blaming yourself! It’s all Paptimus’ fault, not yours!”

 

This merely drew another calm nod from Gafgarion. “Braddock, I don’t know you, and I don’t what happened at Scirocco. All I know’s what Apolli told me. Could be that you deserve your fair share of the blame for what happened. But I’ve read that letter you brought. I _know_ how much we owe Paptimus. So we’ll deal with him first. Then y’ can make up for whatever it is y’ have to.”

 

Renault was about to say something, but their conversation was interrupted by Khyron blaring out their orders. By this point they had neared the center of the city, where its ruler’s castle was located. A small crowd of townspeople had gathered around the army as well; though they had all heard rumors of Khyron’s crushing defeat and the impending Revolutionary invasion they wanted to find out what, exactly, the Mage General was planning.

 

It would not be made immediately clear to them. “All of you,” he shouted, using magic to enhance his voice, “take your rest in this city’s inns and taverns as you can. You have permission to quarter private residences if it is necessary. I am going to meet with the overseer of this region, Count Hallard of Thagaste, to discuss our tactics. We will move out within three days.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Rosamia, bring your…associates to me, I’ve some specific orders to give them. The rest of you, find a place to sleep!”

 

Renault, Rosamia, Gafgarion, Braddock, and Apolli all looked at each other in confusion. What did Khyron want with them specifically? Curious, as the rest of the army dispersed into the nearby buildings, the quintet made their way up to the Sage impatiently waiting for them.

 

“Take this,” he ordered, disdainfully throwing a large, heavy pouch at Renault, who managed to catch it. He opened it up and peered inside, amazed at what he saw—five thousand gold pieces.

 

“It’s all I brought with me,” said Khyron. “All of you need to be re-armored and re-armed. It may be an inconvenience, seeing as most of you are mere physical fighters rather than mages, and even Rosamia needs something, but I’ll not let this be an impediment to me and my liege. Gafgarion, you’ll buy a new spear, Apolli a new bow, and Rosamia, a new tome. Renault and Braddock, you two need the most. Even though Yurt hasn’t appeared since he last attacked us, we don’t know when he’ll strike next. I won’t coddle either of you! I expect you to be responsible for your own defense! Renault, you’ll need a better sword, and Braddock…you don’t even have anything! It’s a miracle you’ve survived so far! Get yourself a good suit of armor and a good axe or I’ll leave you here. No unarmed, unarmored half-wit will be a member of MY army!”

 

“Wow, thanks,” drawled Renault sarcastically, but before he could continue his retort to Khyron’s arrogant lecture Braddock cut him off.

 

“Fine,” said the Ostian coldly, grimly. “Thanks for the money. Come on, guys. We don’t have time to waste with him. Let’s just get to the armory and get ourselves equipped. The sooner we do that, the sooner we’ll be able to defend ourselves if Yurt decides he’s gonna come after us tonight.”

 

Renault couldn’t argue with that. As Khyron disappeared into the Count’s great castle, the five of them prepared to do their shopping.

 

-x-

 

“Hey, man, what’s wrong? You got all this stuff and you still look depressed.”

 

Renault posed this question to Braddock as they stood, along with their friends, outside one of Thagaste’s armories.. The time spent there had most definitely been useful—Rosamia had gone to the magic shop across the street and purchased an Elfire tome, and Apolli and Gafgarion were now the owners of a decent Javelin (not as good as the Cavalier’s old Short Spear, but a serviceable replacement) and a good Steel Bow. Renault and Braddock, however, had definitely made off with the best. Both had been given entirely new sets of armor. Renault’s old leather armor had been getting worn out, so he’d given it up in lieu of a good cuirass, gauntlets, and greaves, though he couldn’t afford a mail shirt under those, a helmet, or any other pieces of armor. He preferred to spend the money on a new sword—a longsword made out of steel rather than iron. Braddock had spent the most money—like Renault, he was now wearing a cuirass, gauntlets, and greaves, though he’d wanted a shirt of mail for a bit of extra protection, but most notably he was now the owner of an incredibly fine Silver Axe. The metal ordinarily was not ideal for the creation of weapons, but the enchantments placed upon silver arms enabled them to cut through virtually anything with ease—thus explaining their extreme price. Despite the value of his purchase, though, the Ostian still wore a slightly dejected expression on his face.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, this is a great axe,” he said, “but…it’s still no Wolf Beil. You can find silver weapons all over Elibe, but mine was Ostian only! And as strong as this axe might be, even it can’t compare to my old one when it came to cutting up armored foes. I really wish we still had it.”

 

“Sorry, Braddock. I would’ve gone to Nerinheit’s armory to get it, but I didn’t have time. I was too busy trying to spring you outta there!”

 

He chuckled in response, his smile returning. “Yeah, yeah, I understand. Doesn’t really matter anyways. So long as I have something to smash into Paptimus’ head when I finally meet him, I’ll be a happy guy. But until then,” and at this, he yawned pointedly, “where’re we gonna sleep? I’m exhausted!”

 

He had every right to be—all of them did. Ever since Yurt’s last attack Khyron had set the whole army on a grueling pace. Apolli was even having trouble standing, leaning on Gafgarion with eyes half-closed.

 

“We don’t have much money left,” said Renault. “That armor and axe really took a chunk out of the money Khyron gave us. We only have maybe a hundred gold. Why don’t we quarter somebody’s house? Khyron said we could.”

 

“There’s no reason to resort to that,” replied Rosamia. “It’s not right to kick innocent citizens out of their homes, they have nothing to do with us.”

 

“Yeah, well, what do you propose? It’s either that or sleeping in the street.”

 

Before his friends could get into an argument, Braddock had an idea. “Hey, Renault…don’t you know somebody in this city? Remember? You sent her a bunch of letters?”

 

Renault blinked. “Huh? Who?”

 

“Le…Lisse! That was it!”

 

A spark of recognition lit up in Renault’s eyes, which was quickly followed by despair. “Oh, right! Lisse! Man, why’d you have to remind me? I don’t even remember the last time I sent her one of those letters! She’s gonna be pissed…”

 

“Yeah, but her rooms aren’t expensive, right? And besides, maybe she’s been worried about you…maybe she’ll be so glad to see you again she’ll let you room for free? Worth a shot, right?”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Renault groaned. “Alright, let’s get going.”

 

Following Renault, the quintet made their way through the busy streets of Thagaste until they came to one of its seedier quarters. Even after such a long time spent away from the city, Renault could still remember how to get to what had once been his favorite (well, more like only) eatery. Granted, he would have had a lot of trouble if the layout and appearance of the area had changed even slightly over the past few years, but fortunately for them the Ruby Tortoise was still where it always was, along with its distinctive, ugly sign.

 

Wasting not a moment, and with all his typical grace, Renault simply barged in, his companions following him, waiting to see whether this approach would work. “Hey, Lisse,” he called, seeing that nobody expect for the usual unhappy drifters seemed to be in the tavern at the moment, “It’s Renault! You remember me?”

 

All was quiet for several moments. “Uh…you think she’s not in right now?” Braddock asked.

 

His question was answered when a sudden, piercing wail tore through the air, loud enough to send the surprised Apolli almost jumping out of his skin, even though it came from upstairs. They soon heard the frantic patter of soft feet, and within the next moment the haggard, considerably-younger-than-she-looked proprietor of the Ruby Tortoise came barreling out of the stairwell and straight towards Renault.

 

She lept towards him with arms outstretched. “RENAULT! RENAULT! IT’S REALLY YOU! YOU’RE ALIVE! I WAS SO WORRIED! I WAS SO _WORRIED_ , RENAUUULT!”

 

“Alright, alright!” Renault awkwardly patted her head as she sobbed into his chest. “I’m, uh, happy to see you too, Lisse. I…dammit, stop crying! We need rooms!”

 

She completely ignored his request. “I thought you were DEAD, Renault! Sniff…it’s been so long since I even heard from you! The letters just stopped coming one day, and I thought—“

 

“Uh, well, what can I say,” said Renault, looking back to see Apolli and Gafgarion giving him confused looks and Rosamia a distinctly stony one, “I have to admit, I for—“

 

Braddock stopped him before he could put a foot in his mouth. “Uh, Lisse, we’ve just been really busy. I’m sorry, but we’ve been doing some really risky work these days. We couldn’t have written to you, even if we wanted to. We were in…uh, some pretty dire straits. Didn’t have any amenities, much less parchment and quill. We’re real sorry for that, but we’ll make it up for you, eh? Before that, though, I think Renault needs you for something. It’s really important, right?”

 

Lisse continued to sniffle. “O-Of course! Anything! Anything for you, Renault! You-you’re really alive, it’s like all my prayers have been answered! These past few months have been HORRIBLE, but now that you’re back…I’ll do anything! Just stay with me! Please!”

 

“We need rooms,” Renault snapped, growing impatient with the woman’s bawling, “right now! Khyron’s kept us marching almost to our limits. You don’t want me to die of exhaustion, Lisse, you’ll give me and my friends whatever you can!”

 

Her eyes went wide. “O-Of course! F-follow me, all of you!” She led the troop up to the second floor, where they immediately took rooms for themselves—none were occupied, so there was one for Rosamia, one for Apolli and Gafgarion, and one for Braddock and Renault. Both of them were so tired that they just brushed past the woman, who was still frantically asking Renault questions, begging him to talk to her, to tell her more of what had happened, shut the door in her face, and without even bothering to remove the armor they’d just purchased, collapsed straight onto their beds.

 

-x-

 

The first thing Renault noticed when he woke up was aching all over his body. Even if one was lying on a decent bed, sleeping with one’s armor on was pretty much a surefire recipe for discomfort. The second thing he noticed was that he was still very tired. Looking out the window, judging by the fact that it was pitch-black and he’d gotten to bed during the late afternoon, he’d had a chance to sleep for several hours, but even that wasn’t enough.

 

The third and most important thing he noticed, however, was the reason he’d woken up—the waves of heat which seemed to be washing over him and the acrid scent which seemed to be stinging his nose.

 

“What the hell,” he muttered groggily, and immediately started coughing as his eyes watered and his lungs burned. He fell gracelessly from his bed and onto the floor, and that was the shock he needed to really wake himself up. “What the hell,” he said to himself, louder this time. “The…it’s a fire? Shit, it has to be! Braddock! BRADDOCK! WAKE UP!” From his position on the floor, he kicked at his friend’s bed, which was enough to wake him up—and to start him coughing and sputtering, like Renault did. ‘It’s a fire, man! This place is on fire! C’mon, we gotta get everybody the hell out of here!”

 

It hadn’t made for comfortable sleeping, but it was a good thing in retrospect neither of the men had taken off their armor before tossing themselves onto their bed, since all they had to do was pick up their weapons lying nearby to be ready for whoever started this fire—and they were sure it was a who. “Dammit,” coughed Braddock, “you think it’s Yurt again?”

 

“I’d bet every piece of gold I have,” replied Renault. “Where’re our friends?”

 

As it so happened, they were already making their way out of their rooms—Apolli and Gafgarion, due to the latter’s quick thinking, crawling down, low enough to stay away from the smoke, while Rosamia stumbled out, coughing and sputtering. Lisse was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Fire! FIRE!” Braddock yelled, and he stepped forward, looking at the stairwell. So much smoke was pouring out from it that it was nearly impossible to see, but he could still tell that virtually all of the lower floor had been consumed. Since nothing that flammable was kept in this tavern, it was all but certain someone’s foul play was at work.

 

He had to give the bastard credit—Yurt was nothing if not persistent. And ruthless. “Dammit, we’re trapped! We can’t get down! What the hell are we gonna do?”

 

“I thought somethin’ like this might happen,” yelled Gafgarion, close to the floor. “Braddock, get to Lisse’s room and check up on her. Rest of you, get over to my room! I got a plan!”

 

Nobody saw fit to argue. Braddock immediately rushed over to Lisse’s room while the rest of them crowded into Gafgarion’s to see what he’d found.

 

“This better be good, old man,” growled Renault, “we don’t have much time.”

 

“That’s why this is the best way,” came his response. “Look at my window.”

 

“What the hell?” Renault gazed at it for a few moments. The second floor of Lisse’s establishment was high enough from the ground that Gafgarion couldn’t have possibly meant for them to jump down. Just in front of it was the second floor of another stone building—a room with an open window. It wasn’t too far away, in fact…

 

“Wait,” said Renault, “you want us to jump?”

 

Gafgarion just nodded. “I’ll go first.” Before anyone could protest, the veteran summoned up every last ounce of strength he could to rush at the window and vault through its frame. His aim was true, and he’d judged the distance correctly, for he sailed right through one window and into the other, though it sounded like he’d crashed into something. “Next one,” he called, pain evident in his voice, “Hurry up!”

 

Renault looked at Apolli. “Get going, kid!”

 

The timid youth apparently wasn’t as brave as his would-be father in law, but the look he was getting from Renault proved to be just the encouragement he needed. Screaming, Apolli backed up and then rushed forward as quickly as he could, making his own jump out of the window and into the next building’s. His jump wasn’t as strong, though, and he fell short—only Gafgarion standing near the building’s windowsill and catching him saved him from a nasty fall.

 

Just as Gafgarion was pulling up Apolli, Braddock barged into the room Renault and Rosamia were still in, Lisse’s prone form in his arms. “She’s unconscious,” he said, “and—wait, what’re you doing?”

 

“Getting the hell out of here,” said Renault, who then looked at Lisse’s prone body.   
“Shit, you have to be kidding me. Alright, give her here.”

 

Renault didn’t even let Braddock get a word in edgewise. He simply accepted the girl, slung her under one arm (she was so small and Renault strong enough that he could do so easily), and without another word, rushed back, rushed forwards, and made his own leap of fate through the window. Unfortunately, it wasn’t large enough to accommodate two people easily, and one of Lisse’s legs bumped against a wall as he jumped, throwing him off. Renault cursed as he fell short, managing only to grab out at the next building’s windowsill with one hand while holding Lisse with the other. But his grip was already starting to slip, and he could only hold on for a few more seconds…

 

Which was all it took for both Gafgarion and Apolli to get a hold of his arm. “Pull, lad! Dammit, pull!” Whether it was that both of them were stronger than they looked or that their panic gave them just enough extra strength (or both), they succeeded in lifting both Renault and his unconscious baggage into the room they occupied. Right after they did so, they were joined by another visitor—Rosamia, fairly athletic for a magic-user, had been able to make her jump with little trouble. Now, they only had to wait for Braddock.

 

“What the hell’s going on in there,” came a woman’s voice from behind them, apparently one of this house’s residents. “Thieves? THIEVES? I’M CALLING THE GUARD!” Quite naturally, of course, none of her new guests paid her the least bit of attention. They were too busy waiting for the last of their number to join them.

 

“SHIT,” yelled Braddock, who hadn’t taken off the gear he’d bought earlier in the day, “I’M NOT GONNA GET ACROSS IN ALL THIS!” That didn’t stop him from trying, though. Summoning up every single bit of his strength, he ran up and with as strong a thrust of his powerful legs he could muster, vaulted through the window.

 

Renault’s eyes lit up as Braddock soared through the air. It looked like he would make it.

 

Until a black shadow soared up to meet him, then flew through the air past him, leaving nothing in its wake but the screeching of metal as the curved blade it held smashed against Braddock’s cuirass.

 

His new armor had saved his life, but only for a few moments.“SHIIIIT!” Braddock could only scream impotently as Renault could only watch in horror. The Ostian plummeted straight to the ground and to his certain death—until a streak of fire rushed past him, literally a hair’s breadth from him, and exploded with terrific force just below him, sending his shocked, singed form catapulting back up, just far enough for him to make a good grab at the windowsill with both arms.

 

“DAMMIT! HELP ME!” Gafgarion and Apolli quickly heeded this command and rushed over to help Renault latch on to Braddock’s arms and drag his smoking, sputtering form back through the window and on the floor, safe and sound.

 

For a moment, all four of them could do nothing but stare at Rosamia in absolute shock. The woman held an Elfire tome in one hand and kept a finger pointed through the window with the other. Thanks less to perfect aim than luck, she’d fired the pair of huge fireballs characteristic of the Elfire spell, but directed them to converge in the air, allowing the massive explosion to propel Braddock just far enough to send him to safety.

 

“Rosamia,” breathed Renault in astonishment, “you’re crazy!”

 

She decided not to respond to that, instead focusing on something much more pressing. “HE’S COMING!”

 

By this point, everyone in the room knew exactly what to prepare for. Renault quickly whipped his sword out of his sheath and brought it in front of his face, just as the black shadow bolted through the window. The gleaming curved blade which would have chopped through Renault’s skull instead bounced off his weapon as the Silent Chief gracefully landed just behind the group. Apolli and Gafgarion unlimbered the weapons they’d kept on their backs as Braddock staggered to his feet and took his Silver Axe from his belt.

 

“Impressive,” said Yurt, with that cold, deathly voice of his. “Very, very impressive. Your souls are strong indeed. I’d hoped to trap you with the flames and watch as you were overcome by the smoke, but you proved far more inventive—and brave—than I’d anticipated. A pity I wasted that good oil, then. But I am glad--No quarry I have ever pursued has given me such an exhilarating chase. Even a Wyvern General was easier to kill than you!”

 

None of his addressees took well to his flattery. “You son of a bitch,” spat Braddock, looking at Lisse’s unconscious form, “what the hell’s wrong with you? Lisse…she has nothing to do with us! Why the hell did you burn down her inn?”

 

“Simple. Paptimus ordered me to take your life, and at the time my fire plan seemed to be the most effective way of doing that. It’s merely too bad for the girl.”

 

“Paptimus,” the Ostian growled, “PAPTIMUS! IS THERE ANYTHING HE WON’T SINK TO?!” The realization that Paptimus had ruined yet another innocent life was enough to send Braddock into a berserker rage, surprising both his allies and his foe. He screamed and rushed forward, hacking at Yurt with all his strength. The assassin, caught off guard for a moment, stumbled backwards, barely avoiding one swing, then deftly jumped to the side, easily dodging another.

 

He chuckled loudly, apparently imagining Braddock had lost control of himself, but once again he’d underestimated his opponent. Braddock had learned from his ill-fated attempt at Scirocco’s life—his anger no longer clouded his battle judgment, at least. He turned to the side in order to block another of Yurt’s lightning-fast strikes with his pauldron, and screamed, “APOLLI! GAFGARION! ATTACK!”

 

This they did. Apolli quickly let out a shot at Yurt while Gafgarion tossed one of his Javelins, and though it was too dark for them to aim well, they at least kept the assassin from attacking any more as he jumped and twisted away. However, he seemed to be barely phased, and as he readied his weapons it seemed certain his next attack would be more successful than the first.

 

Until a new combatant entered the fray.

 

“GAAAAAH! THIEVES!” Exploding out from the door right behind Yurt came a portly, middle-aged woman swinging what looked to be a vase of some sort, though the exact type couldn’t be discerned in the darkness. Though she could barely see, she was so close that she managed to crash the thing straight onto Yurt’s armored head, stunning him momentarily.

 

Braddock knew a chance when he saw one. Though the assassin didn’t even take a second to recover, quickly stumbling off to the side and swiping at the woman with one of her blades as he did so, forcing her to cry out and retreat in terror, he had left himself open just long enough. Braddock leapt towards him and sliced downwards and quickly and strongly as he could.

 

Even in his disoriented state Yurt was fast enough to dodge, but not fast enough to avoid the slice completely. He cried out in pain as the axe bit into his shoulder, slicing through his armor, and quickly dropped and rolled across the ground, just below Braddock’s follow-up slash which would have chopped through his helmet.

 

“CURSE YOU!” The assassin screamed as he got up, and though both Apolli and Gafgarion prepared to shoot another arrow and throw another Javelin, though Rosamia began chanting her spell, and though Renault stood directly in front of the assassin, no-one would hinder his escape. A streamer of blood from his shoulder flowed behind him, almost like a scarf, as he backflipped over and past Renault, blocking the mercenary’s sword thrust with dagger and shotel. As Renault turned, the assassin performed another acrobatic backflip, straight through the window and into the flame-limned darkness of Thagaste’s night.

 

“SHIT!” Braddock yelled yet again in frustration. “HE GOT AWAY!”

 

“We’ll get him later,” said Renault, “Let’s just get out of here!”

 

Nobody could disagree with that—except maybe Lisse. “W-what’s going on,” she said groggily, starting to wake up from her position on the floor, “I-I smelled something and my head—“

 

“I’ll explain later,” growled Renault as he scooped her up, eliciting a little shriek, “let’s just move!”

 

“GET OUT! GET OUT!” screamed the woman, who was cowering in a corner (and who’d wet herself after Yurt attacked her), “JUST GET OUT!” She said this as they had already moved straight out of the second-floor room into the building’s hallway and straight down the flight of stairs they found. As they ran into the first floor, then the entrance, and then straight through the doors of the dwelling into the outside, they felt a momentary surge of relief. For now, they thought, they were out of danger.

 

Unfortunately, the line of spears leveled at them immediately proved them wrong.

 

A small group of stony-faced guardsmen stood in front of the home Renault and his friends just exited, and these guardsmen were led by a Knight in full armor, complete with a fine iron spear issued to all of Thagaste’s men at arms and a distinctive chestplate that also served as a shield as well as an indication of his status as a lawman—a prison warden, judging by the insignia. Behind them rushed groups of firemen, carrying buckets of water. Although these men had been able to contain the fire, it seemed as if the Ruby Tortoise had been completely ruined—upon realizing this, Lisse began wailing, loudly and unreservedly.

 

This was simply ignored by the Knight and his henchman. “All of you, drop your weapons,” said the man, in a husky voice which struck Renault as oddly familiar. “We first got a report of a fire, then we heard there was a fight going on. I don’t know what happened or who started it, but it’s my responsibility to get things back in order. I promise all of you’ll have a fair hearing, just—“

 

“D-Dammit,” yelled Renault, “We didn’t do anything, we swear! It was—“

 

“Oh, no,” said the Knight, lifting his visor to get a better view of who he was looking at—and allowing Renault to get a better view of him. “Don’t tell me…”

 

For a moment, the only sound anyone could hear was the crackling of the fires in front of them as Renault and the Knight stared at each other. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” groaned the mercenary, “Jerid?!”

 

“Hell, Renault,” asked Braddock, “you know this guy? Maybe he can help us out! Tell ‘im what happened!”

 

Obviously, Braddock didn’t know the true nature of their relationship, but he, along with the rest of them, would find out very quickly. “Last time we met I told you I never wanted to see you again, boy,” said Jerid coldly, sounding more unfriendly than Renault had ever heard, “and this was exactly why.”

 

“Dammit, Jerid, I’m serious! We really didn’t—“

 

“Shut it. Just put your weapon down and tell your friends to do the same.”

 

“Sir, he’s telling the truth!” Rosamia stepped forward, reaching into her robes and producing the small golden sigil indicative of her social status. “My name is Rosamia, and I am a member of the Mage Corps, serving directly under Mage General Khyron Caerleon. I swear upon my honor that we were responsible for none of this! Our revolutionary foes have been pursuing us for days. The fire was set by an assassin under the employ of Paptimus himself, who seeks the information Renault and Braddock have about the Revolution! Sir, we need to be protected, not arrested!”

 

Jerid pondered the sigil in the woman’s hand for another long moment, seemingly taken aback. He looked at her, then at Renault, then at the burning building behind him. Blinking, he provided them his response.

 

“We’ll see. For now, come with us.”

 

Rosamia was outraged. “Sir, I told you! I swore upon my honor! Is that not enough? I am a servant of the crown! What else do I have to prove?!”

 

Her friends were equally angry. Lisse didn’t say anything, just continued to wail, Braddock swore and gripped his axe, while Gafgarion and Apolli continued to plead—“Rosamia’s tellin’ the truth, man,” said Gafgarion, this time unable to keep his frustration from seeping into his voice, to which Apolli added, “y’ have to believe us, sir!” Renault, of course, added his voice, yelling, “Jerid, you fool, you can’t detain us while you let Yurt—“

 

All of them were cut off by the gaoler’s yell. “QUIET!” Jerid’s face was red, angrier than Renault had ever seen him, even though they hadn’t seen each other in years. However, to his credit, after another deep breath it seemed as if he’d gained control of it.

 

“Look, miss,” he said, his voice steady, “you may be telling the truth. Then again, maybe not. Everyone has to obey the King’s laws, and that includes his servants. Just showin’ me a fancy sigil isn’t gonna make me go easy on you. But on the other hand…well, say what they will about the Mage Corps, I know you folks’re one disciplined bunch. Even with Renault here, I’d figure one of you Mages would be enough to keep him in check. Something definitely smells fishy here, and I’m gonna find out what it is.

 

“And that means keeping you people under guard. Miss…Rosamia. Rosamia, right? If you’re telling the truth, and somebody’s after Renault, then he needs to be protected, right? There’s nowhere safer in this city than my jailhouse. That may not be a compliment to the rest of Thagaste, but it’s the truth. And the fact is, no matter what I can’t let you folks run around here. If you really did something, then you’re dangerous, and I have to lock you up. If you’re innocent, and somebody really is after you…then I still have to lock you up and isolate you, both for your own protection and to keep any more innocent people from gettin’ involved.

 

“Now, I’m only gonna say this once more. Put down your weapons and come with me.”

 

By this point, all of them knew there was no point resisting further. Braddock, Renault, Rosamia, Gafgarion, and Apolli threw down their weapons, glaring at Jerid angrily. He didn’t pay attention. As his men walked over to pick up the discarded arms and surround the warriors in an unfriendly circle of spears, the jailer quietly walked over to Lisse. Her voice had given out and she’d fallen to the ground, now capable of only pained sniffles, but he gently look one of her hands and lifted her to her feet. “I’m sorry ‘bout all this, girl,” he said, “I promise, I’ll do everything I can for you. You can stay at my place tonight, my men and I will protect you from…from whoever did this. Now come on. Let’s go.”

 

She couldn’t offer any resistance, still continuing to sniffle and whimper as Jerid led her away from the smoking ruins of what had been the only reminder of her parents, what had been her entire life. Treated with far less compassion were her five guests. A few impatient pokes from the spears of the guards behind them were enough to convince all of them to start following Jerid, angry expressions on their faces. But again, they didn’t bother to protest—they knew full well it was pointless. The closest any of them came to resisting was when Braddock and Renault looked at each other, both of them mumbling the same question under their breath.

 

“Why the hell does this keep happening to us?”

 

-x-

 

So many memories.

 

Renault couldn’t be sure, since it had been years since he’d last stayed here, but he suspected he’d been in one of these cells before. There was a little rat hole near one of the walls which seemed oddly familiar, though apparently its occupant had either vacated it or wasn’t in the mood to come out right now.

 

The latter was understandable, since the cell was pretty crowded. It wasn’t meant to hold more than five inmates, but Renault, Braddock, Gafgarion, Apolli, and Rosamia had been locked up here for the past day, along with another pair of prisoners. To call it awkward would have been an understatement, but Jerid hadn’t been kidding when he said his jail had been filled to the brim He simply didn’t have accommodations for female prisoners, which was why he put Rosamia together with a bunch of guys who were at least more likely than not to protect her. This proved to be a wise move, as the other two prisoners in Renault’s cell could attest—both of them sported black eyes given by Braddock after they’d attempted to manhandle Rosamia last night.

 

Thus, this had definitely been one of the more unpleasant experiences in Renault’s life. He could think of only two good things about the situation: Yurt hadn’t come back to hunt them (considering the number of guards patrolling the building and the vicinity, this was understandable) and that they actually had a chance to rest, though sleeping on the grimy floors and benches of the cramped cell was obviously much less than ideal. Oh, and also, Lisse wasn’t around to annoy them. Renault was definitely grateful for that—the girl’s screeching was getting extremely irritating, though he had to admit he did feel pretty sorry for her, since it was kind of their fault her inn had burned down.

 

The unhappy expression on his face had apparently made itself obvious. “Oi, don’t be so glum,” said one of the cell’s other prisoners, a skinny, short gray-haired man. After Braddock had busted his eye, he’d become impressed with the group’s strength and had attempted to get himself into their good graces, apologizing profusely and trying to tide them over with what little he could muster, which tended to be little pieces of trivia about the city which would have been very useful to thieves, but irrelevant to soldiers who were heading to Aquleia.

 

“We’ll get out of here soon,” he continued. “Y’ heard about the Mage General?”

 

“That’s the guy who’s supposed to be picking us up,” grumbled Braddock. “What’s taking him so long?”

 

“E’s busy with Count Hallard,” came the reply. “I know what they were talkin’ about! I was, ah, helpin’ m’self to a few things in the castle and just happened to come by his room…a fly on the wall, I was, heh heh! Heard a lot ‘afore they caught me last night!”

 

“Oh yeah? What’d you hear?”

 

“’f I tell you, we’re friends, ey? I already ‘polergized to y’r lady friend there, so--”

 

Braddock rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. We’re friends. So tell us what you found.”

 

“Heh, heh, heh! Well, ‘cording to Lord Khyron, ere’s a big Revolutionary Army comin’ this way! I thought he’d wanna defend this city, but…but ‘e said he’d be leavin’ it to the Revolutionaries! Can y’ believe it?”

 

“Makes sense,” said Gafgarion. “I’m not much f’r tactics, but from what I’ve been told this city’s not real easy to defend. It c’n be surrounded on all sides, and it’s fed by a pair of rivers. Put some poison in either of those and the city’s good as dead. Aquleia, on the other hand…Apolli’s told me it’s one jewel of a place. Huge walls, and it’s close to the sea, with lots of fish to feed the defenders and the mages can purify the salty water. Glad to see even Khyron’s not fool enough to waste men defendin’ this place when he c’n make a much better stand at the capitol.”

 

“O-oi, y’ knew that?” The prisoner was clearly surprised. “Oh yeah, well, I bet y’ don’t know this: Khyron and Hallard’ve called up a draft!”

 

Renault blinked. “You serious?”

 

“Heard ‘em talkin’ bout it clear as day. In fact, I bet they made the announcement just this mornin’! Day after tomorrow every able-bodied man in Thagaste is gettin’ sent over to Aquleia to help defend it. Only people left in this city are gonna be old people, kids, and women!” The thief cackled. “So it’s gonna be easy to break out of this joint! Just wait a bit f’r an opportunitee, ey?”

 

Renault received this news with a bit of worry rather than good cheer. “Shit…I wonder what’s gonna happen to this city.”

 

Braddock patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. “I understand how you feel, bud. No matter what, everybody’s concerned with the fate of wherever they were born, right? And you have relatives here too. Wasn’t your mom a Bishop in this city?”

 

“Yeah, she was. Not that it concerns me anymore.” Renault was angry now. “We don’t have anything to do with each other. Not a thing.”

 

Mention of his mother had made him angry, and Braddock knew very well when to leave something alone. Thankfully, the other residents of the cell felt the same way, and fell quiet, disconsolately counting the seconds, minutes, and hours of their incarceration in unhappy silence.

 

That silence would be broken unexpectedly quickly. They all heard the distinctive creak of the jail’s door opening and the footsteps which followed it, but they thought it was just another pair of guards until they heard a very familiar voice.

 

“Don’t cop an attitude with me, commoner! Those are MY men you’ve imprisoned! Do you think I’ve any time to waste, especially at this important a juncture!”

 

“K-Khyron?!” All five of the soldiers jumped up, rushing over to the bars of their cell to see Khyron and Jerid walking up to them, the former looking angry and the latter looking merely resigned.

 

“Lord Khyron, last night the inn they were stayin’ in burned down. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, milord, but even the Mage General has to obey the King’s laws. All I wanna know if what they told me is true. They said an assassin’s after them.”

 

“And you doubted their word?” Khyron glared at the jailer, who was wearing his Knight’s armor at the moment. “Witless fool! Those two mercenaries, Renault and Braddock, are defectors from the Revolutionary Army. They hold information which may prove crucial to winning the war! Of course Paptimus has men after them!”

 

“See,” said Renault triumphantly, “I told you so, Jerid!”

 

The man simply glanced at him coldly and shrugged. “So you did, Renault. In that case, you owe me a thank-you.” Turning back to Khyron, he said, “Well, I’ve kept these men safe. Nobody can get in or out of this prison without my permission. Looks like it did a good job of keeping your assassin away.”

 

“Er…he’s correct,” said Rosamia, a bit bashfully. “We haven’t been attacked.”

 

“Is that so?” Khyron seemed to have calmed down a bit. “Hm. Well, Jerid, it seems you showed some good judgment for a commoner. That will be useful later on! Now, let them out of this cell and let’s be on our way.”

 

The gaoler rolled his eyes, which fortunately Khyron didn’t see. “Gladly.” Taking his keys, he opened the cell door, and the five prisoners exited gratefully. Their two friends surreptitiously tried to follow them, but a stern glance from Jerid was enough to send them back. Renault was the last to leave, and Jerid sent him a stern glance as well.

 

“I never wanted to see you again, boy,” he said, “and what’s happened here hasn’t done a thing to change that.”

 

Renault simply grunted in response. “Glad to hear that, ‘cause I feel the same way. Well, don’t worry, after this we’ll never cross paths. So cheer up!”

 

Unfortunately, things wouldn’t go quite as planned. “Very well, the five of you get your weapons and equipment. You put them in the guard’s armories, yes, Jerid?” This elicited a nod. “Good. Jerid, if you’ve anything you need take it as well. Supplies would be nice, though obviously your armor and spear are the most important thing—“

 

“Wait a second,” said the jailer, “What’re you talking about?”

 

“What do you think? You’re coming with us!”

 

That stopped everyone in the room cold. “L-Lord Khyron,” Jerid said, “I still don’t—“

 

“Surely you’ve heard of Count Hallard’s decree by now! Every able-bodied and loyal man in Etruria is expected to make his way to the capitol to prepare for its defense! Obviously someone with your skills would be called, even if you are a mere commoner.”

 

“L-Khyron, you can’t…you can’t be serious,” said Jerid, astonished. “I’m a jailer, not a soldier!”

 

“Yeah, look at him,” said Renault. “You think he’d be any good in a fight?”

 

“He’s strong enough to wear a Knight’s armor and knows how to use a spear. That’s better than nothing.”

 

“B-but Lord Khyron,” said Jerid plaintively, “How can I leave! Who’s gonna watch over the prisoners?”

 

“Fine, you can leave one of your guards. That Lars fellow seemed like a sharp chap. But you’re coming with me! Aquleia needs every capable soldier she can get to defend her, and you at least look more capable than your guards! You’ve just lectured me about the law, commoner, so now’s your chance to follow it! Count Hallard himself issued this decree. Are you going to disobey it?”

 

Against this, Jerid could make no retort. He stood still for a moment, gaping at Khyron, and then deflated, a look of utter resignation crossing his face. “Yes, milord. I understand. Can I just ask a few things, first?”

 

“Make them quick.”

 

“What’m I gonna do about Lisse? She was the owner of the inn Renault and his friends were stayin’ in. I let her stay at my place, since she doesn’t have anyplace to go, but…”

 

The Mage General rolled his eyes. “If you’re that worried about her, take her with you. I don’t care. When we return to Thagaste after successfully fending off the Revolutionaries, I’ll pay for her little establishment to be rebuilt. Until then, she’ll probably be safer in Aquleia. I’d much prefer you leave her here, it’s much easier—“

 

“Er, uh, no, I accept your generous offer, Lord Khyron. Secondly, when’re we movin’ out? I have some things to take care of…before heading off to Aquleia, I want to make confession.”

 

“I told you, day after tomorrow. Is that all?”

 

“One more thing, milord. Uh…you have twenty gold on you?”

 

“Hmph.” Disdain evident on his face, the Mage General reached into a pocket and pulled out the money. “Don’t make this a habit, Jerid. What do you need it for?”

 

“Liquid courage, milord. Lars,” he called, getting the guard’s attention, “You’ll be in charge here for a few weeks. Khyron’s takin’ me with him, you’ve heard the news, right?” And with that, the jailer made his exit, armor clanking as he left the prison to his underling. Khyron stood there for a few moments longer, somewhat confused, though Renault smirked—he knew exactly what Jerid meant by “liquid courage.” _In fact,_ he thought as his smirk dimmed, _I could probably use some of that myself if Jerid’s gonna be part of the same army as I am…not to mention if he brings Lisse along!_

 

He’d have little time to dwell on those unhappy thoughts. “Why don’t you stay here for the remainder of our time in Thagaste?” asked Khyron. “I’ve no more money for your lodgings, and with Lars keeping an eye out it’s safer. This building is made out of stone, so at least Yurt won’t be able to set it on fire this time.”

 

“You can’t be serious,” Braddock said, “We need—“

 

“Yes, protection, but I can’t baby you every moment of every day. I still have many things to take care of. Thus, I’m leaving you under the watchful eyes of Lars and any other guards Jerid decides to leave behind. Farewell!”

 

With that, Khyron turned and marched off, leaving his underlings speechless in dismay, but admittedly, not very surprised. “Guess you’ll be stayin’ with us a bit longer,” cackled the thief in the cell behind them. “Uhh…Sorry about this,” added Lars, who’d poked his head into the room after Khyron had left, having overheard the conversation. “This place ain’t bad to sleep in, though, ‘least if Jerid’s any indication…that’s usually after he’s drank a bit, though…”

 

 _Well, at least we’re no longer in a cell_ , thought Renault as he and his friends unhappily made themselves at home. And it didn’t matter too much anyways—soon, they’d be heading to Aquleia, after all.

 

But after all this, Renault was very, very certain his fate wouldn’t be much better even at the great city.

 

-x-x-

 

“Er…Lady Monica, may I come in?”

 

“Jerid, is that you? Of course.”

 

Nodding gratefully, the gaoler—not clad in his armor, but rather in the finest set of clothes he owned, which actually wasn’t much—gratefully edged his way into the Bishop’s Sanctuary. This was the small room on the second floor of most Eliminean cathedrals, particularly those in Etruria, where the Bishop took care of most of his or her administrative duties as well as met with members of the aristocracy or mercantile classes, where discussions required at least some degree of privacy. It was uncommon (though not unheard of) for Bishops to meet with parishioners in this space, but fortunately, Lady Monica was one such clergywoman who allowed it.

 

The Bishop smiled—a rarity on her face these days, Jerid thought to himself—as he quietly made his way in front of her, bowing to his knees and genuflecting. “Uh, Your Excellency, thank you for havin’ me. I hope I haven’t—“

 

“Not at all, Jerid. I am quite busy, but not so overworked I can’t tend to my parishioners. And I think I know why you’re here…you’ll be setting out for Aquleia with Khyron very soon, won’t you?”

 

“Y-yeah. I, uh…I don’t think I’ll have much of an opportunity to after the army leaves, so I just wanted to…to make confession while I still could.”

 

He didn’t need to say anything more. Still on his knees, he gazed up into the Bishop’s eyes. Monica smiled and nodded, indicating for him to begin the Rite.

 

“Uh…God, my Lord, I have sinned, and now I repent. I’ve transgressed against my fellow man, and ask for Your forgiveness as well as theirs.”

 

After this, Monica nodded once more, telling her parishioner to continue with his confession—her job was to listen and advise, after all, not judge or condemn.

 

“I…uh…Lord, I think I’ve been drinkin’ too much, especially lately. First it was asking the Mage General himself for some spare gold for a bottle of whiskey…wouldn’t have been too bad in and of itself if I hadn’t drank so much. Drank myself straight into sleep, and Lisse, my, uh, guest…girl I was supposed to be taking care of…she had quite a time tryin’ to wake me up, for this visit with you, in fact! I’d even forgotten to relieve Lars…thank God he wasn’t too mad at me. Still, this sure isn’t proper behavior for a man of the law…

 

“It’s just that, God help me…Everything, it’s too much. When I accepted this job as a jailer, I thought I’d just be helpin’ keep the peace. Keeping troublemakers locked up, makin’ sure the guards are honest…I never thought my cells would be filled to the brim almost every day. Never thought I’d see my country fall into civil war. Never thought I’d be sent off to fight…but now…”

 

He sighed. “Still, that’s no excuse. I need to be strong…strong ‘nough without relying on the bottle. So…Your Excellency, if you could…I don’t want just forgiveness before I go, though that sure wouldn’t hurt. I want…I beg God…give me the strength to face the trials I’m gonna see in the days to come.”

 

Monica completed the Rite. She reached out and placed her right hand on the top of Jerid’s head, saying, “I have received your penance. If the Creator is to accept it, let the path of your heart change as well.” In response to Jerid’s request, she added a request of her own—“and let the Creator see this Child of His safely through the perils that await him.”

 

They were finished—both bishop and gaoler closed their eyes and murmured “Amen.” Jerid stood up, still keeping his head bowed. “T-thank you, Bishop Monica.”

 

“I am only doing my job. I will pray for you, Jerid.”

 

“Again, thanks.” Before he turned to leave, however, he suddenly stopped and shot the clergywoman a strange look. “Agh, I almost forgot! Your Excellency, there’s…uh, I should tell you something.”

 

Monica blinked, unsure of what her parishioner could be referring to. “Yes?”

 

Jerid scratched the back of his head, seeming somewhat ashamed. “Uh, Lady Monica…how do I put this, uh…look. It’s…it’s Renault.”

 

The Bishop’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly, but she said nothing, so Jerid continued.

 

“He…I dunno what’s up with him. He’s ended up with our army somehow. Khyron told me—“

 

Monica shook her head, looking as sad as Jerid had ever seen her. “It’s alright. You don’t need to tell me, Jerid.”

 

He understood well enough where she was coming from, but still didn’t know quite what to say, even after a somewhat awkward pause. “A-alright,” he finally stammered. “Still, I’ll be looking after—“

 

“No, Jerid. Please, no. Don’t do that on my account, please. The only thing I can ask you is that you fight honorably, and that you come back to this city alive. Those are my only requests. No more.”

 

“I…alright. Alright, I understand. Bishop Monica…thank you.”

 

Jerid smiled, nodded gratefully, turned his back and left. As he exited from Zodian’s Rest into the cool morning air of the city, he had to admit he felt quite a bit better. Not great, of course, but better than he had been.

 

He would be feeling much worse, however, if he knew that this was the last confession he would ever take from the bishop.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Da-yummm! Longest chapter yet, my friends ;_; However, I believe this will be *the* longest chapter for a while yet…the next few should be at least a bit more manageable in terms of length :D Just a few notes:

 

1: Again, the description of the Wolf Beil comes mainly from what I gathered from Hector’s supports…they mention his ‘reckless’ fighting style several times in-game, and he also mentioned learning how to fight in the arena, so I was under the impression that his personal weapon was a reflection of that.

 

2: Henken is showing up again next chapter. He’ll make a *very* big appearance a coupla chapters after that. Prepare for FUCK YEAH ;)

 

Aside from that, though, this chapter also has a few references to a variety of other things. Guess which ones ;)

 

Also, thanks again to Enilas and CHM for betaing :D

 

Lastly, here’s the info for Yurt’s shotel:

 

Weapon Name: Shotel

 

Class: Sword

 

Rank: B

 

Range: 1

 

Weight: 8

 

Mt: 7

 

Hit: 80

 

Crt: 0

 

Notes: Effective against shield-bearing units (Soldiers, Knights, Generals, Heroes, Paladins, Black Knights)

 


	21. Crossed Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to the King's forces proved even more difficult for Renault and Braddock than either thought possible...

Wayward Son

 

21: Crossed Paths

 

(Please re-read chapter 12, specifically, “A Tax Collector’s Job” as points mentioned in that will come up in this chapter as well. Also, again thanks to Enilas and CHM for beta-ing :) )

 

When Aquleia first came into view, it struck Renault how little it seemed to have changed. He was relieved to see it, of course—the trip from Thagaste, though not too long, had been exceedingly annoying thanks to Lisse almost constantly at his side, not even bothering to make conversation, but simply sniffling and bemoaning the fate of the Ruby Tortoise. Thankfully, Jerid had made an effort to keep her occupied as well as keep her away from Renault (despite their mutual antagonism, the jailer knew Renault well enough to figure it wasn’t a good idea to allow Lisse, his newfound charge, to annoy the mercenary too much), but it was still more than a little irritating. Thus, when Khyron’s army neared Aquleia’s walls (Renault and his friends standing close to Khyron at its head; they were the ones who had to be interrogated as soon as possible, after all), he was happy to learn his journey would soon be coming to an end, but he was also surprised to see how the walls seemed to be the exact same as they’d been the last time he’d entered the city. At first glance, it seemed the Aquleians had made no particular preparations for war—the walls were still pearly-white, and  the fabulous dragon’s-teeth gates were as flashy as ever. However, upon closer inspection, there were a few differences in the makeup of the people passing through its gates, at least from what Renault remembered—fewer mercenaries and merchants, and more refugees. _Running from the Revolutionary Army,_ he thought to himself. That didn’t leave much of an impression on him, though—he really started to see how much things had really changed when he came up to the sentry.

 

Just as there had been on his last two visits to the capitol, there were several sentries attending to the great northern gate of Aquleia. They were a bit more well-armed than Renault remembered—clad in decent-looking sets of leather armor along with small bucklers and spears—and also much more alert, but the mercenary figured that could be chalked up to the war going on. Finally, at least some evidence that the people of Aquleia knew what was happening to their country! However, he wasn’t expecting the response of the guards to Khyron.

 

The Mage General’s defeat at Nerinheit Castle had apparently done little to deflate his ego. “Attention!” he called up to the armed sentry looking down at them from the gates, “I order you to give us entrance! I am Khyron Caerleon, your Mage General, and it is my duty to return to the King and his Court to…to inform them of what has happened over the course of my journey! Indeed, I have attained the personal battle plans the blackhearted traitor Paptimus drafted himself! I demand entry so that I may give my report!”

 

The sentry blinked down at them, looking distinctly concerned, and then gave an answer none of them were expecting. “The enemy’s battle plans? The Great General told us to expect you, but he didn’t mention you bringing along anything that important. You’d better get to the Palace as quickly as possible! OPEN THE GATE!”

 

The gleaming white dragon-fangs quickly rose, but Khyron and his army did not pass through—the Mage General, as well as most of the other people who had heard what the sentry said, were too confused to get going just yet. “Wait, Great General?” muttered Renault to Braddock, standing by his side. “I’ve never heard of that position before. Maybe the guy misspoke or something?”

 

This seemed to be the argument Khyron was leaning towards. “Wait, what are you talking about?” he yelled up to the anxious-looking sentry, eyes squinted in suspicion. “I am the Mage General, not the…what was it, Great General! I’ll forgive you this mistake now, but in the future, don’t make it again!”

 

The sentry fidgeted, loosening and unloosening his grip on his spear. “Uh…Lord Khyron, it wasn’t a mistake. You, uh, you haven’t heard by now, have you? Milord, if I may, please allow me and my partner to lead you to the Holy Royal Palace. I’ll explain everything there.”

 

“What the devil are you talking about?! Answer me NOW!”

 

“Milord, please, not in public! Not like this, I beg of you! Let us go to the Palace and let your tired soldiers take their rooms in the barracks and rest. It-uh, anything less would be a dishonor to you, Lord Khyron!”

 

This seemed to be good enough for the Sage. “Very well, guardsman! But I expect a most excellent explanation for all this!”

 

With that, the army began its final march into the city, Renault and company right behind the irritated Khyron and the unhappy sentry and his partner leading him; not as angry as the Mage General but still curious. It was the third time he’d entered Aquleia, and by this point it didn’t seem quite as awesome as it had before. It might have been because the beauty of the city Renault remembered had taken on a distinctly military tone, not so different from what he’d seen so much of back when he was with the Revolutionary army. Squads of workers hurried around the walls, repairing any weak spots they could find, armed soldiers—notably clad in regular mail and armed with physical weapons rather than magic users, to Renault’s surprise—grimly went about their patrols, searching for any Revolutionary spies, and most curiously of all, Renault noticed impressive ballistae being mounted in strategic locations on several buildings and the beginnings of barricades in the streets being built.

 

Braddock, ever the pragmatic Ostian when it came to military matters, whistled appreciatively. “Damn, this is some good organization,” he whispered to Renault quietly, not wanting to be heard by Khyron. “I don’t know much about the layout of this city, but just from the looks of it they’re placing the weapons and barricades like a good Lycian general would. Khyron couldn’t have set all this up, could he? If he had this kind of aptitude for battle tactics he wouldn’t have lost so hard at Nerinheit Castle!”

 

“I know what you mean,” came Renault’s quiet reply. “Think it might have to do with that Great General guy they mentioned?”

 

They’d find out soon enough, though perhaps not as soon as they’d hoped. Once they neared the great Holy Royal Palace, Khyron impatiently stopped his army, turned towards them, and enhancing his voice, began to bark out orders.

 

“We have reached our destination! All of you, return to your rooms and posts in the Royal Barracks. You have earned your rest, but with the Revolutionary Army marching on this city, your rest will be short-lived! Spend what free time you can training in preparation for the upcoming battle, or helping ready the city’s defenses!”

 

As his disciplined army promptly obeyed his commands and marched orderly towards their quarters, Khyron turned to Renault and his friends. “Rosamia, Gafgarion, Apolli, you may join them. Jerid, is that woman still with you? Take her to the maids and have them take care of her. She’s an innkeeper, she should be able to make herself useful that way.” Nodding gratefully, the Knight took the despondent Lisse by the hand and led her into the Palace, the guards allowing him entrance as per Khyron’s orders.

 

He would have specific—and less than salutary—orders for his two turncoat mercenaries, though. “Renault and Braddock, on the other hand, will require special accommodation,” he said. “I don’t want you assassinated, nor do I want any more of my men dying because of you! Guards,” and at this he turned to the sentries, “what’s the most secure area of the Palace?”

 

“Er, the Palace Dungeons, milord. It’s a rare sight to see anybody get in or out of those without the King’s direct permission!”

 

“Very well. One of you take these men there. They have first-hand experience with the Revolutionary armies and will be able to provide much valuable information on the enemy forces. Our foes want to silence them before they can give that information to us. This must not be allowed to happen. Do you understand!”

 

Both sentries gulped. “Y-yes, milord!”

 

“Excellent. Now, the other one of you, bring me to the Court and explain to me just what in blazes has been going on!”

 

“Hey, wait a second,” said Renault angrily, just as the sentries began to move, “What the hell? You kept us locked in a prison for days back in Thagaste, and now you’re locking us up AGAIN? What’s your problem?”

 

“I am trying to keep you safe, you impertinent fools!” replied the Sage indignantly. “Though I don’t care a whit how or where you meet your ends, it won’t be until you’ve given the Court everything you know! Therefore, I’ll house you in the safest accommodations possible, where even the Silent Chief will have a hard time getting to you! Comfort be damned!”

 

Renault would have argued further, but Braddock put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. “For once, Khyron’s right,” said the Ostian, whose voice was also angry, but controlled as well. “It’s not pleasant, but it’s just a fact of life that in big cities, especially ones like Aquleia and Thagaste, the prisons and jails are the best guarded. We’ve come way too far to die here. Even if it means spending another few nights in a cell, if it gives Yurt some extra trouble I’m all for it.”

 

Renault gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t refute his friend’s logic. “Alright, fine, Khyron. But if you plan on locking us up forever…”

 

Fortunately, the Mage General didn’t hear that last remark. “Enough of this,” he said, “Let’s go!” Following one sentry, he walked straight into the great front doors of the Holy Palace, again bypassing guards suspiciously armed with physical weapons rather than magic. Renault and Braddock entered the Palace as well—but the sentry led them to a different entrance. “You’ve got to be pretty important for the Mage General to have such an interest in your safety,” said the guard. “We’ll try to make your accommodations as comfortable as possible, but don’t expect too much.”

 

As he and Braddock were led to a small door on the west side of the palace, which led into a narrow, dark stairway going downwards, Renault could safely say he wasn’t expecting much at all.

 

-X-

 

“I, uh, I think you want that explanation now, Lord Khyron?”

 

The Mage General, by this point, was too angry and impatient to even dignify this with a response. As he stood outside the great room which housed the Royal Court—unmindful of the fact that the noises which emanated from behind the door were very different than the usual shouting and arguing of nobles he was accustomed to—Khyron simply scrunched his red, scowling face and nodded his head. He’d allowed this uppity sentry to lead him all the way to the Court, after all, before he entered it was high time he receive some explanation for this “Great General” business.

 

“W-well, you see, milord,” began the sentry, “Uh, a-all o’ this s-started barely a week ago, milord. Th…news of your de—uh, I mean, news about what happened at Nerinheit Castle reached us almost as soon as it happened. Archbishop Gosterro…one of his priests must’ve been keeping in touch with him, because he told the King almost on the very day. Our spies c…confirmed it right afterwards. We knew things, uh, things didn’t go as planned for you…

 

“So, uh, w-when King Galahad heard all this, he, uh…well, he just got his Malonda and locked himself up in his quarters. I-if you weren’t able to achieve victory, he said, he didn’t want to deal with it. The only thing he did was tell one of his spies…Harvey, Harold, I don’t know the name…told some spy to go get the ‘General.’ We…everybody thought he was talkin’ about you, b-but we soon learned different.

 

“So this Harold or whoever, u-under the King’s orders—not mine! It wasn’t my fault!” The sentry stammered, noticing how Khyron was beginning to glower even more, “He-he took a couple of Palace guards and Warped over to some city farther north…think it was Thagaste. When he came back…he-he came back with the General. The Great General.

 

“I-I didn’t believe it at first. Some guy from Thagaste…I hear he was j-just a stoneworker! And not even Etrurian by birth, but a refugee from Lycia! I-I believed in you, Lord Khyron, I didn’t think for a moment they’d replace you with some random stoneworker who wasn’t even a countryman! But all I know is what I heard…the spy brought the General, whoever he was, in front of the Court. Since you were away and His Majesty was…uh, wasn’t around, the Court didn’t know what to do. They wanted to hand their authority over to s-somebody, but when the spy went in front of ‘em, told ‘em that this…this commoner was their man, and not one of them…they nearly laughed him out of there.

 

“B-but he proved ‘em wrong, Lord Khyron. Really, really wrong. Over the spy’s objections, the Court ordered the guards to get the guy out of their sight and kick him out of the Palace. B…but he wouldn’t have any of it.

 

“He didn’t have any weapons, milord. Just his own two hands. But he took down the two Court guards like they were nothing. Knocked ‘em out cold. The nobles called in more guards, and a dozen of the best Sages in the Palace rushed in. He…the stoneworker didn’t even break a sweat. Not even a minute before all ‘of em were laid out cold! W-whoever this guy is, milord, he’s a demon! I’ve never heard of a single man stronger than him in my life! The Lords were scared out of their minds, and I’d be too, Sir Khyron. They handed all authority over the war right to him then and there.

 

“And that’s the story, milord. That’s how it’s been for the last week or so. The Court’s so terrified of this guy that they’re doing whatever he says. They think he’s our last hope! He’s the one who’s been organizing the guard, letting guys like me, who use normal weapons, do the brunt of the work while keeping the magic-users he can in reserve, and he’s also the one who’s been organizing the city defenses. He’s as smart as he is strong…everybody thinks he’ll be able to save us, Lord Khyron!”

 

“NONSENSE!” yelled Khyron, his face quite red. “I’LL SHOW THEM!” Over the stammered protests of the sentry the Mage General barged past him, threw open the great doors, and entered the Court.

 

Even as angry as he was, however, he had to pause a moment when he saw what had become of the Court. The architecture, the stone tables and gilded chairs, all was the same as it was the last time he saw it, but what was actually going on in the room…that was completely different.

 

The nobles were mostly all there, as far as he could see, but they did not seem to be presiding over anything—in fact, they struck him looking more like servile _clerks_. All of the men, such as they could, huddled over their tables, whispering anxiously among themselves about “the war effort” and “the Great General’s orders,” debating between themselves over the locations of ballistae or the reports of spies, scribbling things down on parchment, and handing those pieces of parchment—along with more whispered orders—to a small army of actual clerks who were buzzing about the room like worker bees, carrying those orders and commands between both the gathered nobles and the strange man who sat in the King’s throne in plain clothing with a not-ornate table in front of him.

 

“YOU!” Khyron shouted as he strode right up to the red-haired man, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON THE KING’S THRONE!”

 

He hoped to unnerve the man, wipe that strange, utterly unfeeling expression off his face, and at least force him to acknowledge the authority of the Mage General, but he succeeded in doing none of those things. The only thing he managed to do was shut the rest of the Court up, as everyone in the room, both noble and lesser clerk alike, fell into complete silence.

 

No emotion flitted across the red-haired man’s face; the only thing Khyron could see was a slight flicker in his cold grey eyes. “You’re the Mage General? I’ve been expecting you. You’ve just arrived,” he stated dispassionately. “I can see why you’d be confused. My name’s Henken. This Court’s given me complete command of the war effort. You’ll be serving under me. Now, I want to hear your report on what happened at Nerinheit Castle. I was also told you managed to obtain a pair of defectors from the Revolutionary cause. I want to interrogate them.”

 

Was this… _stoneworker_ ordering _him_ around? The Mage General? Khyron couldn’t believe this. “HOW DARE YOU,” he roared, “HOW _DARE_ YOU! YOU USURP THE KING’S THRONE, YOU USURP THE AUTHORITY OF THE COURT, AND NOW YOU PRESUME TO GIVE ORDERS TO _ME?_ WHO THE DEVIL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!”

 

“The only one in this room with any idea of how to fight a war,” came the man’s dry reply. “Mage General, after this court heard news of your defeat, and after your King locked himself up in his private chambers in terror, nobody in this city had the smallest idea of how to defend themselves. These nobles you see here were essentially running around like scared kids before Harvery brought me here to organize them. And if you take a look around you, you’ll see I’ve been successful. I’ve turned the Royal Court into a war room. Instead of bickering with each other like they used to, every last aristocrat in here is a recruiter, a logistician, a strategist, or otherwise working towards the benefit of the Etrurian military. We still have a lot of work to do, but we’ve managed to cobble together a plan to defend this city. If you care at all about your King and your country, you’ll stop complaining and try to help me.”

 

“He-he’s telling the truth, Lord Khyron, oh yes, oh yes!!” called one concerned noble sitting in the seat closest to Henken—Khyron recognized his corpulent form as belonging to Count Bramsel. “Harvery told us he’s a veteran of the Lycian Civil War, he fought through the whole thing! He sure fights like it, oh yes!! I’ve never seen anyone like him! W-With him on our side we’ll be sure to win, oh, I’m sure we will! Just—“

 

Khyron wouldn’t hear any of it. “I’ll not be outdone by a _commoner_! Leave that throne right now, you impertinent fool, lest I burn you to ashes as you sit!”

 

“You’re beginning to annoy me,” said Henken, a slight—very slight—tremor running through his otherwise flat voice. And as angry as Khyron was, and as strong as he believed himself to be, that small tremor, along with the spark of anger that had lit up in those grey eyes was enough to give him pause, for at least a moment. Despite his pride, he couldn’t stop a chill running through his spine and a small voice in the back of his head from telling him to back down.

 

Unfortunately, he didn’t heed it. “ENOUGH OF THIS! I’LL MAKE YOU AN EXAMPLE FOR ANYONE WHO DARES DISRESPECT THE CROWN SO!” Brandishing his Elfire tome in one hand, heedless of the screams of the assembled nobility for him to stop, Khyron pointed a finger at the impertinent foreign usurper, smiling viciously as two gouts of flame erupted from beneath his feet, coalesced into a huge fireball above his head, which then launched itself at the throne’s occupant and then exploded into a terrific burst of smoke and red-orange sparks.

 

Khyron’s expression turned into a smile of triumph…for one moment. That was all it took for him to realize that the fireball had detonated in front of the Great General, not on top of him.

 

The Mage General’s jaw dropped slightly when he got a good look at his opponent. Henken remained sitting in his throne, in almost the same position…except his right hand was closed into a fist and extended in front of his face. The knuckles were singed and smoking—faster than Khyron could even see, Henken had _punched_ the fireball before it hit, and utterly annihilated it with a single bare hand, being only slightly singed for the trouble.

 

“I-Impossible,” stuttered Khyron dazedly, “My…my Elfire spell…utterly impossible!”

 

“I won’t warn you again,” said Henken, the tremor in his voice becoming more pronounced. “Despite your failures, you can still be useful to me, Mage General. If possible, I want to be able to make use of your strength, even if not in a leadership position. However, I can only do that if you’re willing to cooperate. So you have two choices, Khyron. Either swallow your stupid pride, follow my orders, and help save your King and country. Or try and come at me again, in which case I’ll rip you to pieces right here and now. Which do you choose?

 

Khyron growled and gritted his teeth, but now, despite his pride, he was actually shaking. For all his confidence in his abilities and his superiority, he had never, _ever_ seen anyone deflect a spell as powerful as Elfire so easily.

 

“P-Please, listen to him,” pleased Bramsel again. “Lord Khyron, it’s not as if you’ve been demoted! You’re still the Mage General, and Galahad is still our King! It’s just that our Great General has the most expertise with civil wars! Y-yes, that’s it! You lend us your most estimable strength, my Lord Khyron, while Henken deals with the mundane matters of planning and strategy! The Great General is your colleague, your equal, nothing more, oh no! S-so please, just for now, do as he says, shall you? Please? Or else he’ll get _mad_ again!”

 

The incensed Khyron clenched his jaw as hard as he could, so hard it quickly began to ache. But for all his anger and wounded pride, he knew what Bramsel was saying was correct. He was the one who asked Malonda to intervene on Galahad’s behalf, all those months ago, in order to force the King to act like a leader. If His Majesty no longer wanted to do that, then Etruria still needed a leader. “Even if it had to be this commoner…this _foreigner_ ,” Khyron muttered to himself, “We…we’re just using him, aren’t we? Only his specific expertise in dealing with civil wars, like the one in Lycia. That’s all.” He finally looked up, staring straight into Henken’s grey eyes. “If my liege, His Majesty King Galahad, and my fellow nobles of the Royal Court have truly arrogated to you this authority, then I shall respect it. Even if you are a commoner, I…I will… _take_ …your advice in matters pertaining to civil wars, and respect it as coming from a Great General.”

 

This seemed to satisfy Henken, though the only demonstration of his he provided was the disappearance of the tremor in his voice. “Good.” He rose from his chair and motioned for Khyron to follow him. “Khyron, come to my personal chambers. I want to hear your report in private, and then I’ll call up your two prisoners. The rest of you,” he called, getting the attention of all the nobles and clerks who had been watching this display, “I want you to continue your organization of all the recruits we’ve received. Khyron’s brought a lot of able-bodied men from Thagaste with him thanks to the draft, and we’re still receiving more. After I’ve interrogated the prisoners I’ll return here to revise our defense plans as necessary.”

 

With that, he strode past Khyron towards the great doors of the Court as the nobles around them resumed their bureaucratic duties. Khyron, of course, quickly followed.

 

He didn’t like what he was doing, but he did what he had to.

 

-X-

 

“Wait a second. Did you say he was a stoneworker?”

 

“Aye,” replied the friendly guard—a not-quite-middle-aged, dull-green haired fellow by the name of Anstraz. He had just finished telling Renault and Braddock, his two new friends on the other side of the cell’s bars, essentially the same thing the sentry had told Khyron several hours earlier. They had been placed in one of the cells closest to the exit of the basement dungeons of the Holy Royal Palace, and had managed to strike up a conversation with Anstraz, who apparently didn’t like spending long, lonely hours down here. After Braddock told him a bit of a fib about how they had been hired by Paptimus (rather than betraying Exedol) but had “seen the light” after witnessing Khyron’s defeat at Nerinheit Castle, the man had been happy to make friends with them. They’d asked about who the “Great General” was, and their new friend had been explaining that to them for the past several minutes.

 

“Yeah,” continued Anstraz, “from Thagaste, actually. Weird, eh? Never would’ve thought a stoneman’d be much good with matters of war, but he really knew his stuff. When one of our spies brought him here, the nobles didn’t believe it either…but he took out a dozen of our best sages, just like that? Now they’re leavin’ everything to him, and I gotta say, this city feels safer than it’s ever been. That Revolutionary Army doesn’t stand a chance, no matter how big it is!

 

“Uh, y-yeah,” said Renault as he sat on the cell’s bench with a distinctly surprised expression on his face. “L-listen, Anstraz, you know what this guy’s name is?”

 

“Hmm…most of the time we just call him the Great General, or just The General. He hasn’t been here long, after all, so hardly anybody’s on a first-name basis with him…though he doesn’t seem like he’d be on a first-name basis with anybody anyways. Never quite caught it…think it’s Henry or something.”

 

“N-no way,” muttered Renault. “H…Henken…it couldn’t be. No way…”

 

“Henken, that was his name,” said Anstraz, a bit surprised. “How’d you know?”

 

Braddock and Renault looked at each other warily. “N…nothing,” said the swordsman, “it’s just a coincidence. It has to be…”

 

The guard seemed as if he wanted to interrogate them further, but was interrupted by the arrival of one of his comrades. “Anstraz,” said the newcomer, “Let ‘em out. The Great General wants to see ‘em now.”

 

“Ah, okay. Time to go, lads,” said Astraz, who opened the cell. “We’ll escort you to the General’s personal chambers. The two of us aren’t no slouches with our spears, so you won’t have much to worry about even if that Yurt decides to pop by while you’re traveling.”

 

“Thanks,” said Braddock as the group began their journey upwards, out of the dungeon and into the Palace proper. “How about the General himself, though? Don’t you have him under guard?”

 

“We sure do,” chuckled Anstraz, “but believe me, if you’ve seen that guy fight, you’d know he doesn’t need protection. Even though he’s a commoner, he still managed to impress the Court with his skill…you have to be really, REALLY good to do that. If even our Sages couldn’t beat him, the Silent Chief can’t either!”

 

“I hope so,” said Renault. “Speaking of Sages, though, where’s Khyron? Are they gonna interrogate him along with us?”

 

“Nah.” The other soldier laughed. “Khyron got sent off to ‘make preparations’ for the journey he’s gonna make…really, the General just sent him off by himself to cool off. From what I heard, he tried to pick a fight with Henken the moment he laid eyes on him and got the worst of it. Even after that, when he gave his report at what happened at Nerinheit, the General must’ve criticized him something fierce, cause he got angry again and ended up with a black eye this time. I heard the General gave him some busywork to cool him down…sent him off to get some funny supplies or something. That oughta keep him occupied for a while!”

 

Braddock laughed out loud. “Sounds just like Khyron,” he said. Then, leaning towards Renault, he whispered, “Damn, man, this Henken guy sounds tough. You sure he’s your old boss?”

 

“Not absolutely sure, but pretty certain.” Renault’s face had a pallor to it indicating he wasn’t looking forward to the reunion. “The closest time I ever saw Henken in action was when he slugged me after I told him I’d be becoming a mercenary, all those years ago. I wasn’t as tough then as I was now, but even so…”

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Braddock. “In any case, looks like we’ll be finding out soon enough.”

 

Those were the last words of any importance which passed between them for a few minutes as they were led through the Palace, taking the opportunity to enjoy the scenery. As much as they could, anyways—Braddock never had much of an aesthetic eye and Renault had lost much of his over the time he’d spent as a mercenary. It was still at least something of a relief to see paintings, ornate columns, and beautiful sculpted walls instead of the bleak insides of jail cells they’d seen so much of recently.

 

They wouldn’t have too much time to enjoy this, though—after about five minutes, they had left the west wing’s dungeons, entered into the central building, and from there, headed to the second highest floor of its main spire—right below the King’s room, in fact. The room they were standing in front of had a pair of impressive oak doors, similar to the ones to the Court but a bit smaller, upon which Anstraz knocked. “Milord, we’ve brought the defectors. Do you want them in?”

 

A single, calm word that could be faintly heard through the wood was the first thing that gave Renault any indications his suspicions were correct. “Yes.”

 

Obediently, each guard opened one of the doors, allowing Renault and Braddock ingress, promptly closed them the moment the two men entered, and then proceeded to walk downstairs where they would guard the stairwell that led to his chambers—the Great General had made very clear he wanted absolute privacy when he interrogated spies or defectors, and they definitely didn’t want to do anything to pique his ire.

 

As the doors closed, the two former Revolutionaries found they were standing in a bedroom that seemed as if it had once been opulently adorned but had since been pared down—an indication of its occupant’s preferences, apparently. There was only a decent single bed, a few paintings on the walls, and a large, wide table in front of which sat their host. He wasn’t looking at them at the moment—his attention was currently on the pieces of parchment on the table; he was poring over them intently. But just a glimpse of his red hair as he leaned over it gave Renault his second and final confirmation that the Great General of Etruria really was his former boss.

 

“S-Shit!” stammered Renault, the expression on his face as shocked as it had ever been. “H-Henken, it really is you! I can’t believe this!”

 

“Renault,” said the man, still rifling through his papers. “I knew the moment Khyron mentioned that name it’d be you. I—“

 

He finally looked up from the parchment, at Renault and Braddock. And when his eyes passed over the latter, everything changed.

 

In Henken’s grey eyes, which usually only evinced the smallest spark of anger on those rare occasions he was pushed, there burned a wild, white-hot blaze of rage. And on Braddock’s face was an expression of sheer astonishment mixed with a terror equal to that he’d displayed when he’d seen Yurt.

 

“Char? _CHAR?!_ Why, _HOW_ , HOW THE HELL COULD YOU BE _HERE?!_ ”

 

Renault remembered that name from the story Braddock had told him about his origins in Ostia. “Wait, what the hell? That was the name of your fiancee’s brother, right? He can’t be—“

 

Before he knew it, he had his answer.

 

Almost faster than he could see, Henken vaulted over the table, dashed over to Braddock, and slammed a fist into his stomach.

 

“GAH!” Bile and saliva flew from the Ostian’s mouth as he didn’t stagger back, but _flew_ back, straight into the wall behind him, from the force of that punch. Henken didn’t waste a moment. “YOU KILLED MY SISTER!” he shouted, in his voice the most terrifying, manic rage Renault had heard, the same kind of rage he’d heard in Braddock’s voice when talking about Paptimus. _Is this what he’s been hiding all these years_ , Renault wondered for the split second it took for him to overcome his shock. Right after, though, when he saw Henken—who, despite being almost half a foot shorter than Braddock  and much less muscular, was gripping the Ostian’s neck in a deadly chokehold and squeezing, _holding his entire body above the ground_ —he knew he had to do something.

 

“SHIT! HENKEN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Renault rushed over and grabbed one of Henken’s arms, trying to pry his grip off of Braddock before he crushed his best friend’s neck. Henken didn’t say a word in response to that—he took one hand from Braddock’s neck and swatted at Renault. The swordsman couldn’t even dodge—he saw a blur and felt a crushing blow to the side of his cheek, and the next thing he knew he was lying dazed on the floor a few feet away.

 

However, he had managed to loosen Henken’s grip on Braddock, and it was just enough. “Gaaack, s-shit,” gasped Braddock, the grip on his neck loosened just enough to allow him to speak, “It was P-Paptimus! Paptimus! He killed her! HE DID!”

 

Whatever it was, Henken hadn’t expected an admission anything like this. For the first time, Renault saw something vaguely like surprise flit over the man’s face, before it was quickly swallowed up by anger again. Like he was discarding a piece of trash, Henken flicked his wrist and sent Braddock flying away to the side, to land in a crumpled heap against another wall.

 

“Maxim.” Henken stood over the Ostian as he attempted to collect himself, glowering down at him. “It’s not enough that you killed her, but you’ll lie to _me_ about it?”

 

“I’M TELLING THE TRUTH!” Braddock screamed, and as Renault looked at his face, even from the other side of the room as Henken stood over him, he could tell his friend was plainly distraught for reasons other than being assaulted. His face was red, as one would expect from a man who’d nearly been strangled, and so too were his eyes moist, but that moisture also looked like the beginning of tears. “FOR GOD’S SAKE, CHAR, THINK! _THINK!_ YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVED HER!” Braddock was sobbing now, Renault was sure of it. “I’D NEVER EVEN HURT HER, MUCH LESS KILL HER!”

 

“You?” Contempt as well as anger could be heard in Henken’s voice. “You always were a failure, a screwup. Of course you—“

 

“NO! PLEASE, CHAR, YOU KNOW THIS! BETTER THAN ANYBODY!” Braddock sobbed again. “Y-yeah, you’re right. I was a failure. I was a s-screwup. Completely. Entirely. B-but that’s why…Char, Pamela was my best friend. My ONLY friend! You KNOW that! My parents…my own SIBLINGS, they hated me! They all hated me! Pamela…s-she was the only one who saw anything in me. How…Char, no matter what happened, no matter even if the entire world burned, I could never hurt someone like that! A failure like me…it’s the only thing I’ve ever said you could count on! You KNOW it, Char! You HAVE to!”

 

For a moment or two, Henken stood transfixed, almost as if he was warring with himself—Braddock’s words had apparently touched something in him very deeply, enough that even that crazy, uncontrollable rage had receded for a bit. Renault didn’t know what exactly was going on, but he knew he had to say something or else his crazy former boss would likely kill them both. The fact that Braddock’s words had managed to give the furious Great General pause meant he had an opportunity. “Why the hell do you think we defected?” Renault yelled. “The moment Braddock—Maxim!—here overheard Paptimus talking about what he did in Ostia! He went crazy! Crazier than you right now, in fact! He tried to kill Paptimus with his damn bare hands, Henken! I had to bust him out of Castle Nerinheit after he failed! You think Paptimus wouldn’t do this kind of thing? Look at the documents we brought you, that letter to Tassar! He poisoned a whole town just so he could frame us…frame ME! All to start a civil war! Of course he could do the same back in Lycia! I don’t know what the hell’s up with you, Henken, but all I know is that Braddock’s the innocent man here! Paptimus, the guy you’re supposed to be fighting against, is your REAL enemy!”

 

Henken stood stock still for a moment, apparently digesting all this. Then, he spoke. “Maxim, get up.” The anger was still plainly evident in his voice, but it seemed to be ice-cold, now, rather than an uncontrollable rage. “Renault, get the hell out of here. Me and your friend have a lot of things to discuss.”

 

Renault started to protest, but Braddock made his case for him. “I’ve already told him everything, Char,” said the Ostian, struggling to his feet. “He knows who I am, he knows who you are, and he knows what really happened in Lycia. Everything!”

 

Henken cast Renault a single glance, then turned his attention back to Braddock—he apparently knew that the swordsman had a part to play in this puzzle as well. “What really happened in Lycia?” The Great General took a few steps back, so he could keep both Braddock and Renault in his view. “Explain. If you really have a defense for yourself, Maxim, I’ve never heard it. And if it’s not good, I’m going to tear you to pieces right now.”

 

“N-not until I have a chance to go after Paptimus,” said Braddock. “T-that’s all I ask!”

 

“Then tell me why!” The anger in Henken’s voice was beginning to heat up again.

 

“C-Char…I’ll start from the beginning. I didn’t kill Pamela. But for years, I never knew who really did. For years, I always thought it was Volker…that bastard, Volker. You knew how he wanted Pamela. And when he couldn’t have her, I thought he…”

 

“You killed him.”

 

“YES! Yes, Char, I admit it, I killed an innocent man! But at the time, I thought he killed my fiancée! I was sure of it! But he’d never get punished…he killed his first two wives, and he was a marquess, to boot! I was sure he’d never be brought to justice. So I took it into my own hands, Char!”

 

“Then why did you run away?” The General glared at him. “Even facing the axe of death, you were still a Prince of Ostia. If you’d explained it to somebody, they would have set you free and let you live. But instead of owning up to what you did, you escaped in the dead of night…like you were guilty of something more than taking revenge for your fiancée. I would’ve believed anything you said, Maxim. But when your cell in Ostia turned up empty, and all those guards dead…that’s when it occurred to me that Laus’ claim you murdered both Pamela and his brother might’ve been true.”

 

“I didn’t ‘escape,’ Char. I was broken out!”

 

Once again, it seemed the former stoneworker had been taken off guard. “Explain.”

 

“Two days before my execution, right at midnight, the door to my cell opened. It was a guy in dark armor…I couldn’t make any of his features out.” The Ostian’s face scrunched up as he forced himself to relive those painful memories. “All I could see was that he had two horns on the top of his helmet. He told me to come with him…I didn’t know any better, so I followed. He led me all the way out to the border with Ostia…I thought he was saving me from death. Right until he shoved his shotel in my back and tossed me down a cliff into a ravine. I would’ve died, but I washed up on a shore where the guy who made me into a mercenary was camping nearby. Tassar…he gave me an elixir to heal my wounds and a Wolf Beil he’d gotten off of an Ostian fighter for me to defend myself. And—“

 

“Wait,” said the Lycian. “A shotel and a horned helmet? That sounds like—“

 

“Yurt, the Silent Chief. Yeah, I know,” Braddock grimaced. “That was one reason I joined up with Tassar, and the reason I haven’t been back to Ostia for the past seven years. For some reason, the Silent Chief wanted me dead. Not only was I sure I’d get my head chopped off if I ever came back to Lycia, I thought that assassin might be after me. So I became a mercenary…I laid low for seven years, took the name Braddock, kept away from Ostia and Lycia…in all that time, the assassin never came for me. I thought he assumed I was dead, and left me alone because of that. But not even three weeks ago…I heard the truth.”

 

Braddock was getting angry now, like Char. “We’d joined up with the Revolutionary Army when we had the chance, like all the other mercenaries. Everything was going great…until late at night, I saw something. It was…this…this black magic spy, I can’t explain it exactly. Paptimus had sent it to peep on our room. It tried to get away, but when I caught it, I heard voices from the room above me…my boss’ room. He was talking to Paptimus…talking about their plans for the war.” He kept his hands clenched at his sides, spitting his words out through a grimace. “He mentioned Lycia wouldn’t be a problem, that the Civil War he ‘engineered’ there would keep them occupied and weakened for years! He set everything up, Char! He visited Lycia with Nerinheit for our wedding…and then he ambushed Pamela as she was traveling, and…d-dammit, he knew Laus would be blamed! I killed Volker…I killed the Marquess of Laus, but Paptimus was the real murderer! He killed my Pamela, just to destabilize the Lycian Alliance…and he framed Volker for it, and when I killed him...Paptimus knew he could make a civil war out of it, and sent Yurt to free me and then kill me, so Ostia never had a criminal to execute…and so that Laus…and yeah, Char, you too…you’d think Ostia was protecting me!”

 

There was now a combination of shame, sorrow and anger on the Ostian’s face. “Listen, Char, I know it was my fault. I’m a coward who should have brought myself back into Ostia the moment I could, even if I risked getting killed by Yurt, even if I would’ve been executed. Maybe then I could have changed everything you went through…maybe then you wouldn’t have to endure that hell of a civil war. I can’t possibly make it up to you, Char. The only thing I ask is that you don’t kill me just yet. Please…PLEASE, let me have a shot at that bastard! Let me have a chance to drive my axe into Paptimus’ face! Pamela…I’ll never be able to rest until I can slaughter the bastard who killed my Pamela!!”

 

Henken stood still for a moment as Renault and Braddock both watched with trepidation. He didn’t say anything, except for one almost inaudible muttered phrase.

 

“Makes sense.”

 

He walked over to his desk and looked down at the parchments on it. “Makes sense,” he said again, his voice almost eerily calm compared to his previous rage—except, of course, for the tremor running through it. “Harvery’s reports from Lycia…Paptimus’ plans…it makes sense now.”

 

“Uh…what?” Renault wasn’t quite sure what Henken was talking about.

 

“IT MAKES SENSE!” The Great General shouted and slammed a fist into the wall—Renault grew even paler when the man drew his fist back and revealed the small crater in the stone.

 

“Everything makes sense now,” said Henken again, his voice seemingly as calm and flat as it usually was. “Harvery’s gotten a lot of reports from his friends in Lycia, and he’s passed them on to me.”

 

“Harvery? You mean that shifty servant Cornwell had? He’s still around?”

 

Henken nodded. “Yes. He is and always was an Etrurian spy. And he still has friends in Lycia who are keeping him abreast of what’s going on back home. Apparently, several hundred Bernese deserters sailed into Badon, carrying a titanic crate with them. They’ve been marching northwest through Lycia for several days now, and they’ll go right past Ostia soon. 10 years ago, there’s no way Bern could have afforded to be so bold. Our military would have stopped those ‘deserters’ in their tracks. But now, after the civil war, Lycia’s still too weak to risk resisting the interlopers in any meaningful way. The cantons are just letting them pass, hoping this isn’t a sign of another war.”

 

“Y-You mentioned a huge container or something,” said Renault. “That…that has to be the secret weapon on those plans we got! The one from Bern!”

 

Henken nodded. “Yes.  Those plans don’t say anything specific, but they do describe Bern sending in some form of support from the south, sending it straight to Aquleia. This must be it.” He turned to Braddock. “And that’s why I believe you.”

 

The tremor in his voice had gotten more prominent. “Your story definitely explains a lot. Paptimus must have been thinking about this rebellion for a long time. A long, long time, if he spent so long posing as a Prime Minister for the right opportunity to revolt. He’s also willing to use false-flag operations to spark conflicts when he needs to, as that letter of yours exposing his culpability in what happened at Scirocco proves. A civil war in Lycia would have fit in with his plans perfectly…he knew Bern would be able to provide more assistance if Lycia’s military was in no condition to put up a fight. And I know Glaesal was in Lycia—I saw his wedding invitation. It would have been easy for Paptimus to have been brought along…which means he could have easily committed the murder. Maxim, your story makes sense.”

 

“I’ll kill Paptimus.” The General’s voice would have seemed like a portrait of perfect calm were his voice and hands not shaking. “I’ll kill him. Paptimus killed my sister. I’ll kill him.”

 

“ _We_ ’ll kill him, Char,” Braddock corrected. “I want that bastard just as much as you do. I know it won’t undo everything I did wrong, but I don’t care. I don’t need forgiveness! I don’t need repentance! All I need is revenge!”

 

Henken nodded in response, but his expression was still as cold as a tomb. “I’m not planning on forgiving you, Maxim. You still bear the responsibility for the Civil War, and the hell I’ve been through. But before I end you, I’m going to use you. You are going to help me foil Paptimus’ plans, you are going to help my army crush his, and if you die in the process, that’s simply too bad. Is that clear?”

 

“As crystal,” Braddock replied with a grim smile on his face. Renault was about to say something to protest, on behalf of his friend, but Braddock cut him off. “No. Don’t worry about it, bud. I wouldn’t have this any other way.” He turned back to the General. “But before I fight for you, Char, I wanna know one thing. What the hell are you doing here?”

 

“Ostia defeated me,” he explained with his typically laconic manner. “Even with my leadership, Cornwell, Laus, and our allies didn’t have enough trained troops to stand against your father. We were making a good effort, though. Until Marquess Araphen saw an opportunity for advancement and drugged my meal at a banquet he held for me. He handed me over to the Ostians as proof of Araphen’s loyalty, and in exchange for future preferential treatment.

 

“I was the central leader of the anti-Ostian coalition. With me gone, they fell apart. Everyone was tired of the war anyways. Cornwell and Laus surrendered with their two conditions being the maintenance of their autonomy, and that my younger brother could see me one more time before Ostia gave me the axe.”

 

“I take it that’s not what happened,” said Braddock.

 

“Yes. Like I told you, Harvery was an Etrurian spy. He still is. He snuck into Ostia’s prison—the same one you were in—and sprung me out. And he took me to Etruria, just like you’d been taken.”

 

“W-what?!” Braddock couldn’t believe this. “So were you the victim of some sort of conspiracy too, like I was?”

 

“Not really. Harvery brought me before the King, who had heard of the skill I’d displayed in battle back in Lycia. He offered me a peaceful life in Etruria for as long as I wanted, on one condition: that if Etruria truly needed it, I would return to the battlefield. That, if necessary, the Red Comet would burn again.”

 

“And you accepted.”

 

“Yes. Harvery got me a house in Thagaste, and stoneworking had always been one of my interests. Within a short time, I had become one of the city’s master masons.” He turned his cold eyes towards Renault. “This was how we met. Renault was my apprentice before he became a mercenary.”

 

”Yeah, and in fact, you deserve a bit of the credit for that, boss,” sneered Renault. “After getting back from Scirocco, I might’ve thought about giving up the mercenary life if I thought I could work under you again. You wouldn’t be dumb enough to believe those rumors about me. But then I remembered how you’d beaten the hell out of me when I told you I’d signed up with some mercenaries.” He looked over to Braddock and smiled. “And I also remembered I found a friend who was better than you ever were. So I’m pretty happy, Henken—or Char, or whatever you want to call yourself. I only have one question. You were a soldier too, weren’t you? So why’d you get so mad at me when I became a mercenary, eh? I never knew you were such a hypocrite!”

 

Henken’s hands twitched, but Renault was now pretty angry now himself—he’d never quite forgotten how his former boss had left him, and that resentment had festered over the years. “You’re right, Renault,” said the former stoneworker. “I used to be a soldier. And I sacrificed everything on the altar of war. I saw all of my closest friends die before my eyes. There were times I couldn’t go for days without being surrounded by corpses. Love…hope…passion…I lost all of these things. Even now, I have trouble feeling them. All I knew was how to fight. The Civil War took everything else from me.

 

“That was why…when Harvery allowed me to escape, when he brought me to Etruria, when the King made me his offer…the only thing I could do was accept. I was tired of it all. Tired of feeling nothing but an axe in my hands and seeing nothing but a battlefield in front of my eyes. I wanted to forget it all…to just live, rather than fight.

 

“And with those years I spent in Etruria…I thought I had succeeded. It took years, but I could finally breathe the air without being reminded of the scent of blood…sleep without dreaming of battle. Just working with the stone, concerned with nothing else…that was all I wanted out of life. And with you by my side…you may have been a troublemaker, you may have been immature, but I’d started to think of you as a friend, Renault.

 

“But that wasn’t good enough for you. Even though you lived with your mother, even at twenty-three…the sort of life I would have loved to live, it wasn’t good enough for you.” His hands twitched again. “You chose to be a mercenary of your own free will. Even if it was just one job, you still chose to follow the path of war. I didn’t want anything but to cast that hell away from me forever, but you embraced it freely, as if it were nothing.

 

“I can’t stand men like that. Men who embrace everything I want so desperately to spurn. Men like you.”

 

“That’s your story, huh?” Renault’s tone was somewhere between dismissive and sympathetic, and honestly, the swordsman himself couldn’t tell which of the two he was supposed to be. “Yeah, well, look at it this way. Even without me…even if I hadn’t done anything, Paptimus would have thrown this whole country into war somehow. And you’d have been dragged back into this hell. So any way you cut it, you shouldn’t be mad at me…or Ma—Braddock, for that matter. You should be mad at Paptimus. So how about you help us help you? We don’t have to like each other, and we probably never will, but we both want the same thing—that deceitful bastard’s head stuck on a pike!”

 

The General took a deep breath and closed his eyes, attempting to steady himself—and the attempt seemed like it’d been successful, for the shaking of his hands, which had grown very strong, had diminished, and then stilled. “You’re right, Renault,” he said, his grey eyes now perfectly flat and cold. “Let’s get started. Come here.” Henken moved over to his table, picked the chair off of the floor, and took his seat again, with Braddock and Renault standing in front of them. “Both of you tell me as much as you can about the composition, logistics, and armaments of the Revolutionary Army.”

 

Braddock and Renault were happy to do so. Over the course of more than an hour, they divulged as much as they possibly could about their former comrades—how they’d trained new recruits, the number of new recruits they remembered, the sort of equipment they and their allies had received, how they’d been paid, what kinds of abilities the Red Shoulders seemed to use (especially their methods of spying), and a wide variety of other matters. The Great General listened intently, though neither Braddock nor Renault could quite tell what he was thinking just by looking at those still eyes of his. Finally, for whatever reason, he brought the conversation over to the subject of the battle plans Renault and Braddock had brought.

 

“I’ve already looked these over,” said Henken, “both the plans and the letter. I can see how Paptimus set everything up at Scirocco, and now I have a good idea of how the assault on Aquleia is going to look. But,” and he looked down at the papers before him, furrowed his brow, and mumbled, “I’ve heard reports of ships moving. Wait.” He looked back at Renault and Braddock, not allaying their mild confusion in the least. “Khyron told me you were being pursued by Yurt, the Silent Chief. Is this true?”

 

“It definitely is,” said Braddock, a grimace on his face. “Yurt never liked leaving a mark alive, from what I’ve heard. He mentioned wanting to finish things up with me when he found me. We managed to fend him off, and keep him away before we made it to Khyron. He attacked us two more times after that, but with the help of Khyron and our friends, we managed to make it here safely.”

 

“He really wanted us dead,” said Renault. “And he was amazing…on foot, he could keep up with a running horse! I can’t imagine he’d be cheap…Paptimus must’ve really laid into his coffers to get a guy like that after us!”

 

Henken merely nodded at this, the expression on his face still inscrutable. “Yes. But you’re still here, aren’t you? With the plans?”

 

“Huh?” Renault couldn’t hide his confusion. “What’re you talking about?”

 

“Yurt’s one of the most dangerous assassins on Elibe. You wouldn’t have gotten here if he’d really tried to prevent your coming.”

 

“What’re you insinuating?!” asked Braddock angrily. “Yurt’s killed some of Khyron’s men and even burned down an inn we were staying at to get to us. You don’t think that’s proof enough the Revolutionaries want us dead?”

 

“Yurt may want you dead. It’s those plans I’m wondering about,” came the laconic reply. “I can believe you two survived. You may be made of tougher stuff than even Yurt expected. I hope so. But if Paptimus ordered him to, it was well within his ability to take back what you’d stole from Khyron or whoever you’d given those plans to. But he ignored them totally. It’s suspicious. I’d wager Paptimus wanted these plans to fall into our hands.”

 

“T-that’s impossible,” said Renault indignantly—and despairingly, “we worked so hard to—“

 

“Hard work is irrelevant in war. All that matters is results. I received a report yesterday from someone in the Western Isles which told me a lot of ships had been seen in the strait separating it from the mainland…near where Nerinheit City is located. But these plans don’t mention anything about ships of any sort. I wager Paptimus let them fall into our hands to mislead us.”

 

Both Braddock and Renault were completely crushed. “No! NO! It can’t be!” Braddock slammed a hand down on the table, sending papers flying. “Char, we worked so hard! We risked our lives! Are you telling us it was all for nothing? That Paptimus was manipulating us AGAIN?!”

 

“I am,” said the General, “But at this point it’s meaningless.” True to form, he didn’t care about Braddock and Renault’s emotional reactions in the least. “What we need now is a plan. I’m not certain what, exactly, Paptimus is going to do with those ships in the report, but I do know one thing for certain—Harvery made a big deal about those Bernites and that huge container they’re dragging through Lycia. I’ll deal with the main assault on the city later, but for now, I want to focus on disabling whatever the Bernese part of Paptimus’ plan is.

 

“I think you two would be ideal candidates for that task. If you want to make up for your failure with the plans, and if you want to deal a real blow to the Revolutionary Army, you’ll accept it. Will you?”

 

Braddock and Renault looked at each other. “If we can really do him some damage,” said Braddock, “I’m all for it. What about you, Renault?”

 

“I go where you go, bud.”

 

For the first time, something approaching the beginnings of a smile flitted across the Great General’s face. “Glad to hear that. From this point forwards, neither of you are prisoners. You’re my soldiers. Understand?”

 

Renault and Braddock were both a bit exhausted by all this—by the revelations Henken had unleashed on them, by the physical thrashing they’d both received, and of course by the strain of working out the immense amount of emotional and mental debris which lay between the three of them—a job that wasn’t even close to being done at this point, of course. But they weren’t so tired that they couldn’t flash small, prideful smiles at the admission of the Great General of Etruria that he was finally accepting these two defectors as true members of his forces.

 

“Good. My first orders to you are to head to the barracks, organize your equipment, and get as much rest as you possibly can.” He fished around the table, picking up a very small piece of parchment and handing it to the two men. “Also, give this to the quartermaster when you can. It’s permission to take from the stores whatever’s necessary for a journey to Lycia. You’ll be setting out as soon as possible, early tomorrow morning.”

 

“W-wait,” stammered Braddock, “To Lycia?”

 

“Yes. I’ll tell you the exact details tomorrow, before you leave. But I’m essentially planning a pre-emptive strike on the Bernites.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you can think of a better plan, this is the only way to weaken the Revolutionary attack enough to give Aquleia a fighting chance. Unless you want Paptimus to win—“

 

“No way,” said Braddock. “If you think this’s the best way, then we’ll do it. I don’t remember anybody having a sharper mind than you when it came to tactics, Char.”

 

The small almost-smile didn’t grow larger, but it remained in place.“Good. I want you to meet me in the Royal Court’s chambers before the sun rises tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to the rest of your team, tell you your mission, and then send you on your way. Can you do that?”

 

Both of them nodded. “Yeah!”

 

“Then you’re dismissed. Get going.”

 

Nodding in relief this time, both of the men turned and headed towards the exit of the General’s room. “Wait, one more thing,” he called as the two men were leaving. “It’d be annoying if either of our true identities came out. The King and Harvery know who I am, but I don’t want that knowledge to go much farther than that. And Maxim, it could cause diplomatic problems—as well as make you a target—if it becomes widely known that you’re a son of the Ostian marquess. So for both of you, I’m Henken, and he’s Braddock. Understand?”

 

Renault and Braddock looked at each other.“Yeah.”

 

“Good. Now go.”

 

The two of them were more than happy to. Disappearing down the stairs and showing Henken’s permit to the guards at its bottom, they were lead over to the quartermaster’s offices of the Palace’s barracks. At the time, they hadn’t given much thought to what their mission would entail—Braddock didn’t want to go back to Lycia, but he still understood that whatever Bern was plotting, it couldn’t be good. So both he and Renault didn’t give much thought to the fact that they’d be requisitioning supplies for a “journey,” and certainly not much thought as to the nature of that journey.

 

It wouldn’t be anything they even remotely expected.

 

-X-

 

Jerid really hated awkward moments. And he’d be damned if this wasn’t one of them.

 

He was currently standing outside the east wing of the Royal Palace, Lisse by his side, totally quiet and only rarely looking up from the ground, as she’d been for the entire time he’d escorted her to Etruria. _Hope this cheers you up,_ he thought to himself as he guided her over to the eastern building, but he really wasn’t betting on it.

 

There was a guard standing outside the wing’s entrance, and he looked none too friendly. “Hold!” he called when he saw Jerid and Lisse approaching. “What business have you here?”

 

“Nothing much,” said Jerid, unfazed. “Would this be the Palace maids’ residences?”

 

“Who are you, and why do you want to know?”

 

The (former) gaoler reached into a pocket and pulled out the small bronze sigil which served as notice of his new status. “Name’s Jerid. I’m a conscript from Thagaste,” he said. “Lord Khyron called a draft for all able-bodied men in that city when he passed through it. I’m here to do him…well, uh, some friends of his, a little favor.” He looked down sympathetically at Lisse. “See, some members of our army were being pursued by rebel spies. This girl here, she got caught up in our fight. She was the proprietor of a little inn back in Thagaste…the Ruby Tortoise, you’ve never heard of it. Some of our soldiers were stayin’ the night there, and the enemy burned the whole place down to get to ‘em. She managed to escape, but…hey, easy, easy, now,” he said reassuringly, since Lisse had begun to sniffle, “it’ll be alright.” Turning back to the guard, he asked, “would it be alright if I left this girl in the care of the castle maids? She’s got noplace else to go, and since I’m gonna be fighting soon, I can’t take care of her. She used to be an innkeeper, and Lord Khyron told me the maids had been overworked recently…so I’m hoping they have a place for her? She might be able to help.”

 

The guard stared at Jerid’s sigil for a moment, and when he looked at the man himself his eyes were considerably more sympathetic this time. “I see,” he said. “Well, I won’t be able to help you. I’m just supposed to guard this building and make sure nobody sneaks in. You’ll have to talk to the Mistress of the Servants to see if it’ll be alright. She’s Lady Malonda’s personal attendant, and Lady Malonda is the King’s, uh, well, you know…”

 

“I do,” said Jerid. “Could I meet her?”

 

“Sure.” The guard opened the door behind him and motioned for the couple to follow him inside. The servant’s quarters consisted of the rectangular building on the east side of the Palace, shaped similarly to but somewhat smaller than the barracks which housed the soldiers on the west side. Though not as opulent as the rest of the castle the rooms were still splendid, and Jerid allowed himself a small smile as Lisse gave out little gasps of awe as she looked around, the guard leading them up to the third floor. _These’re just the servant’s quarters and they’re probably the most impressive things she’s seen in her life,_ Jerid thought to himself again. _Poor girl. Then again, poor me…being a jailer’s important, but it looks like being a servant for the King pays a whole lot better._ At this, he chuckled self-effacingly.

 

He turned his mind towards more serious matters when it seemed as if they’d reached their destination—a door to a room that didn’t seem to be much more important than the others, but that did have its owner’s name embossed on a gold plate in front of it.“Miss Ethlea!” said the guard as he rapped his knuckles on the door. “May I have a moment? You’ve visitors!”

 

“Ethlea?” Jerid muttered to himself in surprise. He had a very sneaking suspicion he knew who the Mistress of the Servants was.

 

Sure enough, those suspicions were confirmed when a brown-haired woman in a good blue maid’s dress answered the knock. “Don’t leave them waiting outside, show them in!” she admonished. Then she took a look at who her visitors were, and her eyes went wide.

 

“Uh, h-hello, Ethlea,” stammered Jerid. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

 

“J—“ She looked like she was about to shout, but caught herself just in time and hissed, “Jerid?! What in the world are you doing here?”

 

“Um, do you two know each other?” The guard asked.

 

“Yes, we do,” said the head maid, and with that, she grabbed Jerid and Lisse by their hands and pulled them into the room, then closed the door behind them, leaving the guard outside, fairly confused.

 

“Please make yourself at home, dear. Sit anywhere you like,” she smiled at Lisse. “Just give me a moment before we introduce ourselves. I have something to work out with THIS GUY!” She turned to glower at Jerid, hands on her hips. “Jerid, you haven’t spoke to me or even wrote in five years, and then you just pop up on my doorstep like this?! What in the world is wrong with you!”

 

“I-I’m sorry!” The jailer wasn’t easy to faze, but now he definitely was. “I mean, you became a maid for the Holy Royal Palace! The _Holy Royal Palace of Etruria_ , for crying out loud! Me, I was just a jailer! I thought you wouldn’t like being pestered by some nobody from your hometown, especially if you were busy with the Palace…this place is huge! You’d need a whole army to keep it clean!”

 

“Oh, Jerid,” Ethlea said, her expression somewhere between sympathy and hurt. “How could you think that? We’ve known each other since we were children! And despite that, you couldn’t even send a single letter!”

 

Jerid raised his hands in defeat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I learned my lesson, Ethlea, so help me God! Just go easy on me, okay?”

 

“So long as you mean it.” She turned to give Lisse another sympathetic look, then turned back to Jerid, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. “So then what brings you here? And with this girl, no less! You haven’t even introduced us yet!”

 

“Cause you didn’t give me a chance to,” Jerid muttered to himself.

 

“What was that?”

 

“N-nothing! Anyways,” he gestured to the girl sitting quietly on one of Ethlea’s chairs, watching the conversation with a great deal of both confusion and interest, “This here’s Lisse. She's--"

 

"Jerid, don't tell you've gone off and found someone!" Ethlea seemed angrier now, and it wasn't (entirely) jealousy either. "First off, you never told me, and secondly, look at the poor girl! She's so underfed, for heaven's sake! Haven't you been taking care of her?!"

 

"I-It's not like that!" said Lisse, sticking up for her protector. "I...I lost my home, and he took me in."

 

"Yeah," sighed Jerid. "This is what happened..." He told his old acquaintance the same story he'd told the guard, and by the end of it, Ethlea herself was sniffling a little bit out of sympathy.

 

"You poor dear." She walked over to Lisse and stroked her hair affectionately, smiling as she did so. The girl seemed very happy to reciprocate the attention, for it seemed to Jerid she was smiling for the first time since they left Thagaste. "Of course we have a place for you here, Lisse. You can clean, can't you?"

 

"Y-yes! And I can cook a bit, too!"

 

"Even better! The announcement of the war's been keeping us horribly busy recently...so many new soldiers have been drafted, and it's a terror to clean up after them! And on top of that, those strange orders Lord Khyron gave us...my girls who can sew have been kept working all day, almost without a break!"

 

"Strange orders?" Jerid blinked. "Uh, should I ask?"

 

"Don't be silly, Jerid, it's nothing like you're thinking," Ethlea quickly replied. "It's just that...well, the Great General's apparently sending Lord Khyron and some hand-picked men on a strange mission. I don't know what it could possibly be about, because the Mage General came by here and asked if any of my maids could also serve as seamstresses. When I said yes, he told me he needed several sets of...orange-colored clothing by tomorrow morning! Even stranger, he _wanted_ it to be of low quality! He specifically said that the clothes should be the sort of thing one could find on a group of bandits! That’s why he didn’t go to a professional tailor or something similar!"

 

Jerid whistled. "That _is_ weird. Downright weirdest thing I've heard in a while, in fact. What could this Great General guy be thinking? I haven't even seen him yet, but I've heard some stories about him...like giving Khyron a black eye earlier today. Any truth to those?"

 

Ethlea fiddled a bit with her skirt. "I wouldn't know, I haven't seen him either. All I know is that he's supposedly from our hometown...Thagaste!" Jerid's eyes widened, but she simply shook her haid. "Ah, but it's none of my business. I don't question the decisions of our lords, I just clean up after them!"

 

Jerid smiled. "Well, I understand that. I'll take my leave of you now, Ethlea. 'Twas good seein' you again, but I'm sure you've got a lot of stuff to do. Take care of Lisse, alright?"

 

"Wait, you can't stay and talk for a little longer?"

 

"I'd like to, but I've got things to deal with as well. Got to head to the barracks...they're organizing us draftees. I think I'll be one of the ones responsible for keeping the east side of the city safe when the Revolutionaries come."

 

"Ah, I see. In that case...Jerid, g-good luck!"

 

"Thank you so much for everything," added Lisse. "I'm sorry for being a burden to you!"

 

The former jailer simply waved them off as he made his exit. "Don't worry about it, girls. Only thing I ask is you pray for me when the battle actually starts. Way this looks to be going, I'll need the extra luck."

 

As the two women watched him leave, disappearing into the doorway and closing it behind him, they resolved to do as he asked. And they had the distinct feeling they'd be needing some of that luck as well.

 

-X-

 

Renault couldn’t stifle a yawn as he felt a familiar hand gently but firmly shaking his shoulder. It wasn’t as if he was still sleepy (the barracks in which he’d been housed for the night were comparatively well-furnished and judging by the fact he hadn’t been awakened by a sudden attack from Yurt, not much less secure than the prison), and he wasn’t surprised either. Still, he couldn’t help himself.

 

“We gotta get going, man,” said Braddock. “The sun’s gonna rise soon. And Ch—uh, Henken’s gonna get pissed if we’re late, right?”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Without another word, Renault got up and dressed, putting on his armor and sword, as well as getting his pack before he followed Braddock out of the room. The quartermaster had been nothing less than generous when furnishing them, as they had everything they needed for a very good amount of time spent in the wilderness. With so many rations, tinders, rope, trapping materials, and a wide variety of other necessities (including a copious amount of oil—Renault didn’t complain about receiving it, of course, but he had no idea why they’d been given _that_ much), he was confident they’d be able to deal with anything that came their way over the course of this mission.

 

He’d think very differently when he found out what that mission actually was.

 

Together, the two men made their way to the first floor of the barracks and into the first floor of the main, central edifice of the Holy Royal Palace (they were connected, so Renault and Braddock didn’t have to go outside). They didn’t have much trouble navigating, only having to ask direction from a lonely, sleepy guard once. Soon enough, they passed through the doors of the Royal Courtroom.

 

It was dark and quiet—only a pair of candles on the table in front of the throne provided illumination, and virtually no-one was present; even the nobles were not so fearful of Henken that they did not demand some rest, so it stood to reason they and their clerks were still in sleep at this early hour.

 

The only people in the room Renault and Braddock could see were Henken, sitting in the throne, Khyron, equipped with traveling clothes, an angry expression, and a black eye, his apprentice Rosamia standing beside him, the archer Apolli standing meekly behind her, and another man neither Renault nor Braddock recognized. He was a short, slight, shifty-looking fellow with scruffy brown hair and an anxious expression.

 

“So I assume this is the team?” asked Braddock, he and Renault standing in front of Henken’s table.

 

The Great General nodded. “No need to introduce you to Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli. But you haven’t met the other two yet, right?”

 

“Wait, I’ve met Harvery,” said Braddock. “I remember you from—“

 

“SSH!” Quickly, the brown-haired man put a finger to his lips. “Remember what _Henken_ told you, _Braddock!_ ” He then turned to face Renault, flashing him a quick, nervous smile. “Well, it’s great to meet you! Like my old acquaintance Braddock said, my name’s Harvery. I specialize in, um, intelligence-gathering. So it’s in everybody’s best interest to keep me safe! R-right?” He shot a pleading look at both Henken and his other teammates—the latter nodded in response, but Henken didn’t even blink.

 

 _I remember hearing Henken say he had a tax collector friend named Harvery a long time ago,_ thought Renault to himself. _Is this the same guy? If so, I guess something must’ve happened between them._

 

He didn’t spend long on that thought, of course—Henken seemed very impatient. “We’re just waiting for a few more people,” said the Great General. “They should be here any minute. If not, their contracts are forfeit.”

 

 _Contracts?_ Renault thought to himself for precisely one moment before the Court doors slamming open told him exactly who his last team members would be.

 

“YOO-HOO! SORRY TO KEEP YOU WAITING~!”

 

Renault nearly jumped straight up into the air when he heard that familiar voice. Turning back, his eyes wide, he saw one of his oldest friends.

 

Kasha, the Falcoknight, strolled lazily into the room, five other Pegasus Knights—two of which had the exact same shade of green hair she did—following behind. “We would’ve come earlier, but Keith here,” and at this she gave a small slap to the head of the shortest green-haired girl at her side, eliciting a small yelp of pain from her and a reassuring hand on her shoulder from the other woman who could only be assumed to be her other sister, “had a bit of trouble waking up so early. Anyways, Mr. Great General, what’d you—“ She stopped mid-sentence and a hungry gleam lit up in her eyes when they fell upon Renault.

 

“Well, hello again,” she chuckled. “Thought you could get away from me? Renault, you don’t know how to treat a girl’s feelings! LET ME SHOW YOU!”

 

“SHIT!” Renault stumbled backwards as he whipped out his sword just in time to deflect Kasha’s leaping strike. “Not this again,” groaned Braddock as he unlimbered his own axe to help his friend, while the other members of their team and the Pegasus Knights just looked on in shock. Except Henken, of course.

 

“HEY! WHAT D’YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” Just as she readied herself to launch another attack, Kasha found herself lifted straight up into the air by an implacably strong hand at the scruff of her neck.

 

“Stop it,” said Henken as he tossed her aside as if she were a piece of paper—with a single flick of his wrist. She went flying through the air, but with an expert backflip she ended up on her feet, ready for more.

 

“Don’t get in my way!” she growled “Me and Renault have unfinished business!”

 

“You’ll finish it after this mission,” replied Henken.

 

“N-no we won’t,” cried Renault. “SHE’S gonna be on our side?! With that lunatic behind us, we’re as good as dead!”

 

This prompted only another wild cackle from Kasha, but that quickly died off as she received a stern glare from Henken—enough to cow even her into submission—and when Renault received the same glare.

 

“Enough of your bickering. You _will_ cooperate with each other, and this mission _will_ be a success. Or else.”

 

Renault remembered the small crater Henken had made in the wall of his room, and decided he definitely did not want to see what that “or else” entailed. Fortunately, Kasha felt the same way. “Fine, fine,” she pouted. “You said this mission was gonna be really exciting, right? I guess I can wait to have my fun with my friend until it’s over. I mean, even if he left Keith and Kelitha, my adorable little sisters, without a mother—“

 

“HEY!” Renault was getting angry again. “I already told you, we had nothing to do with that! Dammit, we even have a letter straight from Paptimus proving HE’S responsible! I—“

 

Their argument was cut off by Henken yet again. “ENOUGH!” he shouted, slamming his hands down on the table. The sheer force of his voice was enough to shut everyone up, including Kasha.

 

“Let’s get down to business,” said Henken, much more calmly this time. “Everyone, gather around this table and look at this map.” Renault and Braddock, along with the rest of their teammates, obediently did so. They were looking at a large map of Elibe, clearly labeled with the names of each of the countries and their major cities. There was a big red circle drawn around the dot representing a port city in southern Lycia called Badon, with a red line crossing a river and leading up to a position marked with a blue X south of Etruria, but right on the mountain range which was Etruria’s border with Lycia. “Harvery, explain to them what you’ve found.”

 

“O-Okay! Just don’t get mad at me!” Harvery scurried over and pointed to Badon. “Look, here’s the situation. We know that the Revolutionary Army’s sending its main force from the north down to Aquleia, right? But we’ve got trouble from the south, too. See, a few weeks ago one of my Lycian friends told me he saw something really weird going on in Badon. A flotilla of big Bernese ships demanded port there! They looked military, and some folks thought Bern was invading, but in any case, even seven years after the Civil War down there Lycia couldn’t possibly resist. So they just bent over and let the Bernites dock. Out came nearly eight hundred Wyvern Knights and other Bernese soldiers, and they were carrying this huge…crate…box…thing with ‘em! And I mean it was HUGE. It had to be transported on a special boat and there were a bunch of little wheels on its underside. It was bigger than my old house back in Thagaste and had to be pulled by more’n a dozen wyverns!

 

“The Bernites said they weren’t invading, they weren’t doing anything suspicious, just that they were deserters wanted by King Arbain and were seeking to travel through Lycia to get to Etruria, where they’d present a “gift” to King Galahad in exchange for amnesty. That’s a load of hooey, though, I’m certain of it! Those Bernites aren’t ‘deserters,’ they’re following a Wyvern General’s orders, right down to the letter! And I’d bet every gold piece I’ve ever collected that the big thing they’re carrying isn’t a ‘gift’ but a _secret weapon_! I’ve heard rumors about it—every time I’ve ever snooped around Bern’s military, I heard of something called “Barbarossa.” No matter what, though, I’ve never been able to find out what it was…every colleague I’ve ever had who came close just disappeared. All I know is that it has awesome destructive power.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s true,” said Henken, “I don’t know whether the rumors are based in fact or just massively overblown. But I do know I don’t want to find out. So I want to stop, or at least delay, this force from Bern before they have a chance to reach Aquleia.”

 

“And how do you presume to do that?” sneered Khyron. “Surely you don’t expect the twelve of us to single-handedly defeat eight hundred Bernites? And besides, what about diplomatic repercussions? If Harvery’s right, and these ‘deserters’ aren’t really deserters, Etruria risks Bern declaring war against us if we launch a pre-emptive strike against their soldiers! Now, I, for one, would like nothing better than to teach those Bernite barbarians a stiff lesson, but I am also well aware of the dangers of fighting a two-front war! If you don’t recognize that, commoner, I fail to see how you deserve the title of Great General!”

 

Henken didn’t bite Khyron’s bait. “The Etrurian military isn’t going to attack this Bernese force. Hell’s Wall is.”

 

Khyron nearly fell over, but he was no less confused than anyone else in the room. “What the devil are you talking about?”

 

“Braddock,” said the Great General coolly, “You were born in Lycia. Take a close look at the path the Bernites are taking and see if it passes through anywhere familiar.”

 

“Hmm,” said the Ostian, poring over it. After a few seconds of looking at it, his face became a bit paler. “Y-yeah,” he stammered. “I’ve never been to this part of Lycia before, and for good reason. I’ve heard really, really bad rumors about it.”

 

“Huh?” Renault didn’t feel assured at all. “What’re you talking about, bud?”

 

Braddock put a hand over the region the red line passed through—the area of the Etruria-Lycia mountain range which was pierced by a river that flowed to the south, emptying into the ocean some distance to the west of Badon. “T-this is one of most notorious places in our country. Throughout its history, it was ravaged by bandits, AND there are a whole bunch of ghost stories surrounding it, too!”

 

“G-Ghosts?!” stammered Apolli, who’d gone very white at the mention of it.

 

Braddock didn’t notice. “Yeah, ghost stories and bandit attacks…I guess the two are related. See,” he pointed to a small black dot on the eastern edge of the river a bit south of the mountains, “this here is called “The Reaper’s Labyrinth.” Nobody knows quite what it is. The best guess anyone’s made is that it’s the ruins of some building that was destroyed during the Scouring…most of it is underground. There are more horror stories about it than I can remember…Lycian parents threaten to send their kids there when they’re being bad. It’s supposedly filled to the brim with vengeful spirits. People in the towns nearby hear strange things at night coming from its entrance…wailing, moaning, stuff like that. A few adventurers have tried explorin’ it, but none have ever returned.

 

“Only one group has ever been brave enough to spend a long time anywhere near that place. In fact, they’re also the one group crazy enough to make it their hideout. They were called Hell’s Wall…they most vicious group of bandits in Lycian history. They were almost their own army...even had their own colors and everything—stark orange. Being so close to the border, they preyed on both Lycian and Etrurian citizens. They’d ambush trade caravan, and descend on villages in the night like locusts. Not even to plunder, but just to kill…they didn’t leave anything behind them but the mutilated bodies of men, women, and children. They were true monsters.

 

“It got so bad that about ten years ago the cantons got together and amassed a whole army to take them out. Everybody knew they resided in the upper levels of the Reaper’s Labyrinth, though nobody knew if they’d taken up shop any lower than that. Nobody got any lower than the first few floors to tell, after all. This army was supposed to do that. But…they never returned. Not a single man.

 

“Nobody knows what exactly happened to them, or to Hell’s Wall. All anybody knows is that there’s been no trace of that army or Hell’s Wall for ten years. I think the army forced the bandits to retreat to the lower levels of the labyrinth, and then all of them got killed by whatever’s lurking down there. But I don’t know for sure.”

 

“Exactly.” He turned to Khyron. “Mage General, do you have the sets of orange clothing you asked the maids to provide?”

 

“Y-yes, I do,” stammered Khyron, “but I can’t fathom what you’re plotting, commoner! These clothes are so ratty and amateurish! I could have gotten a professional tailor or seamstress to—“

 

“This is the plan,” said Henken bluntly. “These Pegasus Knights—the Shrike Team—will ferry you to the location marked on this map by the blue X. The Bernite force should be passing through there within several days. There, you will don these sets of orange clothing, and, posing as members of Hell’s Wall, assault the enemy force. Regardless of your success, Bern will not have an excuse to fight Etruria if they believe they were attacked by bandits rather than Etrurian soldiers. Your objective is to destroy the container apparently holding the secret weapon.”

 

Utter silence reigned in the Royal Court for just a moment. Then it broke into chaos.

 

“Hahaha! That’s crazy! Sounds like fun!”

 

“What sort of foolishness is this?!”

 

“Henken, this is completely insane!”

 

“Have you lost your mind?!”

 

The Great General silenced all of these objections merely by lifting his hand and saying—with enough anger in his voice to still all of his listeners—“Enough.”

 

“I don’t expect you to take out the entire Bernese force. My battle plans are more than adequate for dealing with another thousand or so enemy soldiers. I only want you to destroy Barbarossa, whatever it is.” He gestured to Renault and Braddock. “The quartermaster should have given you two a sizable amount of oil. You can use that to set Barbarossa’s container aflame with Khyron and Rosamia’s Elfire magic.”

 

“Oh, doesn’t that sound easy,” countered Khyron in astonishment, “but how the devil do you expect us to return alive?!”

 

“I don’t.”

 

Once again, silence reigned for a moment, before Khyron was the first one to break it with an angry shout. Henken, however, would not hear it. He slammed a fist down on the table again.

 

“All of you are expendable,” he said evenly. “The only thing I care about is winning this war. If you have to die in order to make this so, that’s a fair bargain in my eyes. More importantly, however, every last one of you should feel the same way.”

 

He cast his cold gaze over the Pegasus Knights. “Ilian mercenaries are renowned for their loyalty and bravery. You’re supposed to be willing, more than any other, to lay down your lives for your employers if ordered. Do you want to tarnish that reputation?”

 

“N-no!” said the young green-haired knight—Keith was apparently her name. “We’re the heroes of Ilia! We give everything for our country, so we have to give everything for our employers! Right?”

 

“You meant ‘heroines,’ Keith,” said her sister gently—her name was Kelitha, Renault gathered—but otherwise she nodded. Kasha, on the other hand, just threw her head back and laughed. “Hah! You kidding me? Eight hundred Bernites…my spear can’t wait to taste their blood! It’ll be a great appetizer before it gets to Renault!”

 

“Whatever,” said Henken, turning to Khyron. “You are the Mage General, and you say you love your country. But in every meaningful way, you’ve failed it, Khyron. Your utter incompetence resulted in the near-annihilation of a major portion of the Mage Corps, and thanks to you the enemy is marching upon your King’s capitol. The only way you can make up for your mistakes is by risking your life to keep Bern’s secret weapon from reaching Aquleia.”

 

Khyron was livid now. “I DON’T HAVE TO TAKE THIS FROM A COMMONER!”

 

“This commoner is stronger than you. You know that. Even your magic can barely touch me. For all your skill, when you tried to assault me at the end of your debriefing, when I explained to you why you’d failed so utterly at Nerinheit Castle, you couldn’t do anything but receive the black eye I gave you—and I could have done much worse. If you ever want to be even remotely worthy of my position, Khyron, you’ll undertake this mission and bring your country victory.”

 

To this, Khyron could only grit his teeth in frustration. For all his wounded pride, he could not refute the man’s words. “Fine,” he spat. “I’ll undertake your little mission, commoner. And when I return successfully, I’ll show you that the Mage General is superior to a Great General!”

 

“Whatever.” Henken was now looking at Rosamia and Apolli.

 

“I am a member of the Mage Corps,” said Rosamia. “My life is sworn to my master. I am willing to sacrifice it alongside Lord Khyron.”

 

“L-Lord-Khyron took me ‘n my…Gafgarion in,” said Apolli. “Pops…Pops would be disappointed in me if I chickened out now! I’m not gonna let him down! Besides,” and at this the youth hung his head, “if I really do die…I…I’ll get t’ see Yulia again.”

 

A look of profound sympathy crossed Braddock’s face, and he was about to say something before Henken cast his gaze at Harvery.

 

“I…C—I mean, Henken, be reasonable about this,” stammered the former taxman. “There’s no way this’ll work!”

 

“Do you have a better plan?”

 

“N-no, I—“

 

“Then you’ll accept this one. You told me that I owed Etruria. You asked me to give up my peaceful life for its sake. You’re not willing to do the same?”

 

“I…I…” Harvery could only look down at the floor, head hung in shame. He admitted defeat.

 

Next came Renault and Braddock.“W-Wait, you don’t really think we’re accepting this, do you?” the swordsman stammered, astonished. “Look, I don’t know about you guys, but me and Braddock just want to kill Paptimus. This mission is suicide! We’re not gonna get a chance to get back at him if we’re dead. So to hell with this! Right, Braddock?” He looked up at his friend, who hadn’t said anything. “Right?”

 

“You want to get revenge for her,” said Henken, staring directly at the Ostian, his voice colder than it had ever been before. “Are you worthy of that? You know how strong Paptimus is. Are you willing to face any obstacle in order to bring him to justice?”

 

“I am,” came Braddock’s resolute reply.

 

“Then you’ll accept this mission. If you don’t have the steel to see it through, and if you don’t have the ability to survive this ordeal, you won’t be able to stand up to Paptimus, either.”

 

“I understand,” said Braddock. “I’ll take out Barbarossa, get away from those Bernite bastards, and show you I’m more than capable of handling that turncoat piece of filth!”

 

“B-Braddock, you gotta be kidding me,” groaned Renault in dismay. But his friend didn’t give the slightest indication of having heard him. The only response was the tiniest hint of a smile on Henken’s face.

 

“Good. My sister might not have made a mistake in you after all.”

 

Nobody else but Renault knew exactly what that meant, but it didn’t matter. It had been decided. “Unless you want to part ways with Braddock, you’ll be behind him on this mission,” said Henken. When Renault gave his friend one, last, pleading look, only to have it rebuffed with a steely glare, he just sighed.

 

“Alright, you win,” he said. “But I’m not gonna die! Neither is Braddock! Death is never gonna touch us, you hear? We’re coming back alive!”

 

“Fine. Now, all of you are ready. Your journey begins now.” He pointed at the door, but the gathered entourage made no immediate action—they simply stood there for a few moments, looking at each other.

 

“Well, what are we all waiting for,” said Khyron. “Stop wasting time! The sooner we fight those Bernese scum, the sooner we can return and get all this nonsense over with! Let’s go!”

 

He turned and made to leave, and the rest of the group following him—casting each other suspicious glances (or, in Kasha’s case, looking at Renault hungrily), keeping their eyes low, or other similar actions. The only one who didn’t do this was the blue-haired Pegasus Knight, Vayin. She turned back to glance at Henken.

 

“You’re not gonna wish us luck?”

 

The Great General merely stared at her evenly. “Make your own.”

 

None of them bothered to respond to that—as they exited the castle and began their journey, they all knew they’d need more than just a bit of extra luck to survive what was coming to them.

 

 

-X-

 

To say the last night had been most productive would have been an understatement.

 

Yurt did not generally like watching the sunrise, but today, he made an exception. Even as he watched the pure, comforting darkness of night give way to the harsh and glaring light of the day, the assassin smiled to himself beneath his sinister helmet, standing on the rooftop of the east wing of Aquleia’s Holy Royal Palace and watching Maxim, Renault, and the rest of their group set off on their journey. He knew they were heading towards a locale he was more than a bit familiar with—a place Lycians like the Great General knew as the “Reaper’s Labyrinth.”

 

It would be their grave.

 

There were twelve of them—six Pegasus Knights, who Yurt didn’t recognize, a small man in a drab cape who Yurt didn’t recognize either (but who gave off a sinister aura similar to his own), as well as a pair of magi, an archer, and a swordsman and axeman who Yurt was _very_ familiar with.

 

The small but apparently elite nature of the group was an interesting tidbit of information, but one that didn’t really concern him—like many other things. For instance, he was sure Trunicht and Paptimus would have liked to hear the information he had gleaned, but that was none of his concern. They were not paying him—and more importantly, his pride did not hinge on any duty to—spy upon the Royalists. It was surely a mark of his skill that he had infiltrated the Court chambers without even the General noticing, and surely an indication of his talents that he had heard the entire discussion, and by now was very well aware of the exact plans the Great General had formulated to defend the city. However, Yurt didn’t care about massaging his pride at the moment. He only cared about getting to Maxim…and that foolish little friend of his.

 

“Go forth, Maxim,” Yurt chuckled to himself. “Go forth and meet this Barbarossa, whatever it is. You’re simply driving yourself and your friends into my hands!”

 

As he continued to chuckle, small wisps of black smoke began to float upwards from beneath the Silent Chief’s pointed boots. More and more issued forth until they shrouded Yurt’s entire body. Then they dissipated—and he was gone, as completely as if he’d never been there.

 

The assassin had begun his own journey. And he fully intended it to be Maxim’s last.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Yurt didn’t show up in early drafts of this chapter, curiously enough.


	22. Barbarossa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault, Braddock, and their allies have finally been given their first mission by the Royalist forces they worked so hard to join--after betraying the Rebels for them, when they betrayed them for the Rebels first! Fitting, then, that their first mission will *not* be easy at all...

 

**Chapter 22: Barbarossa**

 

_-X-X-The Journey-X-X-_

(Author’s Note: If you can, and if not I can upload an ‘OST’ of sorts later, but later on in the second half of this fic I HIGHLY recommend you start playing “A Despair-Filled Farewell” from the Shadow of the Colossus OST while reading. You’ll see why ;) )

 

Renault never thought he’d be grateful to Khyron for anything. However, as he clutched the back of Kelitha’s Pegasus as hard as he could, watching the ground seemingly flash by below him, he couldn’t help but think how much worse the situation might have been if it wasn’t for that stuck-up popinjay.

 

Despite having fought against them in his very first battle at Scirocco, Renault never really had a firm idea of just how _fast_ Pegasi were before now. As soon as they’d left the city limits Khyron had ordered all who could to ride one of the animals. As luck would have it, though the Shrike Team had been whittled down to almost nothing during the initial battle of Nerinheit City, there were just enough of them left to carry the non-mounted members of their team. The leader of the team as a whole thought it only proper for him to ride with the leader of the Shrike Team, so Khyron was currently riding behind Kasha, much to Renault’s relief—it was enough to keep the crazy woman’s attention away from him. He had been assigned to ride with one of her sisters—the middle one, Kelitha. They’d been flying together for several hours now and she’d said very little to him—Renault got the distinct impression she wasn’t too fond of him. Not that he minded—making friends with vultures wasn’t high on his list of priorities at the moment. All he cared about was that she wasn’t out to get him like her sister was.

 

Indeed, much to his satisfaction, the rest of the Shrike Team—what remained of them, at least—was a good deal more professional than their commander—or “Captain” as the Ilians often said. Harvery, Apolli, and Rosamia were riding with a trio of older Knights—Imelle, Vayin, and Hiyu—who didn’t seem to be much more interested in conversation either. Lastly, Braddock was flying near Renault, on the back of the steed of Kasha’s youngest sister, the girl who had the short hair and a boy’s name to match—Keith. She didn’t seem to be as taciturn as her fellows, but it wouldn’t have meant much conversation anyways—judging by how pale his face was, Braddock was not taking well to flying.

 

Renault sympathized, of course, but honestly, he couldn’t really share his friend’s pain. Although when they first took off, it had definitely been scary—Renault had no idea how those flapping horses managed to stay in flight—it had soon become very, very enjoyable. Renault had always loved birds, but for the first time in his life, he knew what it felt like to actually be one…at least sort of. Though they weren’t flying as high as he’d heard Pegasi could, they were still high enough that the world beneath them seemed to have been turned into something that, from Renault’s perspective, seemed like a child’s plaything. Houses and trees had grown so small that they looked as if they could be picked up and grabbed, and the travelers and caravans they passed over on the roads below them seemed like small toys or dolls. Renault had to resist the urge to laugh—from this vantage point, it seemed as if all the troubles of the world below—his betrayers and his betrayals, the looming conflict with the Bernites, and the whole Civil War itself were petty things, unable to affect him in the least way up here.

 

Alas, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this forever. The sun had begun to dip under the horizon, and soon they would be flying under the stars rather than the placid, puffy white clouds. Ahead of him, Renault saw Khyron raising his hand, indicating he wanted them to set down. Quickly and efficiently, the Pegasus Knights did so—Renault felt some of his initial fear returning as Kelitha gently pressed down on the back of her mount’s neck, spurring him to quickly reduce his altitude. So quick was the descent Renault was afraid they’d crash, but sooner than he knew it the Pegasus had landed on the ground, safe and sound.

 

They had set down on a wide-open grassy plain a very good distance south of Aquleia—it was a safe place, perfect for making camp, at least in friendly territory. Renault quickly dismounted, and his teammates did the same.

 

“Braddock, you alright?” Renault asked in concern as he took a few steps towards his friend, who was still looking very pale.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, “I’ll be fine. I guess this flying stuff needs some getting used to, huh?”

 

“Hah!” Renault laughed. “Well, you’ve lived through a lot worse, right?”

 

“You have a point there, bud.” Braddock smiled gratefully. He was about to say more, but didn’t have a chance before Khyron began barking orders at them again.

 

“Set up camp!” he shouted. “I don’t want to waste a moment more than necessary. According to Harvery, the Bernites should be passing through the ambush area within three days. With the speed of these Pegasus Knights, we’ll be able to make that time easily, so I want to ensure all of you are sufficiently rested before we make contact. I’ll not be humiliated in front of Bernese scum simply because some of my troops were too tired to fight properly!”

 

“Oh, he’s worried about being ‘humiliated?’ Not about dying? Figures,” muttered Renault darkly.

 

“Well, at least he’s learned the value of avoiding fatigue,” replied Braddock. “Remember what he was like at Scirocco?”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Satisfied with this, Renault’s attention, along with the rest of his teammates, turned to getting their camp set up. However, he noticed that his companion, Kelitha, was not joining them on the ground.

 

“Hey,” said Renault, “you’re not gonna help?”

 

The woman shook her head—the locks of long green hair which fell to the middle of her back waved to and fro in the air. “Not yet. While you are all setting up the camp, my sisters and I will fly around and scout out the area. Though this place seems safe, there’s never a reason to take any unnecessary risks. Now please step back.”

 

“Hmph.” Renault obediently did so, and with a few flaps of her mount’s wings Kelitha had once again risen into the air, followed by her sisters and the other members of the Shrike Team. They circled once overhead (and even from this distance, Renault could see the hungry grin on Kasha’s face as she stared down at him) then separated into three groups of two, each going a different direction.

 

“Damn,” said Renault, a slightly disgruntled look on his face, “you think they still have a grudge against us for what happened at Scirocco? Sure, we were on opposite sides, but it was still Paptimus who killed their mother!”

 

“I know, man. To be fair, though, I think Kasha’s just crazy…she’d want you no matter what happened back there. Keith, the girl I was flying with…she didn’t have any hard feelings. I think it’s just that one, uh…”

 

“Kelitha. Well, no point worrying too much about it so long as they do their jobs, I guess. C’mon, let’s help set up camp.”

 

That, at least, gave the two men something to take their minds away from that unfortunate town they’d left behind so long ago.

 

-X-

 

“It’s strange to admit this, but I guess I owe you my thanks.”

 

Tassar said this as he leaned back on Hallard’s empty, abandoned throne, basking in the knowledge that the city of Thagaste was now his. Of course, even if he was part of the army which had recently occupied the city—with very little trouble, much to his satisfaction—and assigned the responsibility of overseeing it, he still had some tiresome duties to attend to. One of these was dealing with the most influential (but annoying) people in the city who hadn’t retreated off to Aquleia; this clergywoman was one of them.

 

The woman in the miter didn’t say anything in response to him—she simply glared at him, not making any effort to disguise her hatred for him. Tassar merely chuckled at this—Bishop Monica was the one who’d asked to meet with him, after all, and besides, oughtn’t a clergywoman act more loving towards her city’s new guests? Well, it was merely a woman being foolish and hypocritical again—nothing he wasn’t already more than used to. Thus, Tassar simply decided to continue talking.

 

“I mean, it’s largely due to you that it was so easy for us to capture this city,” he said. “Yazan and I were expecting the people to put up more of a fight, but they pretty much rolled over for us. We’ll be able to make it to Aquleia easily like this. And from what I heard, it’s all thanks to you. You’re this city’s Bishop, aren’t you? You’re supposedly the most important person here, especially since Count Hallard’s fled. Virtually everybody listens to what you say. And I’ve heard it’s because you yourself distributed a…what was it, encomium? Epistle? Whatever, some letter telling them to ‘tolerate the occupation without violence’ or something like that. So the only thing my men have had to deal with all day is dirty looks!” The mercenary chuckled. “Guess you realize the Royalist cause is futile, so you’re throwing in with us? Smart lady.”

 

“It’s not like that all!” Tassar’s grin grew even wider when he saw he’d succeeded in finally provoking a reaction from the woman. “I fully follow the Loyalist’s Creed,” spat the woman, “and I have nothing but condemnation for your rebellion! However, I realize that I am not strong enough to foil your schemes on my own, and that I have a responsibility to the people of this city to safeguard them from harm! Thus, rather than wasting lives in pointless, fruitless violence, I have beseeched my flock to endure this trial with the same sort of meekness and gentleness the Saint preached. We won’t give you any excuse to harm us! If you still choose to do so, the only thing you’ll gain is the wrath of the people and the ire of the Creator!”

 

“Whatever you say.” Tassar rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to waste time and energy fighting the common people instead of the Royalists, so at least in this case it looks like our goals are the same. I just want to make a few things clear to you. First off, while I’m not going to raise taxes or do anything that would really hurt the people of Thagaste, I will be appropriating everything we find in this castle, and anything we find in the other noble residences. Spoils of war and all that.

 

“Secondly, while we won’t persecute your Church, we won’t go easy on it either. I’ve been given specific orders not to interfere with your pastoral duties, Bishop. We won’t touch your cathedral, I guarantee it. However, we will be keeping a close eye on you people. If you, or any of your underlings, do anything suspicious or subversive, you’ll pay for it. Understand?”

 

She said nothing, simply continuing to give him the most spiteful and contemptuous glare she could.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes. So I don’t think there’s anything else for us to talk about. You can leave now, Your Excellency. I’m sure you have very important duties to attend to, don’t you?” Tassar smirked at this. The bishop, of course, gave no response—she simply glared at him a moment longer, then turned and began to walk towards the doors leading out of Castle Hallard’s throne room.

 

“Oh, one last thing,” the mercenary said. Monica stopped in her tracks, but she didn’t turn to face him.

 

“It’s probably nothing,” Tassar continued, “but…I just can’t get this feeling out of my head. Your hair…you wouldn’t happen to have a son named Renault, would you?”

 

She offered no response to this—but even though Tassar couldn’t see her face, he could see how her hands clenched at the mention of that name. So when she curtly replied, “none of your business” and hastily made her exit, the veteran mercenary had already received all the confirmation he needed.

 

Tassar leaned even further back into the throne, the smile on his face growing as wide as ever. Things were getting interesting—very interesting indeed.

 

-x-

 

 _One of these days_ , Gosterro thought to himself, _my hair’s going to go stark white. Well, it already is…so it’s only a matter of time before it all falls out entirely, right?_

The Archbishop was poring over the latest reports he had received from the lesser clergy. The capture of Thagaste played prominently in all of them. The greater part of the Revolutionary Army had rolled straight south and straight into Thagaste (though he’d heard the detachment they’d sent into eastern Aquleia wasn’t making much progress). Within just a few days, they’d be knocking at his door…

 

So engrossed was he in his unhappy thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the flash of light from behind him and the faint smell of ozone now permeating the room. Almost being the key word there. Hastily, Gosterro leapt up from his chair and spun around, grabbing his Lightning tome in the process. Who he saw, however, was not a foe but a familiar face…at least somewhat.

 

“Hello again,” chuckled Trunicht, clad in the same Black Knight armor he had been the first time they’d met. “I hope you are doing well, Your Excellency?”

 

“Trunicht.” Gosterro grimaced. “What are you doing here again? You’re truly the most brazen man I’ve met. A heathen cur like you warping into the Archbishop’s cathedral alone…the nerve!”

 

Trunicht simply smiled at this. “Forgive me, Your Excellency. I simply assumed I wasn’t unwelcome here. After all, you haven’t called the guards on me yet, have you? I think it would be fair to say the suggestions I gave to you—as well as my thoughtful gift, of course—were more than a little convincing?”

 

“Hmph.” Gosterro returned to his seat, but the grimace on his face remained. “Get to the point, Black Knight. Tell me why you’re here, or leave.”

 

“As you wish,” Trunicht chuckled. “Your Excellency, I was just wondering if you were planning to follow the advice I gave you after Khyron’s defeat. You know, about not getting involved directly with this war? It’s not at all an unreasonable request, especially since it’s what you planned on doing anyways, right? Especially given how this war seems to be progressing, since we’ve taken Thagaste, after all. Things are not looking up for your royalists, Archbishop Gosterro. The Mage Corps has been greatly weakened, and against the forces we’ve amassed, well…far be it from me to lecture you on matters of religion, but it seems like your God has chosen us over your King.”

 

Gosterro simply smirked in response. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Black Knight. Your position isn’t as strong as you might think. We’ve gotten a hold of your plans, you poor fool! Since our new General has those in his hands, any schemes you and your masters can come up with will be foiled easily! You’re no match for him!”

 

“Oh, really?” Though his face was covered by his visor, it seemed as if Trunicht had quirked up an eyebrow. “You have quite a bit of faith in this General, whoever he is. More competent than Khyron, I assume. But I have to wonder…no matter how competent he is, you do know that our plans mentioned a bit of…unexpected help, so to speak? So I must wonder, do you really think even this Great General could stand up to the might of…Barbarossa?”

 

Gosterro’s face went as white as a sheet. “B…Barbarossa? The…the Dragon-not-a-dragon?! You’re lying! You mendacious schemer! There’s no way Bern would unleash that weapon! It’s impossible!”

 

Trunicht merely shrugged. “Believe what you wish, Your Excellency. I am merely giving you some information which might help you make better decisions. I’m sure I don’t have to say any more…after all, given how influential the clergy is in Bern, you’ve probably learned as much as anyone could about their secret weapon through your contacts in that country. And you know what will happen if that weapon reaches Aquleia.

 

“This does not have to be a bad thing for you, you know. If you keep your word, and do not set the Church directly against us…well, whatever happens to Aquleia, you may not end up much worse off because of it.”

 

“Tch!” Gosterro was most definitely fazed by his visitor’s words, but he was absolutely determined not to let it show. “I’ve had enough of your bluffing,” he growled. “Leave, now!”

 

Trunicht bowed. “Very well, Your Excellency. But I have one more thing to give you.” With one smooth motion he slid one hand down to a pouch at his belt, grabbed it, and tossed it to Gosterro, who caught it easily.

 

The Archbishop stared warily at Trunicht, but his suspicion soon gave way to curiosity. He opened the pouch and his eyes went wide.

 

“R-Royal Pearls,” he gasped. “These…these are among the rarest of the sea’s treasures, and can only be found within the Shield of Durbans! Where did you get them?”

 

“I’m glad you like them, Your Excellency. Consider them a present from Nerinheit’s merchant marine. I happen to be on one of their boats right now, in fact…I really must get back to it. I hope you’ll remember my generosity…as well as the fact that those plans you have don’t mention anything about ships.”

 

With a loud, sinister laugh, the Black Knight brandished his Warp Staff and disappeared in another flash of light. And Gosterro was left alone in his room, sweat dripping down his pale brow as he contemplated what could very well be the fate of this city—and the entire Kingdom of Etruria.

 

And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed his own fate would look much brighter if the Revolutionaries found him useful.

 

-X-

 

As the second night of his journey fell, Renault once again found himself wishing Khyron was around. And once again, he was reminded of why—without that arrogant Sage, there was nobody to keep Kasha’s attention away from him.

 

After a good night’s rest (uneventful, just as Renault liked it), the team had gotten on their Pegasi and resumed their trek towards the mountain range on the Lycian-Etrurian border the Bernese army was supposed to be moving through. They’d made a very good deal of progress—a bit more than yesterday’s, in fact, since they’d set down about an hour after the sun set—and made camp near a small forest this time. Renault and Braddock found themselves in this forest, trapping some game for dinner. Despite having been furnished with more than enough rations to last them for the duration of the journeys to and from their destination. In fact, the quartermaster had been extremely generous to them, giving them all manner of extra supplies—Braddock had a new hand axe, Renault another sword, and their other teammates a wide variety of extra weapons, staves, and vulneraries. Despite all this, though, Renault and Braddock still didn’t want to waste their supplies if they didn’t have to. By this point, both of them were well aware of how badly even the best-laid plans could go wrong, and with a plan like this, to say there were a lot of things that could go wrong would be an understatement.

 

In fact, thought Renault at this very moment, something was already going wrong, though by this point he’d expected it. He and Braddock had almost let their guard down as they made their way out of the forest, content with the couple of rabbits they’d caught…until Renault heard something whistling above his head. Instinctively, he dropped his catch and jumped to the side while Braddock unlimbered his weapon. Just in time—when the swordsman looked back to where he was standing, he could make out the silhouette of a javelin under the moonlit sky.

 

A familiar, piercing laugh was enough to tell him who’d thrown it. “Very nice, Renault,” chuckled Kasha as she set her mount down a few feet in front of him. “You really HAVE improved since we first met! I like a man who’s a good study, I really do!”

 

“Kasha,” groaned Braddock, “how long are you gonna keep doing this? We’re not enemies any more. Renault doesn’t have anything against Ilians, and we really don’t have anything against you personally. Why can’t you let your grudge go? We didn’t kill your—“

 

Kasha apparently ignored everything the Ostian had just said. “Oh, don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Braddock,” she grinned. “You were the one who saved Renault’s life back then! I’m sure you’re even more skilled today. Wanna put those skills to the test?”

 

“No, not really,” came the resigned reply.

 

“WELL, TOO BAD!”

 

Kasha looked like she was going to begin her charge, but she was stopped this time by the flutter of another two pairs of Pegasus wings.

 

“Kasha,” yelled one voice Renault recognized as Kelitha, “What are you doing? There aren’t any enemies in this area!”

 

“Yeah!” came Keith’s younger voice as her sister and she both set their mounts down right behind Kasha’s. “Big Sister, these guys are on our side, right? We can’t fight them!”

 

“Hmph!” came the retort. “You don’t remember—“

 

Renault saw where the crazy Ilian was headed, and he wanted to put a stop to it right then and there. “WE DIDN’T KILL YOUR MOTHER!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, not caring if the rest of the team camping nearby heard him. Kasha blinked, looking somewhat amused, but at least she’d shut up, which was what Renault was really concerned about.

 

“Listen to me,” he growled, wanting to finally bury the shadow of Scirocco once and for all, “Me and Braddock, we didn’t kill your mother. Paptimus did.” Both Kasha and Kelitha wore distinctly skeptical expressions, though Keith’s seemed merely neutral. “They should have told you this already! Didn’t the Great General or Khyron or somebody show you that letter?!”

 

“Yeah, I remember hearing ‘bout something like that,” said Kasha nonchalantly, “but I wasn’t really paying attention. Lord Henken didn’t say it had to do with our mission specifically. Why, was it important?”

 

“Of course it was!” Braddock was flabbergasted. “Miss, that letter explains everything that happened at Scirocco. The poison that killed your mother? That wasn’t ours, that was Paptimus’! Hell, he was the one who gave those townspeople the money to hire you!” A grimace spread across his face as he was reminded of why he hated the former Prime Minister so very much. “That bastard, he used us BOTH as pawns, as sacrificial cows! He hired those Pegasus Knights so he could test me, Renault, and the rest of us as mercenaries, possible recruits for him in the future! Then he poisoned the entire town—and your mother and her Pegasus Knights—just so he could have a crime he could pin on the King, and a spark to encourage this damned rebellion! We’re not your enemies here, ladies. That son of a whore and his revolution are!” He gave the Ilians the most earnest look he could.

 

“I knew it!” said Keith. “See, sisters, I told you they couldn’t be bad men! Braddock had the eyes of an Ilian…a real hero! I knew he couldn’t have been a murderer!”

 

“Appearances can be deceiving,” warned Kelitha cautiously. “I…this sounds convincing, but…”

 

“Come on,” said Renault, “if our story wasn’t true, we wouldn’t be here. You know we’re traitors twice over, right? That we betrayed Exedol and Khyron when he first came to Nerinheit? Why do you think we betrayed the Revolution and came BACK to the Royalist side? Because we found out our new boss was a lying, manipulative piece of filth. No matter how much he paid us, no matter how much we hated the King and the nobles, at least they never played us for fools.” Renault noticed the Knights were still looking at him, and he gritted his teeth. “Look, this is the truth. Don’t believe it? Fine, I don’t give a damn. The only thing I care about is that you stop attacking me! We’re on the same damn side!”

 

Renault seemed to have convinced Kelitha, at least. “What you say…it does make sense,” she said pensively. “I’ve heard of false flag operations such as that being carried out before. I remember from the Chronicle of the First War in Worde—“

 

This caught Renault’s attention. “Whoah, wait a moment. An Ilian like you’s read _that_?”

 

Kelitha would have responded, but was cut short by her elder sister before she had a chance to. Kasha threw back her head and laughed—a long, throaty, almost manic laugh that seemed to echo for miles around. Neither Renault nor Braddock, or even her sisters had any idea of what to make of it.

 

“Whoo, boy!” Kasha finally said, smiling widely. “The irony of all this is just knocks me over, you know? I gotta tell you, I’m actually pretty disappointed.”

 

Renault couldn’t believe it. “D-Disappointed?! What the hell do you mean? We’re telling the truth!”

 

“Yep, I believe you. That’s what really disappoints me, Renault.”

 

“W-what the hell are you talking about?”

 

“C’mon! I’m a lil’ sad that you didn’t actually kill my mother. I’d have owed you a favor for putting that bitch outta her misery!”

 

Renault couldn’t believe what he just heard, and neither could Braddock. They—along with Kasha’s two sisters—just stood there staring at her blankly, their mouths gaping.

“You know how much I hated that woman?” continued Kasha. “By the gods, I don’t know what she had up her ass, but it must’ve been huge! She never let me have any fun…barely let me do anything! ‘Stop fighting, Kasha, the battle is over! Don’t take any necessary risks, Kasha! You must not behave like that, Kasha, the pride of the Ilian Pegasus Fleet is at stake!’ Over and over again she’d spout crap like that. You’d think she was married to the stupid Union!

 

“But when she died, though…oh yeah, everything changed. I could take any mission I wanted, and fight as much as I wanted! I was never happier! So that’s why I’m so disappointed to hear you guys weren’t responsible for her death. I thought I really owed you, but now…why, my heart’s almost broken!” She gave Renault an exaggerated pout.

 

“W-what the hell,” stammered Renault, still unable to quite believe what he heard, “then why the hell are you after me? Why do you keep attacking me? If you don’t care about your mother or your old comrades one way or the other, what the hell’s your problem?”

 

This elicited another peal of wild laughter from the Ilian. “Aaaaahahahaha~! Renault, you actually believed I cared about anything as petty as revenge! You silly boy! I couldn’t give a quarter of a rat’s ass about that! All I want is YOU!” She leered down at him, grinning. “You managed to escape my blade once. It just makes me tingle when a guy does that, you know? Can’t get him out of my head. I let you get away, Renault. And I won’t stop until I have you again…at the end of my spear!”

 

She leveled another Javelin at him, and both Renault and Braddock took a step back, leveling their own weapons at the woman and preparing for a fight. But much to their surprise, she just gave one last loud peal of laughter and pointed her spear away from them.

 

“I have to admit,” she said, grinning hungrily at the two men, “your story did interest me, though. Both of you really, REALLY hate that Paptimus guy. I know hate, and I could hear it dripping from your voices. Oooh, that excites me…REALLY excites me. I don’t wanna take you out right yet, Renault. I wanna see how far you can go. I wanna see how far that anger and hatred can get you. I saw him take out the Mage General…I know Paptimus is a real strong guy. So I wanna see if that anger of yours is strong enough to overcome him.

 

“If it is…then you’ll definitely be worthy of feeding my spear, no doubt about it. So I can only ask one favor of you, boy. ‘Till you get a chance to go head-to-head with Paptimus…Stay alive!”

 

Giggling, she spurred her mount in his sides, sending him flying upwards in a flurry of snow-white feathers which almost seemed to glow softly in the moonlight. The only things she left behind were a pair of dumbstruck mercenaries and a pair of shocked Pegasus Knights watching her departure with wordless amazement for several moments.

 

After a long silence, Braddock turned to the two remaining sisters and finally broke it. “Girls,” he said as calmly as he could, “I’m sorry I gotta say this, but…your sister is crazy.”

 

“She…she couldn’t have said that!” Keith seemed to be sniffling. “It has to be a mistake! She couldn’t have meant any of that, right?”

 

Kelitha, unfortunately, agreed with Braddock’s assessment. “I…I’m very sorry. To both of you,” she said, nodding to both the Ostian and the swordsman and casting her eyes down in resignation. “My…my mother was the only person who could control her. Once again, I’m sorry.” She spurred her own mount to turn around and looked to her sister. “Come, Keith. Let’s go.”

 

Even though she was still sniffling, the youngest Pegasus Knight followed her elder’s order without question. With another quiet round of flaps from white-feathered wings, both of the remaining Ilians had shot up to the sky, leaving only their confused mercenary friends remaining in the forest.

 

Braddock and Renault looked at each other, then picked up the game they’d casted aside and started their trek back to camp. This was yet another situation—the sort which seemed to be visiting them on a very regular basis these days—where they just couldn’t say anything at all.

 

-X-

 

Things weren’t going well, and Dougram knew it.

 

His forces had been moving southeast from Sorveno for several days now, but to say things were getting more difficult would be something of an understatement. At Sorveno, they were in friendly territory, had no reason to be afraid of any enemy attack, and all their supplies were freely and happily furnished by the townsfolk. However, the further south they went the less enthusiastic the citizenry was for the Revolutionary cause. The first town they’d come to after Sorveno had acquiesced, but it was easy to tell they resented the presence of his forces. They’d given up what provisions and supplies they could only grudgingly, and had cheered when the army had left to continue its march southward. And this town…

 

When they’d came to Orba’s gates, the townspeople had shut it tight. It wasn’t a large settlement, nor well-fortified, but Dougram had desperately hoped to win the people over through negotiation rather than force. He’d spent hours outside of the locked gates arguing with the young, angry watchmen, begging for a meeting with the town elder or magistrate, and attempting to convince the people of the righteousness of his cause. When they hadn’t listened, he finally ordered his men to break down the gate. Fortunately, and to his infinite relief, this was enough to scare the townsfolk into submission. Unfortunately, in this case, as Dougram sat in his tent in the middle of town (the villagers being most unwilling to lend him or his men any of their buildings, and him not wanting to antagonize them any more than necessary), listening to the report his unexpectedly useful underling was giving him, he realized full well that the people apparently had a very loose definition of ‘submission.’

 

“Sir Dougram,” chirped Serapino, the bags under his eyes belying the cheeriness of his voice, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do today! I didn’t have too many people to heal…nobody was hurt in the, uh, the fight for the, um, gate. However, when I was doing inventory of our supplies, I…no, no, it’s probably just me. I must have miscounted…I’m so stupid!”

 

Dougram rolled his eyes. “No, Serapino, you’re probably right. Let me guess, you found a lot of missing stuff, right?”

 

The mendicant blinked. “Y-yes, Sir Dougram. Several pounds of rations, some sets of clothes, oh, and also, um, five swords, two spears, and four axes. I checked it twice but I can’t figure out why the numbers don’t match…”

 

“No, it’s fine. You did good, Serapino. Very good, in fact.” Dougram glanced at the young man. In the several days he’d been traveling with the Revolutionaries, Serapino had proven two things. The first was that he wasn’t the sharpest sword on the rack. Not long after they’d made camp at their previous destination, Serapino had disappeared. Dougram, thinking he’d deserted, was furious, and ordered his men to search for him. However, Dougram himself had found the runaway—trapped inside of the wine cellar in someone’s basement, terrified half to death. Somehow, searching for provisions the army might use (which the people were more likely to give to him than the rebels, him being a holy man and all), he’d managed to get himself locked in there and had spent the better part of a half hour being lost inside of a room that couldn’t have been bigger than a large noble’s bed chambers and bumping into walls. Thus, Dougram could not find much respect for the man’s sense of direction, at the very least, and was harboring some fairly severe reservations about his intellect.

 

However, the second thing Dougram had learned about Serapino was that he had an utterly unimpeachable work ethic. What he may have lacked in intelligence he apparently more than made up for in diligence. Dougram had initially not planned to use him as anything more than a healer—but he proved so adept at that, and there had also been so few injuries, that he’d found himself with a good deal more free time than he knew what to do with. So Dougram had given him other tasks—keeping track of the supplies, overseeing the army’s coffers, and a wide variety of similar bureaucratic busywork—and found that he both liked doing it and was very good at it. Ever since Serapino had started hanging around, Dougram noted to himself, the army’s handle on its supplies, other logistics, and finances had markedly improved. The only thing Serapino couldn’t do was read maps. Thus, Dougram found himself unexpectedly grateful for having found an unexpectedly efficient staff officer.

 

“You’ve been keeping perfect track of our supplies, Serapino, I’m certain of that,” sighed Dougram. “It’s that they’re being stolen. By the townspeople, I’d wager. I don’t mind the food, since they probably need it more than we do,” and at this, Serapino smiled, “but the weapons worry me. Forel,” he called, and soon enough the fellow popped his head through the flaps of the tent, “get some men together and go through town to search for a few weapons which’ve been stolen. Don’t go breaking down doors, but try to find them as soon as possible. If a battle’s brewing I want to stop it before it starts.”

 

“Understood, brother.” He disappeared and began his task, leaving the mendicant and the Nabatan alone again.

 

“Do…do you really think there may be a fight?” asked Serapino, looking distinctly discomfited.

 

“Possibly. That’s why I wanna get those weapons back quickly. If we show the townspeople we’re on to whatever they’re planning before they get a chance to pull it off, we may be able to avoid a battle. I hate meaningless bloodshed…it’s not justice at all!”

 

Serapino nodded his head happily. “You’re exactly right, Sir Dougram! You’re so smart! No wonder they put you in charge!”

 

“Uh, right,” said the Nabatan, scratching the back of his head. “Look, Serapino, one more thing. Stop calling me ‘Sir.’ And don’t call me ‘Lord’ either, if that’s what you’re thinking of.”

 

“U-uh, okay, if you say so. Then what should I call you?”

 

“Just ‘Dougram’ is fine, or, if you must, ‘Brother’ Dougram is what Revolutionaries are supposed to call each other.”

 

“’Brother’ Dougram?” Serapino was perplexed. “Why?”

 

“It’s the ‘Lexicon of Liberty’ or whatever. I’m not that big on it, but it’s not so bad.”

 

“Oh.” His face still looked a bit pensive. “We’re not related, so I thought you were a monk or something.”

 

Dougram laughed. “Of course not! I’m definitely no Eliminean. I don’t believe in any religion, in fact!” He looked at Serapino, who was now looking at him curiously.

 

“No religion?” he asked. “I thought you were Nabatan. I-I’m not very familiar with that region, but I once heard Bishop Monica talking about what people believed over there. She mentioned that each settlement had its own god people worshipped, and some that had several!”

 

“Yeah, that’s true…well, you have the right idea,” said Dougram. “There aren’t that many cities or towns in the desert itself, but there are some small ones near oases. They believe in city gods. Most of ‘em have different names, but they’re all pretty similar. Nabata also has some cities near its coast, and most of them worship the sea god…damn, I can’t remember his name.”

 

“Ah, I see,” said Serapino. “That’s called ‘henotheism,’ isn’t it? Where each tribe or city has a god of its own they think rules over them, but accept the other cities have their gods? So you believe in one of those, then? That’s interesting! I-I don’t myself, and I’m sure not qualified to preach to you o-or anybody yet, but Bishop Monica told me I should try to familiarize myself with what other people believe, even if they’re not Eliminean, because that way I can understand my own beliefs better! It would sure be interesting to learn about yours sometime, Dougram! Uh, only if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, of course!”

 

“Hold on a second, Serapino. A lot of Nabatans believe in those gods, but not me. I don’t have a problem with most of the Nabatan faiths—less of a problem with ‘em than I have with yours, in fact—but I don’t believe in ‘em. I wasn’t really raised in any of them, and none of them ever really made sense to me.”

 

Serapino’s confused expression returned again. “S…so you don’t believe in _any_ gods?”

 

“Nope.” Dougram was beginning to get a bit annoyed. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

 

“I-I can’t believe it!” Now, Serapino looked distinctly distraught. “S—uh…I mean, Dougram, you’re so _good_! You care about the people! You care about your men! And you care about _me!_ Y-you protected me from getting sent to that camp, and you saved me from that wine cellar! How can you not believe in anything at all?”

 

Dougram saw where this train of thought was headed, and he scowled as he began his attempt to head it off right then and there. “Alright, Serapino. Be quiet for a moment and listen to me. Can you do that?” The mendicant meekly nodded his assent, so the Sword Master continued. “I’m not going to argue with you about religion—I don’t have the time for that. But I’m just going to tell you this, and I don’t want you to forget it.

 

“Just ‘cause I don’t believe in God, or gods, doesn’t mean I don’t believe in anything at all. I believe in justice—and I know that meaningless bloodshed isn’t justice. I have empathy, so I don’t like causing people pain when I don’t need to. And most of all, I have rational self-interest. Ultimately, the world would be a worse place if it was full of nothing but meaningless bloodshed, both for me and for everybody. Ultimately, it would hurt me if I just stood by and let you fall into a camp or…or get trapped inside a wine cellar. And there’s plenty, PLENTY of objective evidence and proof that lets me know I’m right, and that my way of life is a good one. So I don’t need Eliminism, or anything to keep me on the path of justice. I only need myself. Do you understand?”

 

Dougram couldn’t quite read the young man’s expression, but he was satisfied by the quiet nod of assent.

 

“Good. Now go get your staff ready and prepare yourself to deal with any injuries. I hope nobody’ll try to pick a fight with Forel, but I’m not counting on it.”

 

Once again, the mendicant nodded, and this time he padded out of the tent, leaving Dougram to sigh, lean back, and enjoy a few moments of solitude. Well, as much as he could, in any case.

 

Between his conversation with Serapino and the difficulties he was having with the townsfolk, even when he was alone Dougram found he had more than enough to occupy his mind.

 

-X-

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

 

Braddock said this to Renault as they stood on a stony crag on the Argos Mountains, the range which separated Etruria and Lycia. It was the third and almost certainly last day of their journey. The Bernites were definitely going to head through this area—the pass below them, in fact. A few hours ago the Pegasus Knights had set them down here to allow them to begin their preparations (which consisted in no small part of putting on their new ‘equipment’—both Renault and Braddock, along with Khyron, Rosamia, Apolli, and Harvery, were covered in ratty, poor-looking orange rags, the same sort as was once worn by Hell’s Wall) and then flew off to scout the area. They’d returned about an hour later carrying the news everyone was alternately waiting for and dreading—they’d seen several Wyvern Knights flying this way, and though they’d managed to evade detection, they were sure the army was following the Wyverns. This was the place they’d stage their ambush, and judging from what the Ilians said they’d do it in a few hours, in the dark of night.

 

It was twilight now, which had prompted Braddock’s statement. He was looking to the southeast, where even from this height (they were about halfway up the mountains, which weren’t as high as some of the peaks in Ilia or Bern, but not inconsiderable either) the land of Lycia could be seen. Only Renault was standing behind him (their other teammates busy with final checks of their equipment and the surrounding area), and the sellsword had to admit it did seem sort of beautiful. The setting sun cast all the sky in a lovely spectrum of orange turning to dark blue. Though not yet night, it was dark enough that the green grass and trees far below and far away seemed to be a sea of black, punctuated only by flickering orange spots which were not boats but rather the hearths of homes. Even from this distance Renault thought he could feel the warmth radiating from those little spots of light, breaking the encroaching darkness with the thoughts and dreams of happy families, enjoying each other’s company as well as the peace which had finally settled upon their war-torn land.

 

“These are the fields of my homeland,” Braddock continued. “Even if I don’t have too many happy memories from my own family, I have a whole lot of this land. Back when I was younger lookin’ at them never failed to put me at ease. This beautiful land…Paptimus…it was his fault it burned,” and at this, Braddock’s fists clenched at his sides and his face strained into a grimace, but softened as soon as he brought his mind to other things. “I’m glad it seems to be recovering, though. The land…it looks healthy. I bet there’ll be a good crop this year. That’s a relief…I never thought I’d see a sight like this again.” Braddock laughed. “No matter how this mission ends up, I guess I owe one to Char for giving me this opportunity. It’s great, isn’t it?”

 

Looking at the soft, nostalgic expression on his friend’s face, Renault really didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “I…I guess you’re right, bud. I wouldn’t know, though…not really, I guess. I’ve never seen much like this, being a city boy and all. More into architecture than anything else, I was…though I guess I don’t remember much of any of that stuff, either.” He chuckled. “Nowadays, the only thing I can really appreciate is a good battlefield!”

 

“Heheheh. That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?” Both Braddock and Renault turned to look, with a small degree of surprise, at the person who’d spoken. It was Harvery, who’d apparently managed to sneak up beside Braddock silently and totally unnoticed while he and his friend were enjoying the scenery. The spy’s ratty orange cape fluttered in the wind, allowing a good view of what he was wearing—a pair of nondescript, somewhat baggy (though not too loose) pants which terminated in a pair of sturdy traveling sandals. On his upper body he wore nothing more than a sort of vest which left his arms and midriff exposed, along with the twin dagger-sheaths held at his belt. It was strange attire, but Harvery didn’t seem to care—he was too busy looking upon the land of Lycia with the same wistful expression Braddock was wearing.

 

“Oh, yeah? What would you know about it?” said Renault, giving the man a distrustful glance. That seemed to snap him out of his reverie, and make him slightly nervous.

 

“Ah, uh, didn’t mean to offend you, friend,” he stammered, holding out his hands before him in a gesture of peace. “I mean, I’m just saying that war’s not something to be too fond of, right? Not the best thing in the world if you can’t appreciate anything other than fighting these days, isn’t it?”

 

“He’s got a point there,” smiled Braddock, attempting to defuse the tension between his two friends. “I mean, it’s not like we’re fighting because we love war for war’s sake, right? We wanna make Paptimus pay for everything he’s done to us. We’re not out here just for fun.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, you got that right, bud,” said Renault. He turned to look at Harvery again, and though his gaze wasn’t suspicious this time, it was still curious. “I gotta ask, though, you know this guy? How?”

 

Harvery looked like he was going to say something, but Braddock quickly reassured him that nothing was amiss. “Relax, Harvery. Renault’s a good guy, you don’t have to worry about him.” He turned back to his friend to answer his question. “Harvery and I haven’t seen each other in years. He was one of House Cornwell’s house servants…least I thought he was. He seemed kinda shifty for a servant, in my opinion—and I can tell you haven’t changed too much, Harvery--but he was my brother-in-law’s best friend and had a lot of great stories to tell from a whole lot of places outside of Lycia, so me and Pamela always thought he was okay.” Braddock’s expression darkened momentarily for a moment, however, and he turned back to Harvery. “I never thought I’d see you here, though, and certainly not like this. Ch…uh, Henken told me you were the one who busted him out of the Ostian prison and brought him to Etruria. What’s up with that, man?”

 

Harvery looked like he was going to answer his old friend’s question, then glanced at Renault nervously, to which Braddock only shook his head in response. “Like I said, Renault’s a good guy. He already knows everything…who I am, who Henken is…everything. Anything you can tell me you can tell him.”

 

“R-Really?” Harvery blinked. “I…if you say so, uh…Maxim.

 

“I guess you deserve the truth, after how long we’ve known each other, and after everything you’ve been through, anyways. I’ll start with the most obvious first. I was never Lycian. I was born and bred in Etruria…and that’s the land which had always held my loyalties.”

 

Braddock nodded sympathetically, indicating his understanding rather than his condemnation, and Harvery took this as a sign to continue. “Growing up, more than anything else I loved my country. Couldn’t always say the same about my King, but the country as a whole…that was where my heart lay. I wanted to help it, any way I could. I wanted to ensure it never knew anything ‘cept peace…that no Bernite or anybody else could destroy the city I grew up in or the people I loved. So that’s why I decided to join the Etrurian intelligence service…

 

“I believed in what I did as a spy. I still do. But Braddock…it was hard work. I don’t mean difficult, or strenuous. It’s…I did things, Braddock. It was for my country, it was for peace, but…” He sighed heavily. “There’s a lot of blood on these two daggers of mine. I…I’m not ashamed of it. If I didn’t kill the people I did, didn’t steal the sort of stuff I did, there would have been insurrections all across Etruria, maybe even a big war…I did what I had to do. For the people. For my country.

 

“But even so…it’s not an easy thing to live with, you know? I…I just couldn’t take it. So about ten years ago—around the same time Hell’s Wall got destroyed right around here—I asked the King if I could retire. I’d done a lot of good work for him, so he accepted. He just wanted one last job from me, then I’d be done. It wasn’t hard, either—he was merciful to me. Nothing but information-gathering in Lycia. Really, I was just to be a sort of surreptitious news reporter, or herald. No killing, no stealing…nothing but insinuating myself into the canton of Cornwell, posing as an ordinary butler. I’d just report on Lycia’s internal affairs to the folks back home. Nothing immoral, nothing distressing…easy stuff.

 

“I bet both of you know ‘bout how easy jobs can go crazy though, right? Ri—uh, nevermind,” he said when he noticed the expression on both Braddock and Renault’s faces hadn’t grown any cheerier. “Anyways, I got found out barely a week into my assignment. Char…let me tell you, he was one of the smartest guys I ever knew. He had an eye on me the whole time and I never even knew it! When he caught me in his sister’s room, well—“

 

“In Pamela’s room?” Braddock didn’t seem to take too well to that. “What the hell were you doing?”

 

“N-nothing dirty, trust me! I heard she’d received a bunch of letters from Marquess Laus and wanted to see what they entailed. I’d heard of his reputation, so I wanted to make sure he wasn’t trying to…manipulate her, or anything like that. The diplomatic repercussions if that ever happened might’ve destabilized the Alliance, which would’ve been bad for Etruria in the long run!”

 

“Ah.” That explanation satisfied Braddock, so he let the former spy continue.

 

“When Char found me, I thought I was dead, really. He was just standing there in the doorway, staring at me…couldn’t read the expression on his face for the life of me. I tried to explain…well, make something up, but he was too smart to believe any of it. So I just broke down and told him the truth. I really didn’t mean any harm, but I was indeed a foreign spy.

 

“If he didn’t kill me, I thought he’d just throw me out. But…he did something different. Char…he let me stay. He told me, ‘I can understand why you need to do this sort of work. But in return, I’m going to ask something of you. I let you report back to your masters in Aquleia, but I want you to tell me what’s going on in foreign countries. If I ever want to become a leader equal to my father, international diplomacy is a skill I’ll have to master. If you can help me with that, then I’ll help you.’

 

“So did I take his offer? Of course I did! I’d have been a fool not to. So we both did our things—I kept my employers abreast of what was happening in Lycia, and I was happy to tell Char anything which might have helped him maintain Cornwell’s peace with Etruria and other nations.” A soft smile spread across the former spy’s face. “And you know what? Those were some of the happiest times of my life.

 

“Char wasn’t just some half-wit son of a half-wit ruler. He really, genuinely wanted to learn, to improve. He would be a great leader, I was sure of it! And his siblings…none of them, especially not his sister, were as stuck up and unbearable as some of the nobles I’d worked for back home. Instead of gettin’ kicked out…honestly, Cornwell became like a second home for me. I felt like I was doing good work, both for Etruria and the people of Lycia. I didn’t have to steal or fight, I didn’t have to kill…it was the best job I could remember taking.”

 

His expression darkened. “But then, after about three years…well, then came the Civil War. When I found out you were marryin’ Pamela, I was as happy as anybody. Finally, somebody who could treat her right…not that weird Volker guy! But then…then, well, you know what happened.” Braddock merely nodded, his own expression grim. “From the start, I thought something was weird. Volker had his strange tastes, sure, but he’d never killed a woman he wasn’t married to yet. And you killing Pamela? I knew that was just plain impossible, I saw you two together. But even so…despite my suspicions, I couldn’t stop what happened.” He sighed heavily. “M…Maxim, look. I gotta apologize…I should’ve known what Paptimus was planning. Shoulda exposed him, saved Pamela…I had no idea he was behind all this, and that’s my biggest shame as a spy. If I’d done a better job, we could’ve stopped him in his tracks, and everything—the Lycian Civil War and this one—could’ve been avoided.”

 

Braddock nodded, but he didn’t seem angry. “I wish you did, Harvery. But if that bastard could fool everybody…and I mean EVERYBODY, in the Etrurian Royal Court, all the mercenaries, even me and Renault…I don’t think you would’ve had that much more luck, man. So even if you failed to uncover what he was doing…I can’t really blame you. I think even the best spy would’ve been deceived by the scum. I mean, the only reason me and Renault even found out about his schemes was through pure luck! So don’t be too hard on yourself.”

 

“R…really?” The expression on Harvery’s face was as if a huge weight had been lifted from his back. “M…Uh, B-Bra, uh…never mind. Th…thank you.”

 

“No problem. But I wanna hear the rest of your story. How’d you end up with Char in Etruria?”

 

“Well, when the Civil War began…there wasn’t a whole lot I could do. It changed him…changed Char a lot. He’d never been the friendliest guy in the world, but when he went into battle…” Harvery shuddered. “It was terrible. I got the feeling a guy like that would ask me to do some pretty bad things, so I just pretended to be nothing more than a spy rather than…well,” he gestured to the daggers at his belt, “the other things I could do. I’m not sure if he ever quite believed me, but he never asked me to do any…any black work for him. This…it was a pretty bad time for me. Seeing the country I’d grown to love tearing itself apart like this…I couldn’t stand it. But I had to stay…no matter what happened, my countrymen needed to know what was going on. King’s orders…Galahad wanted me to keep ‘em informed of the military situation in Lycia.

 

“When the war finally ended, though…when Char got drugged by the Marquess of Araphen, I knew there was an opportunity I couldn’t refuse.” Something like determination gleamed in the spy’s eyes. “Char…he was a great man. A great leader. He…it wasn’t his time to die yet! What a waste it would be if they just executed him! A complete, COMPLETE waste! I couldn’t let that happen, but I knew it would if he stayed in Lycia. So I did the only thing I could think of doing. I snuck into the dungeons of Ostia—probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done—picked the lock to his cell, and led him out of there. I brought him to Etruria, before King Galahad…gave the King my report on the Civil War, along with one last recommendation. That Char of Cornwell be allowed to live peacefully in our country, on the condition that he would lend us his leadership if we ever truly needed it. The King accepted, and relieved both of us from our duties…Char took the name Henken, and was given a house in the city of Thagaste. Me? I was allowed to retire and got a cushy job as a tax collector. It wasn’t the most glorious occupation, sure, but at least I didn’t have to kill anybody.”

 

“So that’s what you were doing for the past few years,” said Renault. “You brought him to this country, set him up as a stoneworker in Thagaste, all so you could use him at a time like this. And you called each other friends?”

 

“It’s not like that!” Harvery protested, anger evident in his voice. “Renault, what else could I do? Just stand by and let him die? How could he have stayed in Lycia? He was the Red Comet of Cornwell…everybody would have hunted him down, either to kill him or use him! So I just brought him to Lycia where he could enjoy a peaceful life…the life he should’ve enjoyed! I never thought…never thought it’d come to this!”

 

“I understand, Harvery,” said Braddock. “I…hell, I probably would’ve done the same thing in your place. The whole Civil War…it was a complete waste, in every sense of the word, for everybody. No sense letting even one more person than necessary die. Besides,” the Ostian clenched his fists and punched them together, “it’s thanks to you we have the Red Comet on our side now, isn’t it? There’s no way Paptimus will be able to win against that guy. So if what you did ended up helping us bring that scumbag to justice…well, I’m sure not gonna condemn you.”

 

Renault shrugged. “I guess we’ll see if the Red Comet’s reputation really is so deserved pretty soon, right? From what I’ve seen of Khyron and from what I saw in the Revolutionary Army, even without this Barbarossa thing I wouldn’t think the Royalists stood a chance. If Henken manages to pull off a victory, frankly, I think we’d owe both him and Harvery a few casks of ale. Well…if I drank the stuff, anyways.”

 

This elicited a few chuckles from Harvery and Braddock, but their mirth would be short-lived. “What are you doing?” blared Khyron as he walked up to them, an indignant expression on his face. “Stop your lollygagging and get moving! We’ll have to find a place to hide so the Wvyern Knights and the advance guard don’t detect us before we begin our ambush! YOUR so-called ‘Great General’ was the one who insisted on these dirty, dishonorable tactics; are you telling me you’ve suddenly found moral compunctions against them?”

 

Braddock, Renault, and Harvery all looked at each other and rolled their eyes. “Not at all, Lord Khyron.” With that, the three of them followed their leader to make the final preparations for their ambush.

 

None of them were under any illusions about how unlikely it was they’d be returning to Etruria alive. However, even in their wildest nightmares they hadn’t the slightest idea of what was waiting for them.

 

 

 

 

_-X-X-The Battle-X-X-_

 

“They’re coming!”

 

Harvery hissed those words as he, Khyron, Renault, Braddock, Rosamia, and Apolli lay prone on the ground in the dead of night, hiding under some spare thin but concealing orange robes as they watched the trail beneath them with a great deal of interest. Since Lycia relied a great deal on Etrurian trade, there were several large, well-traveled paths which led through the Argos Mountains. This one was a wide defile large enough to admit two columns of men through the mountains and which happened to be right next to the fast-moving river which separated the central region of Lycia from its westernmost reaches, the cantons closest to the Nabata Desert. The defile was specifically designed to permit large armies to pass through, using the river to ferry supplies back and forth—another illustration of how close Etruria’s relationship with Lycia was.

 

“I can hear their wyverns,” Harvery continued. “Stay under your robes!” Khyron had been given several spare orange robes, which seemed to have been intended for ‘bandits’ somewhat bigger than any of his men. They hadn’t seemed as if they would come in handy at first, but now they proved their use. As camouflage, the large robes wouldn’t be very useful during the day. However, their shade of orange was somewhat similar to the shade of rock the mountains seemed to be made of, so at night any Wyvern Knights flying overhead wouldn’t be able to distinguish them from the ground, especially since they weren’t expecting an ambush. At least, that was what Khyron’s band hoped for.

 

A few moments after Harvery issued his warning, Renault heard the sound of heavy, leathery wings flapping above him. Trying to keep as much of himself under the blanket as possible, he looked up. For a moment he couldn’t see anything except the moon set in the black sky—then a bat-winged shape obscured it for just a moment, and then another did the same thing.

 

“The advance guard,” said Harvery quietly. “They’re definitely coming this way. In a few minutes we should see the main force. Khyron, where are the Pegasus Knights?”

 

“I—“ the Sage began, but lowered his voice when he noticed Harvery put a finger to his mouth, “I ordered them to hide in a cave they found a small distance behind and above our present position. They’ll come to assist us if I give them the signal—a fireball into the air. Should I?”

 

“No! No, not yet,” whispered Harvery. “Let’s wait at least until we get a sight of this Barbarossa thing, whatever it is. More likely than not the Bernites are gonna set up camp in this trail through the mountains below us, since it’s so late and at this pace it’ll take them a while to get through it. Let’s strike when they’re resting!”

 

Khyron grumbled something about ‘dirty tactics’ again, but didn’t elect to refute the spy. Thus, Renault and his compatriots spent what seemed to be an eternity but was closer to a half hour huddling under their robes, breathing as quietly as they could to avoid attracting attention from either the hordes of Wyvern Knights they heard flapping above them or the hundreds of boots and hooves they heard clomping below them on the path. All of a sudden, Harvery hissed, “Look!”

 

He surreptitiously pointed downwards, to a specific portion of the traveling army, and Renault’s gaze followed his finger. It was too dark to see clearly from this distance, but Renault could definitely make out a massive rectangular shape being moved slowly across the ground. He could hear loud snaps and growls coming from in front of it, where he could also make out movement—he realized the giant…container, apparently, was being pulled by _wyverns_ —more than a dozen of them, by the sound of it. That was probably a low number—the container was truly huge, about twice as large as Renault’s house had been in Thagaste. Harvery had not exaggerated its size.

 

But when Renault heard the loud, low growl which emanated from the container, continued for half a minute, and was forceful enough to make the rock he was lying on shake slightly, he knew there was a lot of stuff Harvery hadn’t told them about this Barbarossa weapon.

 

“S-shit, man,” stammered Braddock, apparently as shaken as Renault and the rest of the team was, “What the hell is that thing? What the hell are we up against?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” whispered Khyron resolutely, “we WILL destroy it! No matter what!”

 

Renault wanted to point out how unlikely that prospect seemed, but by now he knew it wouldn’t do any good. All he could do—both out of practicality and to quiet his own fears—was to wait patiently for the Bernites to set up camp.

 

After what seemed to be another interminably long wait but what was, in actuality, another hour or so, they had their chance. After the rear guard of the army had passed them by, the team found they could surreptitiously trail the Bernese troops—they were not expecting a force of six people to attack them, especially from behind or the sides, so their guards and scout troops were concentrated at their front, to ward off any pre-emptive attack from Etruria.

 

In short, they had no idea what was coming for them.

 

After trailing the army for some time, Khyron’s team found the Bernites had finally stopped, and after waiting another hour or so, it had become apparent the “exiles” had set up camp and gone to sleep. From their position on the rocky cliffs overlooking the trail and the river just below it, the Royalist force couldn’t tell exactly what sort of troops were waiting for them below, but they could all easily make out the container itself, for its silhouette jutted conspicuously into the moonlight sky. It made itself an easy target for them. It was surrounded on one side by sleeping soldiers and on the other by the steep drop leading to the rushing river itself. It wouldn’t be impossible to sneak close enough to Barbarossa’s container—whatever the weapon may have been—and destroy it, but it wouldn’t be easy either. And, of course, escaping was another matter entirely.

 

“Stop wasting time,” said Khyron. “Let us attack!”

 

As one, his team cast off their concealing robes and stood up, over the snoozing Bernese forces. In addition to their weapons, they carried the other pieces of equipment they’d need to put Barbarossa to sleep—the several casks of oil the quartermaster had provided them with, a good deal more than they thought they’d need. Now they saw how it would come in handy.

 

“Move!” As quietly as they could, “Hell’s Wall” descended from the cliff down to the defile below. Harvery had the easiest time of it—Renault had to stifle a gasp as he watched the spy—no, the Assassin, it seemed—run straight down an almost-vertical section of the cliff to the ground below over the span of a few moments. Standing just to the side of a Bernese tent, he raised a dagger in the air and allowed it to glint in the moonlight for a moment, indicating for his fellow ‘bandits’ to follow him. After recovering from their shock (they hadn’t expected Harvery to be quite so skilled any more than Renault did), Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli made their descent. They couldn’t just jump down (or run down as Harvery did), but the cliff wasn’t perfectly sheer—a few sections of rock jutted out here and there, providing platforms for them to jump down to. At night, it was very risky business, but they didn’t have a choice. Apolli’s sharp archer’s eyes and natural agility helped him greatly in this regard. He hopped deftly from rock to rock, and though he stumbled on one of the outcroppings close to the bottom, he regained his balance and steadied himself by gripping a cleft in the cliff behind him, and then hopped to the ground safely. Rosamia and Khyron gave themselves a bit of light—chanting softly, they summoned small glowing balls of fire to hover in front of them, not large enough to wake up any of the Bernese soldiers, but just large enough to light their path. Like Apolli, they hopped from rock to rock, and managed to reach the bottom without anyone noticing.

 

“It’s our turn now,” said Braddock grimly, to which Renault nodded. Neither of them had the advantages of their friends, so they elected to descend the slow and steady way—climbing. It was hard to see with nothing but moonlight, so the two mercenaries knelt, feeling their way across the edge of the cliff for crevices and clefts, and when they found some, eased themselves over the edge and clung to those. Then, slowly and painstakingly, inch by inch, the two of them began to lower themselves, using their hands and feet to feel out any more grips available to them.

 

 _Damn_ , thought Renault to himself as he began to sweat from the exertion, _all my training’s paid off, I guess. Just two years ago I would’ve exhausted myself by now!_

 

Fortunately, he wasn’t close to tiring himself out, and neither was Braddock—impressive, when one considered the Ostian was wearing his armor. Although they knew how likely it was they’d miss a grip and take a fall, especially in this darkness, luck seemed to be with them—with each passing minute the two of them got closer and closer to the ground. It seemed as if they’d succeed…until Braddock’s eyes went wide, he couldn’t stop himself from spitting “Damn it!” and the pieces of rock his right hand and right foot had steadied themselves on crumbled and gave way. He couldn’t maintain his grip, and tumbled down.

 

“Aw, hell! Braddock!” Renault cursed, and without thinking, he let go of his own grip and just jumped straight down to help his friend. By this point they were low enough that they wouldn’t be injured by the fall, but that wasn’t what Renault was worried about. It was the loud clatter Braddock had made when he hit the ground.

 

“Damn,” muttered the Ostian as Renault landed with a thump next to him “Messed up, didn’t I?”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” whispered Renault. “I bet nobody noticed!”

 

Unfortunately, he was very wrong about that. “Hey! Is anybody there?” called a Bern-accented voice from in front of them. Both Renault and Braddock went absolutely still as they heard footsteps tramp on the ground in front of them and could make out a man’s shape exiting from a small tent in front of them.

 

“Thought I heard something,” said the man, standing in front of the two mercenaries. “Big noise, sounded like somebody fell. I—hey,” he said suspiciously, stopping in his tracks—Renault and Braddock could tell his head had turned towards them. “You two, what’re you doing there?

 

“Dammit,” mumbled Renault, as he and Braddock got to their feet. “Uh, we just got a little lost,” he said, trying to give his best affectation of a Bernese accent and failing miserably. “We’ll get back to our tents now, nothing to worry about.”

 

Unfortunately, the man wasn’t convinced. “Hey, turn around,” he said. “You don’t sound right.”

 

“Let’s make this quick, bud,” whispered Braddock as he and Renault put their hands to their weapons. “We take him out now, maybe nobody else will notice!”

 

“Alright,” Renault nodded, and both of them spun around to cut down the inquisitive soldier before he could alert anyone else of their presence. However, before they could do _that_ , something changed.

 

Renault and Braddock paused as the soldier’s eyes widened in shock. Almost imperceptibly, the area around them seemed to _darken_. Renault couldn’t quite describe it, but all he knew was that for a moment, it seemed as if the night had gotten blacker, as if the moon and stars themselves disappeared.

 

The swordsman would have thought it merely a trick of his imagination if he hadn’t noticed what happened to the soldier in front of him. Rather than shout or attack them, the Bernite took a single step forward, and he was now close enough that Renault could see his wide eyes and the terrified expression on his face. He gave a single, quiet, strained gurgle, holding his hands out towards them, and then toppled over, blood gushing profusely from the gash in his neck.

 

Amazed, both Renault and Braddock turned their eyes up from the corpse on the ground to the shape standing behind it.

 

“I really hate this job,” said Harvery quietly, regret and resignation evident in his voice.

 

Of course, they didn’t have much time to spend on that unhappy subject. “Come on,” said the spy after the three of them had dragged the corpse off someplace a bit less conspicuous a small distance from where they were standing, “we have to meet up with the others. Hurry up, but be quick, too!”

 

Renault and Braddock didn’t need to be told twice. They headed over to where the other three members of their team were as hastily and as quietly as possible, which turned out to be a good deal of both—they didn’t wake anyone else up.

 

Khyron threatened to, however. “Where the devil were you three?” he said, and would have yelled some more if Harvery hadn’t again told the Mage General to hush. “You almost derailed this entire operation!”

 

“M-Milord,” stammered Apolli, “they didn’t get caught, so it seems alright, r-right?”

 

“Sir, we don’t have time to argue,” seconded Rosamia. “Let’s just destroy Barbarossa!”

 

“Fine!”

 

With no further ado, the six infiltrators began their stealthy way towards Barbarossa’s massive container. It wasn’t hard—everyone around them was asleep in either a tent or a blanket laid across the ground, and the team managed to avoid stepping on any Bernite toes or heads as well as making too much noise—even Braddock, clad in chain mail and armor as he was, didn’t clatter overmuch.

 

Barbarossa, however, seemed to be much better protected. There were torches set around its huge, rectangular prison, and Renault could make out what the box seemed to be made of—regular wood, but reinforced with metal and with titanic, impressive-looking welding at its corners—definitely not something easy to break. However, from the looks of it if the container was soaked with oil and set alight, whatever was inside it would bake quite nicely. In front of it lay a team of at least fifteen Wyverns, laying on the ground and snoozing peacefully. Thankfully, Wyverns were very sound sleepers, so it was unlikely they’d have to worry about waking them up by drawing closer. No, something else provided the real problem—next to the torches stood three guards with spear and buckler, preventing the team from getting any closer—if they entered the torch’s field of luminance, the guards would spot them for sure.

 

However, as good fortune would have it, only two of the guards seemed to be awake—the third on the rightmost side was making an effort to pretend to be awake, but judging from the way he was leaning on Barbarossa’s box, he was out cold.

 

“Not bad,” muttered Harvery. “Apolli, you think you can take one out from this distance?”

 

“Th-the one without a helmet, yeah,” stammered the youth.

 

“Alright. We’ll take them both out at the same time than deal with the sleeping one. You ready, kid?”

 

“Uh-uh huh!” Quickly and quietly, the youth went down on one knee, unlimbered his bow from his back, and drew an arrow from his quiver. The light from the torches was dim, and the hapless guard had no idea he was being targeted—but from the way he was shifting, he got the impression someone unfriendly was watching him, and he leaned forward to peer into the darkness.

 

That was precisely the moment Apolli let his arrow fly.

 

To everyone’s relief, the missile embedded itself squarely in the center of the man’s forehead, and with a stunned “Glack!” he crumpled to the ground.

 

This wasn’t enough to wake up the sleeping guard, who simply murmured “Mmmurh” and tilted his head away, but it was enough to get the attention of the other. “What the—“ he started, before he noticed a dark shape dash right behind him. He didn’t have time to think any more than that before he found his head being forced back and his throat slit wide open by one of Harvery’s daggers.

 

Even through all this, the remaining guard remained fast asleep, only mumbling “mrrrgh,” again after he heard the sound of his other friend’s blood hitting the ground.

 

He only woke up—and he _really_ woke up—when he suddenly felt a strong hand clamp itself over his mouth and drive his head back against the side of the container.

 

“Sorry ‘bout this,” said Renault insincerely as he drove his other hand’s longsword from the back of the man’s jaw right up through his skull and into his brain. The guy jerked once and gurgled, the noise suppressed by the hand that was still at his mouth. Renault didn’t let him go until he saw the life leave entirely from his eyes, at which point he lowered the body quietly to the ground.

 

“Let’s get started,” said Khyron grimly. “We haven’t much time!” His underlings knew exactly what he was referring to. Renault sheathed his sword and unclasped his cask of oil from his belt as Braddock, Rosamia, and Apolli did the same. Working quietly—and glancing behind themselves every few seconds to make sure no patrolling guards or insomniac soldiers saw what they were doing—they splashed the oil all around the sides of Barbarossa’s container and on the ground nearby. Harvery, wanting to finish the job as quickly as possible, had two casks with him, and with the same speed he’d demonstrated earlier he rushed straight up the side of the holding cell and to its top, where he doused the entire surface with the contents of the casks.

 

 _Hey, this might not be so hard,_ Renault thought to himself. _After we oil this thing up nice and good, we get a small distance away, Khyron burns it up with some of his magic, and we call the Pegasus Knights to fly us out of here. Since we just gotta take out this weapon and nothing else, we’ll be set!_

 

Unfortunately, as Renault suspected had become something of a recurring pattern in his life, it wouldn’t be so easy. Because though the Wyverns of Bern were indeed sound sleepers, there was one thing that could wake them up very easily—the smell of blood.

 

One of the beasts yoked to Barbarossa’s crate opened its narrow, yellow eyes and growled hungrily. It lifted its serpentine neck and glanced to its side. There, it saw a group of people it neither recognized nor particularly cared about occupied with spilling some sort of fluid which smelled strange but not appetizing, but also a man it recognized as a friend leaning against the side of the crate.

 

However, the man smelled as if he was covered in that red, sticky substance the Wyvern loved so much.

 

Growling loudly now, the Wyvern craned its neck forward and clamped onto the man’s arm with its jaws, trying to elicit a reaction from him. When none was forthcoming, the Wyvern realized it was latched on to a piece of food rather than an ally. It let out a low trill of satisfaction and jerked its head, dragging the corpse closer to it.

 

However, this attracted the attention of its fellows. As the piece of meat was dragged closer to them, the other dozen-plus wyverns began to wake up. When they did, they saw one of their own enjoying a hearty midnight snack—and saw no reason they couldn’t join in the feast as well.

 

“Shit! What the hell’s going on?” swore Renault when he suddenly heard a cacophony of growls, shrieks, clashing jaws, and bones being crushed coming from the other side of Barbarossa’s container. Emptying the last bit of his cask of oil, he headed over to take a look—then stumbled back as he saw what was happening. Getting into the middle of a small group of Wyverns fighting over a man’s corpse, growling and snapping at each other as they alternately tried to squeeze past their fellows close enough to tear chunks of flesh off the cadaver was definitely _not_ a good idea. Unfortunately, he was also very well aware that if this kept up, their attack wouldn’t be much of a surprise anymore.

 

It was already too late. “H-Hey, what in the world…” said one sleepy Bernite, emerging from a tent just in front of the fighting wyverns. His eyes went wide when he realized what he was seeing, and he screamed, “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

 

Immediately after he did so a hand axe slammed directly into his head, but the damage had been done and the Bernese forces were rousing themselves from their slumber. “Dammit!” yelled Braddock, “Khyron, we’ve been detected!”

 

“W-what?” replied the sage, spilling a bit of oil onto his boots. “Impossible! We can’t—“

 

Braddock swore again as he glanced behind him, seeing a great deal of movement in the darkness just beyond the torchlight—masses of men getting to their feet, as well as arming themselves. “WE DON’T HAVE TIME,” he shouted,“JUST BURN THIS DAMN THING!” Without wasting a moment, and completely on impulse, the Ostian darted over and grabbed one of the torch stands. “EVERYBODY, MOVE!” His teammates barely had time to heed his command (Harvery, with his Assassin’s reflexes, jumped straight off the top of the container and landed deftly on his feet three stories below) before Braddock hurled the torch straight at Barbarossa’s container.

 

The effect didn’t disappoint.  Tongues of flame raced up and around the container, and the fighting wyverns shrieked in fear, forgot their meal (which by now had been reduced to a few scraps of flesh) and hastily tried to get as far away as possible from their yoke, breaking their girdles and taking flight, scattering in every direction under the sky.

 

By this point, the Bernese camp was in a great deal of disarray, but this was of little comfort to Hell’s Wall. “KHYRON, USE YOUR MAGIC!” Renault yelled as an arrow flew from the distance and past his head, joining the flaming kindling behind him. “IT’S NOT BURNING FAST ENOUGH!” Not nearly fast enough—from the light given off by the flames, they could all see that they were being surrounded by the Bernese army. They wouldn’t be able to escape.

 

“ROSAMIA! WITH ME!” Khyron didn’t waste a moment either as he raised a hand in the air, summoning his twin Elfire orbs. His apprentice did the exact same, and two huge globes of flame smashed into the side and top of Barbarossa’s container, turning the entire thing into a burning mass of flame and smoke.

 

“WE DID IT! HAHA, WE DID IT!” shouted Khyron, but his elation quickly turned into stark and utter despair when he turned and realized the situation he was in.

 

In front of him and Rosamia, Braddock, Renault, Apolli, and Harvery stood in a protective semi-circle. They all had their weapons drawn, but each of them knew it was a futile gesture—in front of them stood what seemed to be the entire Bernese force, hundreds and hundreds of armed, angry men leveling spears, swords, axes, and bows at them, the expression on their faces making it clear they wanted very much to use those weapons.

 

Well, hundreds of men and at least one woman. “Only the six of you? They only sent six people against our entire force? You Etrurians…I never imagined you could be this audacious,” said the tall, busty, green-haired lady standing in front of the Bernese soldiers, wearing what was apparently part of a Wyvern Knight’s raiment (above her shirt and pants she had her cuirass and greaves, though not her helmet or gauntlets) and pointing a very ornate spear at them. “I don’t know what’s more surprising, that you even tried pulling something like this off or that you actually succeeded. Your masters in Aquleia must be pleased with you.”

 

“Masters?!” Renault grimaced as he tightened his grip on his sword and swung it around in front of him. “You bitch, who the hell do you think you’re talking to? We’re Hell’s Wall! We don’t take orders from anybody! This is OUR land, and you’d best get out of here before we do to you what we did to your little box!”

 

“Damn, man,” whispered Braddock, right next to his friend, “where’d you learn to act like that?”

 

“Who said I was acting?” came Renault’s equally quiet reply.

 

Of course, despite his tough talk, the woman wouldn’t be swayed. She smirked, but there was no humor in her eyes. “You’re bandits? I’d heard stories about you while we were traveling through Lycia, but I thought you’d all been destroyed. It seems those rumors were untrue, but the ones about your belligerence were well-founded. Unfortunately, no matter how tough you think you are, you’re no match for eight hundred of us.” She raised her hand, telling her troops to prepare to charge. “It seems as if it’s up to us to finish what the Lycian army should have. Now—“

 

Her voice trailed off and her skin paled when she heard the noise emanating from Barbarossa’s container.

 

Once again, a low, rumbling growl could be heard all throughout the pass, far louder and more terrifying than anything a mere wyvern could make. But this time, it sounded very, very angry.

 

“Oh no,” murmured the woman, “Oh, NO! EVERYONE, GET BACK! NOW!!”

 

“What the—“ was all Renault had time to say before the whole world seemed to go crazy.

 

“ggggrrrraaaaAAAAARRRRRR **RRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!** ”

 

The ground itself shook and trembled from that force of that ear-splitting roar, and as Renault and his teammates keeled over, putting their hands to their ears, they noticed the Bernese troops stumbling backwards madly, attempting to get as far away as possible. The foreigners knew something they didn’t…but not for long.

 

Renault had no idea what hit him. He heard a resounding BOOM that caused a jolt of pain to flash through his ears, even though they were covered, and then he found himself slammed a few feet forwards and into the ground, his face painfully bumping against the hard rock. Compounding his troubles was the debris which kept bouncing off his exposed back and shoulders—it was burning hot, and as he opened his eyes, he noticed it was falling like glowing rain all around him—the remnants of Barbarossa’s burning container, he realized. Beginning to suspect what was going on, as quickly as he could Renault turned over, got to his feet, and took a good look at what was behind him.

 

What he saw was enough to tell him that this mission had been doomed to failure from the very start.

 

It was a dragon. A real, living…no, no, it wasn’t quite like a dragon, not exactly the same…but close enough that even as Renault beheld it in all its terrible glory, his conscious mind told him that it couldn’t possibly exist—it should have been impossible.

 

Thanks to the flaming wreckage of its cage strewn all around it, there was enough light for Renault to get a very good view of it. Its most obvious characteristic was its size—its container, large as it was, had apparently been _very_ constricting, which would explain the creature’s present foul mood. ‘Gigantic’ was an understatement. The monster’s body alone seemed to be as large as a good-sized building. It was roughly the same shape as a wyvern—a lumpy, quadruped body somewhat like a great lizard’s. However, unlike ordinary wyverns, it was completely covered in thick red scales, including its belly, which in wyverns was soft and vulnerable. The scales themselves seemed to be malformed—they didn’t fit together, but rather seemed to grow over, under, and _out_ of each other. It was if the creature was clad in a second skin, but this second skin, rather than fitting itself over the body, had gained a mind of its own and went crazy. There were so many cleaves, crevices, clefts, and jutting protrusions on the beast’s surface that it seemed almost like a crimson version of the cliff face Renault had descended earlier.

 

Renault wouldn’t have thought any creature that large could have been supported on just four legs if he hadn’t seen the ones Barbarossa had. The limbs were so wide, stocky, and strong that they made tree trunks look like twigs. Their surface was scaled like the rest of the beast’s body—every inch was covered by that strange, spiky misshapen armor. They terminated in a set of four toes arranged in an X that ended in long, sharp, pointed black claws that could have served as excellent spears on their own. Behind those legs extended a long tail arched over his back, somewhat similar to a scorpion’s, but without a stinger—rather, it ended in a gigantic black blade similar in shape to a Claymore or Zweihander’s but which absolutely dwarfed those swords in size.

 

All that alone would have been terrifying enough were it not for the thing’s head. Once again, there was a similarity to a wyvern’s, but only a vague one. Unlike a wyvern’s long, snakelike neck, Barbarossa had a short, thick one, more like a bull or a ram’s. It was sheathed in a ring of sharp black spikes that Renault initially thought was a sort of collar before he realized they were growing _out_ of the neck.

 

The head itself was the scariest part of the whole beast. Again, it was roughly similar to a wyvern’s except in three respects. First and most obviously was its size. Second was its crest—while most wyverns had a spiky crest at the back of their lizardlike heads, behind their eyes that extended backwards over their necks, Barbarossa’s crest extended _forwards_. In front of its neck spikes but behind its eyes was what could almost be called a curled, twisted crown. The crest seemed to divide up into six horn-like protrusions which spiraled forward, akin to the horns of a ram. And then, of course, were the eyes themselves. While most wyverns had eyes not entirely unlike human ones—green, yellow, or purple irises set into the whites with vertical catlike pupils, Barbarossa’s massive eyes—as large as Renault’s entire head--were completely pitch black, darker than the night around them. In both eyes, however, was what seemed to be a spark—a tiny, glowing red-orange dot which expanded and contracted, darting all over the eye and giving it a distinctly manic appearance—which wouldn’t be too far off from the truth, it seemed.

 

That was what worried Renault, because not only did the beast look dangerous, it also seemed more than capable of pursuing its prey. From its spiky, lumpy red back extended its largest appendages—its wings. All four of them. The first pair began just behind the shoulders of its forelegs, and seemed to extend their bat-like shape almost endlessly across the sky, or at least far enough to keep a very good section of the battlefield under their shadow. The second began just behind those, and was somewhat smaller, but still quite large. All four wings were covered in those lumpy crimson scales and were tipped with black spikes. Given how large and decidedly un-aerodynamic Barbarossa seemed, Renault would have thought they were just for show if it wasn’t for their most notable characteristic—the strange glowing runes at the center of each of them. In the middle of each wing was set a series of bright blue glowing lines arranged in the design of an equilateral triangle set into a circle. Renault had no idea what they were supposed to do, but since he could sense their aura of power even from this distance, he was very sure they weren’t decorations.

 

All around him, the other five members of Hell’s Wall were gazing at the beast with the same rapt awe he was. However, if that Bernese lady had her way, they wouldn’t be there very long. “ALL TROOPS,” she shouted, having backed away with the rest of her men a fair distance from the colossal beast, “DON’T PANIC! SIMPLY KILL THE INTERLOPERS FIRST, THEN WE CAN GET BARBAROSSA BACK UNDER CONTROL!”

 

Renault looked at the beast in front of him, then to the mass of Bernese soldiers charging at him from behind. “We…we can’t go out like this!” he spat.

 

Fortunately, however, he and his friends would find salvation from a very unexpected source—Barbarossa himself. Once again the creature roared, loud enough to shake the earth, send the disoriented members of Hell’s Wall tumbling to the ground, and loud enough to give the hundreds of charging Bernites pause just for a moment.

 

Then, he attacked.

 

With a great breath, Barbarossa extended his four wings, opened his mouth—revealing two rows of sharp black teeth each as long as Renault’s own sword in front of a long, slimy, spiked green tongue—tossed his head back, then turned it towards the soldiers, and _breathed_.

 

Renault had been expecting fire, and thus was mildly surprised when what came out of the beast’s mouth was not a red-and-orange gout of glowing flame but a long, steady stream of a weird green substance.

 

The beast turned his head, making the angle of the stream pass over Renault and his friends but straight onto the charging Bernese troops. The ones near the back, including their leader, managed to slow down and backpedal quickly enough to save their lives, but the ones in front weren’t so lucky. Renault didn’t have a good idea of what that green stuff was until Barbarossa ceased his breath attack and roared again in satisfaction—then, he had to make an effort to keep from vomiting when he saw the green substance’s effect.

 

Barbarossa spat acid—apparently of a very pure, undiluted sort. There was a huge, steaming cleft in a wide arc in front of the terrified members of Hell’s Wall—in fact, if Renault had been just a foot away from his present position, he would have got the full brunt of the attack, and it wouldn’t have been a pretty sight. Steaming pieces of metal—which were probably once Bernese pauldrons, gauntlets, and cuirasses—lay scattered about the area, along with chunks of smoking, bleached bones and even relatively-intact portions of a few skeletons that would have once been soldiers. The smell was absolutely horrifying—Renault couldn’t begin to describe it, except it seemed like something between rotting meat and burning sewage.

 

However, the attack had scattered the charging Bernites, who were now too busy trying to get out of Barbarossa’s breath range (and to avoid falling into the still-smoking trench he’d created) to worry about killing a half-dozen ‘bandits.’ For a moment, Renault thought the great beast might have been on their side. “Wow, thanks,” he said, turning back to look at him.

 

Of course, Renault wasn’t foolish enough to hope for too much. And when the shaking, darting points of red light which served as Barbarossa’s pupils stopped their frenzied movement to focus entirely on Renault, he was almost certain Bern’s secret weapon wasn’t his ally either.

 

A Bernite confirmed it for him—a soldier screamed, “HE’S BERSERK! BARBAROSSA’S GONE BERSERK!” just as Barbarossa growled, brought a claw into the air, and slammed it down on Renault’s position.

 

“SHIT!” As quickly as he could the sellsword rolled to the side to avoid being smashed. It was barely enough—Renault was tossed a few inches into the air as an ebony claw blasted into the earth where his head had been just a few moments before.

 

“DAMMIT,” yelled Braddock as he rushed towards Renault to help him up, “KHYRON, CALL THE PEGASUS KNIGHTS! WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!”

 

“NEVER!” screamed the Sage, and to everyone’s dismay he summoned another Elfire spell, sending a huge fireball straight at Barbarossa’s head. As expected, it didn’t do anything but annoy the beast—the flames just spattered off Barbarossa’s hard red coating of mutated scales. It did succeed in drawing his attention, though, for the creature growled again, this time in irritation, and then puckered up its cheeks and spat a glob of acid directly at the Sage. He would have died if his apprentice hadn’t came to his rescue—screaming, Rosamia charged and barreled herself into him, the acid dissolving her orange cape as it sunk into the ground behind her. Fortunately, she hadn’t been injured severely, though a few drops had landed on her arms and back, and Khyron had evaded all of it.

 

“Milord,” she panted, even now not forgetting the formalities, “There’s no way we can kill this beast! We have to get out of here!”

 

“NO!” Khyron shouted again as he angrily shoved the woman off of him. “COWARDS! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THIS THING WILL DO TO AQULEIA IF IT’S ALLOWED TO ESCAPE?! WE HAVE TO DESTROY IT _NOW!_ ”

 

“I knew he’d say that,” groaned Renault just before he and Braddock jumped to the left and right, respectively—otherwise, they’d both have been pulverized by the blade on Barbarossa’s tail as it sliced down towards them. Khyron once again distracted the beast as both he and Rosamia (who, after attempting to reason with her master once, was resigned to her fate) sent another stream of fire towards the monster, this time at its stomach. And once again it did little except convince the beast to glare at them and send a claw smashing down towards their position, forcing them to jump to the sides just as Renault and Braddock had done.

 

And this wasn’t their only problem. “Guys, we’ve got trouble,” yelled Harvery near the edge of the acid-trench, pointing to the sky. The Bernites who’d survived Barbarossa’s attack had regained their formation and were massing on the edges of the trench, equipping bows, hand axes, and javelins to toss at the Hell’s Wall impersonators. Worse, though, was that they’d managed to mobilize their Wyvern Knights—shapes could be seen flying all around the black, star-dotted sky, and more were joining them every moment. Apolli was standing beside the assassin, frantically firing arrows at both the Bernites on the other side of the trench and the Wyvern Knights amassing above, but it was a futile gesture—he couldn’t hold all of them off by himself. Barbarossa, of course, didn’t care about any of this—he once again roared, slammed his claws into the ground in an attempt to crush Khyron and Rosamia, and flicked his tail over his back in an attempt to pulverize Braddock and Renault.

 

Much to the beast’s surprise, though, his latest attacks had somewhat of the opposite effect of what he intended. Braddock and Renault had again managed to dodge the tail, both of them rolling in opposite directions at the same time, and so too had Khyron and Rosamia, who’d jumped forward and landed with the beast’s claws behind them. The one entity which had been truly injured by this point was the ground itself. About fifty feet above the river, the ground of the defile on which they were fighting had been smashed by claw and tail as well as softened by acid—it simply couldn’t take any more. Just as the Wyvern Knights began their dive, just as the Bernite infantry prepared to loose their javelins and arrows, the rock beneath them shook and shuddered.

 

Huge, widening cracks spread from the edges of the smoking acid-created trench to the edge of the path, and neither Renault nor his friends had time to shout so much as a warning before the ground beneath them gave way entirely.

 

Before they knew it, all six of them, along with their monstrous target, were in a free-fall straight down into the river below.

 

-x-

 

“AGH!”

 

Hitting the water really, really hurt, though thankfully the fall wasn’t fatal. If that wasn’t bad enough, it was also quite cold, the current was extremely fast, it was difficult to swim in soaked leather armor, and worst of all…Renault hadn’t the faintest idea of how to swim in the first place.

 

The sellsword opened his eyes and promptly shut them again as they began to burn. The breath had been kicked out of him by his impact with the water and he felt himself being carried away by the raging current. He knew he’d drown very soon if he didn’t do something, so he did the only thing he could think of…desperately thrashing his free hand through the water, hoping to grab onto something.

 

As if by some miracle, he did.

 

His eyes shut, Renault didn’t know what it was, but it at least gave him some leverage against the rushing water. With his right hand, which was still grasping his sword, he turned over his weapon and blindly stabbed it into whatever it was he’d grabbed hold of—maybe a rock or fallen log or something—and was satisfied when it sunk in a little bit, further solidifying his hold.

 

At least now he didn’t have to worry quite so much about being washed away. Now he had to get to the surface as quickly as possible, for his lungs were beginning to burn for lack of air!

 

Most unexpectedly, however, he found he didn’t have to do much work—the object he’d grabbed a hold of lifted, taking him with it.

 

“Pff, pah!” Renault sputtered and spat as his head broke through the river’s waters. He felt himself being lifted higher, higher, and he struggled to maintain his grip on whatever it was he was holding. Then for some reason, he felt himself going down a bit. He spat again and shook his head vigorously, getting the water away from his eyes as well as from inside his ears. When he could finally open them, he realized what, exactly, he was holding on to.

 

Renault found himself clinging to the larger of Barbarossa’s huge right wings, which was slowly beating up and down as the monster shook his head much like Renault had done, spraying everything nearby with water. Renault’s left hand was clamped around one of the spine-like flanges on the wing, while his sword was shoved into an irregular crevice in the scales.

 

Barbarossa growled and blinked, apparently still a bit disoriented from his fall. The Bernites seemed to be utterly shocked; the Wyvern Knights circled overhead like vultures, unsure of what they should do (not wanting to attack for fear of gaining Barbarossa’s attention) while the rest of the army just stared down at the river below them.

 

As Renault looked around, he found that his teammates had chosen more or less the same means of survival he had. Harvery had latched on to one of the ram’s horns on the beast’s crest and was currently huddling under it, which also had the added benefit  of shielding him from the falling rocks and debris which had accompanied their fall. Khyron and Rosamia, both soaked to the bone, were wearily holding on to the crags on Barbarossa’s back, between his wings. The only people Renault couldn’t see were Apolli and Braddock. He wasn’t as concerned about the former, but the latter…

 

“Shit!” he shouted. “Braddock! BRADDOCK! WHERE ARE YOU?!” He glanced around desperately, for he knew the Ostian would have sunk like a stone with all his armor on. The sellsword breathed a sigh of relief when he heard his friend call back to him.

 

“I’m—pfff, gah! I’m all right, Renault!” As Barbarossa’s left wing lifted up again in its steady beat, Renault could see his friend—the Ostian was clinging to Barbarossa’s other large wing, and raised his Silver Axe to allow it to glint in the moonlight, indicating to Renault he was unharmed.

 

The only member of their team who remained unaccounted for was Apolli. “Aw, hell,” muttered Renault when he looked at the river—he saw a thrashing, splashing shape that could have only been the archer being carried away by the current. Renault thought the kid was as good as dead—until some of his old friends came to the rescue.

 

“YOOO-HOOO~!”

 

The Wyvern Knights circling above them suddenly broke formation and spread apart as six white forms lanced down from the sky straight towards Barbarossa—the Shrike Team.

 

“OH WOW,” shouted Kasha, looking hungrily at Barbarossa, “YOU’RE A REAL BIG BOY, AREN’T YOU? LOOKS LIKE WE ARRIVED JUST AS THE FUN STARTED!” Squealing happily, she tossed a Javelin at the beast, which merely bonked off its rock-hard, scaly armor. Her fellow Knights launched their own attacks to similarly little effect, while Keith made herself useful by rescuing Apolli—Renault breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw Keith’s Pegasus splash down into the river and then rise again, this time carrying a very exhausted, bedraggled Archer on its back. Kelitha brought her Pegasus to a hover near where Khyron was—she was apparently unfazed even by the sight of this immense, misshapen monstrosity. “Lord Khyron, what are your orders?”

 

“KILL THIS BEAST!” shouted the Sage, but Kasha was already well ahead of him.

 

“Your armor’s too tough, eh?” she cackled, heedless of the Wyvern Knights reforming their formation and preparing to strike from above (not to mention the infantrymen readying their bows from what remained of the defile), “Well, how ‘bout those eyes of yours?” In the dark of night, the glowing spots which were Barbarossa’s pupils provided the perfect target. Once again she directed her Pegasus to fly right in front of the monster’s face and hurled another Javelin. This time it found its mark—and caused more than a bit of pain to the great beast. Renault had to tighten his grip on the wing and jam his sword even further into the crevice it was in to keep from falling off when Barbarossa roared and reared back in agony, a bloody spear protruding from his right eyesocket.

 

However, if they thought the beast was angry before, they hadn’t seen anything yet.

 

 **“GRAAAGH!”** Barbarossa screamed, pure rage evident in its unearthly voice. Heedless of anything but his desire to kill, as black blood streamed like tears from his ruined eye he drew his head back and then blasted forth another hateful stream of acid at the crazy Ilian.

 

“Oh, SHIT!” Even Kasha realized she may have bit off more than she could chew by angering Bern’s secret weapon so much. With as much skill as she could muster she spurred her mount into a dive, allowing her to dodge the deadly acid—which headed past her and upwards, straight into the Bernese Wyvern Knights, who once again had to break and scatter as the saw a couple of their own get dissolved by the noxious substance. Her fellow Knights had scattered as well, staying as far away from Barbarossa’s arc of fire as possible. Renault and their other teammates were just busy hanging on for dear life.

 

“Damn,” cursed Kasha, “Change of strategy!” She veered her Pegasus in a tight circle and then ascended and accelerated, past the scattered and demoralized Wyvern Knights. She was headed south, downriver—away from Etruria and towards the Lycian interior. “C’MON,” she shouted, taunting the mammoth fiend, “SEE IF YOU CAN KEEP UP WITH ME! SHRIKE TEAM, FOLLOW MY LEAD!”

 

Without even a moment of hesitation, the other five members of the Shrike Team followed her lead, soaring upwards and southwards, away from the chaos all around them. For a moment, Renault thought the Pegasus Knights were abandoning them…until the wing he was clinging to began to beat harder and faster, the rune in its middle began glowing more brightly, and Barbarossa let out another angry, vengeful growl.

 

“Th-this h-has g-got t-to b-be a j-joke,” stammered Renault as he attempted to steady his grip, his head swimming from the increasingly speedy up and down motion. He looked downwards and was shocked to see the river and land below him growing smaller—somehow, the gigantic, building-sized beast was _ascending_ with each flap of his stonelike wings. And he wasn’t slow either. Even the Bernites themselves seemed too taken aback to do anything—both the infantry on the mountain trail as well as the Wyvern Knights nearby only looked on in shock as Barbarossa lifted himself high into the air, and with a piercing scream and another heavy flap of those wings (which almost dislodged both Renault and Braddock) he soared off into the night, intent on slaughtering the lone Pegasus Knight which had managed to take out his eye.

 

-x-

 

“WAAAAAAAHHHHH!”

 

Renault thought the currents of the river were the worst thing he’d experienced until he felt the force of the air rushing past him. It took every bit of strength he had to keep from losing his grip and getting blown away, falling to the ground hundreds of feet below. Despite his massive size, Barbarossa was apparently very, very fast, almost if not equally as swift as the Pegasus Knight he was pursuing. Renault briefly wondered how that was possible, then remembered he might as well be wondering how a creature as huge as Barbarossa could exist in the first place at all, as well as pondering what the hell this thing even was.

 

All that could wait, though—at the moment, Renault was much more concerned with not dying. He knew he couldn’t stay like this forever, especially since his arms were aching already. As great fortune would have it, Barbarossa was no longer beating his wings—they were held out straight from his sides, and the beast himself kept his body straight, for he seemed to be _gliding_ after his quarry, the blue runes apparently providing his speed. Renault tightened his grip on his sword, which was very securely stuck in the crevice on Barbarossa’s wing, and shifted his left hand’s grip from the very edge of the wing to a lumpy protuberance a small distance behind it. With this better grip and with all his effort, Renault grunted in strain as he pulled himself over the wing’s edge and onto its surface. Now, he could lay flat in this position, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Though obviously he still had to hold on to the wing to keep from falling or getting blown away, since he could now support his weight on the wing itself it was much, much easier for him.

 

“HEY, RENAULT! ARE YOU OKAY?!” Although he had to struggle to hear the voice over the rushing wind, Renault turned to his right to see Braddock in much the same position he was on Barbarossa’s other large wing, raising his axe again for Renault to see.

 

“YEAH,” Renault shouted at the top of his lungs. He shifted his gaze a bit to see how his other teammates were doing—Rosamia and Khyron were still clinging to the middle of Barbarossa’s back, Harvery huddling behind his crest, and he could only hope Apolli was still on the back of Keith’s Pegasus. He was about to shout something more when Barbarossa’s wing jerked and he had to grip his sword and the nearest wing-spike he could to keep from falling off.

 

“Eeeee!” Harvery shrieked, his manic grip on Barbarossa’s horns the only thing that kept him from falling as the monster roared and fired another blast of acid at the Pegasus Knights in front of it. All of them dodged just in time—except one. Renault winced visibly as he heard a loud shriek which was just as quickly cut off, and which he desperately hoped had been Kasha’s.

 

Of course, it wasn’t—as the Pegasus formation re-grouped, and Barbarossa’s wings returned to their gliding position, Renault heard her distinctive laugh carry over the wind to his ears. Even worse, he heard another noise—the beating of wings not dissimilar to those of the Pegasi, but which seemed to be covered in scales rather than feathers.

 

“Damn it,” he groaned as he looked behind him to see scores of Wyvern Knights following their unchained secret weapon, rapidly catching up to it—and the ‘bandits’ who were hitching a ride on it. “YOU FILTHY HIGHWAYMEN!” screamed one of them. “WE WON’T LET A BAND OF THUGS HUMILIATE THE GREAT ARMY OF BERN! YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH THIS!”

 

“Damn it!” Renault laid himself even lower across Barbarossa’s wing to evade the thrown Javelins coming at him, most of which fell short of their target but one which managed to whoosh just over his head. “You bastards just don’t know when to quit, do you?” Turning to his left, he yelled, “HEY! A LITTLE HELP WOULD BE APPRECIATED!”

 

“Don’t look at me, I can’t do a thing from here!” wailed Harvery. Fortunately, however, his comrades were more useful. “WORTHLESS BERNITES!” yelled Khyron as he gripped Barbarossa’s back with one hand and held his Elfire tome towards the advancing Wyvern Knights with his other. A huge gout of flame leapt right from the pages of the book into one of the soldiers, engulfing him and his mount and scattering the ashes of both of them all across the air. His fellows, determined to avenge his death, accelerated and drew closer to Khyron, intended to end his life with a hail of Javelins and Short Spears, but their plans were foiled when his apprentice pointed her own book at them and launched her spell, the Elfire orb she commanded not quite as potent as Khyron’s, but still enough to disrupt their formation when it exploded in their midst before they could launch their attack. Braddock, sensing an opportunity, managed to buckle his Silver Axe to his back and grip another Hand Axe all while maintaining his balance on Barbarossa’s left wing, and with an expert toss he sent another Wyvern Rider tumbling from his mount to the ground far below, the blade of an axe embedded in his chest. Finally, the Pegasus Knights themselves wouldn’t allow their teammates to outdo them. Kasha didn’t change any of her plans, still racing forward as fast as she could, keeping Barbarossa’s attention. She veered right and left, always just in time to avoid the blasts of acid the enraged creature was constantly spitting at her. The remaining four members of the Shrike team, on the other hand, cut their speed to move behind Barbarossa, close enough to their Bernese pursuit to engage. Bernites screamed and fell from the air as the Ilians unleashed their own volley of spears, and Renault caught a glimpse of Apolli securely seated on the back of Keith’s mount, shooting arrows all through the air as fast as he could—though he had no experience whatsoever in mounted archery, he still fired away wildly, hoping at least to distract the Wyvern Knights (who were as afraid of arrows as Pegasus Knights were) and even managed to disable one, hitting a Wyvern Rider who had an arm raised to toss a Javelin in his unprotected armpit, forcing him to drop his weapon and peel away from his group in agony.

 

The night skies over southwestern Lycia were filled with flying arrows, javelins, and axes, screaming and dying Wyvern Knights falling to the ground, spells exploding under the stars like fireworks, and, of course, a colossal, terrifying beast which was likely raining horrible acid down upon all the innocent people below. Renault imagined the residents of this region were having a lot more excitement than they’d had in years, but then again, it likely wasn’t a good kind of excitement either.

 

He was definitely having a lot more excitement than he ever wanted right now. Despite the efforts of his comrades, the Bernese wyvern force alone outnumbered them by a very significant margin. Wyverns may not have been the fastest fliers on Elibe, but their enraged riders were pushing them to their limit, and were getting closer and closer to Barbarossa with every passing moment. Khyron and Rosamia were shooting off fireballs as quickly as they could, Braddock was hurling axes all over the sky, Apolli looked like he was running out of arrows, Kasha was still dodging acid blasts, and the Pegasus Knights were darting and diving all over the Bernese formation, but Renault knew it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

 

A hurled Javelin that he had to jerk to avoid proved his point. “We gotta do something,” muttered Renault as he tightened his left hand’s grip on the wing and yanked his sword out of the crevice in was in. He swung it wildly behind him just in time to bat away another Javelin which would have otherwise found itself lodged in his back. All the javelins being aimed at him were apparently beginning to annoy Barbarossa, and the sellsword smiled in satisfaction as the great beast flicked out with its tail, the black blade slicing straight through an unfortunate Wyvern and its rider and reducing both of them to a shower of gore plunging to the earth. Unfortunately, Barbarossa’s entire body shifted as he did this, resulting in Renault losing his grip. He let out a shout as he tumbled backwards. Desperately, he stabbed downwards blindly with his sword and was gratified and surprised to feel it sink deeply into something. He held on to its pommel with a death-grip, and that was enough to keep him from falling off. However, he found himself a bit surprised when he saw what it was it had driven itself into.

 

The sword had sunk very deeply into the blue rune on the middle of Barbarossa’s wing. For some reason, the flesh under the glowing, eldritch lines was as soft and supple as the scales around it were hard and unyielding. Pitch-black blood was spraying out of the area the sword had been embedded in, and Renault got the impression he had hurt the monster quite deeply.

 

Apparently, Barbarossa felt the same way. The creature screamed wildly and shuddered, held out his wings, including the bleeding one Renault was riding, then _flipped over in mid-air_.

 

As their ride suddenly turned upside down, the members of Hell’s Wall could do nothing but scream and hang on for dear life. Braddock lost his grip on his hand axe as he brought both hands to grab at the edge of the large left wing, Khyron and Rosamia both jammed their feet into a scaly crevice just below them and grabbed onto the closest protrusions they could, and Harvery swung both his arms over one of the curling horns on Barbarossa’s crest, dangling hopelessly in the air but still managing to keep from falling.

 

Only Renault was not so lucky. “NO!” He shouted as his blade slid out of the wound he’d inflicted, taking him with it. He reached out vainly with his left hand, but to no avail—he was already falling.

 

Renault’s stomach lurched as he plummeted through the night sky, watching the black shape obscuring the stars that was Barbarossa grow smaller in the distance. In anger, frustration, and despair, he let out the loudest scream he could—until he felt his back hit something, which wasn’t the ground at all.

 

“Huh?” Renault blinked in confusion as he realized he wasn’t dead, hadn’t hit the ground, and in fact was sprawled atop something much softer—the back of a Pegasus.

 

“Quickly, Renault, sit up,” a female voice said, and Renault felt a hand grab onto him and steady him as his free hand gripped the back of the Pegasus, allowing him to re-orient himself and shift into a more comfortable position. He swung one leg around until he was sitting bareback, and looked behind him to see who his rescuer was—Kelitha. She must have seen him falling, and with the swiftness the Pegasus Knights were known for, soared in to catch him just in time.

 

“Thanks, lady,” he grunted. “Guess I owe you one, eh?”

 

“You’re my ally,” she replied. “I couldn’t just let you die.”

 

“Yeah, well, we’re all gonna die if we don’t knock that thing out of the sky real soon,” growled Renault. He looked up to see the battle raging above him—dark shapes flitted all around Barbarossa’s, the light of exploding Elfire spells illuminating the Wyvern Knights as they tossed their Javelins or screamed and died, falling from the air or burning into cinders. Despite their numerical advantages—there were literally hundreds of them—the Bernites couldn’t get close enough to really launch a solid attack. Their mounts were having trouble keeping up, and also, though Barbarossa was still occupied with Kasha, roaring and spitting his devilish acid at her, he was also swinging his dangerous tail madly to and fro, forcing the Wyvern Knights to stay even farther back. However, Renault realized it was only a matter of time before either the Bernites managed to wear them down or Barbarossa turned his attention to the annoying fleas on his back.

 

“I got an idea,” said Renault. “Kelitha, bring me back to Barbarossa. I’m gonna jump on him again!”

 

“Wait, what?!”

 

“Don’t argue! Just do it!”

 

With no further retort, Kelitha grabbed the reins of her mount and kicked him in his sides, encouraging him to turn around, speed up, and raise his altitude. She veered him left and right to dodge several thrown Javelins, but soon enough, she was maintaining a steady position right over Barbarossa’s shoulders.

 

“Alright, this is good, Kelitha! Tell your sisters to cover me! Apolli, too! YAAAAAAH!” Not bothering with second thoughts, Renault screamed and jumped from the back of the Pegasus. After two crazy moments of rushing through the air, he fell squarely onto Barbarossa’s rock-hard back, grunting in pain as a spiky protrusion jarred against his abdomen. He was still alive, though, and at the moment that was all he cared about.

 

He was right next to Khyron and Rosamia, and the Sage cast him an angry look right after he finished blasting off another Elfire spell. “WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU DOING, RENAULT?!”

 

The sellsword ignored him.“HARVERY!” Renault shouted. “HELP ME! I KNOW HOW WE CAN BEAT THIS THING!”

 

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

 

“THOSE RUNES ON HIS WINGS! THEY’RE VULNERABLE!”

 

“RENAULT, THAT’S—“

 

“YOU GOT A BETTER IDEA? JUST HELP ME!”

 

“FINE, FINE!” screamed the Assassin. “KHYRON, ROSAMIA, AND BRADDOCK, COVER US!”

 

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” screamed Khyron, but he was cut off by his apprentice.

 

“LET’S JUST DO AS THEY SAY,” she yelled, “WE DON’T HAVE ANY OTHER CHOICE!”

 

“RENAULT, HURRY UP AND GO!” screamed Braddock, loosening one of his last Hand Axes and hurling it at a Wyvern Knight who was drawing closer.

 

That settled it. Khyron and Rosamia both let loose with as much magic as they could, exhausting their Elfire tomes in a final attempt to keep the Wyvern Knights at bay. Braddock did the same with his Hand Axes, the remaining Pegasus Knights pulled off every trick they knew as well, Kasha concentrating more on keeping Barbarossa’s attention than on dodging his attacks, and her fellows dashing back and laying into the Wyvern Knights as fiercely as they could, Apolli gripping on to the back of Keith’s Pegasus while he tried to shoot off his last few remaining arrows.

 

Renault only hoped it was enough. “ALRIGHT, HARVERY, LET’S GO! YOU TAKE THE LEFT WINGS AND I’LL TAKE THE RIGHT!” The assassin didn’t argue. With all of his preternatural skill he let go of the beast’s horny crest and dropped onto the back of its neck, hopping over its spiky ‘collar’ and _dashing_ right over to the rune on the larger of its left wings, without even needing to crouch.

 

His partner didn’t have time to marvel at his efficiency. “Damn it!” He knew it was a risk, but Renault didn’t have time to waste—he needed to get to Barbarossa’s larger right rune as quickly as possible. The beast was still holding relatively straight in the air, gliding after Kasha, so as long as Renault minded the air rushing by him he figured he’d be able to make it. Crouching low, and keeping his left hand on Barbarossa’s mutated scales, Renault scampered down his back and across his wings. It took him a bit longer than Harvery’s trek, and he had to pause and duck to avoid another trio of Javelins thrown at him, but within half a minute Renault had managed to clamber close to Barbarossa’s rune, whatever it was. It was the same one Renault had injured earlier, and he could still see black blood flowing from its surface.

 

“RENAULT, ARE YOU READY?” Harvery screamed.

 

“YEAH,” he shouted in response, “ON THE COUNT OF THREE, STAB THE DAMN THING WITH YOUR DAGGER!” With his left hand, he latched firmly onto a large scaly fissure right next to the rune, nudged his feet into similar fissures to further strengthen his grip, and with his right hand, raised his sword into the air, pointing straight down at its target, and began gathering as much of his strength as he possible could.

 

“ONE!”

 

Javelins soared past their heads. Both Harvery and Renault ignored them.

 

“TWO!”

 

Barbarossa roared, sending yet another blast of acid at Kasha. Renault was beginning to wonder how much of that stuff the monster had in his gullet, but didn’t allow the question to distract him.

 

“THREE!”

 

Simultaneously, Harvery and Renault brought dagger and sword straight down onto the runes. The blades sunk in swiftly and very deeply, and Renault had to shut his eyes, blink, and spit as a huge torrent of black blood gushed out of the wound he’d made and onto his face.

 

Barbarossa had _definitely_ felt that. The monster screamed, louder than he ever had before, so loud Renault thought his ears would burst, and slowed down markedly. He began to flap his wings as Renault saw the rune he’d stab glow brightly for a moment than disappear entirely, its aura of power vanishing. Apparently, it really had provided some means of flight for Barbarossa.

 

However, he still had two more runes left. “O-ON TO THE N-NEXT ONES!” shouted Renault as he grabbed onto the crevice and his sword as hard as he could, not allowing himself to fall off. He swore when he looked behind him and saw the Wyvern Knights advancing—despite the best efforts of his comrades and the Pegasus Knights, now that Barbarossa had slowed down and reduced his altitude they were catching up rapidly. Making matters worse was that Barbarossa seemed to have lost interest in Kasha—growling in pain, he now wanted to kill whoever had attached themselves to his wings. He turned his head left and right, trying to see what had attacked him, and flicked his tail at his wings, barely missing Harvery.

 

Renault realized he had to end this very soon. “Let’s go!” he grunted, and as Barbarossa raised his wings, Renault simply removed his sword from the rune-flesh and relaxed his grip, allowing himself to fall backwards.

 

But he wasn’t committing suicide—it was a controlled fall. He landed right on top of Barbarossa’s second wing, which was still held flat in its gliding position. “Oof!” Renault grunted, but didn’t allow himself to get disoriented. As quickly as he could, he grabbed onto the closest protrusion he could find with his left hand and turned himself over, jamming his knees under another pair of protruding spikes, giving him a secure position. He grinned when he saw it was just close enough to the blue rune for him to stab.

 

“I’M READY, RENAULT!” called Harvery, who’d managed to get on Barbarossa’s second left wing much the same way Renault had, albeit considerably more gracefully.

 

“DON’T WAIT, JUST DO IT!” Renault screamed. Raising his sword high above his head, Renault brought it down on the rune as quickly and with as much strength as he could. To his left, Harvery did the same with his daggers. And once again, on both wings from the runes gushed forth huge amounts of that strange black blood before the blue light faded completely.

 

**“GGGRRRRRAAAAAAAWWWWWAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”**

Barbarossa let out another earth-shaking, ear-splitting roar, but this time it seemed like it was filled more with despair than anger. All four of his wings stilled completely as he vainly struggled to keep in flight, then began to plummet straight down.

 

“H-Holy shit,” exclaimed Renault, holding on to Barbarossa’s wing with all his might, “HOLY SHIT! WE DID IT! WE ACTUALLY DID IT!” He didn’t care at all that he and his teammates were falling to what were likely their deaths along with Barbarossa’s, he was too intoxicated by the thrill of victory. He turned back to look at the pursuing Bernese forces, and was incredibly gratified to see they had given up their pursuit—the Wyvern Knights were slowing down, peeling away, and turning back towards their comrades still waiting in the Argos Mountains.

 

“YES! TAKE THAT, YOU BERNESE BASTARDS! HAHA,” Renault turned to his left, “HARVERY! WE DID IT! WE KILLED BARBAROSSA! BRADDOCK, DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

 

However, even from this distance he could see neither of his two friends were as happy as they should have been. Like Renault, they were both hanging on to the falling Barbarossa’s wings for dear life, but even if it seemed they’d all get pulped by the fall, Renault thought they’d be a bit happier for the victory. However, Braddock quickly told him what, exactly, was wrong.

 

“RENAULT,” he screamed, and the sellsword was surprised to hear something like panic in his voice. “WHY THE HELL DO YOU THINK THE BERNITES CALLED OFF THEIR PURSUIT?! LOOK WHERE WE’RE FALLING!!”

 

Renault turned his eyes downwards. Even in the darkness, he could tell the ground was rushing up to meet him…wait, not ground. Renault couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but Barbarossa seemed to be falling towards a very large building. Was it a castle? No, it couldn’t be…

 

“THE REAPER’S LABYRINTH,” Braddock yelled, “DAMMIT, HE’S TAKING US RIGHT INTO THE REAPER’S LABYRINTH!!”

 

In the few seconds before impact, Renault stared at Braddock speechlessly, then at Barbarossa, then at the edifice rushing up to meet him from below.

 

“Haven’t we had enough for one day?” Renault groaned.

 

Then everything went black.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

First off, thanks to Enilas for beta-ing! Chaos Hero Mark wasn’t able to beta for this chapter because he’s having Internet troubles…he’ll be away for a while. However, hopefully he’ll be back within a couple of months! Also, he told me he was working on the next chapter of Legend of the Chaos Hero, so when he gets back, everybody look forward to that! :)

 

Secondly, WHOOO-EEEE! Hope this chapter was EPIC enough for ya, my friends. Like I said, I hoped to crank the action up to 11 in this chapter, and I hope I didn’t disappoint! If you review—and I would REALLY appreciate it if you did XD—can you tell me how you liked the big battle between Renault’s team and Barbarossa? It was intended to be one of this whole fic’s centerpieces (and it’s not over yet ;) ) so I hope it’s sufficiently awesome :D

 


	23. The Reaper's Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and his friends have managed to destroy the Bernese secret weapon, Barbarossa. But now they find themselves trapped in a terrifying ruined labyrinth within the country of Lycia. How will they escape?

 

Wayward Son

 

23: The Reaper’s Labyrinth

 

_-X-X-Barbarossa, Round II-X-X-_

When Renault opened his eyes, he saw nothing but darkness above and around him and felt nothing but great throbbing pain across every inch of his body. He would have thought he was dead if he believed in an afterlife, but as he was, he could only think, “Why do I hurt so much?”

 

At the same time, he also felt a distinctly burning pain in his eyes as they began to water—that explained why he couldn’t see anything. Groaning in pain and irritation, he brought an aching hand to his face and rubbed at them, managing to dislodge most of what was in them. Blinking tears away, he finally opened his eyes and found he was staring upwards, looking at a circular patch where the moon and stars could be seen surrounded by complete darkness. He realized he was sprawled on the floor of the building they’d crashed into, and that the sky could be seen through the hole Barbarossa made. It also explained what had been in his eyes—the smaller bits of dust and debris which had accompanied their descent into the top floor of the Reaper’s Labyrinth. Renault blinked and looked around him, the moonlight streaming in from the ceiling’s hole just enough to tell him that rubble had gotten everywhere, not just his eyes, and there were many big chunks of it littering the ground too.

 

Aside from the pain, Renault also felt a burning desire to know two things—“Why the hell am I still alive?” and “where’s my friend?” Getting unsteadily to his feet, Renault glanced around him. It was too dark to really make out the building’s characteristics other than it being roughly square-shaped and very large indeed, maybe seven hundred feet along each side. He took a step forward, holding out an arm, and was relieved when it brushed against something in front of him before he bumped to it. Feeling around, he saw it was a very large, thick, and unadorned column, intended to hold up the large ceiling. Just behind it seemed to be some huge mound, but Renault couldn’t quite tell what it was. And, of course, he was no closer to finding Braddock.

 

“HEY! BRADDOCK,” he yelled, “WHERE ARE YOU!”

 

“Urrgh…Renault?” The voice which said this apparently came from just behind that big mound in front of Renault, but it was Khyron’s, so he wasn’t particularly interested in it. “BRADDOCK!” he called again.

 

“Over here, Renault!” The sellsword smiled when he heard his friend’s familiar voice and limped over to where he’d heard it, the pain starting to fade. Braddock was leaning up against another of those large columns, a small distance to the left. He seemed to be very tired, but not seriously injured, or so Renault hoped.

 

“Braddock! I’m glad to see you, man. Are you—“

 

The Ostian nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Pretty banged up, but otherwise fine. Glad to see you’re okay too, bud.” He chuckled and pointed to the big mound Renault had noticed earlier. “Guess we have him to thank. Pretty ironic, huh?”

 

“Eh? What d’you mean?” Renault turned and squinted his eyes, taking a closer look at that mound. It was much bigger than he was, even with nothing but a bit of moonlight he could discern that, but he also thought its shape was pretty strange. Lumpy and spiky…

 

“W-wait,” he stammered, “That’s Barbarossa?!”

 

“Yep,” Braddock smiled. “You and Harvery really got that bastard good, though I’m not sure whether it was those runes or the fall that killed him. Whatever the case, though, he was the one who took the brunt of that fall…since we were all riding on his back or his wings, we managed to avoid getting squashed, though since some of us were thrown around…” he chuckled self-deprecatingly and winced in evident pain as he struggled to get to his feet, Renault lending him a hand, “it’s not like none of us got hurt a little, either.”

 

“You got that right,” Renault grunted. “So where’re our friends?”

 

“Renault! Are you ignoring me? GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME!” Khyron yelled.

 

Renault and Braddock glanced at each other for a moment before heading over to where they heard Khyron’s agitated voice, which was on the other side of Barbarossa’s corpse. They found him pretty easily—a small ball of flame was hovering above him in the air, providing him with just enough light to see what he was doing—which, judging by his grunting, involved some form of physical exertion.

 

“Khyron, what the hell…” Braddock’s question trailed off when he heard a pained groan coming from in front of Khyron’s hunched form—Rosamia’s voice. “KHYRON, WHAT THE—“

 

“Don’t just stand there!” the Sage spat angrily. “Help her!”

 

The two men immediately stepped closer to see what the situation was, and both of them let out small gasps when they realized what had happened. While Khyron had apparently managed to cling onto Barbarossa’s back during the fall, Rosamia had been thrown clear. Judging by the blood streaking her brow she had hit her head, but at least judging by her breathing she was still alive. However, judging by the big chunk of the stone ceiling which had fallen on her legs, it’d be hard to move her around much. That big chunk was what Khyron had been attempting to move, all by himself.

 

“Khyron,” Braddock began, but the Sage would hear none of it.

 

“JUST HELP!”

 

Braddock and Renault didn’t say any more. They joined the Mage General in attempting to lift the chunk of rock that covered his apprentice’s legs. Khyron wasn’t particularly weak as far as mages went, but he was still nothing compared to Renault and especially Braddock. The three men working together managed to lift the stone several inches, but then were surprised when it suddenly seemed to get a bit easier.

 

“Lemme help you with that,” said Harvery. None of them had noticed him before that moment or even knew exactly where he was, so the fact that he just appeared like that—and that he seemed to be almost completely unharmed—indicated once again that he hadn’t been chosen as a royal spy for no reason. Of course, since neither Renault nor Braddock found their task made significantly easier, it was clear that strength wasn’t one of his virtues, but they didn’t really care—it was the thought that counted.

 

Together, the four of them managed to get the block of stone just high enough to toss it away from the woman’s feet with a good heave. Without wasting a moment, Khyron immediately dispersed the small ball of flame floating in front of them and brandished his Mend staff, the soft blue light emanating from its tip replacing the tiny fireball’s. Rosamia’s wounds seemed to be pretty nasty, and Renault was glad it was too dark to get a good view of what her legs must have looked like, but Khyron’s skill with a staff couldn’t be denied, and within a few moments the woman’s breath steadied and sounded considerably less labored and painful.

  
“U, uhh…who…? Braddock? Master?”

 

Braddock smiled reassuringly—at least as much as he could. “That was a close one, Rosamia. But you’ll be alright now. Uh, right, Khyron?”

 

“That’s ‘Lord’ Khyron to you,” snapped the Sage, “and yes, thanks to me, you’ll be fine, girl! I won’t have my apprentice dying such an ignoble death in a place like this, after all. It’s an inconvenience to have to look after you, but hardly the only one I’ve ever had to bear! After all—“

 

“Don’t worry about it, Rosamia,” said Braddock again as the woman opened her eyes to give Khyron an unhappy look. “Let’s just clean you up a little.” None of them had handkerchiefs with them, so Braddock used the next best thing—he undid his orange “Hell’s Wall” cape and started to gently rub away the blood on Rosamia’s face and legs.

 

“B-Braddock,” she said, sounding a bit disgruntled and distrustful at first, but she didn’t say anything more and allowed the Ostian to continue tending to her. After the blood was cleaned away—at least somewhat—it was apparent that her crushed legs had been restored almost perfectly by Khyron, and with a bit of assistance from the Ostian she could find her way to her feet easily enough.

 

In the meantime, though, as Harvery, Braddock, and Renault had watched over his apprentice, after his magic had healed her Khyron had promptly gone stalking off. “Where the hell are those Pegasus Knights?” he blustered.

 

As if on cue, a very familiar voice echoed through the confines of the huge, dark edifice. “WHOOOOOO-EEEEE!” screamed Kasha as she brought her Pegasus to alight right in front of the infantry, followed by her four surviving subordinates (with Apolli still on Keitha’s mount) behind her. “That was the most fun I’ve had in years,” she cackled. “Kind of sucks that Imelle bought it, but oh well, what can ya do. Anyways, what’re your next orders, boss?”

 

“K-Kasha!” blustered Khyron. “What the devil were you thinking, luring Barbarossa here?! My apprentice was almost crushed by the debris!”

 

“Not to mention how dangerous this place is,” seconded Braddock dryly. “Weren’t you listening to what I said back in Aquleia? Lady, you’ve just brought us straight down onto the Reaper’s Labyrinth. This place ate up Hell’s Wall—the REAL Hell’s Wall—and an entire Lycian army sent to kill ‘em. Why would you want to stick us HERE?”

 

She shrugged. “That was the point. I figured the Bernites would’ve heard how horrible this place was over the course of their trek through Lycia, and wouldn’t want to pursue us down here.” She pointed above. “Looks like I was right, they’re not pursuing us anymore. So what’re you complaining about?”

 

“This _is_ the Reaper’s Labyrinth,” retorted Braddock. “Just bringing us close to here’s probably condemned us all to death!”

 

“Pfft! You worry too much. I’d heard you Lycians were superstitious,” and at this, Braddock grimaced a bit, “but this is really something else. Look, we’re all fine! Haven’t seen any ghosts or spooks or whatever trapping us in here, right?” Once again, she pointed upwards towards the hole in the ceiling. “All we need to do is just fly up out of here and we’re fine. So what’re you complainin’ about?”

 

“I hate to admit it, but I think she may have a point,” said Renault. “I mean, from what you told us that army of yours disappeared after they entered the lower levels of this labyrinth, right? If we just get outta here right now we probably won’t have any problems, especially since our Bernese friends don’t want to pursue us anymore. So let’s stop arguing, just get on those Pegasi, and leave!”

 

Braddock couldn’t really argue with that. “I guess so. We have to get back to Aquleia as soon as possible, right? Let’s get started,” he said.

 

“Indeed!” added Khyron. “Good to see you people are showing _some_ initiative, at least. Now, let’s—“

 

“H-hold on,” stammered Apolli, still sitting on the back of Keith’s Pegasus. “Uhh…d…d’ any of you hear that?”

 

“Huh?” The entire group, not knowing what he was talking about, went silent and looked all around themselves. They couldn’t hear much—only the breeze coming through the hole in the ceiling, and the dull cracking and crumbling of old stone. But there was also something else. Something low and ominous. Something that sounded like…well, almost like breathing.

 

“W-what the hell,” stammered Renault, “where’s it coming from?!”

 

The noise was gradually growing louder. “Grrah….haaaah. GGgggrraaaaaahhh….hhHHhhhaaaHHhhh. GGGrrraaaaaaaahhhhhhh….”

 

“It…it can’t be…” As one, Hell’s Wall turned their eyes to the great mound in front of them. In the darkness, they could see it _moving_ —its spiky, lumpy shape rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

 

For the second time this night, Renault groaned, “this has got to be a joke.”

 

But, of course, it wasn’t. From the darkness, a spot of glowing red light appeared. It zipped up, down, then came to focus on Hell’s Wall.

 

“GGGGGGRRRAA **AAAAWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!** ”

 

As the Etrurian agents stumbled back, almost blown away by the force of that roar, that red dot began to glow, changing from orange to pure white. It then _expanded_ —what was Barbarossa’s pupil grew to fill the expanse of his entire eye. Even worse, as the giant beast raised himself from the ground, his _entire body_ began to glow. The entire building was suffused in dim red light, allowing Renault to get a better view of both his surroundings and not-yet-defeated opponent.          

 

As he’d thought initially, the top floor of the Reaper’s Labyrinth was quite big indeed.  It wasn’t in any architectural style he recognized—all several hundred feet of each wall of the square-shaped room was made out of slabs of dull yellow stone, as were the columns, which were simply thick cylinders rather than the ornate Doric ones of the Royal Palace. The other notable characteristic of the building was that it was apparently topped by a large dome of sorts—the light emanating from Barbarossa was enough for him to get a good view of the ceiling in which the hole they’d entered was situated, and it was curved upwards.

 

Given that Barbarossa was still alive, however, it likely wouldn’t be the best place to fight, especially since the monster looked far more threatening than he ever had before. The air around him sparked and crackled with crimson energy, and Renault could see where that energy came from. He had thought the glowing blue runes on Barbarossa’s wings were his only sources of magical power, but this was not the case—now, Renault could see small red eldritch letters inscribed on almost every inch of the monster’s crimson body, each glowing brightly. The same power seemed to be streaming inside of the beast, for his right eye, now totally white, glowed so brightly it hurt just to look at it, and his left, which had been ruined by Kasha’s spear, seemed to have been repaired—its burning white glow was just as strong as its twin. And the light which emanated from both eyes seemed to be focused with baleful hate on the terrified members of “Hell’s Wall” standing before it.

 

“DAMMIT!” yelled Braddock, “EVERYBODY, RUN!”

 

None of them needed to be told twice. They bolted away just as the giant beast began its charge. The Pegasus Knights (and Apolli) had it easiest, since they only needed to fly away, but they didn’t have time to pick up any of their friends, who had a tougher time of it. Except for Harvery, who was quick enough to dash and roll over to the side far away from the charging monster, the rest of them found themselves in dire straits indeed. Barbarossa, even on the ground, was apparently much faster than anyone would think given his size, and there was no way Khyron, Rosamia, Braddock, and Renault could simply run away from him—nor stop his charge. So they didn’t even try.

 

Despite Barbarossa’s newfound strength, the damage to his wings was apparently still extant—all four of them hung limply downwards, and though they couldn’t be used for flight, they could still make very nasty blades as they followed the monster’s path towards his quarry. However, they also afforded his prey an opportunity. As the creature bore down on them, roaring angrily and opening his jaws wide, intending to make a meal out of all of them, Braddock screamed, “JUMP!” The Ostian, changing direction as quickly as he could, spun around, rushed _forwards_ and leapt to the side, as Khyron and Rosamia did the same. Barbarossa apparently wasn’t expecting this, for he didn’t stop their move or even attempt to snap at them as they passed by his head. Thus, both the Ostian and the two Etrurians managed to land in relative safety on the beast’s larger left and right wings, respectively. They grabbed on and held as tightly as they could, and now, rather than being crushed by his charge, they were being carried along with it.

 

Naturally, their safety was only temporary. “SHIT!” yelled Braddock as he let go of the glowing wing and rolled leftwards atop of it, just in time to avoid the giant black blade that sliced down into the wing. Barbarossa was so enraged that he didn’t even care he was hurting himself—all he wanted to do was kill. The tail-blade flipped over to the right wing this time, but Khyron and Rosamia had already let go and tumbled off to safety. However, the beast roared in pain and frustration and continued his charge, hoping to slaughter his last target—Renault. But the sellsword was nowhere to be found.

 

Renault, rather than jumping out of the way, had stumbled backwards. By all rights, he should have been mowed down by Barbarossa’s rush. However, after taking three steps back he found himself falling—not onto the floor, but into something below it.

 

“Ow! Dammit!” he swore, feeling his head and back bump against something hard—and that he was now lying on a slope. Opening his eyes, expecting to be crushed by Barbarossa’s bulk, he instead saw the beast’s glowing red underbelly pass right _over_ him.

 

“What the—“ Renault quickly got to his feet and saw he was standing in a very dark tunnel—but judging by what he felt below him, he realized it was actually a stairwell of sorts.

 

“HEY!” shouted Renault as he popped his head out of the stairwell. “EVERYBODY, GET OVER HERE! WE CAN ESCAPE!” Punctuating his statement, the enraged Barbarossa crashed through a column and into the far northern wall of the structure, spending a few seconds to dislodge his head.

 

“NO!” shouted Khyron, “WE HAVE TO KILL THIS BEAST NOW! IT’S OUR DUTY!”

 

“THE HELL WITH DUTY,” shouted Braddock in response, “LET’S JUST—“

 

“GAWWWWAAAAASSSHHH!” Braddock was cut off as Barbarossa managed to extricate his head from the wall he’d smashed into. The monster screamed as it blasted acid into the air, scuttling the plans of Hell’s Wall to escape down the stairwell Renault had discovered, for they were forced to scatter and hide under debris or behind columns (in Renault’s case, he ducked back into the stairwell) to avoid the deadly rain. Barbarossa turned and began a new charge, but fortunately, the Pegasus Knights chose that moment to make their presence known again. Cackling wildly, Kasha dove downwards and tossed a Javelin at the creature’s head. Though it missed his eyes this time, her friends had more success—the other four Knights directed their Javelins at the wounds on the creature’s wing, causing him a bit of pain, and Apolli, who’d taken a few spare arrows from Keith’s pack of supplies, managed to shoot one into the creature’s mouth, drawing some blood from its tongue. Barbarossa roared in irritation and anger and turned his attention to the fliers, snapping at them with his jaws and flicking his tail upwards, hoping to chomp or slice one. It took every ounce of skill the Pegasus Knights had to avoid his attacks, but fortunately, they distracted him long enough for their allies on the ground to formulate a plan.

 

Well, sort of. “Khyron, there’s no way we can kill that thing!” shouted Braddock, Renault clambering up from his hiding place in the stairwell to get behind his friend. “We have to get out of here!”

 

“While this beast is still alive?!” Khyron spat in response. “Coward! Do you have any idea what will happen if it gets out?! This is YOUR homeland, isn’t it? Do you want this monster to rampage all over Lycia’s fields?!”

 

Renault was about to tell his friend to ‘just forget it,” but he took one look at the expression on the Ostian’s face and saw it would be pointless. “Alright, then,” he said, “so how the hell do we do that?

 

Khyron, naturally, didn’t have an answer. He looked like he was going to say something before Barbarossa began yet another wild charge. The monster swept his tail through the air at one of the Pegasus Knights—she barely managed to dodge by angling her mount to the side, but the ebony blade cut through one of the columns she’d flown behind and then through the very tip of the Pegasus’ wing, forcing him and his mistress to make a sudden landing. That was apparently enough revenge for Barbarossa, who turned his attention back to Khyron and friends.

 

Harvery, however, had other plans. As the creature started to stomp towards the Sage and his companions, the Assassin ran straight up yet another one of the columns, far above the charging monster, and gripped onto a crack with one hand. With another, he reached to his back and threw something at Barbarossa’s head. It broke open, spilling liquid all over his face, but he naturally didn’t slow down a bit. As the beast bore down on Khyron, though, the Sage realized what it was—another cask of oil. And he knew an opportunity when he saw one. Just before Barbarossa reached him, Khyron—his Elfire spell having been depleted—brandished a Fire tome and sent a stream of flame at the creature’s head. The spell itself didn’t do much damage—but it did light up the oil on the fiend’s head, turning the world for him into a maelstrom of flame. He stopped his charge, screamed in pain, and shook his head vigorously, trying to shake off the burning oil.

 

Once again, this provided Hell’s Wall with a bit of time to plan out their next moves, but they knew they couldn’t keep this up forever—if they couldn’t do anything but distract the monster for a few minutes at a time, they were as good as dead.

 

“Khyron,” yelled Braddock as the monster continued to flail around, the Pegasus Knights also helping to distract it by darting back and forth, poking at it with their weapons, “What do you think that thing is? Do you see any more vulnerable points?”

 

“No!” He stomped a foot down in frustration. “Those blue runes controlled flight. The red ones all over his body are for defense! Magic, physical attacks, they’re all useless! The only way we could do some real damage is if we attacked from the inside out!”

 

“Inside out?” Renault had an idea, but it took Barbarossa’s next attack to really inspire him. The raging beast let out another scream and then spat another glob of acid in their general direction. Fortunately, he was still too distracted by the burning oil in his eyes and face to aim, so Renault and his companions only had to throw themselves to the ground to avoid the worst of it. However, as they watched the glob spatter behind them as Barbarossa continued his raging, Renault noticed something interesting. Several spots of the acid spill fizzling into the ground below seemed to be _burning_ —not just into the ground, but in and of itself, for he could see a few small flames emanating from several droplets of acid near the main spill. Perhaps it was because some of the oil had mixed with it, but it was also possible the acid itself was flammable.

 

Renault knew he didn’t have much time to implement what he’d just thought of—Barbarossa seemed to be ready to attack again. He roared, slammed his flaming head into the ground once, twice, then rushed forwards and smashed it into the column Harvery was clinging to, toppling it and forcing him to jump away, right onto the back on Hiyu’s Pegasus, flying nearby. The Ilians continued their assault on the beast, but by now the flames on his head had died down, and his burning white glare was focused on Khyron, Rosamia, Renault, and Braddock once again.

 

“KASHA! I’VE GOT AN IDEA!” Renault screamed, knowing the monster would attack them again very soon. “PICK UP KHYRON AND ROSAMIA AND HOVER AROUND BARBAROSSA’S HEAD! ME AND BRADDOCK WILL DISTRACT HIM!”

 

Khyron only had time to give Renault an incredulous expression before the crazy Pegasus Knight swooped over and scooped him up, just as Barbarossa started charging again. Rosamia took more of an initiative, rushing over to where one of the other Knights was flying down and hopping on to her mount’s back.“This had better be good, hon!” Kasha cackled down at Renault as she took off with the Sage, Rosamia and Kelitha following behind her. The sellsword didn’t even notice. “Braddock, get on his wings again!” he shouted, and the Ostian didn’t even bother to question him. Together, the two men ran at Barbarossa rather than away from him. He seemed to be expecting this, for his eyes glowed voraciously and he craned his short, spiked neck forward to chomp on the two men. They barely managed to escape—Renault felt the jaws of the beast slam shut behind him literally just as he leapt to the side and grabbed Barbarossa’s large dead wing. He quickly clambered on top of it and looked to his left, gratified to see Braddock doing the same. The two men started swinging their weapons down on the portions of the wings which had once held those runes of flight—they could now be recognized by the fact that they were the only sections of the beast’s body which were cold and dead rather than red and glowing. It didn’t do much damage—the runes were already dead, and it might’ve hurt Renault more, actually, for he groaned out loud when he saw his weapon shatter in his hand after a series of stabs—but that wasn’t their intent.

 

They wanted to get Barbarossa’s attention, and it worked. The Pegasus Knights (along with Apolli and Harvery) were now circling around Barbarossa rather than attacking, with Kasha and Khyron hovering near his head. His attention was entirely focused on Renault and Braddock, though—he remembered how he’d hurt himself trying to slice up his hitchhikers with his tail-blade, so he chose a different tack to get rid of them. Raising his head, he prepared to spew acid all through the air, creating a deadly rain that would dissolve the annoyances on his wing to nothing more than bone.

 

That was exactly what Renault was hoping for. “KHYRON! ROSAMIA!” he screamed as loudly as he could. “AT HIS MOUTH! BOTH OF YOU, SHOOT AT HIS MOUTH!”

 

By this point, the Sage and his apprentice had caught on to what Renault was planning. “YAAAAAAHHHH!” As Kasha and Kelitha spurred their mount’s sides and brought them flying directly over Barbarossa’s mouth, Khyron and Rosamia extended their hands simultaneously and let loose a bolt of flame.

 

Almost miraculously, their aim had been perfect. Both fireballs streamed straight between the creature’s teeth and straight down its throat.

 

“ggGGG **GGGRAAGH—** “

 

The white glow in Barbarossa’s eyes dimmed as the monster stumbled back, making choking sounds. His wings flapped uselessly, forcing Braddock and Renault to tumble off, but they could see the damage had been done. “D-damn,” stammered Renault, as he fell to the ground, “D-did it work?”

 

Whatever it was, something was definitely happening to Barbarossa. Renault and Braddock picked themselves up and walked towards each other, hands on their weapons as they cautiously watched what the creature was doing. The Pegasus Knights did the same, alighting on the ground just behind the two men, allowing their teammates to get off and take a good look at what was happening to Bern’s secret weapon.

 

Barbarossa continued to stagger backwards, his four huge feet looking distinctly unsteady. It was as if he wanted to roar or scream, but wasn’t able to. The red glow from every inch of his body had dimmed, and the white light from his eyes had gone out completely. He was still giving off a good deal of light, though—from his mouth.

 

The monster kept his jaws open, and from deep within them was a bright red glow that seemed to be growing steadily brighter. Even stranger, his body seemed to be expanding—Renault could see cracks appear in the scales and the creature’s belly widening. Renault’s eyes widened when he considered what that meant. “EVERYBODY,” he screamed, “TAKE COVER!”

 

All of them had seen the same ominous glow, so they knew what he was talking about. Renault, Braddock, and Harvery looked behind them—there, they saw the same stairwell Renault had stumbled into, and figured it would make a good shelter—all three of them rushed inside it and hunkered down within its confines. Meanwhile, Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli promptly dashed to a fallen column and huddled behind it, while the Pegasus Knights took off and circled the beast, keeping an eye on him while staying as far away as possible.

 

All three approaches turned out to be effective—for a time. Barbarossa let out one final, pained roar as his body continued to expand.

 

“GGGEEEEYYYAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Writhing in agony, he reared up on his back legs and brought his foreclaws to his stomach, which had now ballooned up to twice its original size. An orange glow could be seen through the cracks in the lumpy, misshapen scales, and it grew brighter and brighter, until—

 

BOOM!

 

Renault had thought Barbarossa’s roars were loud, but not after he heard that explosion. Even though he’d kept his hands over his ears they still hurt. From his spot in the darkened stairwell, Renault saw a bright orange light flash as strong as the sun, forcing him to shut his eyes,  and then a great gust of wind followed by a great deal of dust and debris which forced him to double over, coughing heavily. Even more distressing was the soft material which seemed to rain down from the stairwell’s entrance—he figured it was the creature’s blood and viscera, and when he finally opened his eyes a few moments later, he wasn’t happy to see he had been mostly correct—the entire building was dark again, but he could make out an ugly black stain on the steps in front of him. And when he and his companions put their hands on the floor above them as they peeked out to look at what had happened, all of them felt a stickiness beneath their fingers.

 

Of course, all of them were gratified when they saw what was before them. The room was dark again, but, they could make out no Barbarossa in the darkness—anywhere. The only thing they could see was the debris of the columns and walls littering the floor after their battle, along with very, very many small chunks of what could only be pieces of Bern’s secret weapon.

 

“I…Is it over?” said Rosamia cautiously as she peeked out from behind the fallen column. “Is it…”

 

“I…I think so,” Braddock called back. “Rosamia, I think we—“

 

“We did it,” Renault said for the second time that night, “HA-HA, WE DID IT! THAT’S AMAZING, KHYRON, THAT—“ He was cut off by a sudden rumbling, and looked with panic at the huge, smoking stain on the floor that had once been Barbarossa. “What the…it can’t still be alive!”

 

“It’s not,” shouted Khyron, “that noise is coming from the BUILDING! LOOK!” He pointed upwards, and pure dismay and terror marked itself on the faces when they realized what was happening.

 

Barbarossa was dead, all right, but it looked like he’d have some posthumous revenge. Although none of them had taken note of it while they were fighting, the monster had done some very severe damage to the structure of the top level of the Reaper’s Labyrith. Even though there were dozens of columns holding up the building’s ceiling, Barbarossa had destroyed several important ones via spitting acid at them, slicing through them with his tail, and slamming into them with his charges. When Khyron and Rosamia had finally managed to ignite the acid he stored in his gullet, the huge explosion which resulted had blown away several more. And now, the building could no longer keep itself standing.

 

“DAMNATION!” yelled Khyron. “EVERYONE, ONTO THE PEGASI! SHRIKE TEAM, TAKE US OUT OF HERE!”

 

A huge chunk of rock which fell right by his head indicated why that would be a problem. “You idiot,” yelled Kasha, gesturing towards the debris which was falling like rain around them, “There’s no way we can fly like this! We’d get crushed by the falling wreckage before we could even make it halfway up!” She was right—the building was collapsing into itself and downwards. The hole they’d entered was already growing smaller as the top dome shifted and prepared to collapse—and when it did, bringing the rest of the building with it, all of them would be crushed. And that was looking to be very soon indeed.

 

“SO WHAT DO YOU SUGGEST, WOMAN?!” The anger was evident in Khyron’s voice, as well as the panic.

 

It was Renault, once again, who gave them the solution. “DOWN,” he shouted, “EVERYBODY DOWN! FOLLOW ME! _NOW!!_ ”

 

He didn’t wait to see if anybody heard what he’d said, and none of them waited to think about it. Instead, as quickly as he could, with rubble falling down increasingly quickly behind him, Renault dashed towards the stairwell in the ground which had given him such protection during the course of this battle, hoping it would do the same once again for his friends. It was wide, tall, and deep—he had no idea where it led, but it was large enough to admit several people, or a horse or two. So he rushed straight down into its depths, Braddock hot on his heels. Rosamia, Khyron, Apolli, and Harvery followed, and lastly, spurring their mounts as fast as possible, the five remaining Pegasus Knights galloped down the labyrinth’s dark ingress, and just in time—the ceiling of the building collapsed entirely just as Keith and her Pegasus disappeared downwards.

 

Hells’ Wall continued to rush madly down, down, and down, heedless of where they were going. They couldn’t see—the staircase was pitch-black, each of them forced to keep a hand near the wall at all times to save them in case they tripped and fell, and after all, they were too busy trying to avoid getting buried alive to worry about that at the moment.

 

Very soon, however, they’d wish they had.

 

-X-

 

It took Renault a couple of moments—and twice that many steps—to realize he wasn’t going down a staircase anymore. He couldn’t be blamed, as it was pitch dark, but he still felt a little embarrassed. He couldn’t see, but he heard Braddock clanking along beside him—and then in front of him, as the Ostian kept going and slammed straight into a wall with a resounding, “AGH!” He would have laughed, but in the darkness he could hear Rosamia and Khyron stumbling around behind him, along with a voice he recognized as Apolli’s.

 

“OW! WATCH OUT!” shouted the youth as he fell, for one of the Pegasi had nearly trampled over him. “Watch it, kid!” yelled Kasha angrily in response, before letting out a curse as one of her own Knights barreled into her.

 

Khyron would be the one to put a stop to this chaos. “EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU, _BE STILL!_ ” he shouted at the top of his voice. It was enough—now complete stillness and silence reigned along with the darkness. After a moment passed, he said, “We need light. LIGHT! Have any of you torches?”

 

“Er, I think I do,” said one of the Pegasus Knights—either Hiyu or Vayin, Renault couldn’t remember which. “Um, I also think I was given some sort of strange staff by the quartermaster. It’s in my storage pack, I think it’s--”

 

“Yes, a Torch staff,” grumbled the Sage. “That will do. Toss it towards my voice.”

 

“Um, okay.” Renault heard something fly through the air and then a solid ‘bonk!’ as it apparently connected with something fleshy.

 

“DAMN YOU, YOU STUPID ILIAN!” shouted Khyron, “I TOLD YOU TO TOSS IT TOWARDS ME, NOT AT ME!”

 

Renault chuckled, and beside him he heard Braddock chuckling too, albeit sounding a bit pained—he had apparently collided with the wall quite hard.

 

In a moment, though, all of them would get a solid bearing on their position. Grumbling, the Sage felt around on the floor for the staff that had hit him, picked it up, and held it high over his head. With another bright flash of light—though not as strong as the one given off by Barbarossa’s death, of course—Hell’s Wall could clearly see everything around them.

 

The first thing Renault noted was that everyone was alright. Braddock was bruised, but otherwise happy. Same with Khyron, except he wore a distinctly disgruntled expression on his face. Rosamia and Apolli were standing close together, leaning on each other—exhaustion was the most notable feature of their expressions. Harvery stood some distance away from the group, facing away from them, looking at the walls—Renault noted he hadn’t heard anything from the man, but given what his profession seemed to be, it made sense. Finally, the Pegasus Knights were clustered together, all on their mounts, with Kasha standing in front of her four surviving subordinates, including her sisters.

 

The room itself was large enough to accommodate all of them comfortably, though not quite as large as the building which had collapsed on top of them. It was similar, though, definitely made by the same people. It was square, made out of the same unadorned yellow stone, and was supported by similar columns, six in vertical rows—Braddock had ran into one of those.  It seemed to have four entrances. The first was the stairwell they’d just exited, which was now entirely blocked by rubble wreckage. There were two more which seemed to lead into dark tunnels or hallways to the left and right, and one more in front of them, which also led into some sort of hallway.

 

The room’s most notable characteristic, however, was the fact that it apparently had visitors before. Old—very old—bloodstains were visible all across the walls and the floor, and several skeletons were strewn about the area, along with the decrepit axes, spears, swords, and bows which had reduced them to that state. Some were clad in good armor, and any armor that could last that long would likely be of Ostian make. Others were clad in rotten, dirty rags that looked like they may have been orange at one point.

 

“Th…this is where…The Reaper’s Labyrinth,” muttered Rosamia, “This was where the original Hell’s Wall…”

 

Her musings were interrupted by Braddock. The happy expression on his face, borne of his relief at surviving the battle with Barbarossa, had disappeared entirely after a few moments as he surveyed the room along with his friends. “W-we’ve gotta get outta here,” he said, “KHYRON! WE’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE! THIS IS—“

 

Renault put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “I know, man, I know. This is the Reaper’s Labyrinth, the most haunted spot in Lycia. But look, panicking isn’t gonna get us anywhere, right? Let’s calm down, think this through, and I’m sure we’ll be able to get outta here before what happened to the real Hell’s Wall happens to us.”

 

“A-alright, Renault. Thanks…thanks, you’re exactly right,” he said. Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, as the rest of his teammates stared at him Braddock made his position clear. “Look,” he said, “we took out Bern’s secret weapon—that Barbarossa thing—and this is a hell of an accomplishment, make no mistake. It’s amazing we lived through all that! But we can’t try our luck. This place ate up an entire _army_. I don’t know what the hell’s living down here, but I’m sure it’s worse than Barbarossa. We have to get out of here, Khyron. _Now!_ ”

 

“And how do you propose we do that?” The Sage snapped back. “I hope you’ve been paying attention, for you should realize that the whole building we just left collapsed right behind us! Our exit back to the surface is buried under tons of shattered stone! Just what do you expect me to do?”

 

“Uh, um, milord Khyron,” Apolli said quietly, “Y’, uh, I know y’ practiced with staves on—uh, I mean, back when we were in Caerleon…d…d’you think you could use that Warp magic to send us outta here?”

 

The grimace on Khyron’s face softened. “Hmm…I…well, I…yes! Yes, Apolli, by God, you’re right!”

 

“All right then,” cheered Renault, “Let’s stop wasting time! Get us out of here!”

 

“Fine! Don’t rush me!” The Mage General set his Torch staff on the floor, headed over to the pack attached to Vayin’s Pegasus, and after rummaging around inside it for a little bit, pulled out the distinctive ruby tipped staff.

 

“Very well,” he said, “Back to Etruria we go!” He held it over his head, and…

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Well? Khyron, what’re you waiting for?” Braddock asked.

 

“It…Dammit!” Closing his eyes in deep concentration, Khyron muttered an incantation. The ruby at the tip of the staff began to glow, and it seemed they might make an escape. However, as the glow grew brighter, and a magic circle appeared beneath all of Khyron’s audience, a horrible, ear-splitting shriek filled the room.

 

“AGH!” Khyron immediately dropped the staff and the sound disappeared.

 

“What the hell’s the problem? Was that supposed to happen?”

 

“N-No!” Picking up the staff, Khyron tried again, and the exact same thing occurred.

 

“Cut it out,” yelled Kasha, “You’re gonna turn me deaf, you popinjay!”

 

“POPIN—“ Khyron was stopped short by Renault.

 

“No arguing! Khyron, what the hell’s the problem! Why can’t you take us outta here?’

 

“I…I don’t know!” He was clearly frustrated. “The magic…it won’t work! Something’s interfering with it!”

 

“Interfering?” Renault smirked. “Or is it you just don’t know how to use a staff?”

 

Khyron’s face grew red, and it looked like he was going to launch a spell at Renault before Braddock stopped them. “I…Renault, I don’t think that’s the case,” said the Ostian, his face deathly pale. “Some of the stories I heard…if the Labyrinth doesn’t want to let you out, you’re not gonna get out. The magic…it’s interfering with the magic!”

 

“Dammit, Braddock!” Even Renault had lost his patience with his friend’s superstition. “Look, man, I know you’re scared, but—“

 

“I think he’s right,” said Rosamia. “I’ve seen Khyron use that sort of magic before. He should be able to take us out of here. If he can’t…”

 

“We’re stuck!” said Braddock, panic growing in his voice, “WE—“

 

He was interrupted by a sharp jab to the side from Renault’s curled fist. “Braddock, I told you to calm down!” the sellsword growled. “You’re my best friend. I don’t want you to die here because you’re too freaked out to think about this logically! Again, just calm down. We’re not pursuing anybody, like that Lycian army. If we think about how to escape instead of going further down, we’ll get outta here easy. So, dammit, just keep a hold of your head, alright?!”

 

“O-okay, okay. Sorry, Renault, that’ll be the last time, I’m…I’m good now.”

 

Renault nodded. “Alright. So if we can’t use warp magic in here, is there anything else we should know about?”

 

As his teammates looked at him, Braddock closed his eyes, thinking for a moment. They then shot open, and a smile spread across his face. “Hey, I was thinking, there’s probably another exit to the outside world! I remember when I was a teenager I listened to a lot of stories about this place—one of my friends was a Huscarl sent in here, and he never came back. People mentioned they had to surround the area to keep Hell’s Wall from escaping. But if there was only one entrance to this complex, they could have just blocked that off. So I think there must be at least one other exit around here. Probably several!”

 

“That’s great!” Renault smiled cheerfully as he clapped Braddock across the back. “See, I told you we could make it if you just kept your cool! Alright, now all we gotta do is find these exits. So let’s go!”

 

Even Khyron had to agree with this. “Very well!” He looked around the room, stashing away his useless Warp staff and lifting up his Torch staff. “There seem to be three exits to this area, so we’ll split up into three groups. Braddock, Renault, and Harvery will explore the eastern doorway. Rosamia, Apolli, and I will take the western egress, wherever it may lead. Meanwhile, you Pegasus Knights will deal with the southern one. If any of you find an escape from this labyrinth, you’ll return here immediately to let us know about it! On the other hand, regardless of what we find, we’ll all meet back here in half an hour. Agreed?”

 

Every member of Hell’s Wall nodded.

 

“Very well! You three,” he gestured to Renault’s group, “take some torches from our supplies. You’ll need them in this darkness, but I’ll be fine with my staff.” After they’d done so, Khyron held out his hand. “Now, enough talking! Let’s find our way out of here!”

 

For the first time, his underlings had an order they could feel enthusiastic about. Without further ado, each group went their separate ways.

 

Their next ordeal had just begun.

 

-X-

 

“Heh, I can’t believe this. Talk about outta the hearth and into the forge, huh?”

 

“Huh?” For the past fifteen minutes, Braddock, Renault, and Harvery (who was at the front of their formation, holding the torch) had been walking straight forwards through this apparently empty tunnel or hallway and found little of interest, even though they were all looking as hard as they could. Aside from a few more scattered bloodstains and skeletons, it was all the same unremarkable yellow stone. Thus, Braddock had spaced out a bit, and it took him a moment to register what his friend had said.

 

“Ah, nothing much,” said Renault, thinking he’d confused his comrade with the expression. “I’m just thinking…when are we gonna get a break, huh? I mean, look at everything that’s happened to us. First, we find out that bastard Paptimus was manipulating us all this time. Then, when we defect to the Royalists, we find out the plans we worked so hard to deliver were fakes, AND we get sent on this suicide mission! Well, over the course of this mission, we stood down nearly a thousand Bernese troops, then escaped on the back of their crazy mutant wyvern secret weapon, knock it out of the sky, and it’s STILL not dead! Then, when we finally kill it, we get trapped down in this crazy labyrinth! It’s just one thing after another, you know!”

 

“Hah, you may have a point, bud,” laughed Braddock. “Really, though, don’t tell me you’re gonna start whining after you told me to calm down. You were the one who said we’d be able to find an exit, and we really weren’t gonna be trapped down here forever, right? Besides, if we’re given all these obstacles, we just gotta smash through ‘em. If we’re sent through a hundred trials, we just gotta overcome ‘em all.” His expression hardened. “That’s the only way we’ll ever get a chance to pay Paptimus back, right?”

 

“Yeah, you got that right,” said Renault, sharing the same expression. “That’s enough from me, then. No more bellyaching, just working!”

 

“Good way of thinking about it,” said Harvery, making both his companions look up at him. “That sort of mindset’s how I kept myself going back in my younger days.” He chuckled sadly. “It’s how I keep m’self going now, I guess…”

 

“Heh, I might’ve guessed as much,” said Renault, still a bit disgruntled at how the spy—Assassin, more like it—had overheard their conversation. “You never did very…uh, respectable work, is it? With those double knives and all. Ever used a shotel before? I get the same feeling offa you I got off Yurt.”

 

“Hey, Renault,” said Braddock sadly, remonstrance evident in his voice, “That’s really not fair. I told you, bud, Harvery…Harvery’s a good guy. I believe his story. Everything he did he did for his country…and when you think of it, for us, too, since he’s helping us against Paptimus.”

 

Harvery shook his head. “Heh. Honorable as always. That’s what I always liked about you, kid.” He sighed. “But really, there’s no need to defend me. Me and the Silent Chief…I guess we’re not so different. We both…ah, no point denyin’ it, we both killed for our daily bread. All I can say is that if his reputation’s even half true, he enjoys it a lot more than I ever did, and that at least I did my dirty work for my country…or at least that’s what I told myself. That counts, right?” He chuckled sadly. “But look, all I can say is that I’m on your side. I mean, I’ve been pullin’ my own weight, right? Killed that soldier who caught you, helped you bring down Barbarossa…I’m definitely no Yurt. Right?”

 

Renault knew when he owed a man a favor. “Yeah, I guess so,” he shrugged. “Besides, even if you are an assassin it’s not like a traitor-twice-over has any right to complain.” He held out his hand. “Friends?”

 

Harvery was more than happy to accept, and the two men shook warmly, with Braddock looking on in approval.

 

However, soon enough they’d have yet another reason to like the spy. “Hold on a second,” said Harvery after he’d broken with Renault and they continued down the eastern path. “I…I thought I felt something.”

 

“Huh?” Both the sellsword and the axeman looked on in confusion as the spy suddenly turned and faced the left wall of the hallway. Putting his ear close to it, he began to lightly rap his knuckles across its surface.

 

Knock, knock, knock. The first three times didn’t sound strange at all, but when he hit a patch of wall the fourth time, it sounded…strange. Like something clicked.

 

“HAH-HA! I KNEW IT,” yelled Harvery ebulliently. “A SECRET DOOR!”

 

Sure enough, the section of stone he’d knocked on had moved inwards almost an inch, and the result was that a whole section of the wall sunk into the floor, revealing an opening! And lots of dust, of course.

 

“What’s in here?” As the three men poked their heads into the room, Harvery’s eyes lit up when he saw what it contained. “JACKPOT!”

 

The light of his torch illuminated five fat, happy chests sitting helplessly, enticingly on the floor of what apparently was a secret storage room of some sort.

 

“Damn, look at this,” exclaimed Braddock. “But we don’t have a key…”

 

“No problem, buddy,” chuckled Harvery greedily as he held out his torch to the Ostian. “Here, hold this!” Quickly, he dashed over to the chests and knelt down, reaching into his robes. He quickly pulled out a strange greenish-blue device which looked to be a key at first glance, but had a very weird tip—it actually looked to be a mechanism of some sort at the end, but its exact purpose couldn’t discerned…at least unless one already knew what it was.

 

“A lockpick.” Renault grinned. “Shoulda figured you’d have one of those. You know how to work it?”

 

“Of course I do! One of the first things they teach you in spy school. Haha, guess I really am pretty handy, eh? Alright, now just give me a minute and I’ll have these babies open in no time!”

 

He wasn’t kidding. In less than half a minute he’d opened all five of them, and his companions had to admit he’d found quite a stash.

 

First was the mystical artifact in the top-rightmost chest. What looked to be an otherwise ordinary piece of brightly colored cloth wrapped around a small statuette of an angel could easily be proven otherwise by the magical aura it gave off. It was an Angelic Robe—a strange relic which greatly boosted the endurance of anyone who wore it. Second was the large bluish bottle Renault recognized as an Elixir. No matter how long it had stayed in that chest, its magic would still be potent. Next came a smaller but still very valuable prize—a blue gem, a round, perfect stone called Barrigan’s Eye that was extremely rare. It wasn’t really useful in any practical sense, but it would fetch around five thousand gold on the market if they chose to sell it. Next was an extremely powerful magic spellbook—Fimbulvetr. Khyron would love it. Lastly, however, Harvery had found something that _really_ interested Renault.

 

It was a sword. The blade seemed to be dull gold, the hilt a standard crossguard which curved upwards to almost half the blade’s length, making it slightly impractical, and a pommel in which was set a bright blue sapphire, not so different from the Barrigan’s Eye they’d found. But the eldritch aura which surrounded this blade was enough to tell Renault of its true nature.

 

“A…A Runesword!” he stammered. This blade, and weapons like it, allowed physical fighters to stand on equal terms with magic-users. Runeswords in particular were imbued with dark magic that emulated certain spells, and allowed their users to drain the life of their enemies from a distance.

 

“You keep it, Renault,” smiled Harvery. “You’d be able to make the best use of it.”

 

“Uh…” Renault didn’t quite know what to say. “You…you sure?”

 

“Yeah. Just don’t overuse it, okay? The enchantment wears off pretty quickly.” Harvery winked. “Keep it as a backup. In case your other blade breaks too.”

 

“I’ll do that,” Renault smiled, and he took the sword and put it in the empty scabbard at his side, where his old Iron Sword had been. “Is there anything else here?”

 

“Nope. Let’s keep moving.”

 

Their spirits boosted by their find, the three men were all too happy to do so. And it wouldn’t be long at all before they found their target. Exiting the way they entered the room, they continued heading east, and when Harvery noted he felt a slight breeze and a funny smell, they increased their pace. Soon enough, their torch illuminated a door in front of a small stairway at the end of the long path which seemed to lead upwards. Cautiously, they examined the narrow doorway. “Stay here for a sec,” Harvery said, taking the torch back from Braddock and keeping a dagger in his other hand. Almost faster than his two companions could see, he dashed into the door and up the stairs. The two men waited in the darkness for almost half a minute, and both jumped straight into the air, gripping their weapons, when Harvery, without announcing himself, dashed right back out.

 

They would have gotten angry at him for surprising them, but they just couldn’t argue with the smile on his face.

 

“We’re outta here, my friends! There’s an exit cut into one of the hills a little distance from the big building we crashed into! We’re saved!

 

“YES!” Braddock pumped a fist into the air. “Let’s go back and tell everybody! We’re saved, Renault!”

 

“Great!” cheered his friend, then looked at Harvery suspiciously. “Hey, wait, why’re you still looking at that door? Is something in there?”

 

“Huh?” It was as if Harvery was in a trance for a moment, but it was broken by Renault’s voice. “N-no, not at all. It was…nothing. Yeah, nothing. Let’s go!”

 

Laughing and cheering, the three men dashed off back to the west, wanting to reach the rendezvous point and lead their friends out of this Labyrinth as soon as possible. They couldn’t have been happier—having found a load of excellent treasure _and_ an exit, to say they were feeling good about themselves would’ve been an understatement.

 

“Your happiness will turn to sorrow quite soon, my friends,” said a cold, corpselike voice from the darkness, several minutes after the trio had left the stairwell behind them. Chuckling to himself, the Silent Chief leaned against the wall of the stairwell, waiting for Renault to bring the rest of his prey to him.

 

He didn’t ordinarily have a flair for the dramatic, but in his view, this would be quite worth it.

 

-X-

“Be careful, Apolli.”

 

“H-huh? Yeah, of course. Sorry ‘bout that.” The youth was walking besides Rosamia as both of them were walking behind Khyron, who was grumbling to himself about all manner of things, ranging from “stupid mercenaries” to “Bernite scum.” Thus, naturally he didn’t hear when Apolli had almost tripped over a skeleton on the ground. Those were the only things they’d really seen for the past almost half an hour, anyways—a few skeletons, apparently both from the Lycian Army and Hell’s Wall, and bloodstains their decade-old battle had left on the yellow walls.

 

“You must be getting tired,” she said kindly. “Don’t worry, we’ll be able to rest soon.”

 

“I-I know.” The archer shook his head. “Ah, but don’t y’ worry ‘bout me, M-Miss Rosamia. I wasn’t hurt at all…’sides that spill in the river, I got off pretty good.” He looked at her with concern in his eyes. “It’s you I’m worried about. Those stones…y-y’r legs…”

 

“Oh, those? It was…unpleasant, to say the least, but whatever else we can say about him,” and she took care to keep her voice quiet, “Khyron’s magical abilities are great. I’m as good as new.”

 

“Ah, uh…you…you sure? There was a lot of b-blood, I remember. You, uh…you sure you don’t need me to carry you or anythin’?”

 

Rosamia couldn’t help but let out a giggle at this. “Apolli, I’m taller than you.” She looked at him mischievously. “And a bit stronger too, maybe. I should be asking you that question.” Her cheery expression turned to concern as she gazed at him. “But that’s always just like you. Putting others before yourself.” She reached out to pat his head. “Apolli, you really shouldn’t push yourself like that. Are you certain you’re alright? Your time in the river…you could’ve drowned if Keith hadn’t saved you. Are—“

 

“I…I’m fine,” said Apolli resolutely. “Trust me, Rosamia, it’ll take a lot more than that to bring me down. Like I said, I’m doin’ this for Pops! So I’ll do my best, no matter what. Live or die, I’ll make Pops proud of me…and…and Yulia. So don’t worry about me! Not a bit!”

 

“I…I see,” said Rosamia, a bit sadly. Trying to change the subject, she said, “So Gafgarion…where was he, again?”

 

“With the regular Etrurian Army…well, the new one that Henken guy made up. He got assigned to the cavalry. Last I heard he’d actually gotten pretty high up ‘cause of his experience…”

 

“Ah. That’s good to hear.” She smiled. “Well, we’ll have a lot of stories to tell him when we get back, won’t we?”

 

Apolli smiled right back. “That’s right! ‘Specially about Barbarossa…” his expression grew more thoughtful, and he turned it ahead of him. “Uh, Milord Khyron,” he asked meekly, forcing the Sage to stop his advance to turn and look at his servant. “I, uh…I’m just wondering, but…I can’t figure it out. Just what was that Barbarossa thing, anyways?”

 

“Is that what you’re concerned about? It’s dead now. We haven’t the time to waste thinking about it anymore!” Khyron resumed his march.

 

“Well, yes, master,” said Rosamia as she and Apolli hurried to catch up with him, “but, um, we thought the boy could benefit from your wisdom, so…”

 

Massaging his ego worked. “Hmph. Well, I suppose I could spare a bit of time,” he replied, not bothering to slow down. “I’m not absolutely sure, but from what I saw, I have some theories…”

 

“Theories?”

 

“Yes. This is all speculation, but from my studies, and other things I’ve read…I suspect that Barbarossa beast was nothing more than a wyvern.”

 

Apolli and Rosamia both nearly fell over upon hearing this admission. “A…A Wyvern? Couldn’t be! That thing was as big as a dragon!”

 

“Keep in mind, boy, that Wyverns are very closely related to the Dragons of yore. They split from that species millennia ago, and centuries of domestication and breeding by humans have sapped their strength, but that draconic blood does exist.

 

“I imagine the Wyvern-breeders of Bern tried to recapture, or at least replicate some of that power. Those Bernite barbarians pay as much attention to their wyverns as the Sacaens do to their horses. There are many breeds in that country. You’ve fletched a few of their war wyverns, Apolli—good work, by the way, I expect you to keep it up—but those aren’t all. There are work wyverns, feral wyverns…all manner of things. Some of the rarer breeds even have venom and poison, so I’ve heard.

 

“Judging by Barbarossa’s appearance, I would imagine he started out as…as a crossbreed, of sorts. Much like one can mate a Sacaen mare to an Etrurian destrier to produce foals who’ll grow up to be both swift and strong, I’d guess the Bernites were doing the same with Wyverns. Their work wyverns are large, stocky, and powerful…very strong, but unable to fly. The strange scorpion wyverns aren’t as strong, but they can spit a very virulent toxin. The Bernites…they must have spent years, maybe even decades melding those two breeds, and who knows what else! Disgusting!” Khyron shuddered.

 

“They must have finally found a satisfying specimen after years of that sort of breeding. After that, they turned to magic to complete their abomination. They likely grafted on those extra wings and that blade on his tail through the use of forbidden, heretical magic, and then used elder signs to boost his abilities. Those red letters that were glowing all across Barbarossa’s body? Those were runes of defense. They would have vastly increased his size as well as strengthened his scales to be harder than any other armor made by man. The blue runes on his wings? Signs of flight. Before the Scouring some men put them on their boots, to fly here and there like they were Pegasi, but that knowledge has been lost. The Bernites must have found a substitute.” Khyron spat on the floor. “Those filthy Bernites, is there any depth they won’t sink to? Not only are they supporting this vile rebellion, but they used an abomination like Barbarossa to do so! Those runes are heresy! Almost as bad as the Morph magic described in the ancient texts! All these disgusting methods, our Church has forbidden them! If the Archbishops ever find out about this, they’ll excommunicate the entire wretched country!”

 

“R-really?” stammered Apolli. He didn’t quite know what to say. “I, uh…I don’t know much about that sort of stuff, but I guess…” His voice trailed off as he looked ahead. “Hey, what’s that!” There was a bluish-white glow emanating from the very end of the hallway.

 

“Come, let’s find out!” Holding his Torch staff in front of him, Khyron dashed forwards, Rosamia and Apolli following closely behind. In a few moments, they came up to the source of the strange light.

 

To their delight, they found what seemed to be a doorway leading elsewhere. To their consternation, however, it was blocked. The source of the white light was a strange sphere floating in the air. It was large enough to block the doorway entirely, completely cutting it off, and was a very light, whitish blue with bright white lines crisscrossing its surface.

 

“A Light Rune,” Khyron spat, “in this place?!”

 

“Er…a light what?”

 

“Light Rune, Apolli,” said Rosamia. “They’re strange magical artifacts. They can’t cause anyone any harm, but when summoned, the sphere you see in the air there can’t be moved or bypassed, not by any force on Elibe. It’ll stay there for eternity, and there’s no way we can get past it.”

 

“So that means—“

 

“Yes,” said Khyron irritatedly, “It seems this path is blocked entirely. Rosamia, Apolli, did either of you see any other entrances or exits?”

 

“No, Lord Khyron.”

 

“Dammit! It seems we’ve met with failure, at least. No matter! Let us return to the rendezvous point and see if the Ilians or the mercenaries have had any better luck. Come!”

 

Without another word but with a dramatic swish of his tattered orange cape, Khyron turned on his heel and began marching the way he’d came. And without any protest, Rosamia and Apolli followed.

 

-X-

 

“Kelitha…is she really our sister?”

 

Keith said this as her teammates continued their march south in a straight line. The Pegasi they were riding on seemed someone skittish, as if they sensed something the humans couldn’t, but Keith didn’t know what it could be—much like Khyron’s group, nobody had seen anything other than the same drab yellow floors and walls for the time they’d been exploring. The only thing they could hear was the hoofbeats of their Pegasi and Kasha’s mumbling to herself as she held her torch aloft. This was what Keith was asking about.

 

“Of course she is,” Kelitha replied. “Why?”

 

“It’s just that…” Keith was careful to lower her voice. “Kasha…the things she said…she didn’t even care that Imelle died.”

 

“I…that’s…” The middle sister sighed. “We are Ilians, Keith. This is only your first mission, so I understand that you mightn’t have learned this yet, but death is something we are used to. We spill our blood for foreigners so our people may live. We can’t get emotional about that.”

 

“I’m an Ilian too! I understand that,” said Keith stubbornly, “but even so…Imelle was Kasha’s comrade! She was part of the Shrike Team for longer than I was! But…but Kasha barely even noticed. And even when we were almost all wiped out at Nerinheit, she didn’t care either! I know they died like heroes, for a good cause, and they made Ilia proud…but they were our friends! Our comrades! Isn’t it natural to feel sad about them? So why doesn’t Kasha feel that way? Why, sister? Am I…are we…are we not good enough? Not strong enough? Do I have to—“

 

“That’s enough, Keith. It…it’s not your fault, or anyone else’s. It’s just…that’s just how Kasha is.”

 

“But…but even so,” Keith continued, “Our mother…you heard what she said about our mother! How could she…our own sister, how could she?”

 

“Keith! Hush!” Kelitha brought a finger up to her lips hastily, for Keith’s voice had grown louder—Hiyu and Vayin, riding ahead of them but behind Kasha, had looked back at them. Keith, fortunately, was still occupied with her muttering—“I wonder how Yazan’s doing, grrr…and that Renault, the way he took down Barbarossa…just makes me tingle thinking about it! So many men, so little time!”—to pay attention to what her sister had said.

 

“That…that’s just how Kasha is,” said Kelitha softly. “You never saw much of her growing up…she was always out on missions and almost never home. That was how our mother wanted it. But now that she’s gone, and Kasha’s in charge, you can see how your older sister is like…” Kelitha shuddered. _And how I suffered to keep her attention away from you_ , she thought. But, of course, she didn’t voice that.

 

“I…I thought my biggest sister was a hero, just like my mother,” sniffled Keith. “B-But now…”

 

Kelitha could do nothing but reach out and stroke her younger sister’s hair softly and gently, just as she always had when they were children. “Keith…you are an Ilian. You must be strong, no matter…no matter anything else. But I want you to remember this. Even if Kasha…even if Kasha is like that, I’m here for you, little sister. I always have been, and I always will be. I love you. And no matter what Kasha says or does, I’ll never stop.”

 

Smiling as comfortingly—and genuinely—as she could, Kelitha lowered her hand to take her sister’s. Keith reciprocated, and a smile of her own spread across her face for the first time in days.

 

Of course, their relatively happy moment would be cut short all too soon. “Hey, take a look at this!” Kasha exclaimed as she shook her torch in the air, the flickering light a signal for her fellows to stop. They did so, and looked forwards, realizing they could go no further—or at least, it would be unwise for them to go any further.

 

There was a stairwell in front of them, but it headed down, not up.

 

“So what d’we do?” asked Vayin, the oldest member of the Shrike Team at present. A cautious woman, she really didn’t want to go down there, though she knew Kasha likely would.

 

Fortunately, though, good sense won in the crazy woman’s mind for today. “I’d like to check it out,” she grumbled, “but this torch is gonna run out soon, and I don’t wanna waste any more. Let’s get Khyron and that funny staff of his, I bet that’ll last longer. C’mon, get moving!”

 

The Falcoknight spurred her mount, and he turned and almost charged past his teammates, leaving them to catch up. Keith and Kelitha waited a moment, still holding hands, before Kelitha broke their grip.

 

“Let’s go.” That was the only thing she said. And nothing more as they spurred their own mounts and followed their sister.

 

-X-

 

“EVERYBODY! WE FOUND A WAY OUT!”

 

That was the first thing Renault said as he and his companions burst into the room they’d initially entered, gratified to see the other two groups were waiting for them.

 

“What?” asked Khyron, looking up from what apparently had been a somewhat heated conversation with Kasha. “There, you see, woman! No need to waste our time exploring the rest of this stupid labyrinth! We’re saved!”

 

“Hold on a sec,” asked Harvery to the rest of the group, “None of you found anything?”

 

“The section we explored was blocked off by a Light Rune,” replied Rosamia. “We couldn’t do anything with it.”

 

“We found the entrance to the lower level!” exclaimed Kasha with pride. “C’mon, it’ll be fun! I’m not ‘fraid of no ghost!”

 

“I think whatever’s down there is a lot worse than some ghosts,” said Braddock. “Look, you can get all the fighting you want back at Aquleia. Maybe you’ll even see that crazy Wyvern Knight…uh, what was his name, Yazan? Him? Maybe you’ll see him again. You’d want that, right?”

 

“I guess I do,” chirped the woman. “Alright, axeboy, you’ve made your point. Lead us outta here!”

 

Braddock was all too happy to. Since his torch was burning low he took another from Kelitha’s pack and led the entire group straight down the east wing of the labyrinth his detachment had explored.

 

“Man, Khyron,” Renault grinned, walking in front of the leader, “Harvery managed to find a real nice secret cache of treasure. You’re gonna love the stuff we got!”

 

“LORD Khyron, you mean,” he huffed, “and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I think I’ve got higher standards than the sort of thing which would impress a scruffy freebooter like you!”

 

“Hah!” Renault just let it roll off his back. “Well, guess that’s what, another five thousand gold in our pockets, right, Braddock?”

 

“Exactly right, my friend.”

 

“Wait, what?!”

 

The two men laughed and ignored the sage, and indeed continued to banter with each other for the duration of their trek to the door they’d found. They were joined by their other comrades too—everyone seemed to be in very high spirits (even Khyron, who had become very interested in the five thousand gold Renault had mentioned), since the end of their ordeal seemed to finally be in sight—or at least a chance to escape this dark, gloomy labyrinth.

 

Unfortunately, their hopes were very soon to be dashed.

 

“We’re almost there,” said Braddock, holding his torch forward, “Look! You can see the ex—“ His voice cut off when he noticed there was someone standing there. Someone who hadn’t been there before.

 

“It’s so good to see you again, my Ostian friend,” chuckled the Silent Chief as he stepped forward from the shadows into the light of Braddock’s torch. “I see you’ve brought some friends, have you? No matter. You are my main concern. It’s simply too bad your companions will have to die as well.”

 

“Hey, who the hell’s he?” asked Kasha.

 

“Y-Yurt!” stammered Harvery. “He…he stands at the top of my profession! And he’s really after you guys! SHIT!”

 

“Like hell he is!” growled Braddock as he brandished his Silver Axe with his free hand. Renault did the same, along with the other members of Hell’s Wall. “You miscalculated big time, you son of a bitch. You think you can take all of us on? We just killed Bern’s secret weapon! We can kill you easily enough!”

 

“True,” said Yurt. “That’s why I plan on allowing this Labyrinth to do the job for me!”

 

“Wait, what the hell?!”

 

“Hahaha!” The armor-clad assassin hopped back with a bright flash of light, forcing his adversaries to cover their eyes. “YOU FOOLS!”

 

The flash lasted only a moment, and when they opened their eyes, precisely three members of Hell’s Wall knew exactly what they were looking at.

 

“No,” said Khyron, “NO! IT CAN’T BE! A LIGHT RUNE!”

 

“A light what?” Braddock asked before he was cut off by a loud, cold laugh coming from behind the strange sphere floating in front of him.

 

“Yes, my prey, a Light Rune,” cackled the assassin. “Khyron has already seen my handiwork at the other exit, and he knows exactly what it means for you. This Rune cannot be destroyed by any earthly means. It will remain here for all time, and there’s no way for you to get past it. I’ve blocked the western entrance to this labyrinth with another rune, and the northern one has been shut by the rubble Barbarossa was so kind to produce.

 

“You can’t escape. The only way for you to go is down…and believe me, you won’t like what you find. Farewell, fools! This labyrinth shall be your grave!”

 

The assassin let out another loud, chilling laugh—but one that seemed to grow fainter over time. “Shit, he’s getting away!” cried Braddock, and rushed straight at the Light Rune. He slammed his shoulder into it, to no avail. Renault rushed over to help him—it still didn’t budge.

 

“Stop it, both of you, STOP IT!” yelled Rosamia, “THERE’S NO WAY—“

 

“DAMMIT! _DAMMIT! YUUURT!!”_ Braddock screamed as he stabbed his torch into the Rune, hoping to set it aflame. He succeeded in doing nothing more than sending a few sparks to the floor. Renault unsheathed his good Steel Sword and thrust it at the obstacle. It merely bounced off as if it had hit a stone wall.

 

“ENOUGH!”

 

Both men—and the rest of Hell’s Wall—turned to face Khyron, staring at all of them with a combination of despair and anger on his face.

 

“It’s no good,” he said. “These runes…I’ve tried before. No Sage or scholar I’ve ever read has figured out a means of dispelling them, and no warrior has ever destroyed one.”

 

“So then what the hell do we do, huh?!” Braddock spat, and it seemed like he would start shouting before Renault gave him a sharp look, reminding him of the virtues of staying calm. “Okay. Okay, let’s think. Khyron, you said the other exit you found was blocked off by another of these Runes, right? Yurt must have done it. Kasha, you said the only exit you found went to the next level, right?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Did any of you find anything else? Anything even remotely suspicious?”

 

“No,” said Khyron irritatedly, “why?”

 

“Maybe there’s something Yurt missed. I mean, Harvery found a secret room that had all this treasure inside it. Maybe there are more? Secret exits or something?”

 

“Might be,” said the spy. “I mean, I’m good at finding things like that…in my job description and all. Who knows, maybe Yurt missed one. Couldn’t hurt to keep looking, right?”

 

“You got it,” said Renault. “So forget about this stupid Light Rune! There’s probably another secret exit somewhere in this labyrinth. Harvery’ll find it! So let’s concentrate on that, and then we’ll give that Yurt bastard a hell of a nasty surprise when we get out!”

 

“I-I’ll lead the way,” stammered the spy. “Okay, everybody, let’s get moving!”

 

The rest of the troop did as he ordered, beginning their renewed search of the Labyrinth’s first dungeon. Even as the combed the walls, lead by their master spy, however, they displayed significantly less enthusiasm than they had just a few minutes ago.

 

Despite Renault’s efforts to the contrary, none of them, including him, could deny the premonition that things were going to get much worse for them before they got better.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say about this chapter, I guess…hope you liked it :D The way the Light Rune works is taken from the games, as they just stood there for pretty much forever when you used them. Khyron’s ruminations about ‘heresy’ refer to Kishuna’s description as “a foul creature born of heresy.” I figure that if Morph magic was “heretical,” it probably wasn’t the only ‘heretical’ magic either. ;) Thanks to Enilas for beta-ing.


	24. Ultimate Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped within the Reaper's Labyrinth, Renault and his friends have no choice but to press on even deeper within the haunted ruins. What will they find?

 

**24: Ultimate Weapon**

 

(Author’s Note: Get ready for some FANSERVICE in this chapter :D )

 

“There’s nothing! I can’t find a single thing, dammit!”

 

Hell’s Wall had spent literally three days combing every last inch of the labyrinth’s first level, over and over again. At least that was how it seemed—it was pretty hard to tell time in this gloomy dungeon.

 

By this point, Renault was very, very glad they’d taken so many extra supplies. He initially wondered what they’d do with so many rations, torches, casks of oil, and so on, but when it became apparent they’d be spending some time in here, he was genuinely grateful they hadn’t used up too much of their supplies on the journey here. However, judging by the lack of luck they’d had in finding an exit, it seemed quite apparent that even the extra provisions they’d been given wouldn’t last them forever.

 

“Incompetent fool!” Khyron sputtered. “You’re a spy! It’s your job to find things like this!” After so many hours of fruitless searching, the group had re-gathered in the main ‘entrance hall’ to the first level of the labyrinth, where Khyron was currently browbeating Harvery as his friends watched on.

 

“Look, I can only do that when there’s actually something to find!” said Harvery. “I’ve been over this level five times now! There’s absolutely nothing else here! The only secret door led to the treasure room, and all the exits up are blocked off, by those Light Runes or the debris! If there was ANYTHING else, I’d have found it!”

 

“So…So then what do we do?!”

 

“Why don’t you try helping some, huh?” Braddock spat. “That Warp staff of yours still not working?”

 

“I’ve already tried it several times! There’s nothing I can do with it!”

 

“Well, how about clearing some of that debris in front of the main stairs with your magic, huh? Can’t you burn it away or something?”

 

“Impossible! Not that much stone, no!”

 

“Okay, what about blowing through the walls? Can’t you clear another path around here somehow?”

 

“That’s a terrible idea! We just toppled the top floor of the Labyrinth, do you want the rest of it crashing down on our heads?”

 

“Fine! So what else can we do?”

 

“Go down and see if there’s any way out on one of the lower levels,” smiled the Shrike Team’s leader, Kasha. “Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? I mean, if this “Reaper’s Labyrinth” thing ate up a whole Lycian army, it might provide me with a bit of excitement!”

 

“Lady, you’re crazy!” retorted Braddock, his voice growing unsteadier. “I keep telling you people, it’s a death warrant!”

 

“Tch! You’re so cowardly. Word to the wise, axeboy, you’ll never get a girl like me with that sort of attitude. You oughta work on your spine, like your friend Renault here.” She gave the sellsword her hungriest, most lascivious grin. “You agree with me, don’t ya? You think we oughta give the lower levels a look, right?”

 

Renault was silent for a moment. Then, he spoke. “Unfortunately, I do,” he grimaced. He turned to look at Braddock, who seemed somewhat betrayed. “Look, man, I know how you feel. You really, REALLY believe there’s something bad about this place, and I trust your judgment—it’s saved our lives before, hasn’t it? But I just don’t see any choice. We can either spend weeks up here while the war back in Etruria ends and we starve to death, or we can take our chances with whatever’s lurking down in the lower levels. Even if it killed off a whole army, even if we have a one in a million chance of living through it, it’s still better than the certain, slow death waiting for us up here.”

 

Braddock still didn’t look entirely convinced, so Renault continued. “Besides, have you thought of this? Whatever’s down there apparently killed both the real Hell’s Wall and a whole Lycian army. So it must be pretty powerful, right? Maybe even more powerful than Barbarossa?”

 

“Y…yeah. Maybe.”

 

“So what if we could harness it somehow? We don’t know exactly what it is, after all. Could’ve been ghosts, could’ve been evil spirits, but it could’ve been _anything_. Maybe it’ll turn out to be something we could use. And if we could turn that power against Paptimus…”

 

The sellsword knew his friend very well—as a brief spark of anger flashed in Braddock’s eyes, Renault knew he’d won him over. “Alright,” said the Ostian, taking a deep breath, “alright. There’s nothing to lose, right? I don’t wanna spend weeks in this labyrinth wasting away while Paptimus does whatever the hell he wants up there. Besides, how’m I ever gonna kill a bastard like him if I’m afraid of a few ghosts! I’m with you, Renault.”

 

“Glad to hear it. Well? Anybody else got any other suggestions?”

 

The rest of the team was silent. It was Khyron who finally broke it. “It looks like we’re in agreement, then,” he blustered. “Come! Let’s see exactly what’s lurking inside the Reaper’s Labyrinth. It may have been enough to overcome some Lycians, but it will prove no match against the might of an Etrurian mage!”

 

Somehow, Renault doubted that, but as he and the rest of his friends followed Khyron down the southern hallway, towards the descending staircase, he figured it wasn’t worth mentioning.

 

-X-

 

The bad feeling Renault had in the pit of his stomach increased with every step he took down those stairs, and it didn’t go away when he and the team reached their bottom. They emerged from the stairwell single file, Khyron with his Torch staff leading the way. Ahead of them was another long, dark hallway made of the same unremarkable yellow stone, though this one seemed to have what might have once been torch holders—long since emptied, though.

 

There wasn’t anyplace else for them to go, so they continued onwards, in two columns now that they had the space. Within a few minutes they came to an intersection. The path continued south, but it also split off to the east and west.

 

“L-Lord Khyron,” asked Apolli, “D-d’you want us to split up again?”

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, bud,” said Braddock. “Nobody’s ever gotten this deep into the Reaper’s Labyrinth and come back alive. We might get picked off if we’re apart from each other. Strength in numbers, right?”

 

“It’s not as if we’re in much of a hurry, are we?” said Khyron sarcastically. “We’ll stick together, then. First, the western path!”

 

Off they went. Once again, they passed a few skeletons, both apparently of Hell’s Wall and Lycian Armymen, but only a few. The big battle between the bandits and their pursuers must have taken place on a lower level—if it had happened at all.

 

In front of them, however, was a wall. Not quite a wall, actually—there seemed to be an incision in the stone around it, as if it was meant to be a door, but no hinges or anything—it was just a slab of stone. Above it, however, there seemed to be a sign of some sort—a metal plaque by the looks of it. The team drew closer to see what it was.

 

“Hmm,” said Khyron, marching up to it. Taking a deep breath, he stood on his toes and blew on it. After the small cloud of ancient dust had dissipated…it actually didn’t evoke much of a reaction in Renault. Something was written on it, in letters that actually vaguely reminded him of the ones he’d seen on Barbarossa, but not by much. He couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Khyron, on the other hand, seemed awestruck.

 

“What is it?” asked Braddock, noticing how the Mage General’s breathing had gotten very shallow. Rosamia seemed to be surprised as well.

 

“B…Barracks,” stammered Khyron, “Some of the words a-are illegible, but I can make out…barracks?”

 

“Barracks?” Harvery asked. “In a place like this? Huh…that _is_ weird. Especially for a ‘Labyrinth.’”

 

“We called it that because anybody who went in never came out,” Braddock replied, “not because it was literally a maze. Still, a barracks? That…that is strange in a place like this.” He shivered visibly. “I wonder what it could mean.”

 

“That’s not it, you fools!” Khyron exclaimed. “Have you any idea of what language this is?”

 

“Looks like gibberish to me,” said Renault.

 

Khyron couldn’t say anything in response to that for a few moments, sputtering in indignation before blurting out, “UNCULTURED SWINE! THIS IS HIGH IMPERIAL!”

 

“High Imperial?” Renault vaguely remembered his mother mentioning those words before, but he had made it a point of forgetting pretty much everything she’d ever taught him. “What’s that?”

 

“It used to be the most widespread of Elibe’s old languages,” Rosamia hastily interjected before Khyron could grow too angry. “Well, not quite…Low Imperial was the common tongue, while High was used with nobles, functionaries and soldiers. B-but that’s not the point. The common tongue we all speak today is descended from Low Imperial. High died along with the old Empire of Man…human civilization itself. Nobody’s spoken it since the Scouring.”

 

“Wait, since the Scouring? But that’s over…”

 

“Yes!” Khyron was clearly very excited. “Over seven hundred years ago!”

 

Kasha whistled. “Wow, now that’s a pretty long time. Wasn’t that when the Dragons disappeared from our world? Maybe there’s one living down here or something.”

 

This was enough to make Braddock’s face grow noticeably paler, and it took a hand from Renault to steady him. “Remember what I said, man. We don’t know for sure what’s down here. Let’s not lose our heads and panic before we even get a glimpse of it, right?”

 

The Ostian gulped. “Y-yeah.”

 

His friend grinned mischievously. “Besides, you’re a real tough guy. You never struck me as the type to get freaked out over stuff like this. I mean, remember back at the Lurkmire? _You_ were the one telling _me_ not to get all scared of a bunch of ghosts!”

 

Braddock had to take the hit on this one. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, buddy. Still, the Lurkmire and the Reaper’s Labyrinth…scary as that was, there’s no comparing it with this one! For a Lycian like me, it’s the scariest place in the world! At least people have entered the Lurkmire and came out alive before. That’s never happened with the Labyrinth. Can you blame me for bein’ a bit less brave than usual?”

 

Renault might have wanted to, but he really couldn’t--because when Khyron leaned closer to the door, the Sage suddenly jumped back, causing Renault to let out a small cry and jump into the air.

 

Now it was Braddock’s turn to grin. “Guess you’re not feelin’ so brave either, huh?”

 

Renault chuckled self-effacingly and gestured to the rest of their team,  all of whom had either scampered or jumped back (except for Kasha, who was staring at her surroundings with delighted expectancy). “I don’t think I’m the only one, Braddock.”

 

The reason was obvious—a blue, glowing sigil suddenly appeared on the stone slab. As if of its own volition, it slid to the side, releasing a great cloud of dust (forcing Hell’s Wall to cover their mouths and eyes for a few moments) and revealing a large dark room within.

 

The frightened members of “Hell’s Wall” waited outside several minutes to ensure that nothing evil came bursting out of that room, and nothing did. Thus, it became apparent this would be their next destination. “Get off your Pegasi,” Khyron ordered the Shrike Team. “In case we’re attacked from behind, the beasts will provide us some advance warning, at least.”

 

Keith seemed to be somewhat distressed about this, but a few whispered words from Kelitha were enough to convince her of the wisdom of this plan, and she obediently dismounted, as did the other Ilians. Khyron then promptly marched inside, his Torch staff lighting the way.

 

They all entered the room, single file as was the only way to permit them through the door. When Renault got a good look at his surroundings, to say he was surprised would have been an understatement. It wasn’t dissimilar to what he had expected…which, in a place like this, was pretty unexpected.

 

According to Khyron, the sign outside had read ‘Barracks,’ and this apparently was housing for a great many men. It was completely abandoned, of course—no-one except the dust had apparently been in this area for years, not even creatures like spiders or bats. However, it was apparent someone had once lived here, no matter how long ago.

 

In terms of its actual organization, it wasn’t different at all from the sorts of military barracks Renault had become acquainted with over his time as a mercenary. The room was a long, wide rectangle, with rows of what must have been beds and similar furnishings along each wall. What made it evident that these were definitely not contemporary lodgings were the specifics of the beds and attached furniture. The beds themselves were firstly carved straight out of stone rather than built from wood. Naturally, they would have been very uncomfortable, but Renault hoped the rotting pieces of cloth strewn on and about them had once been pillows and sheets soft enough to make up for them. Also surprising was that they had two levels—each bed had one stone ‘mattress’ on the floor, and attached to it were four stone pillars which supported another ‘mattress’ several feet above it. A ladder on one side of the contraption allowed egress to the second bed. Renault had heard of these types of things before—called ‘bunk beds,’ they were utilized by commanders who had to house a large number of soldiers in comparatively small quarters. He’d never heard of any constructed out of stone, however. Next to these beds were what seemed to be cabinets or lockers of some sort. They were shaped much like the cabinets and dressers the rooms back at Nerinheit Castle were furnished with, except of course made out of stone, with incisions on them indicating where their compartments were.

 

“Alright then,” said Khyron, looking at this strange barracks and its strange furniture, “Let’s begin our examination of the premises! Break off into small groups to facilitate your efforts, but stay within shouting distance of the rest of us at all times! I—“

 

He was cut off by something _very_ unexpected. The entire room suddenly glowed—and the light wasn’t coming from Khyron’s torch staff, or anyone else for that matter. With absolutely no apparent provocation, spheres of glowing blue light had suddenly appeared out of thin air over the “torch-holders” all over the room and through the rest of the floor.

 

“AAH!” Panicked, all the members of Hell’s Wall hastily drew their weapons and closed ranks, staying as close to each other as possible. The Illians kept their spears pointed outwards and upwards, watching for any threat, Khyron and Rosamia had their tomes ready, Apolli an arrow in his bowstring, and Renault, Braddock, and Harvery taking their defensive stances and holding their weapons out before them, ready to stave off any attack.

 

All of them stayed like this for several minutes, eyes darting left and right, breathing heavily as they prepared to be attacked by ghosts or spirits or whatever the source of this strange blue light was. However, the longer they waited, the more it became apparent that the banishment of the darkness did not herald some new foe.

 

“D-dammit,” stammered Harvery, “this is freakin’ the hell out of me! What’s up with these lights, man?”

 

“Don’t ask me,” responded Braddock in frustration. “I have no idea what it is! Maybe it’s a spell or something?”

 

“I sense magic,” said Rosamia, “but it doesn’t seem to be offensive in nature. This is just an enchantment of some sort, nothing more.”

 

“So why’d it activate now?”

 

“M-motion sensitive? Maybe to do with time?” Harvery stammered, seeming to relax and lower his weapons, though still keeping himself ready. “There don’t seem to be any windows in here. If this really was a barracks, the lights would have to come on by themselves to tell the soldiers when to get up and when to get to sleep.”

 

“Makes sense, but…” Braddock still didn’t seem very convinced. However, after another few minutes of sweating nervously while nothing happened, nobody could deny that there really wasn’t anything out to get them—at least not at the moment.

 

“Guess we’ll have to wait a little longer before we meet whatever killed that army of yours,” grinned Renault, forcing Braddock to chuckle slightly and relax just a little.

 

Khyron, of course, was intent on keeping them busy. “Well, whatever these lights may be, we don’t have time to waste. All of you, check every nook and cranny of this room! In these cabinets, under these beds, EVERYWHERE! There may be an escape route, or at least something we can use!”

 

Nobody took any exception to that. At least not anything serious. As he and his friends began their search of the barracks, though, Renault, standing next to his best friend, had to admit one thing:

 

“Damn, bud,” he muttered under his breath, “maybe you’re right about this place after all.”

 

-x-

 

“Wow, this is weird.”

 

It had taken them almost a half hour of searching, but Renault and Braddock had finally found something interesting. Well, something very interesting—they’d found some strange things in the other stone cabinets they’d opened up so far. They seemed to operate on the same principle as the door—when someone brought a hand near them, the stone compartments would open or close of their own volition, revealing the contents. The cabinets were apparently very good at preservation, for unlike the beddings, the clothes, tunics, and pants inside them weren’t completely rotted away. Renault and Braddock didn’t care too much about clothes, though. What they wanted was an escape. What they found, however, wasn’t too bad in and of itself.

 

In one of the cabinets near the tenth bed underneath an old tunic (At least Renault thought it was a tunic—it was cut in a style he didn’t recognize, probably centuries old if what Khyron told them was correct) was a book of some sort. At least that’s what it seemed like, as it wasn’t like any book they’d ever seen or touched before. The covers were incredibly thin, almost two-dimensional, they couldn’t tell how it was bound or held together, and the paper it was made out of seemed thinner and smoother than any they’d ever encountered. All that would have been interesting enough, but the contents of the book were like nothing they’d seen before. It was all in an indecipherable language—the letters looked vaguely like the ones on the plaque outside the room, but squigglier. Not such a big problem, though, because it was apparently a… _picture_ book of some sort. On the front cover, though the colors had dulled with age, was an image of what could have been a knight—it was a humanoid shape wielding a sword in one hand, but clad in light purple, strangely insectoid armor. Flipping through the book, Braddock and Renault saw several more pictures—black and white, this time—depicting the being on the cover engaged in combat with other warriors also clad in the same sort of strange armor.

 

“Renault, Braddock, have you found something?” asked Rosamia, who was tapping a wall nearby, doing as Harvery recommended and trying to see if there were any secret passages to uncover or anything like that.

 

“Uh, maybe” said Braddock. He turned to her and held out the book. “Rosamia, can you read this? We found it in one of the cabinets here. What is it?”

 

Hmm, let me see.” She reached out and took it, poring over it intently. “This language…it’s Low Imperial. The language of common people and merchants back then. Khyron knows more about it than me, but I can translate a bit of it.” She ran a finger across the words emblazoned on the cover. “Sei Senshi…Da…Da-n-bine. I think that’s somewhere along the lines of ‘Aura Battler Dunbine.’” She flipped the book over and looked at its back. “I think it’s a…fairy, fantasy story, just for entertainment. No use for us.”

 

“Huh,” said Renault, “what about these?” He had continued rummaging through the cabinets while Braddock and Rosamia were talking and had found a few more books. Like the first, they were picture books—one had an image of a red knight with a sword and shield seemingly sliding over sandy ground (how, Renault couldn’t tell) and the other depicted a knight in similar (but much more ornate) armor standing proudly holding a gigantic sword before him. The last had a somewhat romantic image of a youthful, brown-haired swordsman sitting on a green field with a beautiful long-haired blonde who had funny pointed ears.

 

“Let me see those.” Rosamia peered at each. “Pal…no, Panzer World Galient. This one…I can’t quite make out the word. Sight? Illusion? Vision? Yes, vision. Vision of…Es…Escaflowne? And this last one…hmm. Sentoki…that means ‘War Record,’ I think. So it would translate to…I think “Record of the War in Lodoss.” She looked at them and shook her head. “It’s all the same. No use to us.”

 

“Dammit,” grunted Braddock disconsolately and tossed them back in the cabinet. “Well, thanks for translating for us, Rosamia.” He smiled. “Pretty impressive you know all that language. You’d have to be a genius to make something out of all those weird rune thingies!”

 

She blushed slightly. “I-it’s nothing much. Khyron knows more than me, anyways, and besides, all mages have to have some familiarity with the ancient tongue…Draconic, mostly, since it’s used in our spellbooks, but the old Imperial language as well.”

 

“Heh, I see. Well, in any case, let’s keep looking.”

 

The three of them continued to do so for another hour, along with the rest of Hell’s Wall. They had split into more or less three groups, each taking a different section of the room—the Ilians had clustered together, looking at its far edges, Harvery, Apolli, and Khyron were looking at the beds and walls near the center, and Braddock, Rosamia, and Renault were looking at the surroundings near where they’d came in. After two hours, none of them had found anything resembling an exit (just more of those picture books), and the group convened near the center of the western barracks.

 

“Anybody have any luck?” asked Braddock glumly.

 

“If you don’t mind any sewage, me n’ the girls found an outhouse near the back,” Kasha snickered. “At least that’s what it looked like.”

 

“Y-you mean chamber pots, sister,” Kelitha corrected quietly. “At least that’s what they looked like…we, um, we aren’t sure. But, Lord Khyron, we also found this.”

 

“Oh?”

 

All eyes turned to her as she produced a strange golden object, gleaming in the soft blue light that surrounded them. It seemed to be an arrow, though made entirely out of gold with bright blue fletching at its end. Was it meant as ammunition? Renault wasn’t sure, but he felt such an aura of power emanating from it that he was certain it wasn’t just for decoration.

 

Khyron’s eyes went wide when he saw this. “O…Orion’s Bolt! Where in God’s name did you find this?”

 

“I-in one of the cabinets, Lord Khyron. Will it be useful?”

 

Khyron didn’t respond. “Apolli,” he barked, “get over here!”

 

The bewildered Archer obediently made his way to stand in front of Khyron—neither he nor the rest of his teammates knew what the Sage intended to do. They’d see soon enough.

 

Khyron held the Bolt over the young man’s head and yelled loudly, “SPIRIT OF ORION, I BESEECH YOU! GRANT THIS YOUTH YOUR POWER!”

 

Nothing happened at first. But Renault could tell the air in the room suddenly felt a great deal heavier.

 

Then, with a great flash of yellow light, and what seemed to be a thousand volts of sparking yellow electricity, Apolli disappeared.

 

Renault and his friends blinked idly for a moment. “K-Khyron,” Braddock stammered incredulously, “What the hell did you do?”

 

He was about to go on when all of a sudden, the light and electricity returned. “GAH!” Renault took a step back and brought a hand to his eyes to protect them from the flash, but when he opened them again, Apolli had returned. The young man was kneeling on the floor, sweating and shivering, but…Renault couldn’t describe it, but he looked different. Bigger, stronger somehow. It wasn’t clear.

 

Rosamia was outraged. “KHYRON, WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!” Forgetting the respect she owed to her master, she immediately rushed over and knelt over her friend, putting a hand on his back.

 

“Oh, spare us the dramatics, girl,” said Khyron. “I did him a favor! You ought to know what sort of relic a Bolt of Orion is. It unlocks the full power of anyone who’s ever used a bow. What, did you expect me to let it just sit there and go to waste?”

 

“B-but still--!”

 

Apolli himself didn’t seem to mind, though.“I…I’m okay, Rosamia.” He looked at her and smiled, and it seemed to Renault he really _did_ look good—he seemed much less pale than he’d had the last few days. “H-heck, like this, I feel like I could take on the whole world!” He got up, still a bit unsteady on his feet—he leaned on Rosamia for support—and turned to Khyron and bowed earnestly. “Th-thank you, m’lord.”

 

The Sage smirked in response. “See, girl? What did I tell you? He’s as good as new! Even better, indeed! He’s no longer an ordinary Archer, but a Sniper! Just wait until you see him in action, if the lad had a good eye with the bow before, he’ll amaze you now. Just what we needed to survive a place like this, yes?”

 

Rosamia looked like she was going to argue a bit more—and Braddock, for that matter—but Apolli seemed so happy neither of them saw the need to speak up for him. “We’ll get you some proper Sniper’s equipment when we get back to Aquleia,” said Khyron, “but for now, your bow’s all you need. Now, let’s go! If we couldn’t find anything in here there may be something waiting for us on the other wing of this floor.”

 

The members of Hell’s Wall cast Apolli some concerned glances (well, Kasha was glaring at him very suspiciously—she didn’t like bowmen, especially powered-up bowmen), but when he broke into a light jog to follow Khyron outside, the rest of his friends did the same.

 

Not that they felt much safer, though—whatever that Orion’s Bolt had done to him, it had apparently brought them no closer to finding a way out of this tomb.

 

-x-

 

“Another barracks, huh?”

 

After several minutes of walking, they’d returned to the second floor’s intersection and continued eastward down the hallway, which had brought them to a door which looked exactly like the one they’d exited on the other side. When Khyron read the inscription on the plaque there, it confirmed their suspicions.

 

“Yes. The writing hasn’t been worn away as much here. It reads ‘Eastern Block.’”

 

“We didn’t find anything in the western one,” grumbled Braddock sadly, “What makes you think we’ll find anything of use in here?”

 

“It couldn’t hurt to look, right?” asked Renault.

 

“Your friend is correct, Ostian. In we go!” The blue rune on the front of the stone door glowed, and once again Khyron led his troops into the abandoned barracks. The blue lights had been activated here as well, and as they entered, all of them saw the same stone bunk-beds and cabinets that had furnished the western room.

 

Thus, none of them had particularly high hopes, so once again, just as they had before, they broke up into groups and began combing through the beds and cabinets. This time, however, their efforts were slightly better rewarded.

 

“Hey, more books,” said Renault as he rifled through another of the stone cabinets. He’d found a couple under what seemed to be an old blouse of some sort. At least he thought it was woman’s clothing, but it was obviously hard to tell with styles this old.

 

“I got a couple too,” said Braddock, fiddling through a cabinet on the other side of the room. The two men got up and examined their finds together. Unlike the picture books they’d found earlier, however these didn’t seem to have any images on them, just more of the squiggly High Imperial text. Perhaps they were spellbooks or something? Renault wasn’t holding out much hope, since they had the same thin covers and thin paper of the picture books, but it was worth asking. “Hey, Rosamia,” he asked, “Look at what we found. Do you think they’re the same things as those picture books earlier, or…?”

 

The woman was examining one of the beds, seeing if it would budge. “Braddock, come here and push this, would you?” she asked. “I’m wondering if one of these beds might be concealing a passage or something.” When he walked over to do so, she walked over to Renault and picked up his finds. “There’s no magic in these,” she said, confirming his suspicions. “I think they’re just entertainment books, like the other ones.”

 

Braddock, by this point, had shoved up against the stone beds several times with all his might. “No luck,” he said, sweating, “these things are pretty tightly attached to the floor. No secret passages here. Anyways, what were you saying about the books, Rosamia?”

 

“I think they’re fantasy stories, like the picture books we found earlier, except, well, with no pictures.” She furrowed her brow. “I’m not really a scholar of ancient literature, but Khyron talked about it a lot. This kind of form was called a “novel”—very, very long stories, thousands of words long. The ancients wrote many of them, but most of them were lost after the Scouring, and no-one’s written more since. We only have fragments of them surviving now.” She smiled slightly. “If we ever get out of here alive, these may turn out to be quite a find. Several of Khyron’s friends would give an arm and a leg for things like this! Let me see what their titles are. What’s this…Legend of the Chaos—“

 

She didn’t shout those words, but they caught someone’s ear—Khyron’s hearing was apparently much more acute than anyone had guessed. “LEGEND OF THE CHAOS HERO?!” he shouted from across the room, and immediately dropped what he was doing (surprising the Ilians he was working with) and rushed over to a bewildered Rosamia. “LET ME SEE THOSE!” He grabbed the trio of books out of her hands and began poring through them intently, seeming more excited than he’d been at any point in the past few days, even while fighting Barbarossa.

 

“Geez, Khyron, what’s the problem,” asked Braddock. “Rosamia already said they weren’t—“

 

“Uncultured swine!” he accused for the second time. “They’re much more valuable! Have you any idea of what these are?”

 

“No, not really.”

 

“THESE ARE SOME OF THE GREATEST LITERARY WORKS IN ELIBEAN HISTORY!” The Sage looked as if he was about to explode from a combination of joy at making a find like this and indignation that nobody seemed to know what it meant. “Look at this! A complete manuscript of ‘Legend of the Chaos Hero!’ My brother searched almost his whole life for a complete manuscript, but all he could ever find were damaged transcriptions! A-And this!” He showed off one of the other books with an expression on his face like a proud father, but, of course, Renault and Braddock couldn’t read the High Imperial script. “This is ‘The Fourth Tale!’ Another one of the great adventure novels from the days before the Scouring! And look at THIS! This is ‘The Hammer of Terrascars!’ THE COMPLETE TEXT! We’ve only managed to find bits and pieces of a five-hundred year old second-hand translation! This is the first true novel in our continent’s history! Do you have any idea what we’ve found?!”

 

Renault shrugged. “No, not really. In fact, I dunno why you even care.”

 

This really set Khyron off. “Why I care? WHY I CARE?! YOU UNGRATEFUL, UNCULTURED HEATHENS!” By this point, everyone else in the barracks could hear him and was looking at him curiously, while Renault and Braddock were taken completely aback by his outburst, Rosamia looking on helplessly. “The greatest scholars, researchers, and sages from all across Elibe have spent unimaginable amounts of blood, sweat, and tears attempting to recapture the glory of human culture before the Scouring! These books are part of your heritage, you fool! Something you should treasure! Doesn’t that matter the least bit to you?!”

 

“Heritage, huh?” Braddock retorted, now somewhat perturbed himself by Khyron’s outburst. “Look, that’s great and all, but keeping track of that stuff’s a job for scholars and researchers, like you said. Those aren’t soldiers like us. In all the time we’ve known each other you never seemed to be so concerned about this. Why _now_?”

 

Khyron held up the books they’d found. “Like I told you, Exedol spent his entire life trying to find what we’ve stumbled upon. He was one of those great scholars dedicated to exploring our continent’s past before the Scouring! You philistines dishonor his memory!”

 

“Huh? But I thought he used to be the Mage General,” said Renault, now actually more surprised and curious. “I didn’t know ancient history was part of his job description.”

 

“It wasn’t,” said Khyron. “It was his life’s passion—what he always wanted to do.” Much to everyone’s surprise, the Sage seemed to be sad and bitter rather than angry and domineering like usual. “The position of Mage General was his obligation and responsibility, not his love. If he was here right now, seeing what we’re seeing, he’d be the happiest man on Elibe, but…”

 

This came as a complete surprise to Renault—he hadn’t the faintest idea this personal side of Khyron’s had even existed before now. He opened his mouth, about to ask more, but Rosamia put a stop to their conversation.

 

 “Master, this is indeed a wonderful accomplishment,” she said, “but it will all be for naught if we don’t escape from here alive! The man who murdered your brother is still at large. We’ll never bring him to justice if we just stand down here arguing!”

 

“Yes…yes, you’re right,” said Khyron, shaking his head and sighing as his old patrician demeanor returned. “Well,” he called across the blue-lit room just as the other soldiers quickly went back to searching, making an attempt to seem as if they hadn’t been listening to his outburst. “Have any of you found anything else?”

 

“Er…Uh…I think I might’ve, m’lord” Apolli called back, and something in his voice told the rest of his team he wasn’t joking. Quickly, they all rushed over to see what he’d found.

 

As he held it out to them, it seemed to be just another of those funny thin-paper books they’d already seen several of. However, the shape was different—it wasn’t as thick, but each page seemed to be somewhat larger. There was a picture on its front—of what might have been a huge fortress with several strange protrusions surrounding its center, if it weren’t for the giant wheels on its bottom which indicated it _moved_.

 

“Another of those picture books?” Khyron grumbled when he saw it. “Let me see this, these aren’t—“ His voice trailed off when he took a closer look at it. “Th…this isn’t…”

 

“I…the cabinet I found it in was a lil’ bigger than the rest,” stammered Apolli. “Th-there’re all sorts of weird clothes and somethin’ that looked a bit like medals to me innit. I thought it might’ve belonged t’ a commander or something, so I—“

 

“You thought right, boy,” said Khyron, looking at what he held in his hands with what Renault had thought impossible—even more excitement than he’d previously displayed. It seemed as if he was in…awe.

 

“I thought it was just a myth,” he said quietly. “But,” he flipped through a few more pages, “here it is, staring me right in the face. It’s true. All true. The legend of…Shin Erdenkaiser…”

 

“Uh…I don’t we know what you’re talking about, Khyron,” said Braddock. They all expected the Sage to go into another angry tirade about how “uncultured” they were, but to everyone’s surprise, he was apparently too taken aback himself to lecture them.

 

Instead, he grinned. “There’s a way out of here! I’ve found it! LOOK!” He flipped through the book and held it open to one specific page. It was a picture, like the ones from the books they’d found earlier but different, far more detailed. Renault blinked when he realized he was looking at a diagram of sorts, not so different from the ones he looked at with Henken when they were stoneworkers, so long ago. It was a cutaway of what were apparently six floors.

 

“The very top area here,” Khyron said excitedly, “This was what they called a “Landing Pad.” At least that’s what these words mean, and I’m very confident in my High Imperial. Landing for what, though, I don’t know. The temple building Barbarossa crashed through was built on top of it at a later date, after it had been sunk into the ground. The second level, that was what we just passed through. It was the main entrance….it contained three entrances to the main landing surface above, along with the hidden storage area Harvery found. Right now, we’re in the crew’s living quarters—it’s self explanatory what purpose this serves, obviously.

 

“Below us is…well, this I’m not so sure of. The word here translates to approximately ‘launcher,’ but it’s like a combination of ‘launcher’ and ‘armory.’ I don’t know what, exactly, it means, but that’s not important. The level below it is…again, I’m not sure. I’ve seen the words before, they translate to roughly “Knight Puppets.” They were mentioned several times in the ancient texts, and I think they’re weapons of some sort, but beyond that, I don’t know. It’s the bottom level which is most important to us!” He turned a page and enthusiastically clapped the diagram there. Nobody could make heads or tails out of it, naturally, but Khyron could. “This is the engine room. This…this edifice ran on…I can’t describe it to you. I can only say it’s a giant mechanism, powered by awesome eldritch magics. The sort of energy which runs through that machine makes the runes of flight on Barbarossa look like a novice’s first spell. The enchantment is so powerful that space-shifting magic can’t operate here—Warp and Rescue staves simply won’t work. All we have to do is get to the bottom floor and de-activate that engine. Then I’ll be able to get us out of here!”

 

This elicited a small series of cheers from Hell’s Wall—Keith and Kelitha hugged each other, and Harvery seemed as if he wanted to grab a bottle from his belt before realizing he didn’t have one, but some of them still had questions. “That’s really great, Khyron,” said Braddock—very sincerely, since he wanted to get out of here as much as anybody—“but I’m still wondering…where, exactly, are we? Have you figured out what this Reaper’s Labyrinth really is?”

 

They all quieted as they turned to listen to what Khyron had to say. “I…I believe I do,” he said, eerily calm—Renault had never seen the arrogant, high-strung Sage quite like this before. Apparently, this had been one hell of a discovery. “I’m not surprised none of you have figured it out yet. Only the most educated of scholars, like my brother, could have guessed.”

 

He took a deep breath as he began his story. “The Scouring was the most destructive war in this world’s history. The very laws of nature were bent by the time it ended. Civilization itself had been reduced to almost nothing. So great was the devastation that almost every trace of the world before had disappeared along with the dragons. Thus, we only have vague accounts of what happened. The only thing we know for sure is that when fighting broke out, War Dragons drove humanity to the verge of extinction before God—or the gods, as the heathens might say—delivered the Eight Holy Weapons to the Eight Generals. But what happened before that? How could the Dragons drive humanity that far?

 

“There are many, many legends about this time, most of them conflicting with each other. Some say the War Dragons were too numerous, others say that the Dragons unleashed some sort of plague on us, and their primitive War Dragons were exterminating the weakened remnants of our armies. But one story…

 

“According to that old legend, when mankind was united in a single Empire against the dragons, they poured all of their energy and effort into making a series of superweapons. These ultimate weapons…each of them had enough power to destroy a Divine Dragon easily. Much like there were eight generals, there were eight of these weapons. But all of them were destroyed. We don’t even remember the names of most of them, now. One was soared through the air…the Dragons clipped its wings and sent it crashing into the desert. Another floated along the waves…sabotage sent it sinking under the ocean.

 

“We only know the name of the last of these ultimate weapons. It was called “Shin Erdenkaiser.” That literally means “The Divine Land Tyrant.” It was a gigantic fortress…a castle that was ten times bigger than the Holy Royal Palace in Etruria. But not only that, it was _mobile_. Hundreds of giant wheels set at its bottom could send it rolling over virtually any obstacle, as the incredible weaponry it was equipped with could punch a hole in the continent itself. Not even dragon’s breath could scratch the layers of armor on its surface. It was humanity’s last hope…

 

“But the Dragons managed to destroy even this. They knew they couldn’t triumph against it in a direct assault. So they amassed their forces and lured it out into a final, climactic battle. They sent wave after wave of War Dragons at it, and, as expected, the War Dragons were annihilated. But the beasts weren’t targeting the fortress itself. They were targeting the ground _beneath_ it.

 

“Hundreds of Dragons—War and True alike—sacrificed their lives to sear the ground with their fiery breath. And slowly but surely, the earth under Shin Erdenkaiser’s wheels turned to molten slag. It could no longer move…and began to sink, deeper and deeper, straight down. The Dragons had burnt the deepest hole they could into the soil. They had succeeded, not in destroying the Mobile Fortress but in sealing it away. It and its crew were buried under tons and tons of burning lava, and along with them humanity’s hope. At this time, they say, God saw that the dragons had gained too much of advantage. Using the power of the eight destroyed mobile fortresses, He bequeathed eight legendary weapons to eight heroes worthy of it. With that power, the Divine Generals were able to push back the Draconic tide and drive them from our world.”

 

“W-wait,” said Braddock, his face paling, “You can’t possibly mean… _this is—_ “

 

“It’s the only explanation I can think of!” Khyron shot back, his irritable demeanor returning. “I…I could be wrong, but where else could we be? This language, these texts…it all explains so much!”

 

“But wait a second,” said Renault, unfazed by these revelations. “Khyron, you said we’d have to _de-activate_ the engine to get out of here. Do you mean it’s been running for the past seven hundred years?”

 

“Well, possibly,” stuttered Khyron, “Or that it might have been turned on when we entered or something…”

 

All the members of Hell’s Wall looked at each other uneasily. “I-If this is true, this ancient fortress has been abandoned for centuries,” stammered Harvery. “WHO COULD HAVE TURNED ON THE ENGINES?!”

 

Silence reigned throughout the barracks as the soldiers pondered this question.

 

Finally, Khyron spoke up. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “We’re still going down there. We haven’t found anything that looks like an exit and we don’t have any other leads. I doubt any of you have any more ideas?”

 

Once again, nobody responded to his query.

 

“That settles it! We’re heading down to the fifth level, and that’s final! If any of you have any complaints, you can stay here!”

 

“Wait a sec, Khyron,” said Harvery, “Let’s at least make camp first. We have no idea what’s waiting down there and these barracks seem pretty safe. Can we at least get a night’s rest before heading down to the unknown?”

 

The Sage scrunched his face as he attempted to weigh the value of haste against the risk of exhaustion, and fortunately, the latter seemed more pressing than the former. “Fine!” he spat, “but only for a few hours! Now all of you, hurry up and get the beddings from our supplies! You can sleep on these beds if you so desire, but not for long!”

 

It was good enough for the tired members of Hell’s Wall. Renault and Braddock headed off together to get their blankets from Hiyu’s Pegasus. In a few minutes, they, like the rest of their compatriots, had headed off to sleep.

 

It might have seemed strange that they feel asleep so easily in a place like this, but for some reason neither of them could explain, the soft blue light of the barracks indicated that they were safe—for now. No, both of them knew—instinctively—that their true trial lay below.

 

-x-

 

The next morning (at least as far as they could tell), as they woke up and prepared to head towards the exit of the second floor, Braddock seemed distinctly jittery again.

 

“Hey, man, like I said, just stay calm,” said Renault as they headed down the dark corridors together. “For all we know, maybe this engine—if that’s what really is down there—has just been running by itself. A lot of those enchantments can last for ages, you know. So don’t freak out before we actually get down there, right?”

 

“That’s not the only thing I’m worried about,” came his friend’s grim reply. “If this used to be a…what was the word, ‘mobile fortress,’ where’s its crew? There should be bodies around, right? And what about the real Hell’s Wall and the Lycian army? We’ve seen a few skeletons here and there, but there should be a lot more. Where is everybody?”

 

“Those are good points, bud,” said Renault, with an equally grim expression, “but I don’t see much reason for talking about them that much.” He pointed forwards, where they’d almost reached the intersection. Without a single word, Khyron turned and headed down the southern path, which led towards what they recognized from the diagrams as the descending stairs.

 

“I get the feeling we’re gonna get our answers pretty soon.”

 

-X-

 

Renault was correct. The moment his team stepped out of the stairwell and into the third level of the fortress, they found both the Lycian army and Hell’s Wall waiting for them.

 

The first thing they noticed about the room they’d entered was that it was absolutely massive. If they’d needed a confirmation this place wasn’t a labyrinth at all, what the diagrams had described as a ‘launcher-armory’ room was it. Larger than the first two floors combined, and even larger than the building they’d crashed into with Barbarossa, it was a simple, roughly-square shaped enclosure, lit by hundreds of the glowing blue lights they’d seen on the upper floors. At first glance it seemed like it would be a great place for a battle royale, but the strange machines which occupied so much of its space meant that large armies would have a very difficult time doing battle in there.

 

Most of the room was occupied by what Renault could only assume were the ‘launchers’ alluded to in the diagrams Khyron had read. The first thing he thought of when he looked at them was ballistae—but the similarities were vague at best. The devices were incredibly long and rectangular—about fifteen feet in width, ten feet in height, and fifty feet in length, and they clearly extended through the walls, indicating they had once protruded outside of the fortress itself. They were essentially cylinders, but with holes cut into their sides that looked large enough to admit thick pieces of ammunition eight feet long and eight feet thick. This was what made Renault think of ballistae, because next to these cylinders were huge magazines—stretching from the floor to the ceiling dozens of feet above—that seemed to contain what was made to go in those launchers. They weren’t ballista bolts—they were _much_ bigger. They looked almost like barrels—thick barrels made out of slate-grey stone, just large enough to fit through the holes in the cylinders. On each of those barrels was carved a rune, vaguely similar to what he’d seen on Barbarossa—Two triangles superimposed on each other with a circle in their center. They gave off a faint red glow, and even at this distance Renault could feel the magic energy radiating from them. He was very certain this was the sort of ammunition the ‘launchers’ were supposed to launch. There were a total of eight of these devices in the room—four were oriented vertically, two each at the north and south walls, and six more were oriented horizontally, three at the east and west walls. There was a good deal of space between them, but for the most part the room wasn’t conducive to moving a large number of men around it. In the center of the room, in the middle of the most open ‘path’ formed between the launchers at the north and south and the ones on the east and west (right beyond the door upstairs in front of which Hell’s Wall was standing) was a raised circular platform. Several stone chairs were arranged around it and on it, and in the center was another raised stone circle, this one with a larger, more ornately-carved stone chair on it—almost like it was a throne. Renault could only surmise this was a command center of some sort, judging by how nice that chair looked.

 

Of course, despite how unamenable the room apparently was to pitched battle, that seemed to be exactly what had taken place here. The members of Hell’s Wall gazed around them in a combination of astonishment and horror at the corpses littering the ground all over the room. Skeletons seemed to cover every inch of the floor-sometimes several bodies thick, and so great in number that Hell’s Wall couldn’t take a single step without crunching on a bone or skull. They were clad in rusted suits of armor—members of the Lycian Army—or rotten, decrepit rags—the real members of Hell’s Wall.

 

“I told you we’d find out,” said Renault without a trace of humor in his voice as he gingerly stepped over one Lycian skeleton (a Knight, judging by the armor) only to almost trip on the bones of a former Hell’s Wall bandit. His friends did the same, unhappily trudging over and through the bones of the dead.  The hooves of the Pegasi went crunch-crunch as they trod over the graveyard, their riders seeming as uneasy as they were—except for Kasha, who seemed right at home.

 

“What could’ve killed ‘em all?” asked Braddock. “Both the bandits and the Lycians are all dead. I don’t think they killed each other…” his voice trailed off as he saw something glinting in the ground. He leaned down and picked it up, an unreadable expression on his face.

 

“Hey, what’d you find?”

 

Braddock looked at Renault, the unreadable expression still on his face. “My friend.”

 

“Huh?”

 

The Ostian held the object in front of him, allowing Renault a good look at what it was—a Wolf Beil. The handle looked tarnished and worn, but the blade gleamed in the blue light as if it was brand new.

 

“Back in Ostia, I knew a guy…one of the Royal Guards, the Huscarls. He taught me a lot about fighting…I learned how to use this sort of axe from him. Like I said earlier, he got sent off here and I never saw him again. Guess I know how he ended up, now.”

 

“Aw, man.” Renault clapped a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “I, uh…I don’t think there’s much I can—or should—say, but look. We gotta get outta here first. Then you can mourn…or get revenge for your friend, whatever the case may be. I think he’d want that. It can’t be coincidence you found his Wolf Beil here, right? It’s just what you need to cut your way out of this place!”

 

Braddock nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” He held the Wolf Beil before his face, gazing at his reflection in the metal. “Ten years and still sharp…that’s Ostian craftsmanship for you. Ranze, don’t worry…I’ll put what you taught me to good use. I’ll make you proud. Rest in peace.”

 

His ruminations would be cut short—the rest of his team was already a fair distance ahead of him and his friend. “Braddock, Renault, what are you doing?” Khyron called. “Hurry up! The path down is at the end of the hall!”

 

Renault and Braddock gave each other a disgruntled look, then hastily broke into a jog, crunching bones beneath them, to catch up to their comrades. The noise of the bones only reminded them that they still didn’t know what killed all these men.

 

They’d find out soon enough.

 

The troop had just about reached the command center in the middle of the room—itself covered with quite a few skeletons—before they heard a voice.

 

“…Gajin…”

 

It was like nothing Renault had ever heard before. He couldn’t tell whether it was male or female. It merely sounded old—very, very old. It rasped across his ears like the crinkling of an ancient piece of parchment, and its unspeakable malevolence chilled him right to the bone. Even worse, he had no idea where it came from—it seemed to echo across every nook and cranny in the room, while seemingly coming at him from every direction.

 

The worst thing was, though, he understood what it was saying.

 

He had never heard the word—or the voice—before in his life, but it echoed inside his head as well as his ears. And the single word that resounded with in mind was “Interloper.”

 

“D-did anybody else hear that?!” Harvery looked like he was on the verge of wetting himself. “An-and I understood it, too! This can’t be--!”

 

Braddock held his newfound Wolf Beil close to him, not looking much better than the spy. “I heard it too, Harvery. What the—“

 

Once again, the unearthly voice rang out through the launcher room.

 

“Gajin…Eivolks…”

 

“ _Interlopers…Trespassers…”_

The ghostly light emanating from the torchholders high up on the walls shifted from blue to red, making it seem as if the whole room had been drenched in blood.

“Eivolks i attante…”

_“You must be punished…”_

“P-Punished? What’d we do?! We didn’t do anythin’!” wailed Apolli.

 

“Shit!” cried Renault, “I don’t think they care!”

 

He was referring to the small army of glowing figures which was rising out of the ground around them.

 

The…things, whatever they were, seemed to be fairly solid. They were humanoid in shape—and indeed, as they drew closer to the terrified members of Hell’s Wall, it could be plainly seen they were human—or at least once were. They glowed blue, a stark contrast to the now-red light surrounding them, and that was enough to highlight their features. They were mostly male—their skin and hair color couldn’t be discerned apart from the soft blue that lit them up—though Renault thought he saw a few women here and there, and all of them were wearing the most agonized, enraged expressions he’d ever seen. No pupils could be seen in their lambent, bluish-white eyes, but he could tell they were looking at him and his friends.

 

Their clothing was alien—odd flowing pants, pauldrons and gauntlets fluted in strange fashions and curved in odd places, chestpieces attached to their wearers with no visible clasps or buckles. They were all holding weapons, however—and despite how strange those looked, Renault clearly recognized them as swords, spears, and axes.

 

These were apparently the ghosts of this fortress’ former inhabitants, and from the looks of it, they were not taking well to having their sleep disturbed.

 

“Interlopers” came the word again, and he heard it spoken from the motionless lips of every single one of these hundreds of phantasms. And in that moment, Renault had a very good idea of what, exactly had happened to the original Hell’s Wall and their Lycian pursuers.

 

As if to punctuate this, the door to the stairwell they’d entered from closed shut with a terrible groaning noise—the slab of stone crashed down to the ground, and the rune on its surface glowed bright red, indicating there’d be no escape for them. On the other side of the room, the door leading down did the same.

 

“G-g-gah!” Braddock was literally trembling as he looked at the scene before him, at the ghostly warriors staring at him murderously. “S-shit, we’re gonna die, we’re gonna—“

 

“Braddock! Shut up!” Renault hissed. “We’re NOT gonna die! I’m not gonna let us!” He backed up a few steps, unsheathing his Steel Sword. “We WILL find a way out of this! Just as long as we keep our heads and stick together!”

 

“Stick together…” Even as the phantoms began their slow, inexorable advance, Braddock let the words slip from his mouth, as if in a trance. “Stick together…” He turned to look at his friend. “Renault…you’re with me, right?”

 

“Of course, man! I’ll always be by your side!”

 

The Ostian looked at his friend, looked at his teammates, backing away and brandishing their weapons as they were, then at the ghosts in front of him.

 

The expression on his face changed. Instead of fear, there was now…anger.

 

“Khyron,” he called, “they’re all around us! Let’s get to higher ground! Take the center!”

 

“W-what?” The Sage seemed to be still paralyzed by fear, but he quickly overcame it. “Y-yes! Everyone, to the center platforms!”

 

Hell’s Wall didn’t need to be told twice. Quickly, Renault, Braddock, and Harvery clambered up to the first raised circle, while behind them, Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli climbed up to the second, beside the strange stone throne, occupying the highest point on the floor. The Pegasus Knights, meanwhile, took to the air—the room wasn’t tall enough for them to properly fly, but they could hover just over the trio on the second level of the command center.

 

“B-Braddock,” Renault said, somewhat surprised at his friend’s sudden courage. “Are you—“

 

“I’m fine, Renault,” he grinned. “It’s just like you said. You’ve been with me for years…you’re my best friend. As long as you’re here, I’m not giving up!” He turned back to the ghosts before him as next to him, Renault and Harvery readied their sword and daggers, behind him, Khyron and Rosamia readied their spellbooks and Apolli his bow, and above them, the Pegasus Knights readied their spears.

 

“Alright,” Braddock said through gritted teeth, “ALL RIGHT! I’VE COME TOO FAR TO DIE AT THE HANDS OF SOME DAMN GHOSTS! YOU BASTARDS, YOU’RE NOT GETTING ME! YOU’RE NOT GETTING MY FRIEND, EITHER!” He brandished his Wolf Beil and crouched down in a defensive axeman’s stance. “COME ON, YOU PIECES OF SHIT! GET THE HELL BACK TO YOUR GRAVES!”

 

As if in response to his challenge, the entire spectral army stopped for a moment, gazing at him with their empty lambent eyes. Then, as one, they raised their weapons, and spoke a single word in a language none of them had heard before but still understood.

 

_“DIE!”_

-x-

 

These guys may have been dead, but they sure didn’t fight like it.

 

“DAMN IT!” Renault swept his blade over the edge of the raised platform he was standing on, and was gratified to see it pass through the glowing blue heads of a trio of phantoms attempting to climb up. They lost their grips and fell downwards, dissipating into luminescent fog which just as quickly disappeared entirely. He would have been happier if their places hadn’t been taken by six other wraiths. Around him, his friends seemed to be having the same problem. Braddock chopped and chopped with his Wolf Beil, exorcising spirit after spirit, but onwards they still came. Harvery was kneeling in his position, his knives flashing to and fro faster than Renault could see, deflecting phantasmal projectiles and banishing ghosts at an extremely quick clip. Above them, Khyron and Rosamia fired off spells as quickly as they could, flame and thunder incinerating dozens of phantoms at a time. Apolli was the real star of the show, however—whatever that Orion’s Bolt had been, it had increased his strength several times over. He was firing off arrows almost as quickly as Harvery was slashing with his daggers, and the power behind the missiles was like nothing Renault had seen before—they left small trails in the air and burst through several rows of wraiths each.

 

Even this wouldn’t be enough, though—despite all their efforts, it was the Pegasus Knights who kept them from being overwhelmed entirely. The five Ilians dipped and dived, stabbing downwards whenever some wraiths seemed dangerously close to gaining a foothold on the raised platform, spears piercing through ectoplasmic flesh and keeping their friends from being overwhelmed for just a few moments more.

 

It was obviously a futile enterprise, though. This point was driven home to Renault when he stumbled back in surprise and pain, a ghostly blue spear having flown from the distance and embedded itself into his shoulder. “Gah!” He bumped back against the wall of the platform behind him—even though the spear disappeared, judging by the blood he left on the wall the wound was very real.

 

“RENAULT!” Braddock screamed as he chopped off the heads of another pair of phantoms with his Wolf Beil, but Renault quickly shook his head.

 

“I’M FINE! JUST CONCENTRATE ON FIGHTING!” Grimacing, he held his Steel Sword in his right hand and reached to his back with his left to grab the Runesword held in its scabbard there. “Hope this works,” he grunted as he pointed his weapon at the ghost who’d thrown that spear—who was now making its way up onto the platform with a couple of its friends.

 

It worked. The phantom paused for a moment, cocking its head curiously at Renault as a black and purple rune appeared in the air before it. It then staggered back, falling off the platform as the rune broke into a sextet of black, purple-limned spheres which soared into the air before descending back down into Renault. He grinned viciously as he felt the wound in his shoulder close and the bleeding stop when the balls of energy returned to his body.

 

“Back in business!” he exclaimed, and dove into the encroaching crowd with renewed vigor. Even though fighting with two swords was typically considered poor form, at the moment it wasn’t too much of a concern for Renault—none of the ghosts seemed to be an experienced warrior, and seemed to be relying on their numbers rather than skill. He dove into them with aplomb, hacking and slashing with both weapons, getting a queer sort of joy out of watching their luminescent blue forms disappear around him. Braddock and Harvery were making similar efforts, the Pegasus Knights were rising and falling in sprays of blue ectoplasm like manic seabirds, and magic and arrows continued to rain down from above. But they just kept coming, seemingly without end. And the ‘interlopers’ would tire out long before the dead did.

 

“DAMMIT!” screamed Khyron as he stumbled back, the constant strain of his magic beginning to exhaust him. “We…We…I…I AM THE MAGE GENERAL! I CAN’T GO OUT LIKE THIS!” He angrily slammed a fist down on one of the arms of the stone throne behind him.

 

And that led to something nobody expected.

 

“H-huh?” He forgot about the battle raging around him as he looked down in surprise to see a red rune glowing merrily on the area of the arm he’d hit. He had no idea what it was…but his enemies apparently did. As one, the ghosts stopped their assault…almost as if they were unsure of something.

 

“H-hey, what happened?” asked Renault, noticing how the assault had suddenly let up. He, Braddock, and Harvery moved closer together, as did the trio on the upper level, while the Ilians continued their assault on the phantom army. The ghosts, however, seemed uninterested in retaliating for some reason.

 

Perhaps the fact that huge white runes had begun to glow on the sides of all the giant cylinders—the ‘launchers’—was what had given them pause.

 

“What the hell,” stammered Renault, “what’s going on?!”

 

The red light all around them began to blink on and off. Crimson for a second, then pure darkness, then back to crimson, then back to darkness, over and over again. A loud noise—Renault had never heard it before, and could describe it only as the unholy union of a cat screaming in pain and blades scraping against each other—began echoing from the corners of the room to his ears, forcing him and the rest of his friends to wince—even the Ilians couldn’t bear it. Even louder, however, was a voice which seemed to blare from the same source.

 

It was clearly a man’s voice, loud and harsh, and it spoke in the indecipherable High Imperial language—this time, there was nothing in Renault’s head translating the words.

 

“ **JINGAI-FREIER ALAINEN! HI-NACHT SHIDERU!”**

“DAMMIT, KHYRON,” screamed Renault, “WHAT’S IT SAYING?”

 

“B-BEGINNING AUTOMATIC FIRING SEQUENCE,” Khyron shouted back, “TWO-SECOND INTERVAL!”

 

“WHAT THE HELL DOES _THAT_ MEAN?!”

 

“I DON’T KNOW!!”

 

They were about to find out.

 

The runes on the cylinders continued to glow for one beat. Then another.

 

Then the rune on the topmost northwestern cylinder abruptly ceased glowing.

 

One beat.

 

 _Was that all?_ thought Renault.

 

Two beats.

 

The horizontally-aligned launcher right below it exploded.

 

“GGGAAAAAHHHH!” Renault and his comrades were thrown back against the wall of the platform behind them by the force of that explosion. The Pegasus Knights were nearly blown away, and Khyron and his companions were nearly blown off, Khyon being slammed right into the throne, and Rosamia and Apolli being forced to grab onto its sides to keep from falling off.

 

“Jeez, what the—“ was all Renault had time to painfully grunt before the cylinder below _that_ exploded as well, once again pinning him to the wall of the second raised platform with the force.

 

“WHAT’S GOING ON?!” screamed Harvery as they felt a new problem beneath their feet. Large cracks were opening up on the floor, centered around the Command Center, and the ground was beginning to shift.

 

Another two beats passed, and the rune on the third launcher just stopped glowing. _It wasn’t loaded,_ Renault thought to himself. _Those stone barrels in the magazines…most weren’t loaded into those cylinders, but a couple were. Those must be—_

He didn’t have time to finish the thought. The rune on the fourth launcher stopped glowing as well, and it seemed all of the ones on the western wall were spent, but then came the topmost one on the eastern wall. And it exploded in another spectacular blast of white.

 

This proved to be more than the ground could take. His eyes still shut from the blast, Renault could only scream helplessly as the floor he was standing on shifted once more and then gave way entirely. His scream was joined by those of his friends and teammates, for when he opened his eyes he saw himself surrounded by the debris of the ‘command center’ and much of the rest of the upper floor, plummeting downwards to the floor dozens of feet below.

 

Despite all this, however, even though it seemed he’d be dying very soon, he could only think of yelling one thing:

 

“WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING TO US?!!?!”

 

-X-

 

As it would happen, however, Renault wouldn’t be dying quite yet.

 

Just as he thought he’d be turned into a bloody smear on the floor below, a streak of white flashed by him and, to his surprise, he found himself on a soft, slightly furred back rather than the hard ground.

 

“H-huh?” He looked up to see he was sprawled on the back of a fairly familiar Pegasus ridden by a fairly familiar woman.

 

“Are you alright, Renault?” asked Kelitha as she veered away from the falling debris while making a controlled descent.

 

“Y-Yeah,” he replied as they touched down—entirely unharmed—softly on the ground below. He sat up and looked at her. “Damn, girl. That’s the second time you’ve saved my life.”

 

“I’m only doing my job,” she said, though not coldly. “The same as my comrades.”

 

Renault looked around him to see what she meant. Her fellow Pegasus Knights had made the same rescue for the other members of their team—Braddock, Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli were all safely on the backs of the Pegasi owned by Kasha, Keith, Hiyu, and Vayin. The only one missing was Harvery. As Renault glanced above him, watching the debris continue to fall, he noticed a dark shape jumping to and fro among the larger pieces of stone. When the last of the largest chunks hit the floor, the dark shape leapt above from it, twirled stylishly in the air, and landed right in front of Renault.

 

“Harvery,” he said appreciatively, “you _really_ gotta teach me some of those moves sometime.”

 

“If we get out of here,” replied the Assassin tiredly. “Assuming those guys don’t have something to say about that.”

 

He pointed above him, towards the hole in the ceiling that had been produced by the fortunate activation of the launchers (whatever they were) and their subsequent explosions. Around that hole Renault could see a dim blue glow surrounding it—the phantoms they had just been fighting were looking down on them.

 

“Dammit,” he groaned, “I hope they’re not gonna follow us…”

 

“Well, at least for now it looks like we’re safe,” grunted Braddock as he got off the back of Keith’s Pegasus. “It doesn’t look like they can float down here. Khyron, where are we, anyways?”

 

“The fourth level of this buried fortress,” he replied, “the…’Knight Puppet’ storage area. I think I’ve seen the word ‘hangar’ used to refer to similar rooms before. I’ve never read a good description of what, exactly, ‘Knight Puppets’ were. I don’t know what’s waiting for us in here…”

 

Renault looked around to see exactly what sort of place they were in. There were lights on the wall here too—still red, but at least the noise and blinking hadn’t followed them. The first thing he noticed was the floor. It was covered in the debris and rubble from the fallen command center of the upper level, but from what he could see it was somewhat different in composition from the previous levels. It was made out of the same yellow stone, but polished so finely that Renault could literally see his reflection in it.

 

The shape of the room was very similar to that of the previous one as well. It was also fairly simple and square-shaped, and this time with much less space being occupied by huge (and explosive) machines. Firstly, on each side of the room—north, south, east, and west—were gigantic doors in the center if the walls. And they were definitely ‘gigantic’—thirty feet wide and tall. They were a pair of giant stone slabs with glowing red runes on them indicating they would have opened outwards into the air if, of course, they weren’t currently buried.

 

And what would have exited those doors? Looking nearby, Renault figured they were designed to permit Knight Puppets in and out—and he began to realize why they had to be so big.

 

On each side of the room, to the left and right of the giant center doors, were what Renault could only describe as giant armor stands. They didn’t look anything similar, but it was the only word he knew that even came close.

 

The ‘stands’ were more like tall, rectangular boxes made out of stone. There were dozens of them on the walls—altogether, Renault estimated this would have held more than 40. In front of each were a trio of large stone bars with glowing red runes set into their center, apparently intended to support and restrain their contents.

 

Those were the Knight Puppets, or at least Renault could only assume—for the contents of those boxes looked vaguely like a knight’s armor, except much, much bigger. They had apparently been mass-produced, for each suit looked roughly the same. They were humanoid in shape, standing just about twenty feet tall, and apparently made entirely of grey metal—the first actual metal Renault had seen anywhere in here, for that matter. The legs were about human in proportion, though a bit thicker and stockier. The greaves were rectangular chunks of metal, the footpieces had strange golden wheels on them for some unfathomable reason, and the kneeguards looked more like round shields. The legs themselves were made of black metal, as was the rest of the basic frame of the units. The chest was also vaguely man-shaped but boxier and thicker in front. On it was a scary looking face—a mask of sorts, with horns, a pair of slanted eye-holes and a mouthhole framed by long sharp teeth. The metal arms seemed to have been crafted in the same boxy, angular aesthetic, and the hands held weapons which wouldn’t be out of place on a regular knight (fairly plain-looking swords, axes, spears, and shields) except for their size, of course.

 

The most interesting thing was the head—or more accurately, the lack of one. Above the chest and thick pauldron-clad shoulders of the giant Knight Puppets, there was nothing—just a hole leading to the chest which looked roughly large enough for a man to pass through. Above that hole, suspended by a pair of hooks was the Knight Puppet’s helmet. In shape, it looked fairly close to an ordinary knight’s helmet, but the ‘visor’ was the strangest thing. Rather than eyeholes or vision slits, attached to the visor was a bizarre contraption that looked like oversized versions of the ‘telescopes’ Braddock had once mentioned Lycian tinkerers produced. There were three of the ‘scopes’ protruding from the visor, the lenses of which were different colors—red, blue, and yellow. Renault wasn’t sure, but aside from magical manipulation the only way he could see these giant suits of armor being useful in any sort of battle was if they were piloted—judging by the size of the holes in the neck, it seemed as if a soldier could climb into the chest of the Knight Puppet, fix the contraption’s head over the hole, and then proceed to manipulate it from the inside. How, of course, was an utter mystery.

 

This was looking at one of the Knight Puppets which seemed to be in decent condition, of course—most of them weren’t. Damaged by the falling debris, or from centuries of neglect, or from the original battle which had buried Shin Erdenkaiser, pieces of the Knight Puppets lay strewn around the hangar, several of the ‘stands’ they were hung in were damaged or entirely absent, and several which were still in relatively intact stands listed to the front or sides, seemingly overcome by rust. Only a handful of the machines seemed to be in even halfway-decent condition.

 

“At least they won’t be attacking us,” mumbled Renault to himself happily.

 

He spoke way too soon.

 

All the members of Hell’s Wall glanced upwards when the saw a sudden flash of bright blue light above them. The army of phantoms watching them from the upper floor had suddenly started glowing even more brightly.

 

“Shit! Are they gonna follow us down here?!”

 

As one, the phantoms leapt downwards, making it seem as if a blue, luminescent rain was falling. At the same time, all the members of Hell’s Wall raised their weapons in defense, but the phantoms were apparently trying something different from a frontal attack—what fell on the living was not a torrent of ghostly weapons but rather a strange luminescent blue fog—it almost seemed as if every ghostly armyman had merged into this thoroughly disquieting phantasmal conglomeration.

 

Despite surrounding them, though, it didn’t seem to be harming them. “D-dammit,” muttered Braddock, “What now?”

 

As if on cue, the fog glowed brightly for another moment—and then separated. All of a sudden, it had disappeared, leaving four large, glowing blue orbs floating ominously on the north, south, east, and west sides of the room. Each orb was about twice as large as a man, but burned brightly, with both unimaginable eldritch power and a malevolence which had waited patiently for seven hundred years. As Hell’s Wall watched in confusion, the spheres continued to glow, also seeming to throb, growing smaller and larger in a steady rhythm. And they began to move—each drawing closer to an abandoned Knight Puppet in one of the stands on each wall…

 

“No way,” groaned Braddock, “don’t tell me…”

 

Their very, _very_ long day wasn’t over yet. The four orbs glowed brightly once again, and then zipped upwards and quickly downwards—right into the holes that led to the interiors of the Knight Puppets.

 

All was quiet for a moment. And then the four Knight Puppets began to move.

 

First were the helmets—the hooks keeping them in place lowered them onto the open neckholes, then fastened them with a small flash of light. The ‘scopes’ on their visors began to glow, and they all began to walk forwards, the ground shaking with each step they took, as they broke free of their armor stands and advanced.

 

Terrified, the members of Hell’s Wall huddled even closer together in the center of the room, among the debris. They were penned in on all four sides. To the north stood a Knight Puppet with a shield and axe, to the south one with shield and sword, to the east one with shield and spear, and to the west one carrying a huge bow—arrows bigger than pikes were attached to the quiver on its back, and its ‘bowstring’ was a thick metal chain. The giant machines loomed over their prey imposingly, their helmets tilted downwards and the scopes glowing menacingly.

 

As one, they readied their weapons—axe, spear, and sword were raised, and a giant arrow was drawn on that great chain of a bowstring.

 

“OH, HELL!” screamed Harvery. “EVERYBODY, SCATTER!”

 

The Knight Puppets may have been big and strong, but they weren’t too fast, and that was what saved Hell’s Wall. The weapons fell ponderously downwards, giving the interlopers time to escape. The Pegasus Knights quickly took to the air, soaring upwards over the Knight Puppets and past the huge arrow which crashed into the ground behind them. Braddock, Renault, and Harvery dashed to the right, between two of the Puppets just as a sword and axe crashed into the ground behind them. Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli darted to the left, managing to avoid the giant spear thrust towards them.

 

All of them ran—or flew—away as quickly as they could. They didn’t even bother to counterattack—they knew it’d be useless after Khyron, having exhausted his Fire tome, brandished his Finbulvetr and sent a blast of ice straight at the Sword Puppet. It merely raised its shield and the ice splayed harmlessly against it.

 

“At least they can’t keep up with us,” Renault gasped to Braddock as they ran. It was a small comfort, but at the moment, the only one they seemed to have, since judging by the slow, plodding way the Puppets had stomped over the debris towards them, they’d traded swiftness for strength.

 

Once again, he spoke too soon.

 

Slowly, the great machines turned towards their fleeing targets. Rather than marching in pursuit after them, they _crouched_. Renault turned back to look at them, and couldn’t keep his mouth from dropping open in surprise when he saw the golden wheels on their feet begin to spin, faster and faster, and with a terrible noise…

 

“WHIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

 

Renault quickly jumped to the side to avoid getting run over by one charging Knight Puppet, then darted off further to avoid a second rush from another—Braddock and Harvery did the same, as did Rosamia, Khyron, and Apolli, who also were busy avoiding more arrows from the bow-using machine. As they dashed past him and his friends, Renault realized that their feet weren’t actually moving—they were still in that slightly crouched, braced position, and it was the wheels on their feet propelling them, giving off small sparks as they smashed past and through the debris on the mirror-sheen floor. As they zoomed past him and his friends they didn’t turn, but the wheels on their feet did, and their acceleration halted as they came to a stop with a very flashy spin, sparks flying all around them as they now faced their quarry once again.

 

All of a sudden, Renault realized what that picture book portraying the red knight sliding on the ground had gotten its inspiration from.

 

The Knight Puppets looked like they were prepared to charge again, but then the Pegasus Knights joined the fray. “WOO-HOO,” Kasha screamed, “THIS IS GREAT!” She, her sister Kelitha, and Keith dove down to assist Renault’s group—their thrown spears simply bounced off the armor of the Knight Puppets as uselessly as they’d been deflected by Barbarossa’s thick hide, but just their tactics were working with the machines just as they had with the beast—the Knight Puppets turned their attention away from Renault and his group and began slashing their weapons clumsily through the air. Meanwhile, Hiyu and Vayin attempted to help Khyron and his comrades.

 

The Sage definitely needed it, for he was having as much trouble as Renault. The spear-wielding Puppet had targeted him, and like Renault’s pursuers, had attempted to roller-dash over Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli. They’d managed to dodge its charge, but as he leapt away Apolli tumbled to the ground with a nasty gash on his shoulder—another arrow from the archer Puppet had barely grazed him, but even that was enough to leave a considerable wound. Khyron hastily unlimbered his Mend staff, but it obviously wouldn’t do any good if they got crushed first.

 

That was where Rosamia, Hiyu, and Vayin came in. The Mage quickly aimed a fireball at the spear-wielder’s head, and though it didn’t do much damage, the machine paused—apparently, whatever ghost or spirit thing was piloting it had to see out of those scopes on its visor. Hiyu and Vayin, on the other hand, had managed to catch the giant archer’s attention. It nocked another huge arrow and let fly, but the two Ilians veered in opposite directions and dodged it easily. They began flying towards the spearman, continuing to dodge the large but slow-moving projectiles coming from behind them.

 

Unfortunately, things didn’t go quite as planned. As Khyron and Rosamia continued to tend to Apolli, whose wounds were almost healed, the spearman turned to face them. They were flying far enough away from it that they thought it couldn’t reach them. They were very wrong.

 

The spear puppet turned as they flew past it. It didn’t try to stab at them with its spear. Rather, it held its arms to its sides and raised its chest at one of them.

 

“By the Saint!” Khyron gasped as a large gout of flame erupted from the machine’s chest straight at the two Pegasus Knights. It originated in the mouth of the ugly mask on the chest of the Knight Puppet—clearly intended as a concealed weapon. Hiyu quickly ascended to avoid the blast, but Vayin was not so fortunate.

 

“AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEE!” She screamed as both her Pegasus and herself were consumed by the flame.

 

“Aw, shit!” Once again, Renault was forced to leap to the side as the Ilian’s burning body barreled through the air, slamming into the ground next to him. Renault could only look on in horror as the flame-sheathed forms of the woman and her steed seemed to merge, the Pegasus having trapped his rider underneath him. Amidst the crackling of the flames he gave off hideous, pitiful cries, matched by those of his mistress, holding her hand out towards Renault in unimaginable pain. Mercifully, both of those quieted very quickly as the black forms within stopped their writhing and became still.

 

As horrified as Renault was, he wasn’t the only one. “VAAAYYIIIINNN!” screamed Keith in horror. This distraction almost led her to share her comrade’s fate. She wasn’t paying attention to where she was going, and only when her sister screamed “KEITH!” from above did she notice that both Knight Puppets were aiming at her with the flamethrowers in their chests.

 

“Eeeeeek!” She quickly descended, impressively fast for an inexperienced Pegasus Knight, but as she turned to avoid the fireballs converging in the air above her, she couldn’t maintain her seat and he grip on her mount. “Aaaaah!” she yelled as she fell, hitting the ground with a painful thud. The wind knocked out of her, it would take her a few moments to get up…and by then, she’d be hacked in two by the Knight Puppet standing over her holding its axe over its head.

 

The weapon descended, its great size creating a gust of wind, but it only succeeded in carving a massive cleft into the shiny, polished stone floor.

 

As fast as he possibly could, and cursing all the while, Renault had sheathed his swords, sprinted over to Keith’s prone form, scooped her up in his arms, and dashed forwards just in time to keep both of them from getting smashed by the giant axe.

 

“DON’T THINK I OWE YOU ONE,” shouted Kasha from above as she continued to harass the sword Puppet. Fortunately, her sister was more grateful—“THANK YOU!” Kelitha screamed. Lastly, Braddock seemed quite pleased as well.“WAY TO GO, RENAULT!” he cheered as he and Harvery darted between the Sword Puppet’s legs, avoiding the blast of flame launched at them from its chest.

 

Of all people, however, Keith seemed to be the most confused. “R-Renault?” she pondered as she regained her senses, “Did you save me? R-really?”

 

“Don’t read too much into it, kid,” Renault grunted in response. “Your sister Kelitha saved my hide twice, and I’m a man who repays his debts, even to Ilians. Now get back on your Pegasus!”

 

The beast had landed nearby, obedient to his master, and after Renault set her down Keith quickly hopped on and took off again. But, as seemed to be a recurring pattern in their battles for the past few days, regular attacks weren’t doing much good against their opponents.

 

But once again, it was their leader who happened upon a solution. “STOP YOUR INFERNAL SKATING!” shouted Khyron as he stood down the spear-wielding Puppet, Apolli and Rosamia standing beside him. The bowman was standing behind him, occupied with Hiyu, apparently programmed to concentrate on fliers as human archers were taught to do. “Both of you, get away from me when I cast my spell!” Apolli and Rosamia looked at each other, but didn’t bother to contradict the Sage.

 

WHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! With another spray of sparks, the Spear Puppet began its rollerdash towards Khyron. His Fimbulvetr tome in one hand, he held out the other, and as ordered, Rosamia and Apolli both rolled to the sides away from him, but couldn’t hide their surprise when he actually let loose his spell.

 

A stream of ice and chilling cold flew from his hand, but they weren’t aimed at the Knight Puppet—rather, they hit the ground _beneath_ it. The golden wheels on its feet weren’t made for winter combat. The machine slipped and completely lost control, stabbing its spear into the air and flailing with its shield in a vain attempt to regain its balance. It was a futile gesture. Khyron threw himself to the side, like Rosamia had done, barely managing to avoid getting run over as he actually felt a small series of sparks rain across his back. His ploy had worked, however. Skidding across the newly-iced ground, the Spear Puppet couldn’t decelerate, and instead headed straight forward…

 

Right into the Archer Puppet, completely oblivious to everything except firing arrow after arrow (and, when she got close enough, flame after flame) at Hiyu.

 

The Spear Puppet had been moving at top speed, and it crashed into its ally with a terrific CRUNCH! Khyron could distinctly see and hear metal being folded as the two machines smashed into each other, the Spear Puppet losing little of its momentum until it slammed both of them into the far wall. With a great grinding and creaking, both machines toppled over—and then stayed still. Around them rose a glowing blue fog, which shimmered in the air for a few moments—and then disappeared.

 

“DAMN! THAT GIVES ME AN IDEA!” shouted Braddock as he scampered past the giant sword being thrust at him. “RENAULT! HARVERY! GET ON TOP OF ‘EM!”

 

“SURE THING!” Renault didn’t know what his friend had in mind, but he knew it had to be good. The Axe Puppet had just slammed its weapon into the ground again, just beside Renault, so instead of continuing to run away, the sellsword turned and grabbed onto the handle of the axe, being lifted into the air along with it! On the other side of the room, with a few deft hops Harvery had landed himself right on the Sword Puppet’s left shoulder.

 

“SHIT!”  The Puppet brought its axe down, over its chest, and after seeing what happened to Vayin Renault knew that was a bad sign. He hastily let go of the axe just as the machine’s chest mask blasted out a fireball, singing his hair slightly as he fell to its knee.

 

“GREAT! NOW GET THEIR ATTENTION!” Braddock screamed. Beginning to understand what the Ostian’s plan was, with one hand gripping the huge kneeplate Renault brought his other to unsheathe his Runesword. He pointed it at the Knight Puppet Harvery was standing on, and sure enough, the rune which split into six black orbs soon appeared. When the orbs returned to him, Renault felt no healing, but he didn’t expect to. The more important thing was that the sword-wielding giant turned its head towards him, the scopes on its visors glowing angrily. Harvery, meanwhile, had simply tossed one of his daggers at the Axe Puppet Renault was clinging to, with much the same effect.

 

The footwheels of both Puppets began to whir, and with a flourish of sparks they rolled straight towards each other.

 

“AAAAAAAAAAH!” Renault let go of the big axeman’s kneeplate and pushed off, falling to the ground and rolling to the side. Harvery did the same, jumping off of the swordsman’s shoulder with an acrobatic backflip.

 

Both made their moves just in time, and their plan worked perfectly. The two machines rolled towards each other, swinging their weapons at the men standing on them. But when Harvery and Renault abandoned their rides, the Puppets found their weapons cutting through each other instead.

 

The axeman brought his weapon down on the swordsman’s head, splitting the metal helmet cleanly in two. The swordsman, on the other hand, slashed at the axeman’s knee where Renault had been just a moment before, chopping cleanly through the leg.

 

As Renault, Harvery, and the rest of Hell’s Wall watched in amazement, the two machines stood there for a split second, an axe through one’s head and a sword through the other’s leg, before toppling over. As with their companions, a blue mist emerged from the wreckage, briefly hovering in the air, glowing softly, and then dissipated into nothing.

 

Then everything went very quiet.

 

The lights went out entirely, and the room was bathed in absolute darkness.

 

“We can’t take much more of this,” groaned Braddock, stumbling over a piece of debris he couldn’t see. As it turned out, however, their ordeal was almost over…almost.

 

Before Khyron had a chance to get his Torch staff operational, the darkness was broken by one more blue glow, bright enough to light up the immediate area, but not so much as to hurt the warriors’ eyes. A spot on the floor had started glowing—it was buried by debris, but Renault could tell it was a large circle in the center of the room. It seemed as if it was beckoning them to get on it.

 

“S-Should we?” stammered Harvery.

 

“So what if it turns out to be another deathtrap? That’s all we’ve been dealing with anyways,” replied Khyron with grim determination. “Let’s just get it over with.”

 

At this point, none of his underlings could disagree—after living through an out-of-control secret weapon, an army of ghosts, and now a quartet of possessed ancient war machines, each member of Hell’s Wall knew by know they wouldn’t be getting any breaks. _No point delaying the inevitable_ , they all thought to themselves. As one, they stepped onto the large circle on the floor, which was big enough to admit all of them easily, and waited for whatever came next.

 

It wasn’t what they expected—but, of course, they’d come to expect that too.

 

The ground started to rumble, and with a great shake and a huge cloud of dust the circle on the floor began to descend.

 

-X-

 

It seemed like they descended for close to an eternity, or at least that’s how it felt like to Renault. None of them said anything as the circular platform they were standing on went down, down, and down. All around them was absolute dark, only the dim blue light from the rune they were standing on illuminating just enough to tell them a stone tunnel surrounded them. Where it led, they had no idea.

 

Finally, though, with a loud grinding Renault felt it slow down, and with a resounding BANG it stopped entirely.

 

And the room it had brought them to was like nothing they’d seen before.

 

There was no floor. The platform was suspended in air, and surrounding it were four walkways leading north, west, east, and south. Dozens of feet below those walkways were hundreds and hundreds of small, glowing blue lights which illuminated what lay at the lowest level of Shin Erdenkaiser.

 

Gears. Thousands upon thousands of gears, the smallest of which were as large as the Knight Puppets they’d just fought, the largest of which seemed bigger than a good-sized mansion. And all of them were moving. Slowly, and almost silently, considering their size—only a dim, quiet grinding could be heard. But they were still moving.

 

What could be powering this unfathomable machinery? The answer lay at the far northern end of the massive (far larger than any of the previous levels so far) room. At the end of the northern walkway, too far away to see clearly, there was a bright blue glow, larger than any of the other lights in the room. That seemed to be their destination.

 

Without so much as a word, the team began walking towards it—single file, for there wasn’t enough room on the walkways otherwise.

 

With every step they took it grew larger, but it was so far away they had to march for almost half an hour before they stood close enough to really make out what it was.

 

Attached to the wall at the far end of the room, in front of the very end of the narrow walkway, was a gigantic spherical crystal. ‘Massive’ was inadequate to describe it—it was _much_ bigger than Barbarossa. It was colored a light sky blue, a few shades lighter than the Barrigan’s Eye Harvery had found earlier, and gave off a dim glow. What seemed to be wires or chains emanated from it and reached over every inch of the huge room’s walls—some heading up to the higher floors, the rest winding down towards the gears. It was obvious this crystal was Shin Erdenkaiser’s main source of power—standing more than ten feet away from it, Renault could feel his body shaking from the sheer amount of magical energy emanating from the device. Like so much of what he’d seen and experienced over the past few days, he’d never seen anything like it before.

 

As the members of Hell’s Wall gazed at it in awe, it unveiled another surprise.

 

It spoke.

 

“Nade…”

 

The members of Hell’s Wall stumbled back, Keith’s Pegasus almost falling off the walkway as he recoiled, overwhelmed by the power of that voice. It spoke as if it were composed of hundreds of speakers, male and female, that were very old and very angry—but feeling very helpless. And even though Renault had never heard that word before, in his mind he knew what it said.

 

_“Why?”_

 

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, ‘WHY?’” cried Braddock in frustration, kneeling on the walkway due to the pressure from the massive voice, but feeling completely frustrated and overwhelmed by the trials he and his friends had been forced to endure—his voice was shaking, he was close to his breaking point—as were his companions. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT WITH US?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

 

In response, the entire room began to rumble ominously. The Pegasi prepared to take flight, while the other members of Hell’s Wall threw themselves low to the ground, hoping to keep from getting thrown off into the sea of gears below. The rumbling soon subsided, however, and when it did, they looked back up at the gigantic crystal—which had _changed_.

 

No longer was it simply glowing. Hundreds upon hundreds of human faces could be clearly seen floating within its depths, all with angry expressions, and all whispering insults and accusations into the minds of the interlopers, assaulting them with a cacophony of hateful words inside their heads. The scariest thing was, Renault had seen some of those faces before—he recognized them as the phantoms he’d fought in the launcher room. Just when everyone thought they couldn’t take a moment more, the voices fell silent—and then resumed speaking in that baleful voice, that horrid voice spoken in a ancient, dead language but as understandable to them as if they were speaking to each other.

 

_“Interlopers…Tresspassers…why…why do you torment us so?”_

“What the devil are they talking about?!” spat Khyron.

 

 _“We fought for you…”_ said the voice, and now it seemed as mournful, sorrowful, as it did angry. _“For the Empire…for Humanity…we fought valiantly against the Draconic scourge. We sacrificed our lives…buried here, forgotten, unlamented. They sang no songs for us…carved no epitaphs for us. Our power was not enough…the Dragons cast us into the earth…and we accepted our fate, for we had done our duty as best we could…_

_“The only thing we ask is to be left in peace…”_ Now, the voice seemed angry again, indeed, so full of white-hot rage that Renault winced just from hearing it. _“That one simple request…is it too much for you to honor?! Interlopers! Tresspassers! Why do you torment us so? Why can you not let us rest?! For centuries, fools have penetrated our tomb, seeking to mock us, to disturb our slumber! They have all been punished for their transgression…except you! ONLY you! Of all our trials, of all our defenses, you are the only ones to have overcome all of them. Why? What drives you? Why do you fight with such vigor? What could you possibly have against us that you would go to such lengths to defile our forgotten tomb?”_

“NOTHING!!!” screamed Braddock. “Dammit, we don’t have anything against you! We never wanted to be here in the first place! All we want to do is get back to the surface! We have a job to finish!”

 

_“Impossible. You are interlopers…intruders…”_

“Not because we wanted to be!” It was Renault’s turn to make their case. “We were trapped down here, dammit! We would’ve been able to just Warp right out of here if it wasn’t for this stupid engine of yours!”

 

_“Impossible. Escape? You fought so long, so hard, for nothing but escape? Impossible. You are driven by something more…and the only thing that could give you such strength is hatred. Hatred like the Dragons held for us…”_

“Oh, we’ve got hatred, all right,” said Braddock, “but not against you. Above ground…there’s a war going on. A horrible war. A villain stands poised to take control of E—of a great country if we don’t do anything.” His voice rapidly became less balanced. “That bastard…he took everything from me! And he’s done the same to the rest of us here! We don’t care one bit about you dead guys. But we’ll do anything to get back at our enemies.

 

“You used to be soldiers. You should understand. Isn’t that how you felt about the Dragons? That’s how we feel about Paptimus…about our enemy. Can’t you see that? If so, then let us go! If not…” He got to his feet and grimly raised his axe, as Renault did the same with his sword, and the rest of them did the same with their weapons. “We lived through Barbarossa, we lived through your phantom army, and we even lived through those giant machines you had! If you got something more to throw at us, I think you’ll be disappointed…we’ll live through that too!”

 

The spirits of the fortress’ crew had nothing to say in response to this. The faces in the crystal faded, and for the longest time, nothing but silence reigned in the gigantic chamber.

 

Then the crystal began to glow bright white, brighter than the sun, and gave off a tremendous pulse of magical energy.

 

“YAAAAAH!” Renault shut his eyes and put his hands over them, at the cost of not being able to maintain his grip on the walkway. He was literally blown back by the force of the pulse, and as he felt himself flying through the air, he knew he’d come to a very unpleasant end when he hit those gears below.

 

It was strange, though. He didn’t feel himself falling.

 

“Huh?” He cautiously opened his eyes, still squinting. The white light was still very bright, filling up the entire room, but he could just make out the shapes of his companions. They were _all_ floating in the air, like he was.

 

Once again, the voice spoke, but this time it didn’t sound horrifyingly angry. Rather, it—all the hundreds of ancient voices, male and female, which comprised it—sounded almost…serene.

 

_“You are no mere thieves or grave robbers. You…it is true, we have never seen determination or drive such as yours. You share our hatred…you are like us. You are true warriors, like we were. We pay you homage, warriors…in recognition of your bravery…you shall be the first mortals to leave our tomb alive. We shall send you to where you are needed…_

_“Farewell, warriors. May you meet with better luck than we!”_

Renault felt himself rising, and as he looked around, he saw the silhouettes of his friends flailing in the air—they could feel themselves moving as well. The light grew brighter again, forcing him to shut his eyes, and as he did so he felt his stomach lurch and his head spin. He was being thrown through time and space, traversing miles and minutes in the blink of an eye…

 

Until finally, it all stopped. The light disappeared, his head no longer seemed to be flying all over the place, and his stomach was no longer trying to exit his mouth.

 

However, what really hit him was the noise from all around him. Screams of dying men, the clash of swords upon steel, and the roar of magic spells being fired.

 

Even before he opened his eyes, Renault realized they had been indeed sent “to where they needed to go.” And that was not safety.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Hey guys! Hoped you liked the FANSERVICE in this chapter :D I’ll let you see if you can catch some of the other references here, but here’s the important stuff:

 

“Legend of the Chaos Hero” and “The Fourth Tale” were written by my most excellent beta readers, Chaos Hero Mark and Enilas, respectively.

 

“Hammer of Terrascars” is one of this section’s oldest and most famous 100k+ word fics. It’s written by Servant of GOD, you should read it too. :D Fanservice, fanservice~

 

Also, I know “Erdenkaiser” means something more along the lines of  “Earth Emperor” according to Babelfish, but that doesn’t matter so long as it sounds sufficiently awsum, right? XD

 

Anyways, if you guys want a better picture of how the Knight Puppets zip around, watch “Armored Trooper VOTOMs.” Check out the TV series, then check out “Shining Heresy,” which I helped time for that most excellent translator BROhgami Ichirou! Yeah, I know, viral marketing and all that, but it is an AWESOME accomplishment so y’all should check it out. Just go to msubsreleases dot wordpress dot com. :D

 

 


	25. The Siege of Aquleia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and friends are thrown out of the frying pan right into the fire--head-first into the Rebel assault on the capitol city of Aquleia! Can they turn the tide of battle?

 

**25: The Siege of Aquleia**

 

 _Damn, things are going pretty well_ , thought Yazan to himself as he watched the battle before him progress. It had only been two days and the defenses around Aquleia were already beginning to crack. The defenders seemed determined to hunker down within the walls of their city—no counterattacks had dogged his forces so far. There were several Mages and Sages along the walls who had been annoying them with Bolting spells, and several ballistae, but several rounds of strafing from his Wyvern Knights had killed or frightened off most of the long-range defenses the city had. 

 

Victory was pretty much inevitable. The Wyvern Lord was sitting on Hambrabi’s back as he lay contentedly atop a small hillock overlooking the north wall of the city. They’d surrounded it more or less completely—though it was too large for even a force of their size to cut off entirely, Yazan’s most capable underlings had stationed themselves in front of the east and south gates as well. They couldn’t block off the west, of course, since that faced the sea, but Trunicht and his boats would quickly block off the harbor. Things were looking grim for the Royalists but very good for him.

 

Of course, things could be going better—he realized this when he looked at the woman standing next to them. Rather than bringing some sort of superweapon which would have taken the city all by itself, as Paptimus had promised, Vyrleena had brought along only a few hundred bedraggled Wyvern Knights and other miscellaneous soldiers to assist in the assault. They’d apparently rushed here as fast as they could—they had arrived at around the second day of the siege, looking incredibly tired, miserable, and demoralized, and when Yazan had asked for an explanation of their sorry state, Vyrleena had only responded that they had been ambushed by bandits. Somehow, Yazan doubted that, but he didn’t pry. After all, with things so overwhelmingly in their favor anyways, even having Barbarossa on their side wouldn’t have mattered much. He’d heard a lot about Barbarossa, of course, though he’d never risen high enough in military rank to hear more than rumors, but he was confident it wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as the gossipers said it was. Probably a glorified ballista or something like that—the Bernese military was more concerned with puffing up their image than actually fighting these days. One reason he was so happy to have left them—he was having a lot more fun right now.

 

Part of that fun included ribbing the formerly high-ranking woman next to him. “You do know you probably won’t have to do much, right?” he asked as he watched yet another huge rock fly from one of the dozens of trebuchets set up a fair distance away from the north wall. The rock smashed into the alabaster stone, creating yet more cracks among the hundreds that already crisscrossed it. Though those walls were apparently capable of taking more abuse than virtually any he’d seen before, it was only a matter of time before they crumbled.

 

“Me n’ my army would’ve probably been able to take care of this city by ourselves,” he continued. “I hate to say it, but you came all this way out here for nothing. Really sorry about that.” The smirk on his face indicated his sarcasm, and Hambrabi was staring at the woman with an expression that seemed almost as smug.

 

Vyrleena, to her credit, didn’t rise to the bait, even though her soldiers, who were standing behind her, were steaming. “If that truly is the case, that’s fine,” she said evenly. “My only concern is that you win this battle. If you do, then simply being able to witness the victory will be cause enough for my men and I to have come here.

 

“I’d only suggest you not be quite so confident. It can lead to defeat, you know. Don’t underestimate these Royalists.”

 

“Hah!” Yazan grunted in disdain. “I bet you’d say that. Well, what do you know? It’s not like you’re the Wyvern General…not anymore, at least.” As he snickered, he was gratified to see her face twitch. “You and yours are just a bunch of exiles, right? I, on the other hand, am one of the commanders of the Revolutionary Army. I think I know how to fight a war better n’ you.”

 

“How dare you!” one of Vyrleena’s soldiers, a blond-haired Wyvern Rider with a babyface yelled. “You’re nothing but a murderer and a criminal! You can’t talk to the Wyvern General like that! We ought to bring you back to Bern and execute you! Lady Vyrleena, why are we even listening to this? Let’s—“

 

He was stopped by the green-haired woman quickly raising her hand.  “Enough, Carlson. As exiles from Bern, we must obey the commands of the lord we have pledged our loyalty to.” She gazed at Yazan with a combination of disdain, disgust, and hatred. “Even if we have to follow the commands of a man like this.”

 

Yazan chuckled. “Glad you understand that, hon.” He looked off to the distance, where a Wyvern Knight was approaching. “Oh, hey, looks like we’ve got some news.”

 

The courier touched down, looking pleased, though he notably gave his report to Vyrleena rather than Yazan—he was one of her men, after all, and all of the Bernese “supplemental forces” hated him. “Lady Vyrleena, our forces at the east wall have almost breached it. Shall they begin the push into the city?”

 

“No,” said Yazan sharply, “Not until somebody’s given the order. When Trunicht’s forces get here, they’ll launch a signal into the air indicating they’ve arrived. We’ll attack then—the synchronized assault from all sides will crush the Royalists. Until then, wait.”

 

Vyrleena nodded to her underling. “I agree. Pass that order onto the forces at the south wall, as well.”

 

“Yes, milady!”

 

The young knight flew off, and Yazan turned his gaze to the sky, grinning as he waited for Trunicht’s signal to appear.

-x-

 

 _Things seem to be going as planned,_ thought Job Trunicht to himself as he stood on the deck of the largest ship of Nerinheit’s merchant fleet. The voyage had gone extremely well—the waters had been unexpectedly calm, and no naval forces at all had come to meet them—as Paptimus had expected, the Aquleians had devoted _all_ their resources to preparing against a land attack. This naval assault on their harbor would catch them completely flat-footed.

 

At least so he hoped. The fleet was almost at their destination—they were very clearly nearing the docks, and Trunicht could get a good view of those. Very impressive, as was the rest of the city—he was almost sorry he and his allies would be visiting such destruction upon it—but the strangest thing he noticed was that it seemed to be much more occupied than he thought it’d be. There were several contingents of archers standing on guard, along with what seemed to be ballistae, though he couldn’t quite tell at this distance.

 

“Hm. How annoying,” he muttered to himself, “I suppose I’ll have to go belowdecks to tell the men to expect a more than token resistance. I—wait.” The Black Knight did something very rare for him—he raised his visor. Though the sunlight hurt his eyes slightly, peering over to the archers on the docks, he thought he saw something very strange.

 

Even at this distance, he could see something funny about their arrows. They seemed to be…glowing.

 

“Glowing?” he muttered to himself. “No…no, they’re burning. Those archers have loaded flaming arrows to their bows. But why?”

 

He blinked for a moment, then something in the water caught his eye. As the great wooden merchant ship he and his troop were on continued to sail leisurely towards its destination, along with the other members of its fleet, Trunicht raced over to the wooden railings on the port side to get a better look at what was below him.

 

It was indeed the water he’d seen—something was definitely wrong with it. All around his ship, it seemed…darker, somehow. And looking at it closely, he noticed a sort of iridescent sheen on its surface. And was it just him, or did he catch a strange smell underneath that of the brine?

 

“A problem,” he said to himself, the tremor in his voice the only thing giving away his panic, “this could definitely be a problem.”

 

His realization came too late. He could only watch in horror when, just as almost his entire fleet had sailed into Aquleia’s harbors, the Archers along with their ballistae loosed their ammunition, sending their burning missiles straight into the oil-drenched water the wooden ships were in.

 

And then everything turned to flame.

 

-x-

 

“Ah, there it is!”

 

Yazan had been waiting, horribly bored, for a few hours before he saw Trunicht’s signal clearly in the air, a huge purple sigil floating in the blue sky. The north and south walls had been breached a little earlier, but once again, he’d ordered the forces there to hold off on their full assault until after Trunicht’s forces had landed. And since that signal indicated he’d landed successfully, they…

 

No, wait. Yazan squinted, peering closely at the sigil in the air. It was black and limned with purple flames, but it wasn’t circular. Paptimus has said that Trunicht’s signal for a successful attack would have been a single, huge circular symbol in the air, but this one seemed to be composed of five smaller circles, arranged in the formation of an X.

 

That meant…

 

“Lady Vyrleena!” One of her men came flying over from the southern wall, evidently extremely distressed—he’d been sent there with a courier and seemed to have come back with some very bad news. “This is terrible! Trunicht’s ships are retreating! His forces have suffered severe casualties!”

 

“What?!” Yazan didn’t bother to hide his surprise and anger. “What the hell happened?”

 

“The Royalists set fire to the entire harbor! They were _expecting_ Trunicht’s attack! They must’ve dumped every last bit of oil they could find in this city into the sea, then, when the boats floated into it, lit it on fire! The Red Shoulders are getting burned up!”

 

This caused no small degree of consternation among Yazan’s forces, as the men around him began chattering among themselves uneasily. Vyleena more than understood their anxiety.

 

“We should call off the attack, Yazan,” she said. “Things clearly aren’t going according to plan.”

 

“With such a weak will, it’s REALLY no wonder you lost your position,” Yazan snapped in response. “First off, even if the Red Shoulders have been beaten off, we still outnumber the Royalists a whole lot. Besides, all we gotta do is capture the castle, not the whole city. King Galahad’s holed up in the Holy Royal Palace wettin’ his pants, if we can get even one man into his room to gut him, they Royalists will surrender and the war’ll be won. And we wanna win this war NOW. A long fight’s gonna be a lot more difficult, and Paptimus doesn’t want that. So we’re just gonna take that damn castle today, even if we’ve run into an unexpected setback! To hell with the plan!” He raised his spear and hollered, “EVERYBODY, ATTACK!!”

 

Cheering, yelling, and screaming, the men around him surged forwards, rushing straight into the hole their trebuchets had made in the walls. The word was passed to the troops at the east and south gates, who did the same thing. Yazan, for his part, took to the air, preparing to follow his men into the breach. He sneered down at Vyrleena, telling her, “get on your Wyvern, wench. You wanted to help Paptimus bad enough to get exiled, you can at least make up for failing to bring us our secret weapon if you help us take the castle. Hambrabi, let’s go!”

 

He kicked his mount in the sides, laughing as he left the former Wyvern General in the dust.

 

-X-

 

“Damn, this is looking to be easier than I thought it was,” Yazan muttered to himself as he flew a few feet above the head of the formation on the ground, heading straight to the Holy Royal Palace. Though there were tens of thousands of them, the city had many wide and straight roads, and almost the entire population seemed to have locked themselves inside their homes, meaning Yazan’s men, along with those entering from the east and south sides, found themselves heading straight to the huge castle with very little interference. They weren’t bothering with looting and pillaging, either—not because Yazan had forbidden it, obviously, but because they’d have all the time in the world to ransack Aquleia after the King’s head was rolling on the ground. Thus, they wanted to get him out of the way as quickly as possible, and then enjoy the rest of what the city had to offer. They knew they outnumbered Aquleia’s garrison several times over—the Mage Corps was the main military force of the Royal Army, after all, and most of them had been killed at the Battle of Nerinheit. With just a few thousand well-trained Mages being assisted by what was probably a few more thousand hastily gathered and ill-trained conscripts and draftees, the numerous mercenaries and dedicated, comparatively well-trained soldiers of the Revolutionary Army felt they had very little to fear—Trunicht’s Red Shoulders being driven off was a disheartening development, along with Vyrleena’s failure to deliver her secret weapon, but the Revolutionaries were so confident in themselves that even this wasn’t enough to dissuade them. They were absolutely sure they’d soon capture the Holy Royal Palace and then have all of the capitol of Etruria to play around in.

 

Still, Yazan had to admit, the complete absence of any response so far was pretty strange. He’d participated in one siege before—back when he was still with the Bernese army, he and his Wyvern Knights had helped capture a city whose lord had rebelled against the King. Even after his men had breached the walls, the defenders had retreated back into the city streets, and there had been a lot of heavy fighting within the city itself before they’d made it to the main castle. After they’d captured that, of course, there had been plenty of raping, pillaging, and all that other fun stuff, but they’d have to fight quite a bit before then. Yazan hated to admit it, but maybe Vyrleena had a point.

 

There was just one thing that seemed kind of off to him. On top of a lot of houses were a bunch of weird blankets or boxes, like they were covering something up. He couldn’t see any of them clearly, but they didn’t seem to be too dangerous—probably a bunch of spare crap shoved off outside by the residents who’d had to prepare their entire city for war. Nothing was attacking him from them, so he didn’t pay them any heed.

 

He turned his head to the right when he suddenly saw a flash of light—over in the eastern side of the city, a bolt of thunder had fallen from the sky, despite it being a clear summer day. “Ah, now the battle’s starting,” he said to himself—his men were about halfway to the Palace, and from the looks of it, it seemed the eastern and southern forces were about that far in as well. They’d quickly overwhelm whatever token resistance they were facing, he was sure.

 

As his men continued to head straight down the large main road leading to the Holy Royal Palace, ignoring the houses and waterways around them, Yazan noticed that they’d indeed be facing some resistance themselves. Sort of, at least. Below him, standing in front of the thousands of Revolutionary soldiers marching right towards him, Yazan saw a single enemy soldier, standing entirely alone and motionless.

 

Weird as hell—only one guy? Yazan’s curiosity was definitely piqued. “HEY, EVERYBODY,” he shouted down, “HOLD UP!” As the army stopped in front of the single man, Yazan spurred his mount, and Hambrabi swooped down to the ground, allowing both him and his master to get a good view of their single foe.

 

There wasn’t much to see. He wasn’t a tall man—shorter thanYazan, probably—and he was covered in a thick, drab brown cloak that concealed him entirely. Yazan could only see blackness under his hood, though his large cloak seemed to have a lot of bumps in it that indicated the man underneath was pretty well built.

 

“One guy? Is this the best the King can send?” Yazan and all his troops broke out into laughter. “Alright, let’s just get this over with!” Lazily, Yazan unlimbered one of his Javelins and let it fly.

 

It hit the man dead-on…but didn’t do much. There was a loud CLANG of metal on metal as the spear passed through the cloak and then hit something very, very hard. The weapon fell uselessly to the ground, leaving a small hole in the man’s cloak but otherwise doing no damage at all to him—he was still standing, absolutely motionless.

 

Yazan and his troops were no longer laughing. “Damn,” Yazan hollered, “he’s got some sort of armor under that cloak! One of you magic-users, fry him for me, would you?”

 

“Yes sir!” A mercenary Mage standing near the front of the column of troops stepped next to Yazan, brandishing his Elfire tome. “DIE!” As Yazan had seen so many times before, a pair of fireballs flashed upwards from under the mage’s feet, coalesced into a single orb in the air, then slammed down on the unfortunate man, burying him within a column of blazing flame. The Wyvern Lord smirked when he saw the single, stupid soldier being burnt to a crisp…

 

Then found his mouth dropping open in amazement when it turned out the man hadn’t been burnt at all.

 

The wreath of magical flame surrounding him flickered and disappeared, and it seemed the only effect it had was revealing his mysterious form to his enemies. An unseasonably cold wind blew by, banishing the last of the Elfire flames, revealing that the man was still standing, but this time covered by the smoking scraps of burnt cloth that had been his cloak. The strange cold wind quickly blew those away, and Yazan paid almost no attention to the ashes floating through the air when he got a good look at what they’d been hiding.

 

Yazan was looking at a General. At least, he was fairly certain he was looking at a General. The man’s armor was so large, heavy-looking, and all-encompassing that it seemed nobody except a General could possibly wear it, but it was also so utterly strange that Yazan just couldn’t be sure.

 

The thick suit of full plate armor covered every single inch of the lone man’s body, and every last inch of it was a dark blood-red. From the top of his heavy greaves protruded a pair of thick chains—or maybe they were wires—which terminated into his thigh-pieces, or cuisses. Above his crimson fauld was another pair of wires which led into the large, conspicuous chunk of plate which protected his back. He had no shield, but his right pauldron was a very large, thick, rectangular piece of metal which was long enough to cover his entire arm and the top of his shoulder but shaped well enough as to not impede his movement in any way. It could serve as a shield quite easily, and his left pauldron could serve as a weapon—although it was conventionally shaped, it also had a trio of small spikes jutting out of it, not unlike the sort of thing one could find on a Hero’s armor. Of course, it didn’t compare to the General’s actual weapon—held in his right hand was a decent-sized axe, large enough to be threatening but smaller than a greataxe or halberd. The haft was purple, and from its midpoint extended another black wire which entered into its very top, but the blade itself was yellow—and the air around it shimmered slightly, as if being distorted by great heat.

 

As outlandish as all this may have been, however, it paled in comparison to the man’s helmet. It was as red as the rest of his armor, roughly spherical with a prominent red crest jutting out from its top, and covered his entire head, allowing absolutely nothing of his face to be seen. A strange thing—the helmet had yet another pair of thick wires or cables wrapping around it, attached to what seemed to be a mouthpiece of sorts, but above that was an eyeslit. It should have been possible to see the wearer’s eyes and upper face peeking out from within. But there was nothing—only pitch-black darkness.

 

“Hey, what the hell?” asked Yazan, and he looked at the mage, then back at the soldiers behind him—every single one gave him the same perplexed look. “Is anybody even in that thing?”

 

As soon as he said that, his question was answered. Yazan pulled back on Hambrabi’s reins, trying to calm his mount down when the Wyvern suddenly growled and jerked. He looked at the man standing in front of him to see why—something had apparently happened.

 

The utter blackness within that strange General’s visor had suddenly been broken—with something Yazan had never seen before. In the very center of that visor’s blackness appeared a shining red orb, glowing very softly—a single cyclopean eye. Yazan wasn’t a cowardly man, not in the least, but he couldn’t help feeling a chill run down his spine when he felt from that eye’s cold red glow the most malignant, hateful gaze imaginable.

 

That baleful orb began to move. It panned left, right, before finally centering and stopping on the now distinctly uneasy Yazan and his troops. Though they were a force of several thousand against one man, even the battle-hungry Yazan felt, for the first time in his life, that running away might be preferable to fighting.

 

That single eye suddenly seemed to glow brighter in recognition, and in that moment Yazan realized that the men standing around and behind him were already dead.

 

“SHIT!” Not wasting a moment, the Wyvern Lord kicked his mount in the sides, and Hambrabi immediately flapped his wings and sent both of them back into the air. That saved their lives.

 

Below him, almost faster than he could see, Yazan noticed a flash of red.

 

Then he saw the General standing directly in front of his army rather than several feet ahead of them. His strange axe was now held in front of him, the air shimmering around it as if it were _burning._ And next to that solitary fighter, Yazan’s Mage, who had burnt his cloak away, was simply standing there with an incredibly shocked, pained expression on his face.

 

Then, with a disgusting squirt of blood, the Mage’s entire body from the waist upwards slid off of his legs and onto the ground with a hideous thump. The man had been sliced _cleanly in half._

 

“SHIT! SHIT!” screamed Yazan to the troops below. “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”

 

The Revolutionary Soldiers wasted no time. With a deafening cheer that seemed to shake the ground, all of the thousands of soldiers who had followed him from the north wall this far into Aquleia charged, intending to tear this foolish, upstart General, stupid enough to stand against thousands of enemy troops on his own, to pieces.

 

That would turn out to be much easier said than done.

 

Yazan could only watch the spectacle below him in utter shock. As fast as a Swordmaster, the General, _in full plate armor_ , brought his axe down and slashed it to the side. In that single instant, with a flash of orange that was his axe and the wave of heat it gave off, the six Soldiers who had reached him first, spears at the ready, found their bodies sliding to pieces, their blood turning to red steam due to the scorching heat of the General’s weapon. But he didn’t stop there—so fast had he swung the weapon, it gave him the momentum required to keep swinging, and he spun himself around once again, to the same effect—the next few charging soldiers were blasted apart in a similar fashion. And so fast was this swing that he continued it—he was definitely _spinning_ now, so fast that his features were obscured into nothing more than a swirling mini-tornado of red. And all this happened in a single moment, too quickly for the charging, bloodthirsty Revolutionaries to take note of immediately. For two more, interminably long moments they threw themselves straight onto that spinning red whirlwind, and dozens of them ended up strewn into hundreds of little pieces on the now blood-soaked ground. Only when someone screamed—Yazan couldn’t tell who—did the entire charge suddenly stop, soldiers bumping and crashing into each other as the ones in front hastily began backing away, attempting to get as far away from the madman’s whirling Dervish dance as possible.

 

In the space of a few moments, this single man had stopped the advance of Yazan’s thousands of troops cold.

 

And he wasn’t done yet.

 

Just as quickly as he had began, the General stopped his spinning. With an incredible amount of force he slammed one foot straight into the ground, halting his spinning (Yazan could only wonder how he wasn’t torn apart by the centrifugal force) but in the split second while the arm holding his axe was still moving, he slammed _that_ into the ground in front of him, with all the force his momentum and his own strength was giving him.

 

Even in the air, Yazan was blown back several feet by the force of the explosion which surrounded the General. As he struggled to gain control of Hambrabi, he saw that the mysterious General was now standing in the middle of a small crater, his axe embedded deeply within its center, surrounded by the blasted, smoking corpses of over fifty men, with the bodies of several more having been thrown down into the nearby waterways, floating merrily away.

 

In less than half a minute a single man had slaughtered over a hundred of Yazan’s troops.

 

And he wasn’t done yet.

 

The entire Revolutionary army Yazan commanded stopped in its tracks, staring at the General in complete, astonished bewilderment. Their commander shared their reaction—Yazan had never been so surprised by anything in his long career as he was right now.

 

That was all the time the General needed. The single Cyclops-eye in his visor glowed brightly again, and he jerked his axe out of the ground as he stood and raised himself up to his full height. He brought his axe over his head and it too glowed brightly, enough for everyone in the immediate area to see.

 

From behind his strange helmet echoed a voice—distorted by both the metal in front of it and the enchantment placed on the armor it came from, but still recognizable as a man’s voice. It was loud enough to be heard across the immediate battlefield, and would have seemed utterly emotionless were it not for a strange, distinct tremor Yazan didn’t know what to make of.

 

It yelled out a single word that seemed to echo across the entire city.

 

“ATTACK!”

 

The next moment, all hell broke loose.

 

Purely on instinct, Yazan jerked on Hambrabi’s reins, spurring the Wyvern to flap his wings and veer to the side as quickly as he could. Once again, this saved both their lives, for Yazan managed to avoid a sudden flurry of huge thunderbolts crashing down on his former position, along with half a dozen Ballista bolts. More and more were flying all around him, and it took every ounce of skill he had to guide Hambrabi back and forth, dodging all of them. His eyes widened when he glanced downwards and saw their source.

 

The weird boxes and blankets on top of the houses he’d seen earlier _had_ been dangerous after all. They were now broken and discarded, revealing hundreds of ballistae, archers, and Mages on the tops of many of the houses, sending arrows, bolts, and magic crashing down upon Yazan’s forces—and, judging by the noises which had sprung up all around the rest of the city at the exact same time, down on the eastern and southern gate troops as well. Even worse, Yazan noticed arrows and fireballs shooting out of the windows of the houses themselves. The Revolutionary Army had almost completely ignored the regular business of looting and pillaging in order to get at what they’d assumed to be the poorly defended Holy Royal Palace as soon as possible, but that had proved to be their undoing—the Royalist soldiers, many more than they’d expected—archers and regular troops all, not just the decimated remnants of the Mage Corps—had been hiding within those houses, and now the Revolutionary Army was trapped. All across the city the invading soldiers found themselves being torn down by what seemed to be legions of angry men wielding spears, swords, and axes along with magic bursting from the doors of the many houses, churches, and academies of Aquleia. Beneath him, Yazan could see scores of Knights bursting out of the doors of the houses lining the streets his men were on, shattering his formation’s flanks in a wave of spears backed up by heavy armor. They were followed by Fighters, Soldiers, and Myrmidons, all apparently unskilled—most swinging their weapons around as if it was the first time they’d held them—but still managing to score many kills by advantage of catching his men completely off guard. And, of course, they were spurred on by their General.

 

As soon as he’d launched his forces’ attack the General had resumed his own personal one, and with speed exceeding an Assassin’s he had thrown himself back into the fray. A panicked Revolutionary Knight thrust a spear at him, he deftly sidestepped it and brought his axe down on the Knight’s head, slicing him cleanly in half with a single movement. A Revolutionary Archer and another Mage fired an arrow and spell at him moments before being cut down by his new allies. The General didn’t even notice—the arrow bonked harmlessly off his spiny left spaulder and the Thunder spell’s electricity arced around his armor, leaving the occupant entirely unharmed. The red devil simply continued chopping through Revolutionary soldiers like a reaper through wheat as a hail of arrows skewered the two ranged Rebels foolish enough to strike him.

 

“A trap,” Yazan yelled, still somewhat dumbfounded by astonishment, not caring if anyone besides himself heard, “IT’S A TRAP!!!”

 

As he watched the men below him die by the scores (though he was gratified to see that they were comparatively well-trained enough to give almost as good as they got, killing many of the Royalist ambush troops even though they were surprised), as he continued to dodge attack after attack, knowing that this scene was playing out all over the rest of the capitol, for a moment Yazan thought victory here would be impossible.

 

Until he suddenly heard the flapping of hundreds of more leathery wings, and saw scores of Wyverns pass him by.

 

“Vyrleena!” he shouted cheerfully, both grateful that the woman had finally shown some initiative. Her Knights were racing across the sky as fast as they could—they’d apparently been just sitting behind the lines after Yazan and his forces made their initial intrusion, but now, after seeing how dire the situation had suddenly become, they had decided to finally join the battle. However, they were also being quickly whittled down by the Bolting spells and Ballista, made even more destructive because many of them were carrying soldiers on the backs of their Wyverns. Given their destination, though, if even a handful of them made it, they could still win.

 

“TO THE PALACE!” shouted Vyrleena as she and her comrades pushed their Wyverns to the absolute limit, even as scores of them were shot down by magic, arrows, or ballista bolts. “WE HAVE TO GET TO THE PALACE AND TAKE THE KING! IT’S OUR ONLY HOPE OF VICTORY!”

 

“Now you’re talkin’, lady! We’re not done here yet! YAH!” Yazan kicked Hambrabi in the sides, and the Wyvern quickly took off, pursuing Vyrleena’s as fast as he could. He soon caught up to her, staying close to her side as the two of them and their fellow Bernites soared and weaved their way through a hailstorm of arrows, ballista bolts, and  Bolting attacks. “DON’T LET THEM GET AWAY!” Yazan heard the crazy General shout from below, and indeed the assault they were subjected to intensified, but the Bernese Wyvern Riders were skilled enough that too few of the spells and projectiles hit their targets to ensure that none reached the Holy Royal Palace.

 

“Hey, it took you long enough,” Yazan yelled to Vyrleena as one of her Knights was blasted out of the air. “Suddenly found your nerve, huh?”

 

“No!” she yelled back. “I just don’t want your poor leadership to spell the end of Paptimus’ cause! If you’d predicted this trap like I did, we’d not be having any problems, but at this point, all we can do is take Galahad to prevent this from becoming a total defeat!”

 

“Whatever,” he called back, “At least now we want the same thing!”

 

And with that, the both of them pressed onwards to the Palace.

 

-X-

 

Jerid and his men had to hold. They _had_ to.

 

Right now, he was more frightened than he’d even been in his entire life, thrusting and feinting with his spear, relying on his Knight’s armor to protect him from the foes slashing at him from all around, listening to the screams of dying men coming from all directions. He realized he shouldn’t have been _that_ frightened—the plan had actually gone exceedingly well.

 

Just as the Great General had predicted, the Revolutionary Army would have been too eager to get at the Holy Royal Palace and King Galahad to pay much attention to anything else. This allowed the Royalist forces to lay quite a nasty surprise for them, using the geography of the city to their advantage. Though the Revolutionaries had an heavy advantage in both numbers and the quality of their men, by using armored Knights to block the main streets (as Jerid himself had done when large brawls or mobs occurred in Thagaste’s streets), Henken had created chokepoints to obviate somewhat the Revolutionary numbers, and in keeping ballistae, archers, and mages on the rooftops, as well as ambush troops quartered within the houses themselves, the advantages of surprise and terrain were, to an extent, canceling out the superior training and experience of Revolutionary conscripts and mercenaries.

 

Even so, all that didn’t change the fact that Jerid had never participated in any battle even as remotely pitched as this one. Facing down a mob of angry, drunken ruffians wasn’t even remotely close to fighting for one’s life against a true Revolutionary army. And these guys were the real deal—Jerid would’ve been dead several times over by now if it wasn’t for his armor. The swordsman he was facing off against at the moment swung down his weapon, and Jerid unbuckled his chestplate that doubled as a shield just in time to raise it and defect the attack. With his other hand, he stabbed his Iron Spear upwards, managing to insert its point squarely into the swordsman’s neck.

 

Another first—Jerid had never killed anybody before today. And much to his dismay, he found it wasn’t as hard on him as he thought.

 

Not that he had much time to give it much thought—he and his men might be dying pretty soon themselves. They were doing their best to hold off the enemy, and in Jerid’s opinion they were doing the best job they could. On the eastern quadrant they were tasked with defending there was one large main road (used primarily for merchant caravans during peacetime) the invaders were penetrating through, so naturally Henken had assigned Jerid and his Knights to plug up that route. This prevented the invaders from making a straight beeline to the Holy Royal Palace—everyone knew if the enemy reached that, the war was as good as lost, for they couldn’t keep going without the King. However, Jerid had also noticed there were many smaller side streets branching off from the main avenue. Breaking from orders somewhat, he diverted a few of his men to guard those streets, ensuring it would be difficult for Revolutionary soldiers to sneak away through those alleyways to get at the Palace or his men from behind—Jerid remembered how much thieves and cutthroats loved those sorts of ‘shortcuts’ back in Thagaste. It had worked very well, as Revolutionaries who’d hoped to ambush their ambushers by heading through those side-avenues found themselves getting ambushed instead, but even so, it wasn’t quite enough.

 

Jerid had a decent degree of experience with spear and Knight’s armor, but the same couldn’t be said for most of his men, many of whom had a week’s training at most. This point was brought home when Jerid winced, holding his shield in front of him to block an axeman’s strike, just as a flash of yellow light exploded to his side, a thunderbolt from a Revolutionary mage incinerating one of his Knights. The Revolutionary forces were simply too well-equipped and too well-trained.

 

Still, no matter what, they couldn’t give up. “EVERYBODY, STAND YOUR GROUND!” Jerid yelled. “IF WE GO DOWN HERE, THEY’RE GOIN’ STRAIGHT TO THE CASTLE! WE CAN’T—“

 

He was cut off, and indeed, both his forces and the enemy’s stopped their fighting for a moment when a huge clamor arose from behind them.

 

Jerid couldn’t help from letting out a loud whoop of joy when he saw that reinforcements had arrived.

 

His men and their allies, a few thousand in total, had been holding off several times that number of Revolutionaries by blocking off the roads while their friends on the rooftops gave them long-range assistance. Now, however, the Revolutionaries found themselves facing an assault from _behind_ as well. It was the second part of Henken’s plan.

 

Chaos reigned among the Revolutionaries as several hundred Cavaliers took them from the rear, trampling the infantry under the hooves of their horses and mowing the rest down with their spears and lances. Once again, none of the cavalrymen seemed particularly strong or well-trained, but with the advantages of surprise and position, they were slaughtering the invaders.

 

“All right!” Jerid cheered. “Everybody, let’s push ‘em back!” With another thrust of his spear he gutted the demoralized, surprised axeman in front of him, and his haggard, beaten underlings surged forward, catching their second wind, laying into the invaders with renewed vigor.

 

The assault from behind broke the back of the Revolutionary formation—after several more minutes of exhausting battle, the last of them finally perished.

 

“Haaaaaah…haaaaah….” Jerid, so tired he could barely stand, wrenched his bloody spear from the broken corpse of a Revolutionary swordsman beneath him, struggling to keep to his feet on the similarly blood-drenched ground below him. His comrades were in a similar state, but none of them were so worn out that they couldn’t offer smiles to their saviors.

 

“Came just in the nick of time,” said Jerid, looking up at the man who was apparently the leader of the Cavaliers. He was a older fellow, several years older than Jerid, with graying orange hair.

 

The Cavalier smiled. “Yep,” he said, his accent, though slight, giving him away as a man from the northern part of the country, “but it’s our Great General who deserves th’ lion’s share o’ the credit. We didn’t manage to spring up many Cavaliers, but he asked us to hold our forces in reserve, outside the city, near the south…guess he knew there wouldn’t be an attack comin’ from that direction. So after the Revolutionaries got themselves all set up, then breached the castle, then got themselves well and trapped in here, like this—thanks to y’ for holdin’ ‘em off, by th’ way—it was our turn to ride in here and take ‘em from the back. Looks like it worked pretty well, eh? Now, the battle ought to be over for you, but you lads oughta stay here to keep watch against any more Revolutionaries tryin’ to sneak by. Me ‘n the rest are gonna—“

 

“Sir Gafgarion!” cried a Cavalier, rushing towards them, “It’s terrible! They enemy’s reached the Palace!”

 

“What?!” Jerid was shocked. “We didn’t let any through! Have they broken through the north or east—“

 

“No, it’s reinforcements! A few hundred Wyvern Knights! The ballistas picked off most of ‘em, but there’s about two hundred who managed to make it to the Palace. They’re led by a couple of absolute monsters, and our men are getting slaughtered! They’ve already broken in, at this rate they’re gonna get to the King!!”

 

Gafgarion and Jerid looked at each other—they both knew they could NOT allow that to happen. But Gafgarion was the only one who could make it in time. “You stay here,” he said, “your men aren’t fast enough to do much good. Me ‘n the boys’ll bail out the Palace! YAH!”

 

Without waiting for a response, he spurred his horse in the side and raised his spear. “EVERYBODY, FOLLOW ME! WE GOTTA GET TO THE PALACE!

 

-x-

 

 _We really can win_ , Yazan thought gleefully to himself.

 

“HAHA!” He dove downwards with Hambrabi, his spear plunging through the chest of a ballistician while Hambrabi’s jaws took a chunk out of the neck of the Sage standing next to him. Nearby, Vyrleena did much the same, soaring downwards and slamming her spear into a ballista with such force that the entire machine was blown into thousands of little pieces, along with its operator.

 

They were currently fighting right in front of the Holy Royal Castle. The fact that they were on wyvernback (along with the infantry they were carrying, in many cases) allowed Yazan, Vyrleena, and their allies to soar right over the Palace gates and straight to the main structure itself, the Holy Royal Castle in the center of the Palace as a whole. It was well-defended, but not quite well enough to really stand against a blitzkrieg like this—none of the defenders were expecting to be set upon by Wyvern Knights this soon. The Bernites and the men they’d carried with them had taken care of most of the archers, mages, and ballistae on the palace walls, and now the palace grounds themselves were full of Wyverns rising and falling as they spilled the blood of the Palace Guards.

 

“YES!” Yazan shouted as he swung his spear to deflect a couple of arrows heading for him, “WE’VE ALMOST WON!” Below him, the front doors of the Castle had been blown wide open by a Bernite mage hitching a ride on a Wyvern Knight’s back. Both of them were shot out of the sky by a ballista bolt, but the damage had already been done—dozens of Wyvern Knights swiftly descended, any allies riding on their mounts as well hopping off, and made straight for that door. Several took more direct routes, crashing through windows. In any case, however, the Royal Palace had been compromised…meaning King Galahad’s death was close at hand, and with it, the ultimate victory of the Revolutionary cause. All that seemed absolutely certain…

 

Until a flash of white light accompanied by the distinct smell of ozone turned everything around.

 

 

 

 

-X-X-X-

 

 

“Guh!”

 

Renault hit the ground with a hard thud. Earlier in his life, he probably would have remained disoriented for a while longer, but his experiences in the Reaper’s Labyrinth had impressed upon him very strongly that few enemies would allow him much time to gather his bearings. Thus, when he heard something whooshing down on him from above, he didn’t even bother to think about the fact he couldn’t yet see it clearly, or even understand where exactly he was. He just got out of the way.

 

This saved his life, for a spear dug into the ground where he’d been lying. He quickly got to his feet—still unsteady, but serviceable—and looked at who he was fighting and where he was.

 

Everything was so confusing it didn’t really help much. He was standing in the plaza within the Holy Royal Palace, in front of the Holy Royal Castle. All around him, however, were Wyvern Knights—many of whom he got the distinct impression of having seen before, back in Lycia. They were flying all over the place, destroying the ballistae on the walls and picking off the archers, magic-users, and royal guardsmen milling about in a panic—apparently, Hell’s Wall had been teleported straight into a massive battle for Aquleia, and the Palace Guards had been taken by complete surprise.

 

As if to demonstrate that thought, a bowman wearing Royal colors nearby looked to where he’d saw the flash, and saw almost a dozen strange new warriors right behind him.“AHHH! MORE ENEMIES!” he screamed, aiming his weapon on them. Fortunately, Khyron, standing nearby, put a stop to all this.

 

“I AM THE MAGE GENERAL!” he shouted, loud enough to be heard over the great din of battle, “AND THESE MEN AND WOMEN ARE UNDER MY COMMAND! NOW TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON!!”

 

“L-Lord Khyron?!” The astonished bowman lowered his weapon. “H-How’d you get here?!”

 

“Watch out, kid!” The bowman turned to face behind him just as Braddock jumped in front of him and sliced off the neck of a charging Wyvern, the same one who’d attacked Renault a few seconds ago, dispatching its rider with the next stroke. “Just explain what’s going on!”

 

“Th-The Revolutionary Army’s invaded Aquleia! They’ve got all these Wyvern Knights with them, and they’ve broken into the Castle! You have to help us! King Galahad’s still in there!”

 

“DAMMIT!” yelled Khyron, casting a Fimbulvetr spell at a Wyvern descending dangerously close to them. Renault glanced back at him to see Rosamia at his side, firing off Elfire spells as quickly as she could, Braddock fending off more Wyvern Knights with his axe, Apolli picking off Wyverns with his bow, and Harvery knifing through a pack of Bernite Fighters led by an axe-wielding Hero. Renault himself grimaced as he brought his Steel Sword in front of his face to ward off an arrow, then unsheathed his Runesword to send the Bernite Archer falling to the ground, screaming as a sextet of black orbs stole his life away.

 

He wasn’t dead, but Renault would have to finish him off later—Khyron had plans. “DAMMIT,” he shouted again as he cast another spell, “SECURING THE PALACE TAKES PRIORITY! BRADDOCK, HARVERY, AND APOLLI WILL RESCUE THE KING, ME AND ROSAMIA WILL SECURE THE THRONE ROOM, AND RENAULT AND THE PEGASUS KNIGHTS WILL TAKE CARE OF THIS OUTER AREA! MOVE!!”

 

Renault and all his comrades had no sooner nodded their heads in agreement when the plan their leader had just made unraveled slightly. “AAAAH!” The Archer who’d greeted them screamed as a hole was blown clean through his chest from the force of a Wyvern Lord’s javelin.

 

Hovering in front of them on the back of a familiar black Wyvern was a Bernite with familiar poofy blond hair. “Where the hell did you guys come from?” asked Yazan in his deep, growling voice. “Well, I—“

 

He was cut off when Hambrabi jerked back and flapped his wings, bringing both of them back into the air to avoid the flash of white which had dived down upon them. Both Yazan and the rest of Hell’s Wall appeared somewhat surprised to see who it was.

 

“Hey, Kasha,” Yazan shouted happily, “Is that you? Damn, you sure know how to make an entrance!”

 

“And you love it, don’t you?” Kasha cackled wildly. “Now, WE GOT UNFINISHED BUSINESS!”

 

“Haha, whenever you want, girl!” Yazan unlimbered his lance to block Kasha’s attack as she flew past him, and he kicked Hambrabi in the side to turn him to back north, motioning for Kasha to follow.

 

“C’MON, LET’S GO!”

 

“Hey, don’t think you can escape so easily!” Kasha completely forgot about the battle raging around her in front of the Palace in order to pursue her old friend, spurring her own mount and heading north as well, attempting to catch up to Yazan while he was busy dodging arrows and spells.

 

“KASHA! THE PLAN!” screamed Khyron, but it was already far too late—she couldn’t hear them.

 

“It doesn’t matter, Master!” yelled Rosamia. “Let’s just go with what we have!”

 

“Me n’ the Ilians will take care of things out here,” said Renault, shoving his Steel Sword into a Bernite Soldier’s face, “You guys get back into the castle and save that stupid King! I don’t want Paptimus to win this war because somebody gutted Galahad while he was busy wetting his pants!”

 

Khyron was about to let out a blistering retort, but Rosamia stopped him, saying, “Save your anger for the Bernites trying to kill our liege! LET’S JUST GO!”

 

That convinced him. While Renault and the remaining three Pegasus Knights struggled for their lives outside, Braddock, Harvery, Apolli, Khyron, and Rosamia ran as fast as they could through the Castle’s broken front doors and into its confines, hoping to rescue the King.

 

-x-

 

When Braddock first stepped into the Castle’s confines, he thought they might have already been too late.

 

Blood and bodies were everywhere. Corpses of the Royal Guards were piled on top of Bernese infantrymen and the scaly bodies of Wyverns, the carnage drawing away all attention from the castle’s gorgeous interior architecture. And it seemed to be everywhere.

 

“No time to waste!” shouted Khyron. “Everyone, follow me!”

 

He knew the layout of the castle best, so naturally nobody raised any objections. Braddock, Rosamia, Apolli, and Harvery followed the Mage General through the winding halls as he led them with such ease that it seemed he knew the castle’s entire layout by heart. They didn’t make their journey unopposed, of course—as they ran, Khyron and Rosamia flung their spells as fast as they could, incinerating and freezing rampaging Wyverns and their riders in the large great halls, while Harvery blew forwards like a swift wind, and whenever he passed by a Bernese swordsman or fighter, the invader would crumple to the ground with an astonished look on their face, not knowing where the gashes on his neck came from. Apolli even managed to fire off a few arrows while running, that Orion’s Bolt from the labyrinth apparently having increased his dexterity greatly, and finally, Braddock’s raw power came in quite handy—even Wyverns weren’t able to stand against it. As his group neared one staircase, a Wyvern Rider came barreling out of a door to their side towards them. Braddock didn’t even slow down. Shouting angrily, he just slammed into the beast with all his strength, knocking it back. Both it and its rider had time to look surprised before the Ostian spilled the Wyvern’s guts across the ground and took a chunk out of the man’s head with his Wolf Beil.

 

“Quickly, up these stairs!” Khyron yelled, not wanting to waste a moment. His friends quickly followed him, all running as fast as they could. There was too much adrenaline running through Braddock’s body to make him feel tired, even though he ought to have been utterly exhausted after everything he’d been through. Judging by how his comrades moved, they felt the same way. The steps seemed to flash under them, and none of them stumbled once, though Braddock did have to reach out a grab a wall to keep from tripping over the bloody body of one unfortunate guard.

 

They reached the second floor…and kept going upwards. Didn’t take the exit to the third floor, but when they reached the fourth, Khyron made a hasty exit from the stairwell and went down a hallway leading to the east. He was heading towards another large stairwell this time, but one that went only upwards—Braddock realized it must have led to the fifth level of the castle, where the King’s personal chambers were located. And judging from the sounds coming from above them, the King was in trouble.

 

“QUICKLY!” Khyron shouted. They ascended the stairs to get a good view of the battle. A single short entryway terminated in the door to the King’s room, and it was currently being defended by one man—a nondescript fellow clad in full armor and carrying a spear, not too tall but apparently very brave—he was standing alone, the corpses of two Sages next to him, facing off against a Wyvern Lord, two Mercenaries, and three Fighters. He would have been slaughtered if it hadn’t been for the timely arrival of Khyron and his group.

 

“YAAAAH!” Khyron and Rosamia led things off when the Bernite invaders turned from the sole spearmen to the new arrivals. The magic-users blasted away the two Mercenaries, and in the split second after the effects of their spells had dissipated, Apolli sent a pair of arrows into the eyes of both the Wyvern Lord and his mount. Before the remaining Fighters had time to react, Braddock and Harvery leapt forward, each cutting down a single man.

 

“Thanks!” the spearman shouted as he took care of the remaining Fighter, the Bernite collapsing with a curse as the guard thrust an Iron Spear through his chest. “I really owe you one,” he said after this, panting in exhaustion as he leaned on his bloody spear. His saviors smiled in response—the sounds of battle were dying away downstairs as reinforcements had apparently arrived, and no more Wyverns, Bernites, or Revolutionaries seemed to be crashing in on them. For now, the battle was over, or at least cooling down.

 

Khyron, however, didn’t even notice. “THE KING! I MUST SEE THE KING! OUT OF THE WAY!”

 

He shoved the surprised guardsman out of the way and opened the thick doors he’d been guarding, barging right into Galahad’s room. “Uh, don’t take it too personally,” said Braddock, still panting heavily from his previous exertions as he looked at the guard sympathetically. “Khyron’s like that all the time.” With that, he and his friends followed the Sage into the King’s personal chambers—and found, to their mild satisfaction, that Khyron had gotten at least a bit of comeuppance.

 

“Mrf!” The Sage sputtered as he was hit in the face with what appeared to be a soft, luxurious purple cushion.

 

“GET OUT!” screamed the man who’d thrown it. He was a short, rather unimpressive older-looking fellow huddled in the bed in the other side of the room, being held by a rather buxom black-haired woman. Braddock remembered the man from standing in front of him at Court several years ago—it was King Galahad. He had no idea who the woman was, and was actually somewhat happy to see neither of them was naked—the thought of a man like Galahad enjoying carnal relations was one he’d be much better off never entertaining.

 

“B-BERNESE SCUM!” Galahad continued to yell, and he was crying as well—his companion was too, in fact. “W-WHAT HAVE WE EVER DONE TO YOU?!”

 

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY GALAHAD!” screamed the woman. “M-MY PRECIOUS GALAHAD! OH, ELIMINE PRESERVE US!” She picked up another pillow and tossed it at Khyron, who continued to sputter indignantly.

 

“I can’t believe we went through all this trouble to save this guy,” deadpanned Braddock. From the expressions on Harvery, Apolli, and even Rosamia’s faces, all them agreed.

 

None of that mattered to Khyron. “Y-Your Majesty! Don’t you recognize me?” he stuttered.

 

This managed to bring some sense back to the terrified King of Etruria. “Who…who? You mean you’re not a Bernite?”

 

“No! My liege, I serve only you, as my brother did!”

 

That was enough to tell him. “KHYRON!” Galahad had gone from weeping in fear to shouting with joy. “WE’RE SAVED! MALONDA, WE’RE SAVED!” The woman had stopped crying, but judging by how her expression of recognition had a distinct sour tint to it, Braddock got the impression she’d rather have been saved by someone else besides Khyron.

 

Galahad didn’t take note of it. He leapt up from his opulent bed and leapt straight at Khyron, hugging the Sage in a desperate, tearful embrace. In most other occasions this would have been cause for the onlookers to smile, but Braddock and his companions _really_ couldn’t convince themselves that such behavior from the man who was supposed to be leading their kingdom was at all a good thing.

 

Shaking his head, Braddock turned and stepped back out of the room—Khyron didn’t notice, and Rosamia and Apolli were occupied with looking at Galahad awkwardly. The Ostian smiled again when he saw the brave lone spearman, who was still standing outside, seemingly confused (it was hard to tell from his expression—the armor and helmet he wore was more encompassing than an ordinary Soldier’s, covering his entire face).

 

“You did good,” said Braddock. “If it wasn’t for you, we probably would’ve arrived too late to save Galahad. Any more enemies coming?”

 

“Nope, none that I’ve seen,” said the spearman, still sounding very tired. “Think we’ve driven off the Bernites from the Palace.”

 

“Really? Yeah, I hope so.” Braddock took a few steps towards one of the broken windows in the hallway and gazed outside. The battle was indeed dying down—the grounds were filled with Cavaliers, actually—some backup forces the Red Comet had in reserve for situations like this, the Ostian surmised. There were a few hundred of them, and they’d quickly bailed out the beleaguered defenders—now, they were busying themselves throwing Javelins at the few scattered and demoralized Wyvern Riders left in the air.

 

Braddock sighed. In all that chaos, he couldn’t catch a single glimpse of Renault—he had no idea where the youth from Thagaste could be. So the only thing he could do was hope, with all his heart, that his best friend was alright.

 

-x-

 

“They don’t pay me enough for this,” grunted Renault as he deftly sidestepped a Bernese Hero’s thrust of his sword. The man was definitely skilled, one of the most skilled warriors Renault had dealt with in the past few days, in fact—he’d left a sizable gash on the sellsword’s chest just a few moments earlier; only Renault’s quick jerking away had prevented the wound from being fatal. But the sellsword was no slouch either, and the Hero had gotten the worst of their encounter—a deep gash on his leg and shield arm meant he couldn’t move or block attacks easily. Renault pressed this advantage—he brought his sword over his head and slashed downwards with all his strength, and the Hero couldn’t dodge, only bring up his own sword to block the blow with the flat of the blade. But the force of Renault’s swing was too much for a one-handed block, and he couldn’t maintain his grip on the weapon—when Renault hit it, he grimaced as it fell from his hand.

 

“End of the line for you,” smiled Renault as he immediately brought his sword up again, slicing open the Hero’s neck cleanly. Still smiling, he surveyed the battlefield for his next victim. He saw one in a Wyvern Rider soaring through the air, aiming his Javelin at an unsuspecting Royalist manning one of the ballistae on the walls. Renault sheathed his Steel Sword and brought out his Runesword, smiling even more widely when he pointed it at the Bernite and saw the six black orbs leaving his body. The invader, surprised, jerked, which threw off his aim—the Javelin passed harmlessly over the head of the ballistician, and the Sage standing next to him blasted the Wyvern Rider to pieces with a well-timed and well-aimed Thunder spell. For Renault’s part, all he cared about was that the wound on his chest had stopped bleeding thanks to the sword’s magic.

 

 _Things don’t seem to be going that bad,_ he thought to himself when he looked above, where his three Ilian comrades, Kelitha, Keith, and Hiyu were tearing through the Bernites. Keith seemed to be the most enthusiastic, passing between two Wyvern Riders and simultaneously knocking them both off their mounts. Kelitha and Hiyu kept close to the walls, both foiling the plots of any more Wyvern Riders to inflict further casualties upon the ballisticians and magic-users, and also descending down every now and then to help the defenders on the ground. Though there were only four of them, it seemed they’d blunted the Revolutionary attack on the castle, or at least prevented any more soldiers from gaining entrance.

 

However, Renault also realized he wouldn’t be able to fight forever. If the Revolutionaries had any more reinforcements, the castle was as good as theirs if they put even more pressure on it. And, of course, there was the matter of the soldiers who’d already managed to infiltrate the castle—he could only hope Braddock and his other comrades were doing well.

 

This point was brought home—brutally—when Renault heard a piercing scream from above him.

 

He looked up to see what seemed to be a rain of red liquid. It took him a second to realize it was blood. When a few red-tinged white feathers drifted down along with it, he realized it had used to be a Pegasus Knight. And when a large black shape swooped downwards through it, he realized it was a Wyvern Lord who’d done her in.

 

“HIYU!!” Keith and Kelitha screamed simultaneously, as the green-haired Wyvern Lord who’d torn her literally to pieces alighted on the ground in front of Renault, her spear dripping with gore. When she turned around to look at the foe to her back, both her eyes and Renault’s widened in recognition.

 

She had long green hair and a heart-shaped face that would have been pretty were it not for the prominent scar on it—and the blood streaming all over it. One of her eyes was closed, and her left arm, not holding her lance, was hanging limply by her side; peppered with several arrows. Her mount wasn’t doing much better, burns evident all over its belly and several arrows stuck in its hide. It was a testament to her skill, then, that she was still more than capable of fighting.

 

“S-Shit,” Renault stammered, “You’re that lady from Lycia! The one with Barbarossa!”

 

“You!” she responded, her shock matching her exhaustion. “How the…how are you still alive? And how’d you get all the way from the Reaper’s Labyrinth over to the capitol of Etruria?!”

 

Renault had recovered enough of his composure to give a witty reply to the woman’s question. “Like I told you last time, we’re Hell’s Wall! Nobody who crosses us lives to tell about it! And if it means traveling all the way over to Etruria to keep you from escapin’ our grasp, that’s just what we’re gonna do! NOW DIE!”

 

Renault pointed his Runesword at her, hoping to do some damage—and was very disappointed when he saw her shift her body just slightly to the side, resulting in the six life-draining orbs converging on empty air and returning to him with nothing.

 

He knew then and there this woman wouldn’t be as easy to defeat as her underlings.

 

She kicked her black Wyvern in the sides and spurred it to charge towards him, her spear and its fangs leading the way. Renault quickly dropped and rolled to the side, underneath one of the charging wyvern’s outstretched wings. He thought he evaded her thrust easily…until he felt a sharp flare of pain in his side, and staggered to his feet while looking at the gash which had suddenly opened up in his torso.

 

When she turned back to him, he realized what had happened—it was that strange spear of hers. It was apparently a heavily enchanted weapon, for tiny gusts of wind blew around it constantly, whipping to and fro like miniature tornados. Though the spear itself had thankfully missed him, one of the miniature hurricanes must have slashed him. A direct hit probably would have ripped him up—he now knew what had happened to Hiyu.

 

She thrust the spear into the air, and the gusts of wind prevented Keith and Kelitha from getting too close to her. “Mere bandits like you are no match for the Royal Spear, Rex Hasta,” she said grimly, readying herself to charge again at Renault. “Now—“

 

The sellsword was saved at the last minute by the arrival of friendly reinforcements—a small horde of Cavaliers crashed through the Palace gates and into the plaza, wearing Royal colors. “What?!” exclaimed the Bernese woman as she turned her head to see her fellow invaders falling under a hail of hooves and thrown Javelins.

 

“Damn! We’ve failed!” she cursed. Slashing her spear in the air around her again to keep the Pegasus Knights away, she took off.

 

“YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY!” Renault shouted. Just as her Wyvern passed over his head, he sheathed his Runesword and jumped up, as high as he could, and managed to grab on to something:

 

Her Wyvern’s back legs.

 

“What the—“ she exclaimed as her mount suddenly found it much harder to maneuver. To its credit and that of its rider, it managed to stay in air, but it took everything the woman had to keep it that way—Keith and Kelitha knew an opportunity when they saw one, and as the Bernite’s wyvern continued to chug clumsily through the air, they used the superior speed of their Pegasi to dart in as close to her as possible, looking for an opening. She fended them off well, continuing to sweep her magic Rex Hasta around in wide arcs, using its powerful wind enchantment to keep them at bay. This also had the added benefit of blowing away the arrows coming at her from below, though she still had to dodge the ballista and Thunder bolts.

 

However, while she was able to deal with the Ilians, she found herself unable to get a good bead on her unexpected passenger. “Damn you!” she yelled, looking down. Since Renault was clinging to her Wyvern’s legs, right below her, she couldn’t stab at him without injuring her own mount.

 

However, that didn’t mean the Wyvern couldn’t take care of things itself. “GRAWR!” It craned its long neck downwards and snarled at Renault, so close to him he could smell its horribly fetid breath.

 

After everything he’d experienced, though, he wasn’t even close to intimidated. “Think you’re a tough boy, huh? Let’s see if those scales of yours are as hard as Barbarossa’s!”

 

Grinning madly, he let go of one of the Wyvern’s legs with his right hand, while still gripping the other with his left. With his free hand he unsheathed the Steel Sword at his hip and whipped it out in one single motion—which ended with the Wyvern’s jaws hanging limply away from each other, streaming blood downwards as Renault’s blade split its mouth apart.

 

“NO!” screamed the Bernite as her dead mount began to plummet downwards. Lucky for her (and Renault) they didn’t fall far—not even a dozen feet below them was the roof of a house where the wreckage of a ballista and its operator lay, having been destroyed by one of her fellow Wyvern Riders earlier.

 

“Ooof!” cried Renault as he let go of the dead beast’s leg and tumbled onto the roof, rolling gracelessly but otherwise managing to avoid injury. The Bernite, for her part, hadn’t been injured (more than she already was), but perhaps not quite right in her mind—when he looked up, Renault saw her off her saddle, kneeling next to her Wyvern’s body, shouting “Minerva! MINERVA!”

 

“That your Wyvern’s name?” grunted Renault right before he reached to his belt and unclasped a Vulnerary, taking a swig and basking in the recovery of his wounds. “Yeah, well, in a minute you’re gonna be as dead as she is!”

 

She turned to stare at him, her face contorted with raw fury. “YOU SCUM! DIE!”

 

She charged straight at him in a blind rage, clutching her Rex Hasta with her one good hand. In the split second he had, Renault realized there was very little he could do—he was standing near the edge of the roof, so he couldn’t run, there was no way he could block her weapon with his sword, and he wouldn’t be able to dodge to the sides without getting slashed by those gusts of wind.

 

So he went down.

 

The woman could only stutter “W-what?!” as the point of her Rex Hasta passed cleanly over his head, managing only to slice off a few of his hairs with its wind.

 

Renault had fallen straight onto his back, lying on the rooftop so his head just passed over its edge. As she rushed at him, the spear that had been aimed at his chest reached only empty air, and in the same move as he’d fallen, Renault brought one of his legs up in a kick.

 

“OOOF!” It caught the Bernite right in the crotch, with enough force to propel her slightly into the air…right over Renault and over the roof’s edge.

 

“HAHA! YES!” Quickly sitting up and then getting to his feet, Renault peered downwards to see where she’d fallen. She apparently wasn’t dead—the house they’d landed on was close to one of the canals criss-crossing the city, and she’d been thrown in—from here, he could see her flailing and thrashing in the water, being carried away by the current.

 

He smirked. In that armor, it was only a matter of time before she drowned.

 

Renault turned back, breathing heavily, and took one more swig from his Vulnerary, tossing the empty flask behind him when he was done. Something caught his eye on the rooftop below him—glinting slightly in the sunlight. He reached down to pick it up, and retrieved a golden amulet of sorts—his smirk turned into a wide smile when he recognized it as a Talisman, an enchanted bauble which protected the user against magical attacks. The female Wyvern commander must’ve dropped it.

 

“Finder’s keepers,” he chuckled to himself. He then heard the flapping of wings and glanced up to see Keith and Kelitha had alighting in front of him him, looking at him in amazement.

 

“S-Sir Renault,” stammered Keith, “That was amazing!”

 

 _When did I become a ‘Sir?’_ thought Renault to himself, before thinking it was just some Ilian quirk. Not that it mattered, anyways. “Yeah, it really was, I guess,” he smirked. “Not surprised you Ilians would be impressed.”

 

The sellsword’s condescension passed cleanly over Keith’s head, though Kelitha’s expression did darken slightly. “It’s an honor to be fighting besides you, Sir Renault!” the younger sister gushed. “Ever since you saved me back in the Reaper’s Labyrinth, I thought you were a great warrior, but you just keep proving it! There’s no way we can lose with you on our side!”

 

“Uh-uh…yeah?” Renault didn’t quite know what to say for that. Despite his disdain for Ilians, he had to admit it felt pretty good to hear someone complimenting him so profusely. He appreciated it coming from her a lot more than he did coming from people like Lisse—at least she was actually useful in a fight, so praise from a Knight, even an Ilian knight, seemed to count for more than an innkeeper’s clinginess. Thus, he didn’t quite know how to respond. “Uh, thanks,” he said, blushing slightly and looking away. “Well, let’s get back to the Palace. Braddock’s a great warrior too, right? We don’t wanna keep him worried.”

 

“Sure thing!” The battle around them seemed to be winding down. Below them, the invading forces seemed to be in full retreat, and the sounds of men dying, weapons clashing, and spells going off seemed to be growing fainter by the minute. Thus, both Renault and his friends knew it was time to at least rendezvous with their friends before they attempted to find out what exactly was going on, and where (and when) they’d been warped by the residents of the Reaper’s Labyrinth. As Keith continued to gush excitedly about their victory, Renault hopped on to the back of her Pegasus, and together, the two of them and Kelitha began their flight back to the Holy Royal Castle.

 

 

-x-

 

Kasha hadn’t had this much fun in years.

 

Well, actually, it was more like a few hours, since she’d enjoyed the fight against those Knight Puppet thingies so much. The thought was the same, though.

 

She laughed wildly as she spurred her Pegasus to produce a burst of speed, bringing her over Yazan’s head. As she passed she quickly jabbed her spear at him, but the experienced veteran hastily descended and slowed in response, her spear barely missing him, and responded with his own thrust upwards, forcing her to break away to keep her mount’s vulnerable underside from being pierced.

 

That didn’t stop her, of course. She took a moment to regain her position in the air above him, and then resumed her attack.“I’M SO GLAD YOU DIDN’T FORGET ME!” she yelled as she dove down right as Yazan banked to the left, missing his Wyvern’s wing by a hair.

 

“Hey, there’s no way I could forget you, hon,” he laughed right back at her as a Ballista bolt whizzed by his head. “I’ve been looking forward to finishin’ things up with you for months!”

 

“Awwww, you remembered? I’m such a lucky girl!” she cackled. “Between you and Renault, I think I just might have too much on my plate!”

 

“Hey! Renault?” Yazan shouted—he didn’t sound angry, but he did sound a bit amused. That didn’t stop Hambrabi from offering another great flap of his wings, giving Yazan enough extra speed to both allow him to dodge the two Ballista bolts heading for him and bring him close enough to Kasha to poke at her Pegasus, nicking one of its hooves. “I thought I was the only guy in your life!”

 

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be silly!” Kasha suddenly swooped downwards and around in a fairly impressive display of skill, managing to bring her Pegasus below Yazan, this time—right under his Wyvern’s vulnerable belly. “A girl like me’s got to keep her options open, after all!” She thrust her spear upwards, smiling viciously as she expected to score a fatal blow upon the Wyvern, bringing his rider down to the ground.

 

She would be sorely disappointed. Yazan didn’t even try to dodge the attack—rather, he shouted, “CATCH IT, HAMBRABI!” With a growl, the Wyvern jerked to the side, almost dismounting his rider, but allowing him to kick out with his powerful hind legs. Kasha definitely wasn’t expecting that, and she could only gasp in surprise as the ebony beast’s scaly foot connected with her spear, deflecting her attack and knocking the weapon out of her grasp, down to the ground below.

 

“Hah hah! Nice going, Hambrabi!” Yazan cheered, but stopped abruptly and shouted when he was hit by another ballista bolt—not a direct hit, but one which clipped his shoulder, leaving a large, bloody wound. “Damn!” He turned his wyvern and spurred him to increase his speed, staying low and veering to the right and left to avoid the attacks which were still coming at him with great consistency from the soldiers below, turned back to the north and began flying back to the city’s walls as quickly as he could.

 

“HEY!” screamed Kasha indignantly as her Pegasus hovered behind him. “WHERE’RE YOU GOING? I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO FINISH THIS!”

 

“SORRY, HON!” he called back, pointing to the ground. She turned her eyes in that direction to see what he was talking about—Revolutionaries could be seen in the streets below, running back to the gates as quickly as they could. “WE’VE LOST THIS BATTLE! I DON’T WANNA STICK AROUND ANY LONGER! WE’LL FINISH THINGS NEXT TIME, I PROMISE!”

 

And with that, he soared off into the northern horizon, trailed by arrows and Bolting spells all the way.

 

“Grrrr!” Kasha considered giving chase, but then remembered her good weapon had been knocked away. “Ah, well,” she muttered, “next time. There’s always next time! Well, looks like the battle’s finished. I wonder how Renault’s doing? I’d better check up on him…hope he hasn’t been having too much fun without me!”

 

With a loud cackle, the crazy Ilian turned her mount and began flying south, back to the Castle.

 

This battle for Aquleia may have finished, she knew, but there would be plenty, plenty more in the future.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

All right! I hope this chapter kept up the AWESOME, my friends. I also hope the Red Comet’s entrance was sufficiently impressive ;) Inspiration for his appearance was given by my good friend CO Raptor, who made a lot of mecha generals for FESS, back in the day. As he said, “Generals don’t need mecha…they **ARE** MECHA!!!!!!”

 

 Also, I hope the Rex Hasta was cool enough…I wanted to do something special with it, since it was an S-ranked weapon after all :D Anyways, the follow-up to this one will be a bit more sedate (Renault and co. REALLY need a break, after all), but after that, expect things to heat up again!

 

Thanks to Enilas for beta-ing, as usual ^^

 

 


	26. A Well-earned Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Aquleia has ended with victory for the Royalist forces. Though the war is far from over, Renault and his friends have finally earned themselves a little break.

 

**Chapter 26: A Well-Earned Respite**

Everyone around him was cheering, but Braddock just couldn’t share their enthusiasm. Like most of his Royalist allies around him, he was busy poking around the corpses littering the ground just outside of the Holy Royal Castle. However, he wasn’t as concerned with filching what equipment or loot he could off their bodies (or celebrating the evident Royalist victory, seeing as to how all the invaders were either dead or fleeing the city as quickly as possible). He was much more worried about finding his best friend among the piles of bodies.

 

“Find anything, Harvery?” he asked the Assassin, who was beside him searching through the corpses as well. Rosamia and Khyron were also nearby, though admittedly Khyron was more interested in finding treasure than Renault (or the Pegasus Knights, for that matter).

 

“Nope. These guys don’t seem to have anything particularly valuable on them,” he replied, then, thinking of what Braddock was looking for, immediately added (somewhat guiltily), “I-I mean, I haven’t seen Renault anywhere!” Harvery let out a wan smile. “Don’t worry, Braddock, I’m sure he’s okay!”

 

The axeman nodded. “I hope so.” That hope, however, would soon be realized when he heard the flapping of feathery wings from above him. He looked up to see Keith and Kelitha, swooping in.

 

“Hey,” he said, smiling broadly, “Keith! Kelitha! I’m glad you’re—“ his voice cut off when he saw a certain someone hopping off the back of Keith’s Pegasus as it landed. “RENAULT!” he cried, bounding over.

 

“BRADDOCK!” came Renault’s equally cheery response as the two men clapped each other on the shoulder. “Seein’ you alive’s the highlight of my day, and I’ve had a pretty good day so far!”

 

“Hah hah, were you expecting anything different? ‘Course I’m still alive!”

 

“He was worried about you, though,” added Harvery, as he, Rosamia, and Khyron reunited with the Pegasus Knights. “Didn’t even care about lootin’ these bodies, just wanted to make sure you weren’t one of ‘em!”

 

Braddock chuckled nervously as Renault laughed. “Well, that’s what friends are for, right?” The sellsword smiled. “But really, you didn’t have anything to worry about. I just helped these Ilians fight off one of our old friends from Lycia…remember that green-haired Bernite woman? She showed up here! Had a real nasty spear, but I managed to get her anyways.” Seeing Braddock’s surprised look, he reached into his pocket. “Oh yeah, that reminds me. She dropped something I think you could use!” He held out the Talisman, which Braddock happily reached out and took.

 

“Thanks, man!”

 

“You can repay me by telling me what you’ve been up to.”

 

The Ostian grinned. “Nothing nearly as exciting as you. Me, Khyron, Rosamia, and Harvery just rescued the King, is all!” He lowered his voice, leaning close to Renault so nobody else could hear. “I gotta be honest, it really wasn’t worth it.”

 

Renault nodded, whispering equally quietly, “yeah, I know what you mean…I remember that guy from when we stood in front of the Court. Wouldn’t think he was a king just by looking at him.”

 

“You got it,” Braddock whispered back. He would have said more if Khyron hadn’t interrupted him.

 

“Where are Hiyu and Kasha?” The Sage asked. “We should all rendezvous here!”

 

“Lord Khyron, Hiyu fell in battle,” said Kelitha. Khyron nodded, not caring at all, but the Ilian expected that. “I don’t know where Kasha is.”

 

“Hey! Did somebody say my name?” As if on cue, with another flapping of Pegasus wings the crazy Falcoknight made her entrance, landing in front of the Sage. “I can’t believe Yazan got away, I almost had him, too…well, I’ll get him next time. Anyways, boss, you called?”

 

“Now that all of us are together,” said Khyron, “we need to make our report. Where do we—“

 

“Good question,” said Braddock. “Hey, buddy!” he asked a Soldier replacing his broken Iron Spear with a new one taken from the cold hands of a nearby Bernite corpse. “You know who’s in charge around here?”

 

“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously. “It’s the Great General, who else?”

 

“Oh, yeah, Ch—“ Braddock was about to reply before Renault stopped him with a sharp nudge to the side. “Henken, I mean Henken. Yeah, I knew that. You know where he is? We, uh, had some trouble getting to Aquleia and we just barely managed to make it in time for the battle. We gotta give him our report. Where can we find him?”

 

“I heard Lord Henken was defending the North quadrant of the city. I guess he ought to be coming back here soon to convene a strategy meeting. I…” the soldier’s voice trailed off when he looked past Braddock at Khyron. “Oh! Forgive me, Lord Khyron! And Sir Braddock, too! I heard you men were part of a special-operations team Great General Henken sent to Lycia to protect our southern borders. You’re back already?”

 

“Yeah, just in time,” said Braddock. “So, anyways…”

 

“I remember the Great General saying he didn’t expect you to come back alive!” Braddock and the rest of them grimaced at this, but Henken _had_ been honest with them when he gave them the mission, so they couldn’t be too angry. Not that the Soldier noticed. “This is great news, you must be incredible soldiers to have survived that! I think you’ve earned a rest in our barracks. When the General arrives back at the castle with his retinue, I’ll be sure to tell him his soldiers have returned safely! He’ll send for you and you can give him your report when things have calmed down.”

 

Considering how desperately all of them needed a decent rest, this didn’t seem like a bad plan at all. “To the barracks,” said Khyron, his exhaustion evident. “You Pegasus Knights put your steeds in the stable and then follow the rest of us.”

 

He turned and headed towards the troops’ accommodations, and the rest of his underlings followed.

 

-x-

 

The beds weren’t much, but they were better than nothing. That didn’t stop Renault from complaining, though. “When’re we gonna have a chance to take a bath?” he grumbled to Braddock as the two of them sprawled over the modest wooden beds of the Palace’s eastern barracks (not comfortable, but certainly more accommodating than the stone mattresses of the buried fortress they’d just escaped from). Around the two men were many other soldiers, Mage Corps and fresh recruits alike, all seeming to be just as tired. Khyron, Harvery, and Apolli were with them, with Rosamia and the Pegasus sisters in the next room over, where the Troubadours, Valkyries, and other female soldiers were resting. However, none of the team had been given a chance to wash up or really have any rest more meaningful than just lying down among the other soldiers—from what they’d been told, Henken would want them to give their report before they even thought about relaxing.

 

Well, that didn’t mean they couldn’t unwind just a little bit. Braddock laughed, even though he really wanted a bath too, and tried to soothe his own concerns with a joke. “Never knew you were such a clean freak, Renault!”

 

“Hey, you know I’m about as far from that as you can get. Still, even for a guy like me, a couple weeks is pushin’ it. Sure isn’t fun being covered in nothing but blood and sweat like this. The smell’s gonna kill me sooner than the Rebels are!”

 

The Ostian crinkled his nose. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Hell, I think we all gotta work on ourselves a little bit.” He brought a hand up to his face, which was covered in the beginnings of a scraggly blue beard. Renault, too, had a similar teal-colored scruff all over his face, and Khyron and Harvery were looking similarly unkempt. Even Apolli had a dusting of light-colored stubble over his chin and jaw.

 

Renault picked up his sword. “Think we’ll have to shave with these, bud. Henken’s not the kind of guy to pamper us with the lil’ amenities.”

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Braddock sighed. “Well, at least we’re still alive, and I guess it’s nice we’ll probably get to sleep in some actual beds tonight—“

 

He was cut off by the arrival of a harried-looking messenger barging in through the door of their room. “Are Lord Khyron and his men in here?” he called.

 

“They are!” responded the Sage. “Is the Lycian ready to see us?”

 

“Great General Henken,” the messenger corrected with a bit of offense, “has asked for you and your soldiers. Follow me!”

 

He headed out into the hallway, and Braddock, Renault, Harvery, Apolli, and Khyron did the same. When they arrived, they saw that Rosamia, Keith, Kasha, and Kelitha had also been called by the messenger. As a group, the nine of them followed the man’s lead through the Holy Royal Castle’s winding corridors and up several flights of stairs until they’d reached the room right below the King’s—Henken’s personal chambers, where he’d first had his little ‘reunion’ with Renault and Braddock. It seemed to be quite busy—other messengers were passing in and out of the open double doors, and the nine of them could see that the room’s occupants had very many tasks to take care of.

 

Sitting behind the table in the center of the room was the Great General, surrounded by clerks and messengers, flitting around and in and out of his chambers. He wasn’t wearing his distinctive helmet, but he was clad in strange red armor—he apparently hadn’t been given time to change out of it, and Renault realized why his sobriquet had been “The Red Comet” back in Lycia. For now, though, he was working with quill and parchment rather than axe and spear, filling out form after form and handing them to the bureaucrats who were constantly bringing in new ones. Even when his clerks turned to look curiously at their nine new guests after the messenger ushered them in, Henken did not look up until his name was called.

 

“Lord Henken! As you commanded, I’ve brought you the warriors you sent on the special mission some time ago!”

 

The Great General stopped his writing and glanced upwards. “Good,” he muttered. He then raised his voice and said, “All of you, leave the room. I have to listen to Khyron’s report. I’ll call you back when they’ve finished and been given their new assignment.”

 

All of them grimaced slightly at that, but they hadn’t expected much different. As the last of the clerks made a quick exit from Henken’s room, mindfully closing the door behind him, Braddock grinned at Henken tiredly.

 

“I haven’t seen you in that armor for years,” said Braddock wryly. “No wonder they called you the—“

 

“Crimson Lightning,” said Henken with just the barest flicker of a frown before his would-be brother in law inadvertently gave away his true identity. “At least that’s what they started calling me since a few hours ago.”

 

“Damn. Guess this battle must have gone well?”

 

He nodded. “Our forces suffered moderate casualties while the rebels took severe damage to both their numbers and morale. They have a relatively heavy defeat on their hands.”

 

Renault whistled appreciatively. “ _Damn_. Now I see why they put you in charge instead of Khyron.”

 

The prideful sage was about to deliver an angry retort to that, but Henken put a stop to all of their shenanigans with a raised hand. “We don’t have time to bicker. Khyron, give me your report. I assume you were successful in disabling whatever Barbarossa was? I also want to know how you arrived at the Palace, since the soldier who brought you to the barracks told me he sensed magic much stronger than any Warp staff when you made your entrance.”

 

“Even if we told you, you wouldn’t believe it!” sneered Khyron. “You may think your defense of this city makes you a hero, foreigner, but even when you forced us to disgracefully disguise ourselves as a band of bandits, we managed to accomplish things you couldn’t even dream of!”

 

Henken didn’t allow himself to get riled by Khyron’s jabs. He simply replied, “try me.”

 

Khyron was more than happy to. His tired voice filled with pride as he recounted his exploits (though, to his credit, he detailed the efforts of his teammates as well), the Sage excitedly told the tale of the nighttime attack on the Bernese force and the true nature of its “secret weapon,” and how they’d managed to destroy it and crash-landed into the Reaper’s Labyrinth. When Khyron got to this point, noting Henken’s skeptical expression, he motioned for Kelitha to hand him the diagram of the dungeon.

 

Obediently, she reached into the knapsack on her back and withdrew the large book they’d found in the second level. The Sage held it out to Henken, totally unable to conceal his pride and excitement. “LOOK!” He flipped through the pages, pointing out the ancient script. “The ‘Reaper’s Labyrinth’ you Lycians were so afraid of was actually a buried treasure of nearly infinite historical value! It was the ultimate mobile fortress, Shin Erdenkaiser, the last of the ancient weapons cast beneath the earth by the Dragons during the Scouring!”

 

Henken didn’t appear to be fazed at all by any of this. “If that’s true, how did you get from this buried fortress to the Palace?”

 

“The fortress wasn’t undefended,” replied Khyron huffily. “When we descended to the third level, we found out what had killed both your Lycian army and the true Hell’s Wall. The ghostly crew which had manned Shin Erdenkaiser centuries ago had risen from their graves to punish anyone who intruded into their tomb. With every ounce of strength we fought off the phantom army, including several giant war machines they had possessed, until we finally reached the lowest level of Shin Erdenkaiser—its engine room! There, we faced off against its main power core, which contained the souls of all the dead men and women we had triumphed over! Thanks to some choice words from Braddock,” he looked at the Ostian, who had a satisfied smile on his face, “the collective was so impressed with our skill and resolve that they used their remaining power to Warp us right where we needed to go…the battle for Aquleia!”

 

Breathing heavily, Khyron concluded his speech, looking at the Great General, still sitting in his chair impassively, for some reaction, even a small one. Renault, Braddock, and the rest of their teammates did the same.

 

The only thing Henken did was raise one red eyebrow ever so slightly and mutter, “impressive.”

 

Khyron nearly fell over. “I-IMPRESSIVE?!” he blustered. “THAT’S ALL YOU CAN SAY?! AFTER ALL WE DID, AFTER ALL WE WENT THROUGH, THE ONLY THING YOU CAN SAY IS ‘IMPRESSIVE?!’”

 

“Yes,” came the reply. “I don’t doubt your story—this book looks authentic, and since nobody reported any secret weapon being deployed against us, I assume you were successful in your duties. That’s enough for me.

 

“That’s still all you did, though—your duty. I don’t care how you fought off Barbarossa singlehandedly, or how you survived against an entire undead army. You did what you had to do, no more. The only thing I care about is getting closer to seeing Paptimus dead. When his head is stuck outside of the Palace walls on a pike, I’ll praise all of you as much as you want. Until then, the only recognition you’ll have from me is as soldiers helping me towards my goal.”

 

Khyron started and sputtered, preparing to fire off an angry retort, and everyone else, including Renault, looked as if they wanted to do the same, but Braddock stopped all of them.

 

“Hah,” was all he said as he waved a hand in the air, forcing his friends to calm down and stand back for a moment. “You haven’t changed much, huh? I’m not surprised.” He looked back at his comrades. “Don’t take it personally, guys. This is just the way Henken is…nothing we say is gonna get through to him.” He turned back towards the Great General. “I just want you to know, though, that some of us _died_ to ‘do our duty,’ as you said.” This admission drew surprised glances from the rest of the group. “What were their names,” Braddock continued, “Imelle, Hiyu, and…Vayin, I think? They left with us, but they didn’t come back. You’re not even gonna say anything for them?”

 

“S-Sir Braddock,” mumbled Kelitha, somewhat surprised by his concern. Henken, however, did not share it.

 

“They were Ilians. Their duty was to give their lives. No more, no less.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Don’t forget the same applies to you. As far as I’m concerned, an Ilian life has no more value than an Etrurian or Lycian life. I only want to see Paptimus dead. Whether anyone, including you, lives or dies is irrelevant to me if I can achieve that goal.”

 

“Hmph.” As the rest of his teammates stared at his old acquaintance in dismay, Braddock had a look somewhere between disappointment and sympathy in his eyes. “This is who you are now, huh?” he muttered quietly. “Guess it’s my fault, to an extent.” He shook his head and stared again at the Great General, the sympathy in his eyes now replaced with determination. “Alright then, Ch—H-Henken. The only thing you care about it killing Paptimus? That’s fine. That’s the only thing I care about, too. And I get the feeling that’s the only thing my friends care about.

 

“Renault…Apolli…Rosamia…Khyron…Harvery…and the Pegasus sisters. He’s killed people important to us, ruined our reputations, or turned our countries into battlegrounds. We’re ready to give our lives to take that bastard down, aren’t we?”

 

The same determination was in the eyes of all of his comrades, Khyron especially. “Paptimus killed my brother,” spat the Sage. “If you sacrifice my life, foreigner, I’ll consider things even between us if Exedol can rest in peace knowing I’ve avenged his death!”

 

He nodded grimly, along with the rest of his comrades. They were all united in their hatred for the traitor (except for Kasha, who just wanted to fight), and if the Great General placed no value on any of their lives, each of them was resolved to protect their own—after facing down a mutant wyvern and an ancient fortress full of malevolent spirits, they were confident nothing Henken could throw them into could be any worse than what they’d already endured.

 

The smallest hint of a smile appeared on the Great General’s face. “I’m glad to hear that. Now it’s time for me to give you your next orders.” He reached for a piece of parchment, scribbled something on to it, and then held it out to Khyron. “Show this to one of the guards. He’ll take you to your destination.”

 

Khyron’s eyes narrowed when he looked at the form, and then widened when he realized what it said. “H-HENKEN,” he stuttered, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THIS? WHAT KIND OF TRICKERY ARE YOU PULLING?”

 

“Huh?” asked Braddock, very confused. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

“T-THIS FORM STATES THAT WE ARE TO BE QUARTERED WITHIN THE ROYAL GUEST SUITES! T-THE MOST LUXURIOUS HOUSING IN ALL OF ELIBE, SECOND ONLY TO THE KING’S CHAMBER!”

 

Kasha whistled appreciatively. “Wow, lucky us. Hey Mr. General, I thought you didn’t care about whether we lived or died. So what’s with the hospitality, huh?”

 

This prompted something very rare from Henken—a chuckle. However, there was no mirth in it.

 

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not giving you this respite out of concern for you. I’m giving it to you because of what you’ll do for me in the future.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Both Braddock and Renault said this at the same time, with equal amounts of suspicion in their voices.

 

“First off, there’s nothing important I can have you do right now,” said Henken. ”It’ll take several days for our forces to compose themselves and prepare for their march on our next target.  Even the most inexperienced general knows he should allow his troops to rest when they can; fatigued soldiers are useless in battle.

 

“As for why I’m giving you the best quarters in Elibe, though? Simple. You’ll need all the rest you can possibly get now, because it’ll be the last you’ll have for a very long time.

 

“To put it bluntly, if your story is even half-way true, you nine are probably the most experienced soldiers in the entire Royal Etrurian Army. Like I said, I wasn’t expecting any of you to come back alive, so the fact you have gives me an unexpected advantage, one I fully intend to make the most of.

 

“You nine are going to fight in every single important battle, at the head of every charge, assaulting the most well-defended strongholds, taking the most dangerous missions, and undergoing the greatest risks. Whatever you went through at the Argos Mountains and the Reaper’s Labyrinth will be nothing compared to what you’ll endure when I send you out to fight the rebels. I’ll make sure of that.

 

“So to make absolutely certain you’re up to the task, I’m going to give you the best accommodations I possibly can before your struggle begins. I know how tired all of you are—you’ve been fighting non-stop for days, I can see it in your eyes. You’re too exhausted to do what I need you to do. After about a week spent resting up in the Royal Suites, however, you’ll be as good as new. Better, even.

 

“So these are my orders to you. For the next five days, rest and enjoy yourselves as much as you can. All of the Royal Suites, along with the city itself, will be open to you. You won’t have another chance again.”

 

The nine members of Hell’s Wall simply stood there, staring at the Great General wordlessly. Finally, it was Braddock who broke the silence.

 

“Heh, alright,” he laughed, as mirthlessly as Henken. “Fine by me. Hey, Khyron, how ‘bout we get started, huh? I sure don’t wanna lose any beauty sleep.”

 

The Sage nodded, and led the rest of his team out the door, carrying with him the Great General’s authorization which would permit them entry to the most sumptuous lodging on the face of Elibe.

 

As “Hell’s Wall” made their exit, the doors swinging shut behind them, Henken had a moment of peace before his room was once again invaded by swarms of clerks and bureaucrats, inundating him with a new rush of forms to be filled out and orders to be given.

 

In that one brief moment of peace, there was the slightest glimmer in his cold grey eyes, and he let out what could have almost been a sigh.

 

-x-

 

“Wow.”

 

That was really all Renault could say as he stood by Braddock’s side, behind Khyron and Rosamia but in front of their other teammates, as he gazed through the massive double oak doors which had just been opened by the attendant who’d led them here into the Royal Guest Suites.

 

The entry hall itself was grander than an ordinary noble’s entire manse. After handing the slip to a nearby guard, Khyron had led the team down to the third floor of the Palace, where the huge double oak doors stood. The hall beyond those doors was decorated with solid-gold floors, the opaline walls festooned with beautiful paintings and busts of famous figures in Eturian history, and strewn across the ceiling were large golden chandeliers holding hundreds of tiny candles each.

 

The attendant, of course, had seen all this many times before, and wasn’t much impressed. “All of you are tired, yes? You haven’t had a chance to rest for quite a while,” he said. “Take your shoes off and follow me to the baths.”

 

Khyron and Rosamia had also been here before, apparently, since they simply took off their boots and went inside. Their comrades, however, stood gaping for several moments more before finally starting and following.

 

The attendant led them to a huge door several feet away. When he opened it, they were greeted by another amazing sight. The tiles on the floor beyond were now dark blue rather than gold, but they surrounded something nobody except Khyron and Rosamia had ever seen before.

 

There were two large pools of crystal-clear water in front of them, separated by a walkway made out of those blue tiles. A great opaque curtain hung over that walkway, apparently intended to keep the residents of either pool from looking at the other. Behind each side of the curtain stood a pair of racks jutting from the floor, apparently intended both to hold clothes and to give people on the walkway something to hold on to in case they slipped. The blue ceilings contained the same ornate chandeliers as the hallway did, but the candles of these were ensconced by many-faceted…glass? Pieces of crystal? Renault wasn’t sure, but the interplay of the refracted light on the softly rippling waves of the pool was truly something to behold.

 

“The ladies’ bath is to the right, the men’s to the left,” stated the attendant matter-of-factly. “Please leave your clothes on the racks near the curtains. I shall be by shortly to pick them up and leave all of you with proper changes. Afterwards, I’ll show you to your bedrooms.” He bowed deeply and humbly as he stepped back, preparing to leave them. “Please enjoy yourselves!”

 

Renault and Braddock looked at each other, then to the incredibly luxurious baths in front of them, then back to each other, and grinned.

 

They definitely intended to.

 

-x-

 

Kelitha couldn’t claim to be the most experienced Pegasus Knight in Ilia, or even within her Shrike Team (though since there were only three of them now, it wasn’t as if she had much competition), but she definitely wasn’t a rookie either. However, she never recalled being treated this well before by any of her employers.

 

She could definitely get used to it. As she lovingly ran her soapy hands through her sister’s hair, however, she sighed—as an Ilian, she knew it wouldn’t last.

 

She really, _really_ wished it could, because she hadn’t felt this good in a long time—perhaps not in her entire life. The water was so nice and warm, not icy-cold as it would be in Ilia, and clean, pure, and fresh, not dirty and used like the water mercenaries usually had to bathe with. It felt so good against her naked body that she thought she could lie back against the shallow pool’s wall and fall asleep, and when she woke up, the calluses and scars all over her fair Northern skin would be gone.

 

And, of course, it was absolutely wonderful to be able to spend some quality time with her little sister—time that didn’t involve fighting and bloodshed and everything she hated but still had to endure for both their sakes and their motherland’s. “Keith, stop moving! I can’t wash you like this!” she giggled as the girl squirmed and splashed, laughing unreservedly. It was a new experience for her as well, and she was enjoying it as much as she could. Kelitha had never seen her quite so happy before—she was smiling as widely and genuinely as ever, taking more pleasure from playing with the water than Kelitha would’ve thought possible if she hadn’t felt the same way herself.

 

“Now, Keith, be still,” she said, taking a dollop of soap (an extremely fine, scented mixture of potash, fat, and oil from certain rare, fragrant herbs) from its container by the edge of the pool and scrubbing it onto Keith’s head. “You want to take care of this lovely hair, don’t you?”

 

“Okay,” said the girl, quieting down, closing her eyes, and acceding to her big sister’s wishes, “but it’s nothing compared to yours, Kelitha!”

 

The woman chuckled softly, running a hand through her own green locks, which were a fair deal longer than Keith’s. “Well, you’ll have this someday, when you’ve become a great Pegasus Knight,” she smiled. “I’ll let you wash it after I’m done with yours!”

 

“Yay!” She was so happy Kelitha had to remind her to keep her eyes closed and stay still. The elder sister kneaded the soap through her sibling’s hair and rinsed it with the pool’s clean water for several minutes, but during the time she noticed another sound—one that wasn’t coming from either her or Keith.

 

Curious, she stopped washing Keith’s hair and looked over to the other end of the pool. So surprised was she that she forgot what she was doing entirely.

 

“Hey, Kelitha, what’s up?” asked Keith, shaking her head lightly and splashing some more water into her hair and face to wash away the remaining soap. “What’re you looking at?” She turned her own eyes in the direction of her sister’s gaze and couldn’t stifle a delighted gasp.

 

Rosamia lay reclined at the far end of the pool, a few feet away from the Pegasus sisters. Her naked body was concealed by the water around her—despite its clarity, it was swirling and writhing as if being thrashed by a miniature whirlpool, making it impossible to see below, even though as far as the sisters could tell it was perfectly calm around them.

 

However, amazingly enough, the water was being…changed. _Transformed_. Kelitha didn’t know quite how to describe it, as she’d never seen anything like it before. Around the Mage the water was swirling into the air, forming itself into a wide variety of fantastic shapes. An aqueous dragon floated above the pool, its watery form waving and shimmering as it tossed its head to and fro, fending off a small army of liquid cavaliers charging towards it. Rosamia seemed to be the one responsible for this display—she seemed totally lost in it, holding one arm in the air, wiggling her fingers as she apparently controlled the drama playing out in front of her. A soft smile was on her face and though neither of the Ilians knew her too well, it seemed she was as happy and content as they were at the moment. She was softly humming a tune to herself that seemed like it might have been a lullaby.

 

Keith squealed in unmitigated delight, and before Kelitha had a chance to stop her, the girl had stood up and quickly waded over to Rosamia.

 

“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed, smiling broadly. “How do you do that?!”

 

Though her intentions were nothing but good, it didn’t have quite the effect she’d intended. “W-what?!” stammered the completely surprised Rosamia as she quickly brought her hand down, sending her aqueous dramatists splashing right back into the pool, where the water began to still.

 

“Oh…ah! I’m so sorry!” Keith immediately realized she’d been very rude, turning beet red, ducking down into the pool, and covering herself with her hands in sheer embarrassment. Just as she did so, her sister immediately ran up to her, throwing her arms around her protectively and turning her away from the Mage.

 

“D-Dame Rosamia, I’m terribly sorry! Please forgive my sister!” stammered Kelitha, blushing in equal embarrassment. “S-she, uh, this is her first time so far away from Ilia. I’m really sorry! She didn’t know any better, she—“

 

“It’s my fault, Dame Rosamia,” Keith blurted, “I didn’t mean to be so rude! I just saw what you were doing with the water, and I…”

 

This seemed to calm the Mage down. The surprise on her face had been replaced with what seemed to be mild bemusement. “Aaah, I see.” She chuckled. “No, I’m sorry if I startled you. You’ve never seen something like this before, have you?”

 

“Um…n-no,” said Keith, as her sister nodded. “Neither of us have. The rivers are frozen in Ilia most of the year.”

 

“Really?” Rosamia smiled. “Then sit down. I can show you some more, if you’d like. After all, since we all lived through that Labyrinth together, it’s nice to relax together like this, isn’t it? Watch!”

 

Keith giggled in delight, and Kelitha couldn’t hide her smile, as Rosamia resumed her watery drama. The woman once again swirled the water around her to both hide herself and throw a series of watery globes up into the air. Those globes soon formed themselves into distinctive equine shapes with great wings—Pegasi. Both the Ilians oohed and aahed in awe as the Pegasi soared through the air, up and down, left and right. It was like this for several minutes, both the girls enjoying the show immensely and Rosamia apparently being more than a little pleased herself, the bright smile on her face indicating how glad she was to find more people who appreciated her skill with non-offensive magic.

 

While still maintaining her control of her spell, Rosamia blinked suddenly, looking around. “Ah, wasn’t there someone else here? Your eldest sister, Kasha?”

 

Kelitha blinked and looked around herself. “You’re right. Where’d she go? Did she finish already? She must have left when we weren’t paying attention.”

 

“Ah. That might be for the best,” said Rosamia quietly as she sent a trio of watery Knights soaring right over Keith’s head, causing the girl to duck and laugh. “Your sister didn’t strike me as…ah, forgive me. I shouldn’t say such things about a comrade!”

 

Kelitha shook her head. “No, no, it’s perfectly alright. I understand better than you know.” Keith looked at her curiously, and she decided to change the subject. “D-Dame Rosamia, do you have any siblings of your own?”

 

“No, I’m afraid not.” Her concentration wavered momentarily as she furrowed her brow, and she had to flick out a pair of fingers again to retain control of the flying Pegasi. “My parents are still alive…at least they were the last time I was in Aquleia. I haven’t seen them in so long, and after this battle…” she sighed. “I can only hope they’re alright. But If I wander out of the castle on my own, Khyron might get angry, since he keeps me so busy…I keep them in my prayers, but that seems to be as much as I can do.”

 

“Ah.” Tactfully, Kelitha didn’t say anything about prayers—she wasn’t pious in the least (quite the opposite) but she had no desire to offend her new friend. “I…I hope they’re alright too.”

 

Rosamia smiled, not widely but quite genuinely. “Thank you.”

 

Just as she said this, however, once again, Rosamia lost her concentration when loud shouts reached her ears. However, they weren’t coming from either Keith or Kelitha—they seemed to be coming from behind the curtains, on the men’s side. But one of the voices sounded like a woman’s!

 

“W-wait,” stammered Rosamia, “That sounds like…Kasha?!”

 

“Oh, no,” groaned Kelitha. “She couldn’t have…”

 

As the three women surreptitiously waded over to the edge of the pool, quietly got out, and peeked at the curtain separating them from their male comrades, it unfortunately became clear that Kasha very definitely could have.

 

-x-

 

“Damn! This feels great!”

 

Renault smiled as he lounged back in the shallow pool, enjoying the sensation of the cool, clean water supporting every inch of his body. Judging by how Braddock was laying in the same position next to him, the Ostian almost certainly felt the same way he did.

 

“Oh, yeah,” the axeman said, letting out a satisfied sigh. “I think I’m gonna be spending a lot of time in here...they never had anything even remotely like this back in Lycia!”

 

“Of course!” Khyron was sitting against the pool’s edge on their left side, splashing himself with water and enjoying himself greatly. “Etruria _is_ the most civilized country on the face of Elibe, after all. Bathhouses such as these are just one indication of our glory!”

 

Braddock and Renault both rolled their eyes at this, but of course, said nothing except a smugly muttered “Whatever you say, Lord Khyron.”

 

Two of their pool buddies, however, didn’t seem to be as happy as the rest of them. Harvery and Apolli were sitting nearby, a bit closer to the deeper center of the pool, both of them fastidiously scrubbing their bodies with the luxurious royal soap which had been provided to them. “If things are going so well now,” said Harvery anxiously, “I’m pretty sure everything’s gonna go straight to hell when we get back to the battlefield. Ch—Henken doesn’t joke about things like that. If he says there’re bad things in store for us, then—“

 

“Yeah, well, it’s just like we told him,” replied Braddock nonchalantly. “We lived through Barbarossa, we’ll live through whatever else this war throws at us.”

 

Renault smiled, clapping a hand on his friend’s wet shoulder. “You got that right, bud.”

 

“I-I hope so,” stammered Apolli to himself, at which Braddock grinned reassuringly.

 

“Don’t worry, kid. Remember what Henken said? At this point, we’re probably the most experienced soldiers in the Royalist army! Paptimus doesn’t stand a chance!”

 

“You got that—“ Renault was about to repeat, but all of a sudden he heard a piercing laugh from behind him and only had time to let out a startled grunt when he felt his head being plunged under the water.

 

His first thought was that it was Braddock horsing around, but the grip on his hair _hurt_ —and the hand seemed intent on keeping his head underwater, to _drown_ him. Renault definitely didn’t like that. He had enough self-control to keep his mouth and eyes closed, and brought his own hands to his assailant’s. He leaned forward and pulled with all his strength, and his target was small enough that he tossed it over his shoulder in a well-executed grappling move. He felt the pressure on his head subside, and he immediately re-surfaced, just in time to hear a great splash as his foe landed in the deep center of the pool.

 

“GAH! WHAT THE HELL?!”

 

Renault quickly got to his feet, shaking the water out of his ears and face and standing to face whatever threat had its eyes on him. Braddock, Harvery, Apolli, and Khyron stood beside him, looks of absolute shock painted on their faces.

 

There was a lot of bubbling and thrashing coming from the center of the pool, and finally, Renault’s assailant leaped up, laughing widely, and Renault’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates when he caught a good look at her—a much better look than he wanted.

 

It was his ‘old friend,’ Kasha. She was completely stark naked, and all the similarly undressed men in the room could get a very clear view of her, but judging from the way she was laughing she didn’t care a bit. She wasn’t particularly bad looking, and under normal circumstances Renault might have been aroused, but at the moment he was a bit too angry and surprised to appreciate it. Judging by how his friends seemed more dismayed than titillated, they apparently felt the same way.

 

“WOW!” she laughed, her hands at her hips, not making the slightest effort to hide herself. “Renault, that was great! You’ve really gotten strong, haven’t you? Let’s see if you can do that again!”

 

She crouched as if she was preparing to leap, but stumbled back in surprise when the water in front of her suddenly began to crack, as if it was freezing. “Hey, what’s this?!”

 

It was Khyron. The Sage was angrily holding out his hand over the pool. Even without a Finbulvetr tome, he still had enough power to chill a small body of water. “W-what the hell do you think you’re doing, woman?” The strain in his voice and the redness of his face indicated how angry and embarrassed he was. “You…I’ve never seen behavior like this before! Don’t you know how a lady should act?”

 

She laughed. “Nope. All I know is that I’m bored! After all the fun I had fighting Barbarossa, those phantom guys, and then Yazan, now I’m cooped up in here just splashing water around? You can’t expect me to be happy with that!” She turned to Renault and smiled viciously. “I just wanted to have a lil’ fun with my favorite playmate. A bit of ‘training,’ you know? You don’t want us to get rusty, do you?”

 

“Kasha, we haven’t even been here for an hour,” deadpanned Braddock.

 

“That’s a long time not fighting by my standards! So c’mon, let’s go!”

 

“I WON’T ALLOW IT!” shouted Khyron at the top of his voice. By this point, everyone watching the little drama had also noticed Kelitha, Keith, and Rosamia peering out from behind the curtain in front of the pool. “WE WERE ORDERED TO REST, AND SO WE SHALL! I WON’T HAVE YOU HUMILIATING US! NOW GO BACK TO BATHING, OR YOU’LL HAVE ME TO DEAL WITH AS WELL AS RENAULT!”

 

“Hmph!” she sniffled. “I wanna fight a real man, not some pansy Sage! Fine, fine, I’ll find somebody else. How about—“

 

“W-wait,” blurted Harvery frantically, “You know there’re probably rebel stragglers all around the city, right? They could be lying in wait for chances to sabotage our army or something. Why don’t you try ferreting ‘em out if you’re so bored!”

 

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Kasha chirped. “You’re a smart guy, Harvery! Looks like I’ve found something to do!”

 

The crazy Ilian blew a kiss at him and hopped out of the pool. She promptly pushed past her female companions, still giving her shocked looks, and headed over to the door.

 

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” blared Khyron. “PUT ON SOME CLOTHES, DAMN YOU!

 

“I already found some!” she called back, for she’d passed by the unfortunate attendant who’d first led them here. The man had returned with new sets of clothes for all of them as he’d promised, and in a testament to his iron-clad discipline he didn’t drop his cargo when the naked Kasha strolled right up to him and nonchalantly pulled a lavish gown from the pile of clothes he was carrying. She only offered him a thoughtless “wow, nice stuff!” as she wandered down the hallway, putting on the garment as she went.

 

Stunned silence hung over the spectators for a few moments longer. It was only broken by Kelitha’s soft, bashful voice stuttering from behind the curtain.

 

“S-sorry…I’m so sorry…”

 

At this, Braddock and Renault looked at each other, then Khyron, then back at her. “Don’t be,” said Braddock. “At least she’ll be out of our hair for a while…right?”

 

Renault nodded wordlessly. He, and the rest of them, could only hope so.

 

-x-x-

 

“Man, how do people _wear_ these things?”

 

Braddock had spent two days so far in the Royal Guest Suite, and he still hadn’t got used to the opulent clothes which the Palace staff had provided for him and his friends.  He and Renault were in their bedrooms—once again, the most lavish housing either of them had ever been in; the walls were gilt with gold, a huge stained-glass window allowed the light to come in from the rising sun in the east as well as turned it all sorts of pleasing shades, and equally huge drapes covered it if the residents wanted darkness. The furniture was amazing—several soft, plush ottomans and couches, a large oak table surrounded with oak chairs painstakingly crafted by master workmen, and a pair of two huge beds covered in the softest purple quilts and pillows either of the two men had ever felt. Braddock loved sleeping in those, which he’d been doing for most of his time here, but when it came to waking up, he found that even though the clothes he’d been given were just as ostentatious, they weren’t nearly as comfortable. The Palace servants had managed to find a suit of clothes for him which were almost his size, but not quite. Thus, his black leather boots and flashy purple pants (both enhanced with gold threading in the case of the pants and gold ankle and toepieces in the boots) were just a bit too tight, and the crimson doublet he was wearing over his shirt equally so. He was having trouble doing the jacket’s golden buttons.

 

“You always asked me for help buckling up your cuirass,” said Renault, lying on his bed clad in similar clothing. The only difference was that he hadn’t bothered to button up his shirt. “Maybe you need to put this stuff on the same way?”

 

“Nah, I don’t think so. Ah, screw it,” Braddock said. “Who cares, it’s not as if I’m going to some sort of ball or something.”

 

Renault chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re having so much trouble with these things. Didn’t you wear ‘em a lot when you were a kid?”

 

“Hey, cut me some slack. I haven’t had to put on crap like this for over seven years, and even back then I tried to get out of wearing things like this as much as possible. They never agreed with me.” His expression darkened a bit. “One more reason I was such an embarrassment…”

 

“Aw, man, forget about it,” said Renault, trying to steer the conversation to happier places. “Anyways, why do you even need to dress up like this? Are you going sightseeing or something? I don’t think there’s much to see, this whole city’s still pretty messed up from the invasion.”

 

“Not quite. Hocking those jewels we found in the Reaper’s Labyrinth gave us some extra spending money. I’m gonna use some of it to do some shopping.”

 

“What do you need? We’re bein’ fed and clothed at the Palace’s expense, and the food’s pretty damn good.”

 

“Heh, not that kind of stuff. We’re gonna be headin’ out in a few days, right? I wanna pick up a few supplies.”

 

“Ahh, I got ya. Always thinkin’ ahead, eh, bud? Glad you’re on my side!”

 

“Yeah. You need anything, though?”

 

“I don’t think so. Now that I’ve got my Runesword, I ought to be set with weapons for a while, and one of the guards told us Henken’s planning to fit us out with new armor. Hold on, though.” He raised himself up a bit. “You know, if you’ve got some cash to spare, buying some Pure Water might be a good idea. That stuff’s fairly rare and pretty expensive, but from what I hear it really protects against magical attacks. If we run into those black-magic-using Red Shoulders again, it might save our lives.”

 

Braddock nodded. “Sounds like a good idea. Alright, I’ll see what I can find. Hey, why don’t you come with me?”

 

Renault shook his head, burped, yawned, and lay back on his bed. “All that stuff I had for lunch did a number on me. I think I’m gonna take a nap.”

 

“Heh, okay. I’ll be back soon, anyways. See ya!”

 

With that, Braddock waved to his friend and exited the bedroom. He had to pause a bit when he stepped out into the golden hall—another thing he hadn’t quite gotten used to was just how ridiculously showy everything was in this palace. Definitely didn’t fit well with his Ostian sensibilities. Still, he didn’t want to waste too much time, so he quickly resumed his march to the stairwells and down to the first floor. At least after having rushed to the King’s room he was getting used to the Castle’s layout. After a few minutes, he’d reached the huge front doors and passed by them, waving cheerfully to the guards.

 

“Well met, Sir Braddock,” said one of the men, raising the visor of his helmet in respect. “Mighty fine job you did rescuing our liege, eh? Made your entrance right in the nick of time! Your story’s the talk of all the lads in the barracks these days. You’d think you slew a dragon or something, the way they tell it!” He laughed. “In any case, it’s sure good for morale. Keep it up!”

 

“I sure will,” Braddock smiled. “Don’t you slack off either!”

 

The guards saw him off with a salute, and the Ostian continued on his way. He was in a very good mood—the weather outside was wonderful, the sun shining happily (and providing just enough heat, no more, no less) in a calm blue sky peppered with soft, fluffy white clouds.

 

Of course, his happy mood immediately soured, despite the pleasant weather, when he saw the pillars of black smoke rising into the sky.

 

They could be seen all over the city, but the several large, flaming masses located around the Royal Plaza told Braddock what they were.

 

Funeral pyres.

 

The invasion of Aquleia had taken a heavy toll on both attackers and defenders alike. The streets were still strewn with corpses—it would likely be weeks if not months before they were entirely disposed of, and, of course, even Aquleia didn’t have enough graveyard space to accommodate all of them. The rebels wouldn’t be given the dignity of burial, so they were being burnt.

 

 _Might’ve been me,_ Braddock reflected grimly as he watched the spectacle. _Renault…if you hadn’t woken me up late at night back when we were at Castle Nerinheit, I wouldn’t have overheard Paptimus’ little conversation, I wouldn’t have learned the truth, and we’d still be with his Revolution right now. I wonder how many other people he’s manipulated and misled?_

 

The Ostian shook his head, driving away those doubts. Even if a lot of rebels had been hoodwinked, like he had, the only way he could save them was fighting as hard as he could and putting an end to Paptimus as quickly as possible.

 

As he looked up to the sky, however, he noticed that he wasn’t the only one eager to fight.

 

“HEY! I FOUND ANOTHER ONE!” laughed Kasha as she soared above him, the bloody corpse of a rebel draped across the back of her Pegasus. She banked around one of the giant pyres, dropping the body into the flames. Most unnervingly, she was still wearing the fancy gown she’d taken from the guard some time ago. It would need to be washed soon, but he got the feeling she liked it that way.

 

Shuddering, Braddock hastily jogged to the Palace’s main gates before she could notice him. He was definitely glad Harvery’s suggestion had given Kasha something to do besides attack his best friend, and indeed, she did seem to be very, very good at hunting down the rebel stragglers who’d managed to hide in one of the huge city’s many nooks and crannies after the defeat of their army, but even so, her particular brand of insanity was yet another thing he couldn’t get used to. And he doubted he ever would.

 

Thankfully, things were a little better once he managed to escape the Palace’s confines. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the fires disappear in the distance behind him, along with Kasha. He then brought a hand down to his belt and unclasped the pouch of gold which Khyron had given him after the Sage had pawned the gems from the Reaper’s Labyrinth yesterday.

 

“Well, maybe a bit of shoppin’ will pick this day up,” he muttered to himself. He could only hope so.

 

-x-

 

A little while later and about two thousand gold pieces lighter, Braddock got the distinct impression his effort had been successful. He was now the proud owner of a new Hand Axe (found easily) and two flasks of expensive Pure Water. Each had set him back almost a thousand gold, and they hadn’t been easy to find, either—when he’d asked for directions to a merchant that sold magical artifacts, the store he’d been directed to had been ransacked and destroyed sometime during the battle, and he had to do a bit of searching to find the merchant setting up a stall while she waited for her store to be repaired.

 

He could only hope she hadn’t bilked him. Renault would know for sure whether or not these things were the real deal, though.

 

Thus, all in all Braddock was pretty happy—his little shopping spree had gone well enough. He whistled a Lycian tune to himself as he passed back through the plaza, making a conscious effort to ignore the pyres still burning around him. Kasha was nowhere to be found—he surmised she must’ve gone someplace else to hunt down enemy remnants. Had she gotten so caught up in her “fun” that she’d missed lunch?

 

“Her loss,” he mused to himself as he passed through the Castle’s front doors and began his trek up to the third floor. Yesterday’s repast had been nothing short of divine—roasted pheasant, a variety of exotic stews and pastries, along with a small battalion of small, sugary sweets he didn’t know the name of but had found to be absolutely delicious. Not much seafood, though—there wasn’t much available, given how almost all of the city’s harbor had been filled with oil and set alight.

 

No big deal, though. He never much cared for fish anyways.

 

As he reached the third floor and neared the great doors which served as ingress to his vacation home, however, Braddock noticed a strange argument taking place. There were two people seemingly bickering with the guard stationed outside the doors. He didn’t recognize them—they were a man and woman, perhaps a couple? The man—who had a familiar shade of green hair--was apparently a soldier, as he was dressed in the same plate armor other Royalist guardsmen wore. The woman looked as if she might have been a beauty in her younger days, almost as tall as her companion with a shock of long lavender hair that seemed like it was just beginning to gray.

 

“Dammit, man,” said the green-haired soldier, “I’m one of your comrades! A fellow spearman, just like you! Can’t you let us in? We just want to see our—“

 

“I’m sorry,” said the guard, “look, I really am! But I was told the Royal Suites belong to no-one else at the moment but those special forces who rescued the King a while back. The Great General’s got some big plans for them and doesn’t want their rest to be deserved. It’s a security thing too, from what I hear the rebels’ve got assassins after them. I’ll be in a world of trouble if I let anybody in, even you!”

 

“Please, we’re begging you,” pleaded the woman. “Just a few minutes is all we ask! We don’t—“

 

“Hey, what’s the problem?” asked Braddock as he strolled towards them, all three of them turning to look at him.

 

“S-Sir Braddock!” said the guard. “I’m sorry, this couple says their daughter’s in here or something and that they want to see her. I’m very sorry, I’ll send them out right away!”

 

“Hold on a second,” said Braddock. He looked at the man’s green hair—and though he was a bit taller than the older fellow, the defiance in the man’s eyes seemed to indicate Braddock was looking at him rather than down on him. “Hmm…your daughter’s name wouldn’t happen to be Rosamia, would it?”

 

Delight spread over both the man and the woman’s faces. “Y-yes, that’s her!” said the lady. “How did you know that? Do you know her? We just want to see her, to make sure she’s alright! It’s been so long, we just—“

 

Braddock smiled. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. She’s fine. In fact, she’s been a real help to us. She’s a real skilled mage and a great soldier. How about I take you folks to meet her?” He turned towards the guard. “Hey, let ‘em in. They’re alright.”

 

“A-are you sure? I was given strict orders—“

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, I’m the ‘special forces’ guy, right? I’ll take full responsibility if you get in trouble. Just open the doors, huh?”

 

“I—okay.”

 

He did as the Ostian asked, and Braddock led the couple into the entrance hall of the Royal Suites, where they were suitably taken aback.

 

“Impressive, right? Well, your daughter’s been enjoying these for a few days, so you don’t have to worry about her being mistreated, at least! Well, at least not from the palace itself.” Braddock grunted. “Can’t say the same about Khyron…I remember her mentioning she was really worried about you, but Sir Mage General’s barely giving her any free time…’study study study’ all day for her. But enough about that, let’s give you guys your reunion!”

 

He called out her. “Hey, Rosamia! You around anywhere? I got some guests for you!”

 

After a moment, the woman popped out from one of the doors, from which came a variety of tantalizing scents. “Braddock, we finished lunch a while ago! Why are you bringing people over now? Are you even allowed to—“ Her voice trailed off and her eyes went wide when she saw who the guests were.

 

“MAMA! PAPA!”

 

“ROSAMIA, MY GIRL!”

 

It seemed like she was almost a completely different person from the calm, reserved soldier Braddock was familiar with. He took a step back as his friend broke out into a run straight to the arms of her parents. All three of them were crying now, quite happily, for it seemed all three of them were overjoyed by this reunion. Braddock couldn’t help but smile as he watched it.

 

“H-How?” blubbered Rosamia. “Papa, I didn’t think they’d let you in!”

 

“This gentleman put in a good word for us!” Rosamia’s father gestured towards Braddock, whom Rosamia looked at with a combination of surprise and genuine gratitude, and who proceeded to grin at her sheepishly.

 

“Just thought it’d be nice, was all. I, uh, I never got along so well with my own parents, so if yours wanted to see you so badly, I didn’t want to deprive you of the opportunity.” He quickly changed the subject, his expression brightening as he asked, “Hey, are you guys hungry? There’re probably some leftovers from lunch, if you want.”

 

“N-no, we couldn’t—“

 

“Don’t worry about it, it’s better than letting the food go to waste.” Braddock looked around. “Seems like Renault’s still napping, and Kasha’s not around. Is Khyron—“

 

“He’s meditating,” said Rosamia. “No need to let him know about this, yes? Mother, father, just stay a little longer, please? Surely a small meal with me couldn’t hurt?”

 

“Hah, hah!” The man’s eyes twinkled. “Well, who am I to deny a request from the star of our family, eh? Lead the way, lad!”

 

Rosamia and Braddock led the couple a few doors down past the bathouse and bedrooms towards the dining room of the Suites. Like everything else in here, it was immensely lavish, a huge oak table surrounded by ornate wooden chairs and adorned with solid-gold cutlery.

 

“The food’s all cold by now,” said the Ostian as he pulled out some chairs for his friends and sat himself down, “but it’s still good. Folks in the Palace really know how to cook!” He peered across the huge table, on which were still plates and platters full of food—the servants hadn’t yet taken them away, as they were still immensely overworked due to the chaos of the invasion. “At least if you like…I think it was boar we had earlier today. You want a slice?”

 

“Er, maybe just a few,” said the man. He looked over to his wife, who nodded. “And, um, one for her as well.”

 

As they got a couple of spare plates and helped themselves, Rosamia’s parents started off with the introductions. “Anyways, thanks again for allowin’ us in, lad,” said the father. “I don’t think I got your name, though?”

 

“Braddock,” came the reply. “I’m a royalist merc…uh, I mean—“

 

“He’s a soldier,” Rosamia quickly added. “He…” She looked at him, and to his surprise, she seemed to have only the tiniest vestiges of her former suspicion of him in that gaze. “He’s one of our important allies. He’s…he assisted me greatly on several occasions. I might not be here if not for that.”

 

Her father smiled broadly and her mother bowed her head gratefully. “Looks like we’re in your debt, Braddock. My name’s Valnion. My wife’s Efera.” Putting his plate down, he extended a hand to Braddock, which the Ostian happily took. “If there’s anything you ever need, all you have to ask.”

 

“Thanks. Heh, given your armor, I might take you up on that offer. You’re a soldier, Valnion?”

 

“Aye, indeed he is,” said Efera with obvious pride in her voice. “Used to be just a shopkeeper along with me but…”

 

“Happened ‘bout twenty years ago, when Rosamia was just a child,” said Valnion. “Our store was invaded by a thief. Stole a few pieces of food and some vulneraries…not such a big deal, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with it. He was damn fast, but I managed to chase him down. However, he was already bein’ pursued by the city guards. Seems like he’d stolen a few things from a high-ranking Noble’s manse, as well as taken a hostage! I happened across him just as he’d been cornered by a contingent of the city’s guards. He was holding the hostage—a young girl, it was—and had a knife to her throat.

 

“The guards couldn’t get close or he’d cut her open! But as luck would have it, he was backed right up against a storehouse we got some of our wares from, and I had the key! I sneaked in behind the building, right up to the second floor, then jumped on top of the guy right from a window! Knocked him out cold and rescued the girl without even so much as a scratch on her!”

 

“Nice! That’s definitely impressive,” said Braddock. “So that’s what they knighted you for?”

 

“Yep. See, ‘twasn’t just any ordinary hostage. It was Lady Malonda…she was real close to the King, he was almost like a second father to her! When the guards told him I was the one who rescued her, he was as happy as could be. Even though I couldn’t use magic, they brought me up to ‘im and he knighted me right there on the spot! And that’s how I’ve been for the last twenty years. I was one of the few soldiers who knew how to use spear and shield b’fore we got all these new recruits, in fact. Never liked fighting, but there’re worse things in the world than protectin’ your King, and it pays a lot better than being a shopkeeper, lemme tell you! ‘Course, it’s a risky business too…I was assigned to Jerid’s unit to defend the city. We got hit pretty hard, but I managed to live through it somehow.” He chuckled. “Not that it would’ve mattered if something happened to Rosamia!”

 

“I’ve spent nights praying for both of them,” said Efera. “First my husband came back to me unharmed, and now my beautiful daughter…the Saint has truly blessed us!”

 

“And me,” said Rosamia. “Father, Mother, almost every night I’ve prayed for both of you. I was so worried the rebels might’ve done something to both of you…I-I’m so sorry I couldn’t come visit you sooner.” Her eyes were wet. “Even though we’re supposed to be resting, Khyron insisted I continue my studying…he says I need to become stronger so I don’t humiliate him when the real battles start. I—“

 

Her mother put down her plate and embraced her. “Shhh, it’s fine, dear. We understand. There’s no need to apologize.”

 

“Khyron works all of us pretty hard,” said Braddock—he wasn’t sure how her parents felt about the Sage, so he tried to remain as diplomatic as possible. “Uh, I…well, I guess it’s a credit to his teaching Rosamia’s such a strong spellcaster.”

 

“B-Braddock,” the Mage stuttered, blushing, “That’s an overestimation—“

 

“Of Khyron’s teaching, not your talent,” said Valnion, beaming with pride as he boasted of his offspring to Braddock. “Lad, let me tell you, our Rosamia was top of her class in her magic academy! When they knighted me, they also made my family members of the nobility as well. I knew this was a great opportunity…that we could show the world that no matter her birth, my daughter was as good as anybody! That’s she’d live a better life, a more honorable life, than I did! So when they offered her the entrance exams, what do you think? She passed with flying colors!” He sniffled slightly. “O-our Rosamia’s worked so hard for everything…EVERYTHING over the years. I…I’m so glad she’s finally getting the recognition she deserves!”

 

“Mother, Father,” said the mage, just as emotional, “It’s not just me…both of you have worked to support me, no matter what, even when the ‘blood nobility’ looked down on us…you’ve given me so much. You’ve sacrificed and endured so much for me…I—“

 

Braddock could only smile as the family continued their tearful reunion, all of them basking in the happiness of having found each other. It wouldn’t last for too long—Valnion was a soldier, after all, and after about half an hour passed one of the suite guards popped by to notify him that Jerid wanted to talk to him about his patrol. But even a short time was enough for them—by the time they parted, Rosamia couldn’t keep the smile off of her face, even when Khyron, after they’d left and he finished his meditation, snapped at her for ‘neglecting her studies.’

 

Watching that content smile on her face, so different from how she usually was, Braddock could only hope the war wouldn’t end up crushing it permanently.

 

 

-X-

 

Archbishop Gosterro was certainly no pacifist, but he really did find war to be a terrible inconvenience. So much death and disruption across the entire city, he’d be up to his ears in listening to parishioner’s complaints, organizing relief services, and other such annoying bureaucratic miscellany for weeks.

 

However, his beautiful cathedral had not been touched, and from what he’d gathered from the reports he’d been given thus far, none of the Church’s more expensive holdings had been damaged. And really, that was all he cared about.

 

As he hunched over his desk, poring over another priest’s report (the lower clergy’s parochial concern for their parishes could get quite tiresome at times), he started when there was a flash of light behind him and a faint whiff of ozone. It was late at night, however, so by this point, he wasn’t entirely surprised.

 

He turned in his chair to see a familiar face. “Trunicht,” he sneered, “you’re doing better than I thought you’d be, given how your little offensive turned out.”

 

The Black Knight could only chuckle self-effacingly and nod. Gosterro noticed he was looking more than a little rough around the edges. There was ash all over his red shoulderplate and his cape seemed to have been partially burnt off. Unsurprising, given the nature of the flame attack the Great General had launched on the boats carrying his Red Shoulders, Gosterro surmised.

 

The Archbishop laughed. “Anyways, what do you want? I don’t think you have much to offer me, given how badly your assault failed. Not only was your threat of unleashing Barbarossa completely empty, but your Red Shoulders have been burnt to ashes by our Great General’s cunning stratagem! After these losses your cause isn’t looking very promising, Black Knight.

 

“I have no need to treat with you. Your rebellion is doomed to failure, and there’s no need for me to cozy up to you people! In light of the…favors you’ve done me, I’ll let you go without calling the guard on you. But don’t bother coming near me again!”

 

“Heh heh heh,” Trunicht chuckled again. “I have to admit you’re right, my friend—to say the siege of Aquleia didn’t go as planned would be an understatement. However…well, to be honest, I came here for the express purpose of reminding you of two things.

 

“The first is that our position is still much stronger than the King’s. Yes, it seems this war will drag on for a while longer, and yes, we endured some even losses in this battle. But we still have a series of tremendous advantages. Even with our casualties, our army is still much larger than our foe’s, and better trained and experienced as well. The Red Shoulders suffered quite a bit from that flame attack, but as you can see,” Trunicht gestured to himself and chuckled, “most of us are far from dead. We kept many of our men in reserve just in case something like this happened, and most of us can use Warp magic, like I did. We escaped from the burning fleet quite readily. And, of course, we still hold Thagaste, along with most of the country. The King has a very long way to go before he can enjoy the fruits of victory.

 

“Secondly, I’d also like to remind you of how well you’ve been treated. No damage was done to your cathedral, nor to any of your more opulent holdings, yes?”

 

Gosterro had to admit this. “Th-that much is true.”

 

“So really, we’re not treating you much worse than your Royalist allies, yes? And considering what I’ve just said concerning the strength of our position, I think I might be forgiven if I were to suggest that it would be unwise for you to discount what I have to offer so quickly.”

 

“H-hah,” said the Archbishop. As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn’t conceal the beads of sweat forming across his brow. After all, he’d heard a smattering of reports from the North detailing the forces the rebels still held in reserve, and knew even with the victory at Aquleia the war might not proceed as well as the King might hope. “You…you…w-well, Trunicht, I’ll keep your kindness to me in mind…at least, assuming you have a bit more to show me—“

 

The Black Knight chuckled at this. “Of course, of course! I wouldn’t come here empty-handed. I have little to offer at the moment, but rest assured, I’ll have more soon. I thought you might like this…”

 

He reached into a small pouch at his side and pulled out a small but very distinctive object. Anyone with the slightest familiarity with Bern would have recognized it—a golden brooch inlaid with an immensely valuable purple gem that contained a small, dancing flame in its translucent depths.

 

“Th…the Wyvern’s Heart! This gemstone is the highest decoration given by the Bernese military, awarded only to the Wyvern Generals! Where did you—“

 

“A stroke of luck, really,” replied Trunicht. “When my men and I made our escape from our burning boats, we Warped into the dry ground closest to the outskirts of the city, which happened to be close to its sluices. Apparently, someone in the battle had dropped this rather distinctive piece of jewelry…when I saw it, I immediately thought of how much you’d appreciate it.”

 

“You thought right, Black Knight,” said Gosterro. “Now, leave. Like I said, I won’t call the guards on you. And in return for your thoughtful gift, I pledge to keep the Church as neutral as I can in this war. However, even if your forces have as much strength remaining as you say, it’s still no guarantee you’ll be able to overcome our Great General, the Crimson Lightning. Don’t expect me to do anything for you if you end up losing more than you already have.”

 

“Yes, of course,” smiled Trunicht. “I certainly couldn’t ask too much from you. Thus, you have my most heartfelt appreciation for your consideration. That’s all I wanted to tell you…I’ll bid you farewell for now. Though we may see each other soon enough…”

 

Gosterro shut his eyes as the Black Knight disappeared with a bright flash of light. Sitting and staring at his now-empty room for a moment, he first glanced at the sparkling sigil he held in his hand, then turned his attention back to the troubling reports his priests had been giving him.

 

“Perhaps we will, Trunicht. Perhaps we will.”

 

-X-

 

“PAPTIMUS!! WHERE ARE YOU, PAPTIMUS?!”

 

The former Prime Minister had definitely not been having a good night—not that any night during the last almost-week could be called ‘good’ anyways, given the bad news from Aquleia. However, when he heard Glaesal shouting outside his door as he was trying to have a quiet moment with Meris, he knew tonight would be particularly bad.

 

He heard several bangs on his door by the time he told Meris to stay on the couch and walked over to open it, but it turned out he wouldn’t have to. The door burst open from the force of Glaesal’s assault, and the former Count stalked into the room, utterly livid, the bodies of the two guards in front of Paptimus’ room sprawled on the floor outside. Despite his advanced age, the Count was more than able to put up a good fight.

 

Paptimus had never seen him so angry. “Glaesal, my friend, what’s the meaning of this? Why—“

 

He was interrupted by Glaesal grabbing on to his robes and jerking him down so the two men were looking eye-to-eye. “PAPTIMUS!” he shouted. “YOU DECEITFUL SCOUNDREL! I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD!”

 

“G-Glaesal, stop!” begged Meris, getting up from her couch and trying to latch on to Glaesal’s arm. The man simply shoved her aside.

 

“Not this time, girl! NOT THIS TIME! I—“

 

Paptimus had had more than enough. “Glaesal,” he said in the coldest tone he had ever used with the man who’d been like a father to him, “stop this.” He didn’t even move his hands—Glaesal groaned in fear and anger as his arms were pried from Paptimus’ robes and he was forced to take several steps back

 

“Meris,” said Paptimus, calmer now, “it seems something’s very wrong with Glaesal. Get us some wine to calm him down.”

 

“Y-yes, master!” She hurried out the door, allowing the turncoat to turn his full attention to Glaesal, who was still frozen in place.

 

“Glaesal,” he began, as evenly as he could, “What’s all this about? I know you’re disappointed about the battle for Aquleia, I certainly am too. In my worst nightmares I never dreamt such an outcome, that the help from Bern wouldn’t come, and that the Red Shoulders themselves would be ambushed…it was a total wash. But my friend, it’s no reason to go mad like this. Our army is still several times larger than theirs, and we still have control over most of the country. Why, then, are you lashing out at me like this?”

 

“It’s not about the damned war!” Glaesal snarled. “It’s about Scirocco! SCIROCCO! YOU’VE BEEN KEEPING THINGS FROM ME, PAPTIMUS!”

 

Paptimus was taken aback for a moment. “Glaesal, what could you be talking about?”

 

“There are reports coming out from Aquleia,” Glaesal spat. “The Royalists…they…they say they found one of your letters, Paptimus. They say that YOU were the one who poisoned that town!”

 

Everything was quiet for a moment after Glaesal’s admission, save for his constant, low growling in anger.

 

Then the room darkened.

 

An angry, vicious grimace spread across Paptimus’ face, the most emotion he had ever allowed himself to express in several years. His dark power radiated from his body as tangibly as heat in summer, and the anger on Glaesal’s face turned to fear, pure, undiluted fear—never before had he looked at Paptimus the way he was now.

 

“Where did you hear this?” asked Paptimus, snarling through his vicious mask, the rage in his voice causing Glaesal to tremble. “WHERE?”

 

“I-I—“ As angry as he had initially been, Glaesal now found himself too terrified to even respond.

 

“ANSWER ME!”

 

“T-TRAITORS!” stammered Glaesal. “TH-THE ARSONISTS WHO DAMAGED MY CASTLE! THEY WENT OVER TO THE ROYALISTS CARRYING A LETTER DETAILING WHAT YOU DID IN SCIROCCO! THE GREAT GENERAL RELEASED THE TEXT JUST A FEW DAYS AGO!”

 

The expression on Paptimus’ face grew even more contorted with rage, and as quietly as he could, he spat the words, “Tassar, you fool!”—quiet enough that Glaesal couldn’t hear, of course. However, he was also letting his anger get the best of him—his friend began to groan as the magical force being exerted on him began to increase.

 

Seeing what was happening, Paptimus took a deep breath. “Calm. Reason,” he muttered, regaining control of himself. Finally, he looked at Glaesal again, his eyes filled with pity and sympathy—or at least a convincing facsimile thereof. He didn’t let the former Count out of his magical grip, but he did lessen it slightly.

 

“Oh, Glaesal,” he said as kindly as he could. “How could you believe that?”

 

“W-what?” Now that Paptimus no longer seemed to be brandishing his power, Glaesal’s anger seemed to be returning, with even greater force since Paptimus seemed to have been threatening him. “While you’re using your magic against me, it’s not hard to! Do you deny these rumors?”

 

“It’s the stress,” Paptimus said, “it has to be. Well, hopefully the wine will help. Meris,” he called since the girl had just returned, “pour us some glasses, would you?” He turned back to Glaesal. “My friend, I’m going to let you go now. The only reason I’m restraining you like this is for your own good. You’re obviously not in full possession of your faculties at the moment. However, if you just promise me that you’ll stay calm, I’ll explain everything to you, and show you how you’ve been fooled.”

 

“I don’t care about any wine,” Glaesal spat, “You’re just trying to trick me! To soften me up!”

 

“Glaesal, you’re talking to the man who’s almost your son,” said Paptimus in a pained voice while Meris looked on. “Fine, no wine. Just calm down a bit, please? Can you do that?”

 

Glaesal said nothing, which to Paptimus was enough. He released his spell, and the former Count did not advance on him. He offered the man a seat on the couch, which he took, still glowering incessantly. Paptimus sat on the chair in front of him on the other side of the table, while Meris stood anxiously, watching the two men and desperately hoping they came to a rapprochement.

 

“Now, Glaesal,” Paptimus said, “what makes you think these rumors are true? How do you know the defectors weren’t lying?”

 

“I…well…” The man’s expression softened when he couldn’t come up with quite a good response to that. He realized that he shouldn’t have allowed to his paranoia to get a hold of him immediately after he heard such rumors.

 

“See? Shouldn’t you know better than to believe ridiculous rumors like that? There’s absolutely no good reason for you to suspect me. Not a one.” Paptimus smiled reassuringly. “It’s completely spurious slander. The Royalists are seeking to destroy the Revolution’s reputation to make the most out of the single victory they’ve recently won. The deranged traitors they managed to capture simply provided them with an excuse to give their patently obvious forgery a veneer of legitimacy.”

 

“So you deny it, then?” asked Glaesal, still suspicious. “Then why did you attack me? You acted like a guilty man.”

 

“I was angry, Glaesal, and for that, I apologize,” said Paptimus. “You have to understand I’d never been hurt like that before, even by the scum of the Royal Court. To hear such accusations coming from my closest friend, that alone was enough to rend my heart. I apologize, then, for my brief fit of madness.” Paptimus took one of the glasses Meris had filled and took a deep sip. “But truly, the subject of Scirocco cuts close…so close to my heart. If you knew how deeply it pained me to be accused of destroying that town, you’d understand why I was overcome?”

 

“W-what do you mean?” stammered Glaesal, confused now.

 

Paptimus chuckled. “I’ve never told you? After all these years? I suppose now is as good a time as any. You’ll then realize there’s absolutely no way I could have destroyed that town.”

 

“Tell me, then.”

 

Paptimus took another sip. “Glaesal, when you rescued me from the arena, did anyone ever tell you what my name was?”

 

“Well…yes, of course. Paptimus. What do you think?”

 

“Did they ever tell you I had a last name?”

 

Now it was Glaesal’s turn to blink, even more confused now. “What? I’ve never heard your last name, I thought you took mine after I took you under my wing. What do you mean?”

 

“They took it away from me along with everything else, Glaesal. They took from me the memory of my home.” Paptimus smiled grimly. “My dear friend, my full name was Paptimus Scirocco.”

 

Glaesal’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “Wait, you mean—“

 

“Yes. Paptimus of Scirocco. It was my _hometown_ you were accusing me of destroying.”

 

Glaesal leaned back in his seat, shocked and overcome with shame. “My God, man, I never—“

 

“Yes, I understand, my friend. I should have told you long ago, but I didn’t want to burden you with details of my past…I thought the important thing was our future together. But now you see why I was so willing to join your rebellion—I could not support the scum who destroyed my home town. Glaesal, do you honestly believe I’m the sort of man who could do such a thing to the place he was born?”

 

“N…no, I don’t,” said Glaesal, who was now sobbing slightly. “Oh…oh, Paptimus, forgive me. I shouldn’t have—how could I ever have been taken in by the shameless Royalist scum! I feel horrible, believing such a rumor—“

 

“Please, enough,” said Paptimus reassuringly, patting the former Count’s back. “Some wine will calm you. Take a glass and relax. I’m sure if you weren’t so stressed, these silly stories and dishonorable slanders would never have even crossed your mind.”

 

Glaesal gratefully took a glass, and Paptimus did the same. What neither of them noticed, hooever, was Meris--standing very still, saying absolutely nothing but looking at Paptimus very intently, with a look that seemed to veer somewhere between horrified and afraid.

 

-x-

 

“M…Master…it’s not true, is it?” stammered Meris. She and Paptimus were alone, now—Glaesal had staggered back off to his room several minutes ago, drunk and reassured. “Scirocco…you weren’t born there, were you?”

 

Paptimus blinked,  not quite understanding her question. “No, that is where I was born. I hadn’t changed much when we destroyed it…I confess, if you’d forgive me for the sentimentality, dealing with it was a difficult matter for me, more so than I thought. I apologize for being so harsh on you those years ago…I understand how you feel. But it’s over with, now, my dear.  I know it’s annoying that those defectors dredged it up again…they must have gotten a hold of one of my letters to Tassar. I told him to destroy them, but he failed…tomorrow night I shall definitely have a…discussion…with him. To say the least!”

 

This was definitely not what Meris wanted to hear.“P-PAPTIMUS!” Meris shouted, and she was crying openly. She was about to continue, until the room darkened once again.

 

She fell silent. Paptimus was staring at her, and though he didn’t seem to be as enraged as he was previously, for the first time in her life, she was afraid of him as well.

 

“Quiet yourself, my dear,” said Paptimus, and there was no warmth in his voice whatsoever. Meris could do nothing but obediently nod in the face of the dark energy which was emanating from him once again.

 

“You’re being irrational, Meris,” he continued, “irrational and sentimental. I thought I taught you better than that, and that you’d learned better than that.

 

“Yes, Scirocco was my hometown. What does that matter? Does the mere fact I was born there make that place any more significant in any meaningful sense? No, it’s entirely arbitrary. Just like nationalism is irrational—merely being born within some country’s borders doesn’t justify loyalty to it—misplaced affection for one’s birthplace is equally irrational. If I was born in Aquleia would you condemn me for invading it? Of course not!

 

“You can see how unreasonable you’re being, Meris. The destruction of Scirocco was necessary for my plans…for the greater good. The fact that it just happened to be my hometown was unfortunate, but such sentimental concerns have no place in my reasoning. If the death of that town would herald in a new era of peace for Elibe—which it will—then I should be grateful that my birthplace could fulfill such a useful purpose!

 

“Now, my dear, do you have any refutation of that reasoning which is not based on sentimentality?”

 

Meris sniffled and shook her head. She might have been able to come up with a response, but in her current state—afraid of Paptimus and emotionally shaken as she was—she couldn’t.

 

“There, that’s a good girl,” Paptimus smiled. He reached out to embrace her—she didn’t resist. “I know this is hard,” he said, “and as I keep telling you, I have doubts as well. But though I’m sorry to be harsh on you, I need you to understand that all of this is necessary. If you look at things sensibly, you’ll see this is the _best_ plan for Elibe, despite how horrible it seems at first glance.”

 

She nodded, though she was still sniffling, and Paptimus smiled, bent down, and kissed the top of her head. Once again, she didn’t resist.

 

Consciously, she thought she didn’t want to—she thought he had convinced her, she thought it was stupid to question the man who had done so much for her, who loved her, who fathered her child.

 

On another level, though…something deep within her psyche was telling her to remember the force she’d felt when Paptimus was talking to Glaesal, and when he was lecturing her right now. And somehow, though she didn’t want to admit it, she realized that even if she wanted to, she _couldn’t_ resist.

 

Unconsciously, she let one hand drift down to her swollen belly. And for the first time, she began to wonder what sort of world her child would be born into.

 

-X-

 

Time to go.

 

It was early in the morning, and Renault and Braddock, along with the rest of their friends, had gotten dressed and were almost ready to set off. They hadn’t put on the expensive clothes they’d worn previously in the week, though—all of them were now wearing sturdy traveling clothes. In Renault and Braddock’s case, they had been given loose pants and shirts for some reason. Henken had ordered the nine of them to convene, once again, in the confines of the Royal Court, where he said the two of them (along with Apolli) would receive new, refurbished equipment, and all of them would receive their orders for the upcoming battle.

 

At this early hour, the last thing the two mercenaries were expecting was a visitor. As usual, though, life seemed to have a way to throw them more little surprises.

 

Braddock and Renault were, in their room, putting on the loose-fitting clothes that had been provided to them. Neither of them thought much of it—they both assumed their regular equipment would be handed over by Henken later or something. Thus, they were enjoying their last bit of vacation time with some light conversation--Braddock was sharing the story of how he, Khyron, Harvery, Rosamia and Apolli had rescued King Galahad and the woman he was with after they’d been warped to the Palace.

 

“The moment I set foot in the room, she threw a pillow at Khyron!” he laughed. “I mean, I know she must’ve been scared, but still, you’d think she’d be a little more grateful.”

 

“Yeah, well, nobles will be like that,” grunted Renault derisively, slipping on his shirt. As luck would have it, however, he’d get a first-hand demonstration of that quite soon.

 

Both men looked up in surprise when they heard a soft knock on their bedroom’s door. When they got up to see who it was, it was Rosamia.

 

“We have a visitor,” she told them curtly, though not unkindly—she was still in a good mood. “We’re to meet her in the hall.”

 

“Another one?” pondered Braddock. “Why now? We’re about to leave!”

 

Still, neither he nor Renault offered any resistance as they followed Rosamia into the Suite’s entrance hall. They found the rest of their team waiting for them as well, all of them dressed and ready to go—along with someone Braddock recognized, though Renault apparently didn’t.

 

“Hey, who’s she?” the sellsword whispered as his friend stood beside him (behind Khyron, who was standing at the front of their team), looking at the noble—for she was very obviously a noble, and high in the hierarchy too, judging by her expensive-looking clothes and jeweled braids in her black hair.

 

“That’s Malonda,” Braddock whispered back. “She’s the lady I was just talking about, the one who threw one of Galahad’s pillows at Khyron. I think she’s got some sort of relationship with the King...I met Rosamia’s folks a while ago and they told me she was like a daughter to him. I think?”

 

“I don’t think so,” replied Renault. “Back when we were in the Revolutionary Army her name kept coming up as Nerinheit’s _wife_. Do you think—“

 

He didn’t have a chance to finish. When she saw everyone, Malonda asked, “Khyron, are these all of your troops?” She didn’t seem happy.

 

“They are,” he responded, his tone distinctly irritated. “The Great General expects us very soon, Malonda. Don’t waste our time!”

 

The woman gave him a sour look. “Fine, I’ll be quick.” Turning to face all of them, she cleared her throat and began:

 

“On behalf of my honored liege, King Galahad, and on behalf of the great country of Etruria, I would like to thank you, Khyron, for saving the life of both myself and my Lord.”

 

“Just Khyron?” Braddock quipped. “We helped too, didn’t we?”

 

Khyron shot him and angry glance and the woman’s mouth twitched perceptibly, but fortunately for the Ostian it seemed like she would be getting to the rest of them anyways. “I realize that,” she continued. “Our great liege would also like to extend his thanks to the rest of you, Sir, uh,”

 

“Braddock,” he said. “The other ones who came to your rescue were Rosamia the mage, Apolli the Sniper, and Harvery the A—uh, ‘intelligence operative.’”

 

“Yes, that was it,” she said, her expression growing even more sour. “Our liege extends his thanks to you, Sir Braddock, Sir Apolli, Sir Harvery, and Lady Rosamia. Also, our esteemed Great General Henken has been saying that your team as a whole was indispensible to our war effort and foiled a nefarious Rebel plot. So to all of you assembled here, King Galahad gives his sincere thanks and asks that you continue your efforts, especially in his defense.”

 

They might have expected more, but it seemed like the woman was done. After looking at them for a few more moments with a distasteful expression on her face, she turned on her heel and began to walk away.

 

“Hey, is that it?” grumbled Renault. “No reward or anything? Lady, if we’re late for our meeting with Henken because of you…”

 

“Galahad asked me to thank all of you personally before you set out,” she said testily, “and that’s what I intended to do, what I did, and all I want to do! I don’t want to spend a moment longer in the presence of you _soldiers_ than I have to! Being thanked by someone like my Galahad is more than any of you deserve for just doing your duty!”

 

“Ungrateful as always,” grunted Khyron. “But I suppose I can’t expect any more from a woman.” This drew him angry stares from the Ilians as well as Rosamia, but he paid them no heed. “Well, if you can’t show us your appreciation, can you at least do me a favor?”

 

Malonda simply stood and stared evenly at him. Khyron took this as a ‘yes,’ and reached into the folds of his robes for something. When he brought them out, Braddock recognized them as the books he’d taken from the Reaper’s Labyrinth.

 

“I want you to take these to the library of my brother’s Academy,” he said, walking forward and putting the tomes in her hands. Malonda’s eyes widened when she looked at them.

 

“Khyron, these are—“

 

“Yes, that’s High Imperial you’re reading. These are some of the greatest works of literature in Elibean history. E…Exedol…my brother would have been the happiest man in the world if he had managed to find treasures like these.

 

“I want you to ask his friends in the Academy to translate these books. And I want them to credit this discovery to the nine of us—Khyron, Rosamia, Apolli, Harvery, Braddock, Renault, Keith, Kelitha, and Kasha. And make sure to mention that three of our comrades gave their lives in the pursuit of these tomes—Imelle, Hiyu, and Vayin. If you can do that, it will be a far better show of gratitude than the empty words you’ve given us today. And if something happens to us, I’ll at least be able to rest easy knowing I would have made my brother happy”

 

Malonda stared at the books, her expression somewhat uneven. “I…very well, I will do so.” Her voice seemed to soften. “Yes…yes, Exedol would have loved these. He was such a cultured man…so sensitive and thoughtful. He was wasted as a Mage General! In his memory, I’ll make sure this work becomes available to people all across Elibe!”

 

Khyron frowned in response. “Don’t forget that the only reason he even became Mage General was because of you, woman.”

 

Malonda stood there for a moment longer, giving Khyron an extremely bitter, angry expression. She then turned on her heel and left the Suite in a huff.

 

The nine of them all stood there and looked at each other, not quite sure of what had just happened. “Is that all?” Kasha pondered. “You’d think she coulda given us some nice weapons instead of some dedication in a bunch of boring translations!”

 

Apolli shot her a shocked look, then looked at Khyron. “D-don’t listen to her, milord,” the youth stammered, drawing nothing but sympathetic looks from her sisters and a derisive laugh from her. “It’s an honor, it truly is!”

 

The Sage seemed quite angry, but for once, it wasn’t directed at her underlings. “Indeed,” he muttered, still preoccupied with Malonda.

 

“Was she your sister-in-law?” Braddock asked innocently, and a bit sympathetically. “She seemed to know Exedol pretty well. I thought Malonda was the King’s woman, but—“

 

He had to stop, for he and his friends noticed that the Sage had gotten much angrier—angrier than any of them had ever seen him before. However, the really scary thing was that it was a different _type_ of anger. While Khyron had never been shy about venting his emotions through shouting, now there was nothing but a grimace on his face and a clenching of his knuckles so hard they almost turned white.

 

He only spat out four words before making his exit:

 

“NONE. OF. YOUR. BUSINESS.”

 

With that, he angrily brushed past his underlings and through the suite’s exit.

 

His soldiers were too surprised and confused to follow him out—they had to take a few moments to absorb what they’d just heard. “What the hell’s his problem?” asked Braddock. “I didn’t think I said anything that bad…”

 

“I…I’ve never seen ‘im like that before,” said Apolli. Rosamia nodded her head in agreement.

 

“He’s got sort of a reason to be,” said Harvery, drawing curious glances from the rest of them. “Uh, Braddock…the situation with Malonda is kind of more complicated than you think it is.”

 

“How complicated could it possibly be?” sneered Renault. “Just more sordid scandals from the corrupt, decadent nobility. Kinda weird how the people who think they’re the highest in society are the most perverse, eh?”

 

Harvery seemed to deflate in response, but he continued his defense. “I…that may be true, but…look, with Exedol, he…he deserves better than that.”

 

“Alright then, so tell us,” said Renault. “Why should we feel sorry for him, huh?”

 

Before Harvery could start the story, he was interrupted by Khyron, barging right back in again.

 

“WHAT THE DEVIL ARE ALL OF YOU WAITING FOR?! IF WE’RE EVEN A MOMENT LATE FOR THE GREAT GENERAL’S MEETING I’LL HAVE ALL OF YOUR HEADS! NOW _MOVE!_ ”

 

He was quite clearly very angry, and nobody wanted to trifle with him in this state—despite the lack of respect they had for his personality, they’d seen in the Reaper’s Labyrinth how well he used magic. Quickly, Renault and his comrades broke into a jog as they followed Khyron out of the suite and downstairs, their curiosity about his history with Malonda taking a backseat to their hurry to reach Henken.

 

They hadn’t forgotten it entirely, though. “I…I’ll tell you later,” Harvery whispered to Renault as they rushed through the Palace halls.

 

Renault simply nodded in response. As he and his friends neared the doors to the Royal Court, he realized that he had much bigger things to worry about than his commander’s personal life.

 

-x-

 

They were all huffing and puffing when they entered the Courtroom, but fortunately their haste had borne fruit—they’d arrived just in time. Just as it had been the last time they’d had an audience here, the chambers were empty and silent at this early hour, and the only light came from a pair of candles set on the table in front of the throne Henken was sitting in.

 

As he entered the room, however, Renault squinted at the throne. Weird—there were a pair of armor stands on each side of it, adorned with a strange manner of full plate mail he’d never seen before. Were they decorations?

 

It didn’t matter—the Great General was determined to get right down to business. “Right on time,” he said coolly, noting that the soldiers before him seemed winded. “Everybody’s here?” When Khyron nodded, Henken began his briefing.

 

“All of you, gather around this table,” he said, standing up. When they did so, he gestured to the pair of maps on it, lighted by the candles. One was a map of Elibe, but the other was the layout of a city. An uneasy expression spread across Renault’s face when he realized it was more than a bit familiar.

 

“The situation in Aquleia has mostly stabilized, so we are ready to begin our counterattack.” Henken pointed to the mark on the map of Elibe which represented the capitol of Aquleia, then moved his finger northwest until it pointed at a mark right at the confluence of three rivers. Renault had a very good feeling he knew what that mark was.

 

“The rebel forces have retreated all the way back to their largest and most well-defended holding, Thagaste. This city will be the target of our counterattack. If we can take it, we’ll have regained our strategic advantage from them.”

 

“Thagaste, huh?” Braddock smiled cheerily at Renault, though there was something grim lurking beneath it. “It’s been a while…feels like old times. ‘Least you’ll get to see your birthplace again, right?”

 

“Yeah,” said Renault, but he didn’t seem very enthusiastic. Mention of his hometown reminded him of the fights with his mother, the alienation, the loneliness…he might have been a pretty happy guy if he lived his entire life without having to hear about it again.

 

“The city has a lot of memories for me too,” said Henken pointedly, looking at Renault “and not all of them positive either. But I’m not whining about it. You’ll either accept this mission, or be removed from my forces, never having the slightest chance to take revenge on Paptimus. It’s your call.”

 

“You didn’t hear me complaining,” Renault replied. “So just tell us what our job is.

You told us we were gonna be in the thick of things. Is Khyron gonna be given command of the Mage Corps or something? We’re gonna have to act as meat shields for his magic-users?”

 

“No,” came Henken’s even reply, “he’ll be given command of the rest of you.”

 

“What do you mean?” gasped the Sage. “I am the Mage General! No-one else deserves to have command of the Mage Corps!”

 

“You haven’t yet proven to me you’re ready to command anything. I’ll give you a position of greater leadership when you’ve carried out the tasks I’ve set for you. Until then, however, I will take command of the Mage Corps along with the rest of the Royal Army, and you will only be trusted with the people you see in this room.”

 

“You foreign—“ Khyron stepped forward, but remembered the beating he’d suffered at the hands of the Great General the last time he’d tried to pick a fight. “You’ll never stop your humiliation of me, will you? What, are you going to ask me to remain in my “Bandit Leader” guise?”

 

“No.” Henken reached into a drawer underneath the table and took out what appeared to be a flag. It was white except for its emblem—a red symbol that looked vaguely like a stylized sword pointing down, except its handguard swept backwards (it would look a bit like a Y without the grip and pommel) and at the ends pointed back down.

 

“This is now your symbol,” he said. “As of this moment, the nine of you are no longer ‘Hell’s Wall,’ but an official part of our forces—specifically, the First Autonomous Company of the Royal Etrurian Army.”

 

The members of this newly-formed “Autonomous Company” looked at each other uneasily. They weren’t sure what this exactly meant.

 

“All of you are under the command of no-one but Khyron, who answers directly to me. Your primary tasks throughout the course of this war will be as a support team for the main army. You will undertake tasks ranging from sabotage to reconnaissance to capturing specific positions own your own, without backup.”

 

“So essentially, not too different from the sort of thing you asked us to do with Barbarossa,” replied Braddock with a sarcastic smile on his face.

 

Henken’s own face twitched in what was the closest approximation he usually gave to a smile of his own.

 

“I’m glad you’ve caught on so quickly.” He moved his finger so that it now pointed to the map of Thagaste specifically. “Look at this map and familiarize yourself with it intimately. You see how Thagaste has gatehouses on the north, south, east, and west sides of the walls. I want your team to infiltrate the city, capture the south gate, and keep it open until our army arrives in the morning of the 24th Pegasus.

 

“Though we’re preparing our armies as quickly as possible, we still haven’t acquired much proper siege equipment. If you don’t maintain control of that gate, it’ll be much harder for us to break down the walls or gain entrance to the city another way. Your team therefore has the greatest responsibility, and I think you’re the only ones this army presently has, besides myself, with enough skill to shoulder it.”

 

“Infiltrating an enemy city, with just the nine of us, and maintaining control of one of its gates for however long it takes your men to relieve us? Is that all?” Khyron spat sarcastically. “Why, that’s just about the easiest mission we could have received! I thought you’d ask us to kill another dragon, I’m very disappointed!”

 

Renault couldn’t stifle a chuckle, and neither could Braddock or the rest of their team, as a small wave of mirthful laughter echoed through the empty room. Khyron looked a bit surprised—he apparently hadn’t realized he was being funny.

 

“That does raise one question, though,” said Braddock, still smirking. “We’re a special operations team, right? That means we’ll probably have to spend a lot of time either separated from the main force, like we’ll be during this mission, or even deep in enemy territory, or whatever. What are we going to do about our equipment and supplies? Under those circumstances it’ll be tough to maintain, and all of us here are soldiers, not staff officers.”

 

Henken nodded. “I understand and anticipated that. Although the army as a whole is still somewhat short-handed, I’ve found someone who’ll probably be able fulfill those duties. She should arrive shortly.”

 

As if on cue, a small, timid knock could be faintly heard on the large doors to the courtroom. Henken shouted “Enter!” and they opened—with what apparently was a fair degree of difficulty for the people trying to come in.

 

An attractive brown-haired woman entered the courtroom, followed by a smaller, very frail-looking blue-haired woman who was apparently younger but certainly didn’t look it.

 

“Lord Great General,” said the brunette, “I’ve brought Lisse, as you asked.”

 

 _Lisse?_ Renault thought to himself. _It couldn’t be…_

 

Henken nodded in satisfaction. “Good. You may go now.” The woman lingered for a moment, but Henken’s voice grew sterner when he repeated what he said, and that was enough to convince her to flee. “Khyron, this woman will act as your supply officer—she’ll manage and maintain your equipment and necessities. She might not be ideally suited for the task, but from what Ethlea told me, she used to be the proprietor of an inn back in Thagaste. She has—“

 

“No way,” interrupted Renault in shock as he took a better look at the newcomer, who lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. “It can’t be! _Lisse?!_ ”

 

Quite promptly, his old friend squealed “RENAAAAAULLLLTTT!” and bounded straight across the room into his arms. She grabbed him tightly and began sobbing into his chest, but he obviously didn’t return the embrace. He simply looked at Henken with a bewildered, confused expression.

 

“Henken, tell me this is a joke!” he yelled while Lisse continued to cling to him. “Why the hell is she even HERE?!”

 

Henken didn’t seem to be at all phased by this sudden turn of events. “Jerid was the one who brought her along when he brought all of you to Aquleia, as you’ll recall. Since she couldn’t return to Thagaste, he found her some work under the head maid, Ethlea. When the rebels came, she managed to stay safe with the other maids, hiding in the basements of the Palace, but when I was looking for personnel I could afford to reassign to you, her name was the only one that came up.”

 

“Henken, you can’t do this,” said Braddock disapprovingly. “Look, we really do need a supply officer, but this poor girl’s just gonna get herself killed. Look at her! She’s as frail as a twig! She obviously can’t fight, and she’s not even cut out for the rigors of traveling with a band like ours!”

 

“Ethlea tells me she’s hardier than she looks,” came the even reply. “And she won’t have to worry about fighting. Her job is merely as a supply officer—a Transporter, in fact. Her tent should stay far from the battle at all times. She’ll either be tending to your supplies within the larger force as an adjunct, or in the rare occasions you have to get really far away from friendly territory, behind your battlezone.”

 

“Easier said than done! What if enemies get past us?!”

 

“Then it will be your responsibility to protect her.”

 

“Once again, easier said than done! And dammit, Lisse, get off me!” Renault tried to pry the woman’s arms from around him, but it was a failed attempt.

 

“It’s still your responsibility,” said Henken. “However, I’ll make it easier for you. Lisse!” He turned to her. “Do you have what I told you to bring?

 

Lisse ignored him, as she had the rest of the conversation. She was too overwhelmed by seeing Renault again, continuing to cling to him while bawling about how she was so worried about him, how glad she was that he was alright, how happy she was to see him again, and so on, and so forth, until Henken himself put a stop to it.

 

“Enough!” said the General. He didn’t shout, but there was enough force in his voice to shake even Lisse out of her emotional shock.

 

“I-I’m sorry!” She hastily broke away from Renault and looked at Henken, her eyes still wet.

 

“Bring me the equipment I asked. _Now._ ”

 

His voice was so utterly cold that Lisse absolutely could not resist. She gave a small squeak of fear and dashed out of the courtroom. Renault heaved a sigh of relief, glad she was finally away with him, Braddock looked as if he wanted to remonstrate the Great General for being so harsh, while his comrades simply looked at her run, only vaguely understanding of the “relationship” between Renault and Lisse.

 

It didn’t matter—after a few moments, the woman rushed back in, carrying what seemed to be a decently-sized treasure chest. It was fairly difficult for her to carry, but she endured, managing to rush it and drop it right in front of Khyron. “H-Here you go, Lord Henken!” she whimpered, looking up at the man in the throne with a pleading expression.

 

It was enough for him. “Give Apolli his equipment,” he directed.

 

“Y-Yes!” Smiling timidly now, she opened up the chest, revealing to the curious onlookers a set of decent equipment. “S-Sir Apolli, these are for you.” She reached in and held out one of the articles contained in the box—a thick sturdy shoulderguard, clearly designed for a Sniper.

 

“Th-thanks,” said the bowman, smiling gently. He walked over and began putting on the equipment Lisse had brought—along with the shoulderguard, there was also a chestguard and a pair of gauntlets. He wasn’t as well-armored as Braddock, but he had a bit more protection than he used to.

 

However, a Sniper’s raiment wasn’t the only thing the chest contained. “Hey, what’re these?” the bowman asked when he noticed there was still something in the chest. He carefully reached in and drew them out for all to see, drawing surprised gasps from his friends.

 

It was a pair of objects, at first glance dull and blue, having the appearance of great age, but emanating auras of immense magical power. The objects were circular, about the size of Apolli’s palm, and were marked with strange sigils Renault had never seen before.

 

“These are Earth Seals,” said Henken, “and they’re for Renault and Braddock.”

 

The two men stared at the objects in Apolli’s hands with great suspicion. “What the hell do they do?”

 

“Earth Seals draw out the latent power hidden within experienced warriors. They can be used on magic-users or warriors, knights or archers…but they’re the only such relics which would be able to maximize your strength.

 

“And make no mistake, you _need_ that strength. There’s absolutely no way either of you could fight Paptimus the way you are now.”

 

Braddock and Renault looked at each other—both of them remembered how easily Paptimus had pinned the Ostian to a wall by sheer force of his will alone, without even touching him. “Alright,” said Braddock, “you have a point. So what’re we waiting for, then? I’m sure ready to get powered up.”

 

“Glad to hear that.” Although you couldn’t tell from his face, the tone of the man’s voice indicated he was pleased. “Apolli, give me the Earth Seals. Braddock, step forward.”

 

Apolli hesitantly walked up to the throne and handed the Seals to Henken. Braddock did as the Great General asked, standing in front of him, staring at him calmly and resolutely.

 

Without saying a word, Henken gripped the Seal in his right hand and held it up into the air. Nothing seemed to change for a moment.

 

And then the Seal started to glow.

 

By this point, nobody was surprised—glowing was the _least_ of what most magical artifacts did. The light was definitely very bright—a blue radiance strong enough to light up the entire room, far dwarfing the two candles. Renault could see quite clearly now, and he could get a better look at the two suits of peculiar armor behind Henken.

 

That was the important thing. Because one of the suits behind him, to his right, started to move.

 

“WHAT IS THIS?!” Khyron jumped back in alarm when a green glow suddenly lit up the rightmost armor’s visor, and when its disembodied pieces suddenly rose into the air seemingly of their own volition.

 

“God dammit,” groaned Renault, “don’t tell me we have to deal with more ghosts!”

 

“H-Henken,” blurted Braddock, taking a step back, “W-what the hell’s going on?!”

 

“STOP!” shouted the Great General, summoning up all of his authority—an impressive amount indeed, for he stopped the soldiers cold in their tracks. “NOBODY MOVE! ESPECIALLY NOT YOU, BRADDOCK!”

 

Everyone obeyed. Nobody moved an inch, and the only sounds which could be heard in the room were Braddock’s labored, nervous breathing and the soft hum of the Earth Seal.

 

The disembodied armor floating in the air took a step forwards, entirely of its own volition—Renault could see it was completely empty. In fact, he could get a very good view of it, now. Though he’d never seen anything quite like it before, it seemed to be of the absolute highest quality. The entire outfit was made out of blue plate over black chain mail, matching the color of Braddock’s old armor. Thick boots and greaves would protect its wearer’s feet, and thick cuisses and a fauld protected the thighs and groin. The gauntlets were impressive work—not merely pieces of metal slapped over a glove, they were entirely made out of metal yet had extremely flexible joints and enough points of articulation that anyone wearing them could move his hands as if he was wearing nothing at all. They extended up to the forearms and thickened as they went, which provided even more protection. The pauldrons did the same thing—somewhat similar to Henken’s, they extended down to the upper arms, though they were rounded rather than rectangular.

 

The chestplate and helmet were the armor’s most distinctive features. The cuirass was extremely ornate—it was very large, looked to be very heavy and cumbersome, and didn’t look like it just protected the chest. It was very thick and seemed to consist of two pieces, one which would fit snugly over the chest of a man about Braddock’s size, which had a gap in its center into which fit another plate of metal which would protect his abdomen. Both pieces were adorned with a small green jewel that was glowing brightly. The helmet, while also colored blue, had a _very_ strange visor which seemed to be made out of green glass. It was large enough to fit cleanly over a man’s head and cover it entirely, and apparently needed to be buckled under the chin to stay secure, but Renault would have been mystified as to how anyone could have seen out of the glass unless the way it was glowing indicated it provided its wearer some eldritch means of sight. There were also a pair of protrusions—wings, horns, spikes, Renault didn’t know what they were—on either side of the helmet. He wasn’t sure what function they had.

 

Most strikingly of all, the empty suit of armor wasn’t unarmed. In its left gauntlet it held a large reinforced shield—a Kite Shield, similar to the one Tassar used but with a different shape. In its right was a weapon Renault recognized—Braddock’s Wolf Beil.

 

The apparently-possessed armor stood in front of Braddock for a few moments, and he met its unearthly gaze—despite sweating profusely, he didn’t let his eyes drop from its glowing visor.

 

“This suit of armor is one of this kingdom’s greatest treasures, a relic passed down from the Scouring,” said Henken. His voice sounded different—deeper, older, and it seemed to echo slightly, as if it were coming from far away. “The valiant hero who wore this died in battle against the dragons, but his spirit still remains, and will pass on his strength as well as his knowledge of the axe and shield to anyone he finds worthy.

 

“Do you accept his challenge, Braddock, child of Ostia?”

 

The axeman stared at Henken and grinned defiantly. “You don’t even need to ask.”

 

This was exactly what the General wanted to hear. “Ancient Spirit,” he called, “Sacred Armor, listen to me! A Son of Roland stands before you. Do you deem him worthy?”

 

A long silence stretched out for a moment that seemed much longer than it actually was. Then an unearthly voice—similar to the one they’d heard in the Reaper’s Labyrinth—echoed from the helmet, speaking a single word.

 

“YES.”

 

“THEN LET IT BE SO!” cried Henken, holding the Earth Seal high above his head. It glowed brightly, and then with a flash of light, it disappeared. “BRADDOCK, HUSCARL OF OSTIA! I BEQUEATH TO YOU YOUR NEW TITLE! ALL MEN SHALL NOW KNOW YOU AS **WARLORD!** ”

 

“AAAAAAH!” Braddock screamed as a bolt of golden lightning smashed into him from above. When it disappeared, he had vanished along with it, leaving only the empty, possessed suit of armor standing there, gazing at nothing. However, the smell of ozone filled the air, and everyone’s hair stood on end as the air tingled and eldritch energy suffused the room. Another bolt of lightning smashed down from above, but this time into the empty suit of armor.

 

When the light dissipated enough for Renault to open his eyes, he saw that the armor was no longer floating in the air—it was kneeling on the ground. And most importantly, someone now seemed to be wearing it.

 

“W-what the—“ Renault started, before he heard coughing and gagging coming from the man in armor. It was a familiar voice—Braddock!

 

“SHIT! BRADDOCK! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!” Renault rushed over to help his friend to his feet. Braddock had stopped sputtering, and he turned his head towards Renault—his eyes could be faintly seen behind the green glass of his helmet’s visor.

 

“Y-yeah,” he said—his voice recognizable, but warped slightly by the armor’s enchantment. “Y…yeah! Renault, I feel better than I ever have before!” He raised the Wolf Beil in his right hand and took a few practice swipes in the air. “I feel stronger…faster…more capable than I ever have before! Renault, you gotta try on this armor! It’s like a second skin! And this helmet! Are you sure I’m wearing it? I can see perfectly, it doesn’t affect my vision at all!” With his left hand, he held up his shield. “I’ve never even fought with one of these before,” said Braddock, still somewhat in awe, “but this…it feels like I’ve been training with it my whole life!”

 

“It’s the power of the Earth Seal,” said Henken. “It contains the accumulated knowledge of the armor’s previous wearer. You now possess all the battle-skills he did.”

 

“YES!” cheered Braddock—his expression couldn’t be seen under his helmet, but it was obvious he was smiling. “HAHA! I CAN TAKE ON THE WHOLE WORLD RIGHT NOW! JUST SEND ME STRAIGHT TO PAPTIMUS, I CAN TEAR HIM APART, NO PROBLEM!”

 

“Whoah, hey,” said Renault, now a little jealous, “damn, is it really that great? I want—“

 

“Then step forward to share his power,” said Henken.

 

Renault did so, Braddock standing back to watch his friend curiously. Henken, still sitting on the throne, held up the Seal in his left hand. It started glowing, and the suit of armor on Henken’s left side began to move.

 

This armor was very similar to Braddock’s—very thick yet flexible, a chestplate adorned with green gems, and a helmet with pointed protrusions and a green-glass visor. The first significant difference was in color—the armor was white rather than blue, and parts of the chestplate and pauldrons were colored teal, somewhat similar to Renault’s hair. The next big difference was in the pauldrons themselves. While Braddock’s shoulderguards were rounded and curved down, this armor’s pauldrons were more angular and significantly larger, thick and fluted, protruding a good distance to the armor’s sides.

 

The reason for this was that they apparently contained some sort of mechanism, the likes of which Renault had never seen before and couldn’t understand. In the armor’s right gauntlet (which, much like Braddock’s, was thick and covered the entire forearm, making it serviceable as an ersatz shield in its own) was Renault’s steel sword. It its left, however, was what appeared to be a decent-sized dagger. The metal blade didn’t seem particularly suspicious, but attached to the handle was a long, thin metal chain which passed through a chamber on the underside of the gauntlet (below the wearer’s wrist), up the arm, and into the giant pauldron. Renault surmised that the pauldrons were so large because they contained several extra lengths of chain as well as the means to retract it. As far as he could tell, the dagger was meant to be thrown, then dragged back with the chain, making it versatile and reusable (not only as a throwing weapon, but as a grappling hook, length of rope, and many other things).

 

This empty armor was standing in front of Renault, and it was apparently waiting for him to accept it.

 

“Henken, I know what you’re gonna ask,” said Renault, “and I accept. Just get on with it already!”

 

“THEN LET IT BE SO!” said Henken once again, and he held the remaining Seal in the air, where it disappeared with a flash of light. “RENAULT, SELLSWORD OF ETRURIA! MAY YOU PROVE YOURSELF WORTHY OF YOUR NEW TITLE! AS THE SPIRITS HAVE DECREED, YOU ARE NOW A **MERCENARY LORD!** ”

 

Renault steeled himself, preparing for the bolt of lightning to come down and transform him, but even that wasn’t enough to prepare him for what actually happened. When the magic bolt hit him he felt no pain—but rather the strangest, most indescribable sensation imaginable.

 

He couldn’t keep himself from screaming. Even though he kept his eyes shut tight, everything around him was blinding white. He was standing on the floor a moment ago, but now it felt as if he was floating in the air. His body didn’t hurt, but it seemed to be…warping. Twisting. It was as if it was being broken down and rebuilt a thousand times over, leaving his mind floating in limbo as it screamed without a voice.

 

This ordeal lasted only for a moment, however. Almost as soon as it had begun, it was over—with another load roar in his ears and a flash of bright light, Renault found himself on his knees, kneeling on the floor he was standing on just seconds ago.

 

But when he opened his eyes, he noticed the world seemed to be tinted just the lightest shade of green, ever so slightly. And he also noticed that in front of him, his hands were sheathed in metal and grasping a sword and chaindagger.

 

“Wow,” he said as Braddock helped him to his feet. “Bud…you weren’t kidding. It feels…it feels amazing! Like the strength of an entire army is flowing through my body! It’s like I’m invulnerable!” Renault looked to the right and left. “This helmet’s really something else. It’s not impeding my vision at all!”

 

“The enchantment on it is similar to the one on my own,” said Henken. “It provides all the protection of a Knight’s full helm with none of the drawbacks.”

 

“Yeah! Now that’s what I like to hear! And that’s not the only thing!” Grinning beneath his helmet, Renault slashed the small dagger in his left hand through the air a couple of times. Then, with a sweep of his arm and a flick of his fingers, he sent it flying through the air. Everybody ducked, but his aim was true—the dagger flew far above their heads and right into one of the crevices in the blocks of stone the walls were made of. The chain behind it had gone limp, but Renault jerked his hand back, and the chain went taut before reeling itself back into the armor’s pauldrons with a loud WHRRRRRR, taking the dagger along with it. Renault’s left hand clasped itself around the weapon just as it came within reach, and the mechanism in the pauldron ceased its movement with a loud click, indicating it was ready to operate again.

 

“I read a bit about sword-and-dagger fighting before,” Renault said, somewhat astonished by his own skill, “But I’ve never even heard of a chaindagger like this. How did I…”

 

“Just like with Braddock, the Earth Seal has granted you the knowledge of the man who once wore this armor. There are few left alive who know how to replicate the mechanism in its shoulders, but you at least know how to use its weapons.”

 

“Hah! That’s the only thing I need.” Renault stood up straight—he wasn’t sure, but everybody looked just a bit smaller, as if he’d gained a bit of height. He stared down at Lisse, feeling supremely confident. “Alright, Lisse, you can come with us as far as I’m concerned. Me n’ Braddock are more than strong enough to protect you and your little transport tent. But don’t annoy us, and stay the hell out of our way! You got that?”

 

The woman let out a small squeak and nodded silently, backing a few steps away from Renault as she looked up at him with a combination of fear and admiration.

 

“Hey, no need to be so harsh, man,” said Braddock quietly. He reached up and unbuckled his helmet, allowing Lisse to get a good look at his handsome face again (which, like Renault’s, seemed to be higher from the ground—he’d gotten taller too). “Just relax, hon. Think like we’re taking you back to Thagaste.” He then turned to Henken. “Alright then, we’ve got our supply officer, and we’ll do our best to protect her. Is there anything else you need to tell us?”

 

The Great General didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he stood up, his heavy armor clanking, stepped over to the table, and picked up the round red helmet with a single horn from its position on top of the desk. He put it on his head and buckled it into position. The Cyclopean eye appeared in its black depths, panning left, right, and finally settling on the “Autonomous Company,” causing a chill to run through all of their spines.

 

He then spoke two words:

 

 “Let’s go.”

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

First off, thanks as always to Enilas for betaing, secondly, here’s hoping you enjoyed this chapter, my friends. If it didn’t have enough action for you, don’t worry, the next chapter will have some nice battles…as well as *several* deaths of named characters. Who will survive? Keep readin to find out ;)

 

Secondly, here are a bit of “authors notes” so to speak. Renault’s class name comes from my friend Trimurti, who once mentioned to me that ‘Mercenary Lord’ sounded like a cool name for a class. In terms of Renault’s equipment, I originally wanted to have a couple different things for his promotion. My first idea was for him to use a huge buster sword (he would eventually get the Regal Blade) as large as he was, but that was a bit too close to Guts from Berserk for my liking. My next idea was to have him use sword and dagger, since that was a historical fighting style, but that was too close to Artemis Entreri from RA Salvatore’s Drizzt books. So the only thing I could think of that would still be keeping with his character would be a sword and a chain-dagger, which could be used not only as a dagger but also as a grappling hook, whip, and other stuff like that. So now he’s like a combination of Artemis Entreri and Tekkaman Blade…that’s an improvement, right? XD Well, at least it’s more original than just being an Entreri XD

 

Anyways, about the promotion, using Heaven Seals wouldn’t have worked for Renault and Braddock, so I fiddled with the rules a bit. In FE7, all classes except for Pirates and Thieves could be promoted with Earth Seals, but Renault and Braddock (a Sellsword and Huscarl, respectively) can be promoted *only* with Earth Seals. The story about the spirit of the armor being unleashed by the power of the seal is my explanation of both how promoted characters get entirely new equipment AND how they get new weapons. I mean, a Cavalier who’s never picked up an axe in his life gets promoted and he can now use Axes (even if only at E-level) as effectively as spears and swords? A Knight gets summoned away by a bolt of lightning and comes back with his armor replaced by this mecha-looking chain-wielding giant suit? Braddock and Renault’s promotions are how I explained that stuff. :D

 

Okay, now here be some class stats!

 

Class: Mercenary Lord

 

Promoted From: Sellsword (Renault)

 

Description: An honorific bestowed upon the most skilled of mercenaries.

 

Gains: +2 HP, +1 STR, +2 SKL, +2 SPD,+0 LUC, +3 DEF, +2 RES, +2 CON, +0 movement. Vulnerable to Swordslayers, now counts as Armored (weak against hammers, Armorslayers, etc.

 

Weapons: Swords only

 

Bonus: +15 Critical

 

 

 

 

Class: Warlord

 

Promoted From: Huscarl (Braddock)

 

Description: An honorific bestowed upon masters of the axe.

 

Gains: +1 HP, +1 STR, +2 SKL, +2 SPD,+0 LUC, +1 DEF, +4 RES, +2 CON, +1 movement. Counts as Armored (weak against hammers, Armorslayers, etc.

 

Weapons: Axes only

 

Bonus: +15 Critical

 

They both get critical bonuses both to represent their exotic equipment (Renault’s dagger, Braddock’s new shield, which can be used for shield-bashing) and to make up for being only able to use one weapon :)

 

 

 

 

 

 


	27. The Siege of Thagaste, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a long break--right after being promoted to their new classes, Renault and Braddock are sent off to retake his hometown of Thagaste, captured by the rebels! And while they do, his own mother plays a part in the battle...

 

**27: The Siege of Thagaste—Part I**

 

_-X-The Royalists March-X-_

Tassar hadn’t been having a good day at all. And it was about to get a whole lot worse.

 

He’d already heard the bad news. Yazan and Trunicht’s forces had arrived about a day ago, battered, bruised, and with their tails firmly set between their legs. They and the rest of their exhausted forces (the “elite” Red Shoulders having suffered terrible casualties in particular) had regaled him and his men with tales of their defeat, spending particular time on the strange, terrifying General clad in arcane armor who was apparently as strong as an entire battalion on his own.

 

According to them, that man was currently leading an army straight to his doorstep.

 

Tassar didn’t like that, not at all. Not only had Paptimus failed to live up to his promise of ending the war quickly, but now it seemed that the tide of battle might well be turning against them. And if there was one thing Tassar hated, it was being on the losing side.

 

He sighed heavily, collapsing back into his throne, situated comfortably in Thagaste’s great castle. It was late at night, and he should have been sleeping, but there was simply too much on his mind. The townsfolk had been getting restless—they’d never liked his Revolutionary forces, and with news of this latest defeat, Tassar wagered he’d have to crack down on them before they got any ideas. Add to that the difficulty of figuring out exactly how to deal with that crazy General, and the veteran mercenary, defying his own advice, simply couldn’t allow himself to get some rest.

 

 _At least Barim’s on his way here_. Tassar grinned to himself as the thought flashed through his mind. _No matter what happens, I’ll be able to get my revenge on that noble scumbag._ His mind wandered back to several other tales he’d heard, of how a swordsman and a blue-clad axeman had suddenly warped right to the Palace in the middle of the siege and managed to rescue the king. His grin widened as he contemplated how those men were likely headed towards the city right now. _And who knows, maybe Renault and Braddock too…_

 

His musings were interrupted by a sudden flash of light and ozone, accompanied by a voice he recognized.

 

“Once again, Tassar, I’m very disappointed in you.”

 

The mercenary didn’t bother to look up. “Paptimus? What is it this time. I—“

 

Then, something happened he definitely didn’t expect.

 

“GAH!” He brought his hands to his throat as he felt an immensely malevolent—and utterly irresistible—force wrap icy-cold tendrils around his neck. In front of him, seeming to slide right out of the shadows as if birthed by them, the massive, armor-clad form of his employer stepped out of the darkness into a pool of moonlight cast through one of the windows. And there was just enough light to see the threatening grimace on the former Prime Minister’s face as he held out one hard towards his servant.

 

“Paptimus, w-what are you doing?!” When Tassar felt the force increasing its hold on him, feeling himself _rising into the air_ , he knew he’d had enough. Summoning up all of his formidable willpower, he shut his eyes and reached out with his mind. Even though he was no magic-user, he’d fought against enough to have a decent idea of how to foil their spells. Envisioning the tendrils of force which surrounded him as black tentacles in his head, he concentrated as hard as he could on stripping them away. It wasn’t easy—proof they weren’t just figments of his imagination. But they couldn’t resist, and the mercenary allowed himself a grim, satisfied smile as his mental picture of the tentacles began to crack, then shatter completely—which allowed him to fall right to the floor. Without wasting a beat, his eyes flew open and he unsheathed his Silver Sword and held it right at Paptimus—he never allowed his weapon out of easy reach, that was one lesson he _never_ forgot.

 

“What the hell’s the meaning of this?” He kept his blade leveled at Paptimus’ head, meeting the traitor’s cold, angry glare with one of his own.

 

“You’ve failed me, Tassar,” came the reply, pregnant with barely sublimated rage—Tassar had never seen the big man so unsettled. “Failed me _spectacularly._ ”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” The mercenary smirked. “Are you actually blaming me for what happened at Aquleia? You’ve got to be kidding.”

 

“As unpleasant as that debacle may have been, Tassar, it’s not why I’m angry at you. No, I’m afraid this is my reason.”

 

The Dark General withdrew his hand, gripped a piece of parchment he’d held clasped by his side, and reached out with it again, showing it to Tassar. And this time the mercenary could do nothing else but grimace when he read what was on it.

 

“I don’t need to read it all out to you. I only need to know one thing, Tassar. How, exactly, did the crown manage to find evidence for this accusation? How, exactly, did they manage to figure out I was the one who destroyed Scirocco.”

 

Tassar didn’t have a response.

 

“You don’t need to tell me. It’s not hard to figure out. Let me guess…when Braddock and Renault—YOUR men, I remind you—betrayed us, our plans weren’t the only thing they took. Perhaps they made off with a certain letter of yours…a certain letter I’d asked you to destroy?”

 

The mercenary tightened his grip on his blade. That gave Paptimus his answer.

 

“I thought so. Tell me, Tassar…why shouldn’t I kill you right now? What evidence do I have you’re not a traitor like them? After all, if you disobeyed my order…”

 

“I didn’t trust you entirely back then, and honestly, I still don’t,” spat the mercenary in reply. “Look, Paptimus, how was I to know you wouldn’t turn on me like you’d turn on the Crown? I needed insurance. If you ever tried to sell me out like you did to so many other people, if I kept that letter of yours I’d at least manage to take you down with me. You never tried, so I never had a need to. Rational, right? Isn’t it the sort of thing you’d do? You can’t blame me for trying to protect myself.”

 

“It would be rational…if you hadn’t miscalculated so gravely. Thankfully, it’s not too difficult for our propaganda machine to portray this as just another Royalist lie. But it has proven to be more than a little inconvenient for us. It’s provided a fillip to the morale and drive of the Royalist forces. Even if I were to assume it was a mistake, it was a profoundly grave one for a veteran like you.

 

“You’ve nothing to say in your defense, correct?”

 

Tassar continued to grit his teeth.

 

Paptimus shook his head in disappointment. “I thought as much. You can put your sword down, though. I won’t be punishing you. Not right now.”

 

Tassar, obviously, didn’t take the man’s advice.

 

“I’m being honest here, but no matter. The simple fact is, Tassar, I don’t have anyone else at the moment to spare. I need every man available to defend this city…even one as demonstratedly incompetent as you. HOWEVER!” He shot the mercenary another glare, this time backed with more than a little of his dark magic. Even Tassar had to take a few steps back as he felt a wave of malice wash over him.

 

“I’m only giving you one last chance, mercenary. Hold this city, at ANY cost. If you do, I just may forgive you for your failures. If not, however…”

 

Once again, Tassar felt the invisible tendrils of dark force slithering all over his body, constricting him, impeding his breathing. And nothing he could do, no matter how hard he tried, could pry them away. Just as it seemed as if he couldn’t take any more, they suddenly disappeared.

 

“Don’t disappoint me again,” spat Paptimus. Those were his last words for the night as he disappeared with another flash of light, leaving Tassar to collapse back on his throne, breathing heavily.

 

Everything his master had said translated into only one thing in his mind. The faces of two men—men he had once trusted—floated to the forefront of his consciousness, tinged only in red. They were the ones responsible for the predicament he was in right now. And they were the ones who would pay for it.

 

“Renault…Braddock…” Tassar gritted his teeth and clenched his knuckles until they whitened. “You’re dead. You’re very, very dead.”

 

-X-

Despite everything Henken had told them, as far as Renault was concerned things definitely hadn’t gotten so bad yet. The march to Thagaste was more than two-thirds over, and so far the worst he’d had to deal with was a little boredom. And even that was bearable—there was plenty of training to do, after all.

 

It was a relatively warm summer evening, and Henken’s army was pausing its march to take a rest, so under ordinary circumstances Renault wouldn’t be wearing all of his heavy armor, but he also knew he’d have to get used to it if he hoped to be truly effective in battle. That, and he couldn’t train with his distinctive weapon unless he had it on.

 

“Renault, are you ready?” asked Harvery, standing in front of him and holding a trio of thin wooden discs in his hands. When the Mercenary Lord nodded, the Assassin tossed the discs into the air with a quick, deft flick of his wrists. Almost as quickly—in fact, so quickly that his arm became a blur, even with the heavy armor he wore—Renault swept out his left hand and released the weapon he held. The dagger flew forwards, but in an arc rather than a straight line—the chain leading from its hilt to Renault’s gauntlet kept it attached to the man’s arm, and as the chain extended the blade slashed through the three discs with a flash of white. In the same moment, Renault drew his arm back, and almost as if it had a mind of its own, the chain retracted, drawing the dagger back to his hand.

 

Indeed, it retracted a bit faster than onlookers may have liked. “Hey! Watch it!” yelped Braddock, who was sitting on a nearby tree stump watching Renault practice. He ducked his head as the chain and dagger whizzed just over it. “Be careful with that, man!”

 

“Whoops! Sorry, bud,” Renault called back sheepishly. “I didn’t—“

 

“Nah, I’m okay. Still, you gotta watch out. That chain thing’s got some impressive range, but you could end up slicing one of your allies with it if you’re not careful!”

 

“He’s right, my friend,” chuckled Harvery, walking over to where the discs fell. “You really have to improve your control of that chain-dagger thingamajig. I wish I could help, but I’ve only had experience with these old twin knives here. You need a bit more practice, I guess.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Renault nodded.

 

“But hey, I have to admit, for someone who just started, you’re a _lot_ better than I’d expect you to be.” Harvery smiled as he held out the discs to Renault—all three of them had been neatly cut in two. “I can’t imagine how anybody who’d never even looked at a weapon like yours until a few days ago could use it well enough to do something like this.”

 

“I wouldn’t believe it either before Henken used that weird Seal on me. It must’ve been their magic…when that bolt of light struck me, I felt some weird knowledge just slamming itself into my head. How to move wearing armor like this, how to fight with a dagger and sword, and how to operate the chain mechanism in the shoulders. I think the same thing happened to Braddock too.”

 

“Yep.” The Ostian nodded. “Never used a shield before, but after that Earth Seal hit me, it was like I’ve had a buckler in one hand and an axe in the other my whole life.” He was wearing his armor as well, though not his helmet, and grinning as he held up his weapons proudly.  “Even though axes don’t do well against swords, I think I’ve done pretty well in our little sparring matches, huh?”

 

“I guess so,” Renault chuckled. It had been several days since they’d set out from Aquleia, and on every night of their journey, the two men had engaged in mock battles, testing their new abilities against each other. Renault had gotten the best of Braddock most of the time, but his chain-dagger never had an easy time getting past his friend’s shield.

 

Of course, Braddock and Renault weren’t the only ones impressed by their new strengths—their comrades seemed very appreciative of them as well.

 

“Whoah! That’s amazing, Sir Renault!” chirped a young, enthusiastic female voice from behind him, accompanied by a fluttering of Pegasus wings. “I’ve never seen anything like it before!”

 

The swordsman let out a small grunt of irritation—he didn’t even need to turn around to know it was Keith. Ever since he’d saved her life in the battle with those giant Knight Puppets in the Reaper’s Labyrinth, the young Pegasus Knight seemed to have acquired…not a crush on him, exactly, but rather an idolization of him, as demonstrated by the fact she always referred to him as “sir.” On the one hand, Renault didn’t much care for being pedestalized in anybody’s eyes—Lisse annoyed the hell out of him, after all. On the other hand, coming from Keith, he didn’t mind that much—unlike the innkeeper, the Ilians were actually useful in a fight.

 

Still, that didn’t mean his opinion of them was that much higher. “Figures,” he grunted, sneering slightly as he turned towards her—her sister Kelitha had alighted just behind her, he noticed. “Of course you’d be surprised! It’s probably the most advanced piece of technology Ilians like you have ever seen. One of the perks of living in a civilized country, you know?”

 

Both Keith and Kelitha’s eyes widened, and he could tell he’d hurt their feelings. Naturally, he didn’t care. However, his best friend did.

 

“Renault, that’s enough of that,” said Braddock, and fairly sternly as well. He got up from his stump and stepped towards the three of them. “These girls’re our allies. No reason to treat them like enemies.”

 

“C’mon, Braddock,” he replied, “they’re still Ilians! V—“

 

“Don’t say it, man. I thought you knew better!” Disappointment was evident in the Ostian’s voice, and that was what really got him. “We’re mercenaries too, you know. We don’t have any right to call anybody else ‘vultures.’”

 

“Yeah, okay, you have a point there,” said Renault stubbornly, “but just look at Ilia! It’s the least civilized place on Elibe, ‘cept maybe for Sacae!”

 

“Well, we can’t all be Etrurians, eh, Renault?” Braddock had a mischevious and slightly self-effacing smile on his face. “I mean, I’m from tiny ol’ Lycia, but I’m still smart enough to hang around you, right? So for my sake, can’t you extend the same courtesy to these ladies? I mean, if we’ve been together for so long, can’t you do that lil’ favor for me?”

 

That got through to Renault. “Yeah, I guess I can’t argue with that, bud.” He chuckled and turned back to the two girls, smiling rather than sneering. “You ought to be thankful my friend’s speaking up for you, you know. But if he thinks you’re alright, I feel the same way. Sorry for saying that stuff before.”

 

“W-wait,” said Kelitha hesitantly looking at the two men standing before her. “S…Sir Braddock, did you really mean all that?”

 

Braddock blinked, not really sure what she was talking about. “Well, of course! I mean, I wanna live long enough to plant my axe in Paptimus’ face. If you girls are gonna help me do that, there’s not a single reason we shouldn’t be friends, as far as I can see.”

 

“I’m with him,” said Renault grudgingly. “I mean, I have to admit you Ilians really came in handy back at the Reaper’s Labyrinth. So I’m sorry for saying what I did. Besides, given how my country’s in this whole Civil War right now, I guess I don’t have any right to call you people stupid.” He held out a hand. “’Pology accepted?”

 

It was Kelitha’s turn to stand and stare dumbfounded. As an Ilian, her employers typically valued her life almost not at all, and her fellow mercenaries despised her more often than not. But for the first time in her life, she was being offered a hand of camaraderie by a foreigner, and she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to react.

 

Fortunately, though, her sister did. “Yes sir!” The young girl bounded up to Renault and took his hand in both her own, causing him to stutter a bit as she shook it enthusiastically. Braddock gave Kelitha a lopsided grin, indicating to her that everything was fine between them. She glanced at Renault, back at Braddock, and gave her own small, shy grin in response.

 

Renault, however, would go one step farther. “Hey, I got an idea,” he said, managing to extricate his hand from Keith’s grip. “Why don’t you two train with us for a bit?”

 

“Wow! Y-you really mean it?!” Keith exclaimed, happily accepting his offer. Kelitha simply stuttered and stared, hardly expecting _this_ level of hospitality. Even Braddock seemed a bit taken aback. “Renault, are you serious?”

 

The Mercenary Lord shrugged his armored shoulders. “Figured it might be a decent way to make up for what I said. It’s the sort of thing you’d do, right, Braddock? Besides, it could only help. You Pegasus Knights are the newest members of our little team. We ought to get used to each other’s fighting styles.”

 

“Exactly right on both counts, bud,” laughed his friend. “So how ‘bout you give Keith a few pointers on dealing with armored guys like you, while I spar with Kelitha a bit?”

 

“Hey, what—“ Renault grimaced, before shooting a glance at Keith, who seemed to be utterly delighted. Sighing, he realized there was no point blasting the wind out of her sails now.

 

As Braddock headed off with Kelitha, Renault turned to face Keith, who eagerly mounted her Pegasus and readied a training lance she’d been provided with. “I’m ready to start, Sir Renault!”

 

“First ‘brother,’ now ‘Sir,’” he grumbled to himself, “Am I ever going to be plain old Renault again? Feh.” He buckled his helmet securely, blinking as his field of vision momentarily flashed green—he still hadn’t gotten used to the helmet’s enchantment ‘activating’ itself. “Okay, Keith, let me give you a few basics.”

 

“First off, when you’re facing guys like me, the worst thing you can do is just fly straight at us with your spear leading the way. More often than not, it won’t accomplish anything at all. You’re just too weak to punch through our armor.”

 

“W-wait,” said Keith, “Are you calling me weak?”

 

“Comparatively, yeah,” said Renault. He cast her a leveled glance, waiting to see how she’d react. “It’s the simple truth, Keith. Just look at my muscles compared to yours—not to mention Braddock’s—and you can’t deny it.” He allowed himself a slight sneer. “As a mercenary, you should know by now that you won’t live long if you don’t acknowledge your limits. No matter how strong you think you are, your enemy won’t care if you can’t back it up.”

 

However, much to his surprise—and delight—Keith didn’t take offense at this. “You…you’re right, Sir Renault!” Determination, rather than umbrage, seemed to glitter in her green eyes. “That’s like what my mother said…those are the words my big sister passed on to me! So that means I have to try my best and get stronger…as strong as I can, so I can make them, and my homeland, proud! Right?”

 

Renault chuckled—seemed like training this girl might be a lot more fun than he initially expected. “You’re exactly right, Keith. That’s a really good way of thinking about it. So let me help you get there. Even if you can’t pierce right through a foe’s armor, there are a few ways you can get past it. Look.” He spread out his legs and held his arms out to his sides. “Pay attention to these parts of my body. My neck, my armpits, my visor, and my inner thighs. Now, this armor I’m wearing’s pretty good—even these parts of my body are fairly well protected. However, your typical Knight wearing plate mail has to be careful about these parts, because they’ll either be clad in light chain, or sometimes nothing at all…which means they’re vulnerable. If you find an opening and get a weapon in those places, you’ll be able to disable your opponent, or even kill him outright, even if he’s wearing too much armor for you to get at him otherwise.” Renault jerked his head over to Harvery, sitting on a nearby tree stump and watching them with interest. “Assassins like him are real experts at this sort of thing. It’s not the most honorable form of combat, but it gets the job done.

 

“So how about it? Want to practice hitting these spots a few times?”

 

“Sure!”

 

Laughing, Keith steadied her training lance and spurred her Pegasus a few feet into the air and at Renault. He readied himself to meet her charge, and her wooden weapon bounced right off his big right pauldron. “Try again!” he called as she swept past him and veered around, “That wasn’t too bad!”

 

Her second try was _much_ better—keeping his stance, weapons held before him, Renault staggered back in surprise as the girl managed to score a solid hit on the bottom of his right arm. “Pretty good,” he acknowledged gruffly, but at the same time he thought to himself, _pretty good? That was excellent! I think I might just like having her for a pupil…_  
  


“Okay,” he called, “Now try for my neck and visor. I’m a tall guy, so increase your mount’s altitude a bit to make it easier.”

 

She obediently did so, and on her first pass landed a blow squarely on his visor—luckily for him, the green glass it was made of was a great deal stronger than one would expect. As she passed by, Renault noted the wide smile on her face, and it occurred to him she might be getting a bit complacent.

 

“Alright, girl,” he grinned to himself as she turned around, her spear leveled at his gorget this time, “let’s see how you like this!”

 

Keith charged him once again, spear leading the way. Her thrust was good, and it would have landed on his neckpiece…if he hadn’t deftly sidestepped to the right, let go of his dagger, and reached out with his left hand, grabbing Keith’s wooden training lance and giving it a quick jerk.

 

“H-HEY!”

 

The girl kept her grip on her weapon, which resulted in her being pulled off her mount and tumbling to the ground. Fortunately for her, Renault was quick enough, even in his heavy armor, to catch her before she could injure herself. Even so, however, cradled in his arms she was apparently more indignant than grateful.

 

“Wh-what were you doing?!” she stammered. “You didn’t say you’d—“

 

“In battle, your enemy won’t say anything,” laughed Renault as he put her down. “Consider that your second lesson, Keith. You’ve done really well—I haven’t trained anybody in a long while who’s caught on to things as quick as you. But one of the most important things a mercenary can learn is to expect the unexpected. All the skill in the world’s no good if you let yourself get caught off guard.”

 

“A…ah, I see. Forgive me, Sir Renault! I shouldn’t have doubted you!”

 

Renault couldn’t stop himself from laughing again. “Damn, you’re really a straight arrow, aren’t you, Keith? Don’t take it so seriously. I’m more concerned that you learn from your mistakes. You see how you fell off your Pegasus? That’s something you have to work on. The same thing happened back in the Reaper’s Labyrinth, and I had to save your life because of it!”

 

“I understand, Sir Renault! I haven’t forgotten!” She gave him the most earnest look he’d seen in a while. “I’ll do my best to improve!”

 

“Good. I can’t help you much with that…I’m not a mounted soldier. But maybe your sister can,” he said as he noticed Kelitha alighting on the ground behind them.

 

“Keith! Are you alright?” said the woman, concern evident in her voice. “I saw you fall and—“

 

“I’m fine, big sister! Renault really gave me some important knowledge. I’m getting better and better by the minute! Soon I’ll be a hero like mom was, won’t I?” She flashed Renault a bright smile, at which he blushed slightly in both embarrassment and discomfort, considering the last time he’d met their mother. “Uh, yeah,” he mumbled. “Anyways, Kelitha, you don’t have anything to worry about. I’ve had a lot of experience training soldiers—us mercenaries get hired for this sort of thing a lot, right?”

 

“I-I guess so. Thank you, s—Renault.” She smiled softly. “We appreciate what you’re doing for us, we really do.”

 

“Yeah, no problem. Anyways, how’re you doing with Braddock?”

 

“She’s doin’ real good,” said the Ostian, coming up behind her and waving to Renault and Keith. “I was just giving her some advice on how to avoid axe attacks before she noticed Keith take that lil’ fall. Glad to see everybody’s okay!”

 

“Yeah. Anyways,” Renault looked at the two Pegasus Knights, “you ladies tired, or you wanna keep at it? How about we switch? Keith, you do a little axe-training with Braddock, while I’ll show Kelitha the same things I showed you?”

 

“Sure!” both of them said happily, but they would be interrupted by someone they didn’t quite expect.

 

“Renauuuult!!” came a familiar, wilting voice that caused the Mercenary Lord to groan inwardly when he heard it. He looked over his shoulder to see a familiar, skinny blue-haired girl running towards them, waving frantically.

 

“You’ve been bugging me almost non-stop this whole journey,” he growled to himself. “Aren’t I ever gonna get a break?”

 

Of course, Lisse didn’t hear. “Renault!” she cried, panting fervently as the Pegasus Knights and Harvery (still on his stump) stared at her curiously. “I’ve been looking all over for you!!”

 

“Huh? What for? Did Henken call me? Are any of my weapons missing or something?”

 

“N-no!” The look on her face was as earnest as Keith’s was earlier. “What do you want for dinner?”

 

This time, Renault really did groan. “Lisse, this is ridiculous! You’re in charge of our supplies, not our cooking. Shouldn’t you be keeping track of that?”

 

She looked distinctly hurt, and began to whimper a little bit. “B-but we haven’t eaten together for so long, and I know how much you like my cooking, so—“

 

Braddock stepped in to salvage the situation. “Hey, Lisse,” he said, flashing her his most winning smile, “we appreciate it and everything, but we’re kinda busy training right now. I mean, we gotta be as strong as possible if we’re gonna protect you, right?”

 

“Y-yeah!” said Renault, giving Braddock a profoundly grateful look. “Look, Lisse, just go and see if Apolli needs any help with dinner. We’ll be real hungry after we’re done training, right? I’ll eat with you then, I promise!”

 

“Alright! Thank you, Renault! I’ll make you something great!” Just as cheerily as she’d arrived, the woman bounded off to find the Sniper, leaving Renault mildly dreading the dinner he’d just promised himself into.

 

“Ah, well,” he muttered, and noticed the strange looks his Ilian comrades were giving him. “Uh, sorry about that,” Renault told them bashfully. “Me and her, we kinda go back a long way. Anyways, Kelitha, you wanna get started?”

 

Both the sisters nodded, and as Keith headed off with Braddock, listening intently from her mount as he told her about the tactics he’d used in the past against mounted soldiers, and as Kelitha listened intently as Renault began his discussion of the armor he wore, the mercenary found his mood improving—Kelitha seemed to be almost as apt a student as her sister, and given how successful this day had been, not even Lisse nipping constantly at his heels could make him feel much worse.

 

Of course, Renault knew very well to enjoy this state of affairs while he could. With the siege of his hometown coming up so soon, it wouldn’t last.

 

-X-

 

To say that Lisse was having a hard time fitting into army life would have been an understatement. Even after several days, she still had a hard time finding her way back to the supply tent she was in charge of, and now she had to find a single Sniper? She sighed as she made her way through the Royalist encampment, dodging between grim-faced mages, recruits busy with training, and more experienced hard-bodied soldiers, all tending to their duties, and not having the time to spare her the slightest glance—except for a few annoyed glares.

 

She’d never felt more out of place in her entire life. But with her Ruby Tortoise—the only memento she had of her parents—burnt to the ground, it wasn’t as if she had anyplace at all.

 

She quickly shook her head, driving the despair and sadness which had been her companions for so long out of her mind. After all, Renault was with her! And as long as she was at his side, she was in her proper place. And that meant working as hard as she could for him…which, in this case, meant meeting up with Apolli—whom she remembered from his brief stays at her inn—and making the best meal she possibly could!

 

Luckily for her, it wasn’t yet too dark, and she saw several plumes of smoke rising into the sky, which she knew to be fires lit by soldiers cooking their dinners. Though the army had been well-furnished with supplies and rations, they were also encouraged to live off the land as much as they could—the comparatively easy climate of this part of Etruria meant that there was enough edible game, fish, and flora for even a force as large as theirs to subsist on to some extent. Great General Henken had, of course, _strictly_ forbidden “requisitioning” anything from any loyal citizens they came across. It was definitely a good thing they didn’t really have to, because she’d heard him say the punishment for such an action would be “drawing and quartering.”

 

She wasn’t totally certain what that was, but it certainly didn’t sound pleasant.

 

More nasty thoughts! She shook her head vigorously once again and resumed her search, looking at the bases of the plumes of smoke for anyone she recognized. And it wasn’t too long before she caught sight of a vaguely familiar head of sandy blond hair peering over a boiling pot of stew nearby.

 

“Ah…Apolli?” she stammered as she stepped up right behind him, lightly tapping him on the shoulder. He didn’t take it well.

 

“A-AH!” he started, jerking away from the touch and almost dropping the ladle in his hand. “W-WHO’S THERE!”

 

“I-I’M SORRY!” Lisse squeaked, stumbling back and falling over onto her backside. “Ow!” She’d been a hurt somewhat, but that didn’t mean she forgot the whole thing was her fault. “I-I’m so sorry! I must’ve got the wrong person, I’m so stupid, I’m so sorry, I just—“

 

“Ah…uh…Lisse?” The young man blinked, causing Lisse to fall quiet for a moment. Though she didn’t know him well, from her (very) brief interactions with him she got the distinct feeling he was…well, ‘not quite right in the head,’ wasn’t exactly correct, but he didn’t seem to be entirely all there, either. He was looking right at her, and it took several moments for recognition to light up in his lidded, lethargic eyes—and even then, it seemed he wasn’t looking at her, but at something else.

 

“Ah!” his eyes widened as he finally realized what he’d done. “Aw, by th’ Saint…I’m the one who o-oughta be ‘pologizin’ here.” He extended his free hand to Lisse, who took it gratefully, getting to her feet. “I…I’m real sorry ‘bout that, miss. J-just…I’m not much f’r bein’ surprised these days, is all.”

 

“N-no, it’s alright,” she said bashfully. “I’m sorry for sneaking up on you like that…”

 

“Ah…i-it’s okay.” A somewhat long, awkward silence yawned between them for a little while before Apolli finally spoke up again. “So, uh…what brings y’ here?”

 

“Um…I was wondering…could I help you with the cooking? Er, just a little bit, I mean? You spent a few nights at my inn, you know I’m not too bad…and Renault really likes my cooking, so I want to give him my best!”

 

“Ah…I gotcha.” Maybe it was just her imagination, but she was sure she saw a very small smile on the Sniper’s usually drawn, expressionless face. “But don’tcha got…y’know, organizin’ and stuff t’ do? You’re our transporter, after all…”

 

“I’m all done!” she smiled. “Being an innkeeper taught me a lot about that kind of stuff, and Miss Ethlea in Aquleia taught me even more!”

 

He was definitely smiling now. “A’right then, sure I’ll help. What kinda stuff does Renault like?”

 

“His favorite back in Thagaste was beef stew…”

 

“Mmm…we…we don’t got much o’ that, but I managed to bag a few rabbits. Think he’d be okay w’ that?”

 

She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t want to impose too much. “Er, I think so…”

 

“Heh. G-Good thing, too…think th’ rest of our mates like it too. Everybody’s gonna be hungry…Renault and Braddock are trainin’ with those Ilians, Kasha’s busy scoutin’, and Rosamia n’ Khyron are meditatin’…gotta make sure we make enough f’r everybody!” He took a sip of the broth. “Looks like all this’s almost ready. Help me lift it?”

 

“Er…okay,” said Lisse. When she approached its sides, however, it was clear she wasn’t strong enough to be much help, and indeed might hurt herself if she tried to lift it. “A-ah, on second thought, ne’er mind,” said Apolli. “I’ll do it m’self. Wouldn’t be much o’ a gentleman if I made a lady do all th’ work, right?”

 

Lisse couldn’t help but let out a small giggle at this, and was gratified to see both pleasure and surprise on the bowman’s face—apparently, that was the first laugh he’d gotten out of anyone in a long while. “I’ll fetch another pot o’ boilin’ water,” he said. “C-could you clean th’ hares, Lisse?” He gestured to them, several of them neatly laid out near where he’d been standing, and Lisse nodded—it had been a while, but when her parents had been alive they’d made rabbit stew on occasion, and she still remembered how to prepare a bunny. As Apolli headed off to fill up another pot, Lisse began the bloody work of skinning the animals. Not pleasant, but she’d had to learn a bit of how to do it after her father had passed away. It didn’t take long for him to return with a full pot, which he promptly set over the fire. And once the water started to boil, she was about to put the meat right into the liquid—before Apolli stopped her, at least. She noticed him looking at her with…she wasn’t sure what, but it was enough to give her pause.

 

“Um…is something wrong?”

 

“Er…uh,” he stammered, “N-nothin’…I, I’m just wonderin, don’t y’ wanna put any seasonin’s or anything in there?”

 

“S…seasonings?”

 

“Y-yeah. Y’know, sage, parsley…that sorta thing?”

 

“Oh! Um, well, do we have any?” She looked away, slightly embarrassed. “We…we never used much back at Thagaste. Couldn’t really afford it…”

 

She thought she saw something like sympathy flicker in the young man’s eyes. “Well…that’s a’right. I understand. But I got some, if you’re interested. ‘Could show you a few things cooking with it…”

 

“R-really?”

 

“Uh-huh.” He looked down, seeming a bit bashful. “See, Lord K-Khyron’s pretty picky. I’m th’ one who cooks for ‘im most of the time, and he gets mad if I don’t cook just how he likes. So I always carry some of these herbs an’ seasonings with me wherever I go. You might wanna use ‘em too…uh, I mean, if y’ want.” He tried giving her that nervous smile of his again. “Never hurt, right? ‘Least as far as I know…most o’ the folks I know, including Renault, seem t’ like it.”

 

“Oh, really?!” The prospect of pleasing Renault greatly pleased her. “Wow, that sounds like a great idea! In that case, please show me how to do it! Um, if you could…”

 

“C-‘course! No trouble at all.”

 

Over the next few minutes, Apolli introduced his new friend to several of his older ones—the assortment of herbs and spices he used wherever he went. Lisse barely noticed when about half an hour had flown by and the meat in the pot was almost browned to perfection, this time helped by the variety of seasonings he’d put in there, each of which he’d patiently explained to her with enough detail to convince her that he was a professional chef rather than a Sniper. To say she was impressed would have been an understatement.

 

“Wow, Apolli!” she exclaimed happily. “That’s amazing! Thank you so much! Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

 

He ducked his head, blushing slightly. “M-mom taught me.”

 

“She must be a professional if you can make food like this!”

 

“Heh.” The expression on his face grew a bit sadder. “She was just a seamstress, is all. Kinda funny, though…don’t know how to sew, but I guess her cookin’s the one thing she left me.”

 

Lisse knew what he was talking about. “O-oh…I see. I…I’m sorry.”

 

He shook his head. “N-nah…don’t worry about it. I’m sorry for—“

 

“P-please don’t feel that way! I…I understand, Apolli. My parents, too…”

 

His eyes widened, and the sympathy there grew even stronger. But he didn’t say much. He simply nodded, smiling sadly. “That…that’s the world we live in, I guess,” he mumbled to himself. He then looked back at her for a moment. “So y’ were all alone in that inn?”

 

“Y…yes.” She felt her eyes watering. “It was all I had of my parents, and—“

 

She suddenly felt a gentle hand place itself on her shoulder, albeit hesitantly. She looked up at Apolli, making no secret of her surprise—in response, he quickly jerked back.

 

“S-sorry!” he stammered. “I was just…uh…sorry. It’s just…” he chuckled, sounding like he was actually sorry for himself. “You’ve been alone all this time? Heh…me, I’ve got Gafgarion, got Rosamia, got K-Khyron…and I’m still not dealin’ with things as well as you. Funny, ain’t it? I’m a soldier, but you’re still stronger’n me.”

 

“W…wha?” Lisse had to admit, in all the twenty-four years she’d been alive, she’d never heard that said about her before. She didn’t exactly know what to say.

 

“Er…uh…don’t worry ‘bout it,” stammered Apolli. “S…sorry. Jus’ bein’ silly again…don’t pay me no mind.” He looked at the pot, the contest of which were simmering nicely. “Ah, l-looks like it’s ‘bout done. Lisse, how ‘bout you call th’ guys over?” He smiled. “Bet they’re hungry. Renault’s gonna love this, I guarantee it!”

 

“O…okay!” She got up and headed back towards where she’d first met Renault and his companions. It was definitely darker now, but as she advanced she could make out the sounds of them training, and didn’t have a hard time at all of catching up with them.

 

Before she did, though, she turned back to look at the fire she’d left. She could make out Apolli, removing the pot and beginning to ladle its contents into the wooden bowls they (and the rest of the army) ate from.

 

It was too much to hope for, and she knew it was silly. But honestly…she hoped maybe she’d get a chance to cook with the young man again sometime.

 

-X-

 

“Well, at least we won’t be heading off on an empty stomach,” mumbled Renault to himself as he stood by Braddock and the rest of his comrades within the good-sized pavilion situated at the center of the army camp. The meal really had been excellent—damn good stew, as he’d always expected from Apolli, but for some reason Lisse had been extraordinarily pleased when she’d watched him and his friends eat it. If he cared why he would have asked, but by the time they were finished a messenger had informed them that Henken was ready to give them their mission (at which point Kelitha flew off to inform Kasha, who was apparently still flying around looking for something—anything!—to kill) and led them off to receive it. Now the nine of them were standing before the Great General, still clad in his red armor (albeit without the helmet) along with a couple of other bigwigs in the Royalist army (Renault could only recognize Gafgarion and Jerid, among several other soldiers and magic-users), awaiting their orders.

 

“We’ve come as you requested, foreigner,” said Khyron, not trying to mask his irritation—the mere sight of the Great General still irritated him, even now. “Do you intend to keep us waiting all night, or are you going to lead?”

 

Henken, true to form, didn’t care a bit—not even a tiny spark of emotion could be seen behind his grey eyes. “I’ve already told you that you’ll be taking control of the gate to Thagaste. Infiltrating the city itself, though, is going to be the difficult part. Look at these maps.” He gestured to the table in front of him, on which were a depiction of the immediate region they were in and a more detailed drawing of Thagaste itself. He pointed to the river prominent in the first map.

 

“You’ll be using this,” he said, “the Tiberon river. Since Thagaste is situated at the point it splits, there’s always a fair deal of water traffic going to and from the city. The rebels use it to keep food and supplies flowing into their stronghold, and there’s also the black-market trade being carried out between people living in rebel-controlled areas and the rest of Etruria. Naturally, they don’t keep as strong a guard over their docks…which makes it an ideal place to infiltrate the city.”

 

“Wait,” said Braddock, “don’t tell me…you mean we’re heading there by _boat_?”

 

“Exactly. By tomorrow night we’ll have a pair of medium-sized rafts ready for you. Early in the morning, before the sun rises, you’ll set off and should reach the docks about two hours before dawn, give or take one. After you land, keeping a low profile, you’ll make your way to the south gate and take control of it, keeping it open until our army arrives. Khyron, send a flame signal into the air once you’ve captured it—we’ll begin our full assault then. Any questions about this?”

 

The nine of them stared at each other, less than enthusiastic about this plan. “Naval warfare? Never tried that before,” Harvery chuckled nervously. “First time for everything, right?”

 

Nobody laughed.

 

Henken didn’t even notice. “Look at the map of the city,” he said, taking that piece of parchment out from under the other. He pointed to two large, prominent red dots somewhat distant from one another. “These are the two points we need to capture. The one on the east is the seat of Thagaste’s government—Count Hallard’s castle. The other is Zodian’s Rest, the largest cathedral in this city.” His gaze briefly floated to Renault’s for a moment, and the Mercenary Lord responded with only the barest flicker of his eyes. “It’s a significant symbol for the people of this city,” Henken continued. “When we capture it, enemy morale will crumble and the citizens, who’re already sympathetic to us in this part of Etruria, will acknowledge our uncontested leadership over Thagaste.

 

“Therefore, once we enter the city we’ll be making a two-pronged assault from the south. I’ll be leading a direct attack on Castle Hallard with Jerid’s troops and Count Hallard himself,” and with this he nodded at Jerid and the taller, thinner, and older-looking turquoise-haired man in Sage’s attire standing next to him. “Meanwhile, Khyron, your team will accompany Gafgarion’s cavalry to make a fast attack on Zodian’s Rest. Count Reglay’s Valkyries will be—“

 

“Wait, Reglay?” Renault looked at Braddock—both of them remembered the name—and then back at the man with the grey-blue hair standing next to Gafgarion. “You wouldn’t happen to have a wife named Elicia, would you?”

 

Count Reglay started “How did you—“

 

“Braddock and I know the guy in charge of defending the city. His name’s Tassar…before we kicked off from the Revolutionary Army, he told us why he’d became a mercenary in the first place. A real sob story about how you stole his fiancée or something.” Renault looked at Henken. “Hey, boss, you might wanna re-think letting him into the city. I’d bet Tassar’s set up a trap, or told his soldiers to capture him specifically, or something like that.”

 

Count Reglay looked rather taken aback, but once again, it seemed like Henken barely noticed. “I’ll take that into consideration. Change of plans. Reglay, stay away from the inside of the city. I’ve been told there are some hidden reinforcements here, in this field to the east. I want you to—“

 

“Hey, wait a moment,” Renault piped up again, “How do you know _that_? I don’t remember fortifications that way the last time I was in Thagaste.”

 

Henken’s eyes briefly flickered in annoyance—and even that was enough to make Renault gulp. “We’ve got information flowing right to us from Thagaste. There are many people, especially the clergy, who don’t like the occupation. Thanks to them I’m aware of the exact location of almost all of Tassar’s forces everywhere in the city.

 

“In any case, Khyron, you and your men have your mission. I’ve given you your orders, there’s no need for you to stay here any longer. Go get as much rest as you can. You’ll need it.”

 

That was an order they were happy to follow. All of them exited the pavilion as the Great General continued his discussion with the rest of their army’s leaders. As fully intent as they were on following Henken’s advice, though…

 

None of them found getting to sleep too easy this night.

 

-X-

 

This was the absolute last thing Tassar needed.

 

He really shouldn’t have turned a blind eye to it, all things considered. Admittedly, Paptimus *had* explicitly ordered him to go easy on the Church, since Trunicht’s efforts in wooing Gosterro would have been in vain if the higher-ranked members of the clergy felt uneasy, therefore for the most part Tassar had simply ignored the clergy and let them go about their business. In the first few weeks of his stewardship of Thagaste, it had actually been useful to him—that Monica lady had commanded all the good little sheep to “bear the occupation with grace,” which meant that his forces had a pretty easy time maintaining control of the city. Ever since Yazan and Trunicht had gotten back, though, things had been getting worse. The people were getting restless, and he knew the clergy was agitating them. He could overlook that—his garrison was numerous, well-trained, and more than strong enough to put down any townies who had any funny ideas. What he couldn’t ignore, however, was the big Royalist army marching straight to his doorstep. And he’d heard some very bad things about certain priests feeding info to the encroaching enemy. The royalists had enough advantages as it was without their General getting an in-depth description of the location, strength, and armament of his forces scattered throughout the city. From what he’d heard, the Royalists would be here within several hours—by mid-afternoon at the most. Tassar had to deal with this _now_.

 

He rapped on the huge, strong, oak wood double-doors at the front of Zodian’s Rest as hard as he could. It was Sunday mass, he surmised, judging from the grating wailing of hundreds of voices he heard from behind it, though he couldn’t be sure—religion was never his strong suit. He knocked once again—harder, unsheathing his Silver Sword and slamming the pommel repeatedly against the door.

 

As expected, they didn’t open it—the singing continued unabated. Maybe they didn’t hear…or more likely, they were ignoring him. After all, the sneaky priest he was looking for, Father Montero, hadn’t been found in his own church when they’d gone and looked for him. More likely than not he was hiding behind his Bishop’s skirts. And her congregation wouldn’t give him up easily.

 

Too bad for them.

 

“Alright,” he said, stepping back and motioning to the contingent of soldiers he’d brought with him—two Generals, several Druids, two Archers, and a Sage, who all stood beside him. “Bust it open.”

 

The Generals nodded, and at the same time raised their huge Silver Axes. A moment passed as the blades gleamed in the air, and then both of them brought the weapons down on the door.

 

As large and thick as it was, it was no match for their strength. The liturgical chant stopped abruptly as the door was blown to pieces, the Revolutionary warriors stepping through the wreckage as Bishop Monica’s congregation stared at them in shocked silence.

 

Neither Tassar nor his men cared as they strode right down the aisle up to the altar in front of which Bishop Monica was presiding. The communicant receiving his bread and milk looked back, yelped, and stumbled away, losing both his food and drink. Nobody noticed, however, not even the bishop—she was too busy glaring at the interlopers in fury.

 

“What in God’s name are you doing here?!” she thundered. “This is the holy hour of the Saint! Leave at once! LEAVE!”

 

Tassar only allowed a slight grin to play across his face as he strode right up to her, unsheathed his sword, and pointed it right at her chest. To her credit, she didn’t step back—she continued to stare at him levelly, right into his eyes. Her congregants, however, began to get to their feet, angrily shouting amongst themselves like “How dare he show Her Excellency such disrespect!” and “Heathen!” Threatening glances from the Generals, however, put them in their place.

 

“You’re forgetting who rules this city,” said Tassar. “ _Me_. Now, I’ll be honest—I don’t like you, woman, but I don’t want any trouble either. I don’t want to cause any more friction between the Revolution and the Church than I have to. But some of your underlings are just giving me too many problems to ignore.

 

“Where’s Father Montero? I want you to tell me— _now_. I know he’s been feeding the Royalists information for weeks, and I’ve given it a pass, but with them right on my doorstep I can’t let it go anymore. I promise I’ll leave you and your congregants alone—in fact, I’ll even pay for that door of yours. But I _need_ Montero.”

 

“What are you going to do with him?”

 

“Nothing, I promise. We’ll just have a little talk, is all.”

 

The woman’s grimace grew more pronounced. “Do you take me for a fool? I know you’ll kill him! I—“

 

“Look, enough of this. Do you want to do this the hard way? Hand him over and I’ll leave you alone.”

 

“Father Montero is a member of my precious flock! I won’t allow any harm to come to him! I’ll tell you one more time, rebel. LEAVE!”

 

Tassar’s fingers twitched--he wanted to smack her, and would have gained a great deal of pleasure if he did. He had too much self-control, however, and he simply balled his hands into fists and took a deep breath. “Alright. We’ll leave you alone. Come on, men.”

 

Her eyes widened in surprise when he unexpectedly heeded her command…and widened even further when he stepped not back into the aisle but behind her, heading for the double-doors behind the altar, which led to the cathedral sanctuary. Eliminean cathedrals were organized in this way: a roughly rectangular area which, in front of the narthex, or entrance, lay the pews and the aisle leading to the altar and other liturgical devices. Behind that was a door which led to an open area—a Sanctuary. Somewhat like a courtyard, it was enclosed by four walls making it square-shaped and had a holy tree set into its center, taken care of by the Bishop and some of her congregants. Behind this tree, at the far end of the Sanctuary in the middle of the far wall, lay the Bishop’s Tower. At four stories tall the narrow structure was a miniature replica of the great Tower of the Saint. The first two floors consisted of mundane administrative facilities (a workroom on the first floor, the bishop’s personal library on the second) with important-sounding names, and the third floor was the bishop’s personal room, with her actual throne and a few seats for her to hold meetings with high-ranking secular and ecclesiastical officials. The fourth floor held the massive bells which could call all of Elimine’s faithful from the far ends of the city.

 

Without missing a beat, he casually pushed the doors open, the Generals following him. Monica followed him as well, the rest of her congregation beginning to crowd around the open back door, utterly shocked. The mercenary strode, into the Sanctuary, the ‘courtyard’ behind the main cathedral proper and past the great evergreen tree at its grassy center, heading straight to the Bishop’s personal tower at the far end.

 

 “W-where are you going?!” Monica cried. “This is sacred ground!” She grabbed at him, but Tassar shoved her away, into the arms of one of his escorts. “Keep her here,” he said. The Generals nodded, happy to follow the order, and with the annoying woman taken care of Tassar slammed open the small door of the cathedral’s tower.

 

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. It was still dark this early in the morning, but there was just enough light filtering in from the stained-glass windows for him to make out his quarry. The first floor of the Bishop’s tower, as with most Cathedrals in this part of Elibe, was a relatively small area containing seats, desks, and prodigious amounts of inkpots and parchments where the lower clergy and the bishop’s assistants performed the more mundane duties an Eliminean cathedral served—historically, its purpose was administrative as well as ecclesiastical, after all. No-one was in it during Sunday mass, of course—but today was special.

 

“W-what?!” yelped Montero as Tassar sauntered into the room, walked right up to him, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and yanked him out from under the desk he’d attempted to hide behind.

 

“Oh? What’s this?” he asked. He’d grabbed Montero just as the man had attempted to dart downwards…into what was apparently some sort of secret passage underneath the desk. _Might come in handy later,_ thought Tassar to himself. But right now he had bigger things to deal with—he knew this as he looked at the priest and grinned wolfishly.

 

“Sorry, Father. Should’ve made your exit earlier.”

 

“Y-YOU REBEL SCUM!” The priest struggled against Tassar with all his might, but it was in vain. “YOU’RE FAR TOO LATE! I’VE TOLD THEM EVERYTHING! YOUR REVOLUTION IS DOOMED, YOU HEAR ME? _DOOMED!_ ”

 

“Yeah, maybe. But you won’t be around to see it end.”

 

Still holding on to the struggling clergyman, Tassar returned outside, where one of his Generals was still holding onto Her Excellency—and his other soldiers were standing in front of the door to the cathedral proper.

 

“MONTERO!” Monica screamed, struggling against the General that held her as she watched Tassar drag him away. “LET HIM GO!”

 

“Don’t you know when to shut up?” Tassar paused to laugh at her. “You know he had it coming. Our agreement was to leave you God-heads alone if you didn’t give us any trouble. Montero broke the agreement, so we have to deal with him. Fair’s fair.” An ugly sneer spread across his face. “None of this would be happening if he hadn’t turned his coat on us. But I guess that would be too much to expect from one of _your_ underlings, right? You sure have a soft spot for traitors and scoundrels. I mean, just look at your son!”

 

At that, Monica’s face went red, twisting in almost unfathomable rage. “YOU FILTHY-“ Tassar simply laughed at her once again, turned, and gave Montero a shove.

 

That was a mistake.

 

He honestly thought that was the end of it. “Don’t let her go until I’ve exited the cathedral,” he ordered the General holding the simmering Bishop and the other soldiers guarding the backdoor as he pushed past them back into the main building. Maintaining his grip on Montero (who received pitying and sympathetic glances from Monica’s congregants), he’d managed to make it just about halfway down the aisle when he felt something he really didn’t expect.

 

A flash of light coming from the doorway behind him and a series of panicked, angry shouts.

 

Stomach sinking, he turned just in time to get a good view of another two bright flashes and the Druids and Snipers he’d had guarding the doorway stumbling back, dazed and disoriented.

 

Storming past them, rushing past (in fact, jumping _over_ ) the altar towards him as quickly as she could, and brandishing a Divine tome was Bishop Monica.  


“Shit! Forgive me, commander!” shouted one of the Generals, barreling in behind her and slightly singed. “She wormed out my grasp and took out that spellbook from under her robes!”

 

“Montero! Run! I’ll deal with this scum!” she shouted, letting forth another two bursts of divine energy from the tome which caused her congregants to duck and cover their eyes, Tassar’s soldiers to stumble back again, and Tassar himself to grimace and let go of Montero. The priest was more than happy to take the advice of his superior—he rushed straight down the aisle and out of the narthex, straight outside to tell the whole city that Tassar had picked a fight with the Bishop.

 

“Shit!” yelled Tassar. But when he glanced back to that damnable Bishop who’d started this whole mess, he just realized things had gotten much worse.

 

She hadn’t been aiming that Divine spell randomly. Near the entrance to the Cathedral was a charred, smoking corpse, its blackened mouth open in a wordless scream—the rebel soldier which would have blocked Montero’s exit.

 

“You…you killed someone!” Tassar’s mouth hung slightly agape. “What kind of ‘holy woman’ are you, Monica?!”

 

“It’s no more than you deserve, you filthy mercenaries,” she snarled through gritted teeth. “Now GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

 

Tassar hopped backwards as a beam of light slammed down from above him into where he’d just been standing—leaving a huge, smoking crater in its passage.

 

“Damn! You lunatic!” he swore, and swore again when he saw several more beams of light fall right around the woman, smashing her altar. “Looks like the flock’s getting quite the fireworks display,” he mumbled when he noticed the awed faces of the onlookers (who at this point were ducking behind the pews and massing by the walls of the cathedral), and swore a third time when he noticed what his fellow soldiers were doing. The Generals and Snipers were blinded by the light and couldn’t get a bead on her, the Druid’s dark magic couldn’t penetrate the power of the Light tome, and the Sage’s magic was barely even powerful enough to get by her considerable magical defenses.

 

She raised that damn book in the air once again, and Tassar knew he had to stop her. “This is getting out of control!” He sheathed his Silver Sword and unlimbered his hand axe—he definitely didn’t want to hurt her, no matter how good it would have felt, because that would likely set the Church as a whole against them, but he could at least put a stop to her spellcasting.

 

“YAH!” He hurled the axe towards her, but to his dismay, she ducked right in time—the only thing it succeeded in doing was taking off her Bishop’s miter. She turned towards him to loose another blast of holy energy, and this time he wasn’t entirely fast enough to dodge it. He yelled in pain and crashed into a nearby pew as a burning sensation raced up his left arm. It wasn’t quite the same as being cooked by an anima user’s fire, and when he stood up, glancing at the wound with bleary eyes, he noticed that the skin and armor on the arm looked like it had been _blasted_ away, not burnt.

 

It still hurt, though. And now, he was mad.

 

“Stupid wench!” He got back to his feet and turned towards the altar, where the Bishop had turned her attention back to keeping Tassar’s soldiers at bay. Many people were streaming out of the cathedral doors in terror, but many more were staying in place, transfixed by the spectacle.

 

Well, it was going to end soon.

 

Gritting his teeth, Tassar readied another hand axe and aimed it very carefully at the Divine tome the woman was holding. She was holding it to her side, so he figured another toss would take it right out of her hands. Grinning angrily, he twirled his weapon in his hand once, twice, and let fly.

 

It was the biggest mistake he’d made in his life.

 

He was still slightly dizzy and disoriented from the Divine attack—it may have thrown his aim off. Perhaps it was the adrenaline. Maybe he’d let his anger get the better of him. Or maybe it was just that killer instinct, honed over many years as a mercenary that he just couldn’t suppress.

 

But whatever the reason, his axe didn’t it its intended target.

 

Instead, it slammed right into the woman’s chest.

 

All of a sudden, it seemed as if everything had gone dead-quiet. The terrified congregants ceased their milling. Tassar’s soldiers lowered their weapons. And Tassar himself stood stock-still, nearly dropping the second axe he’d readied, watching the scene in front of him

 

He couldn’t believe it, and judging by the looks of it, the woman couldn’t either.

 

A bright flower of red blossomed all over the front of her surplice, his axe at the center of it—embedded squarely in her chest.

 

Strangely enough, the anger had disappeared from the woman’s face—now, it was replaced by wide-eyed shock, and pain. A lot of pain. Her face twisted as she staggered back, the book falling from her hands, and coughed up a gout of blood. She couldn’t stay on her feet, and she collapsed to her knees, her long teal hair descending like a veil over her face.

 

She would have hit the floor, if Tassar had not rushed up immediately to support her. Not because he was concerned about her…but because he knew what her death would mean.

 

“SHIT! SHIT!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, and turned to look at the Sage standing a short distance away from the disrupted altar. “YOU! GET A STAFF! NOW!”

 

“I…where?!” he blubbered. “I can’t heal a wound like that!”

 

“Dammit!” When Tassar looked down at her, he realized the Sage was right. There was no way anyone could heal her in time—the light was already fading from her eyes.

 

“S-Sergion…Re…”

 

Those were her last words. She coughed up another gout of blood—and with that, Monica of Thagaste, Bishop of Zodian’s Rest, reclined back in Tassar’s arms and lay very still.

 

Once again, silence reigned across the entire cathedral for what seemed to be an eternity.

 

Then the shouting started.

 

“He…he killed the Bishop!”

 

“Lady Monica!”

 

“Her Excellency…she’s dead!”

 

“Those…those rebel vermin! Spread the word! Tell the guards!!”

 

“You…YOU MURDEROUS CUR!”

 

With that last oath, the crowd of sheep, which had previously been cowed and terrified, took on a new and distinctly violent life. They surged forwards, and Tassar quickly dropped Monica’s already-cooling corpse to stumble back towards the back door of the cathedral. His soldiers were already doing the same; in fact were already retreating back into the sanctuary—they had noplace else to go. And Tassar desperately wished they did, because several members of the mob—children—were darting out the front narthex, wailing, screaming, and hollering at the top of their lungs to the entire city that their beloved Bishop was dead.

 

Already, this mob was too big for even Tassar and his men to handle. And it wouldn’t be long before it got a whole lot bigger.

 

Not that Tassar could really worry about it, though. The hundreds of pious Mass-attenders swarmed towards and around him, driving him and his men back.

 

“Murderer!”

 

“You killed our Lady!”

 

“The Mother of our city!”

 

“Thagaste’s light! You took her away!”

 

One voice rose up over the others.

 

“MONICA! OUR MARTYR’S DEATH WILL NOT BE IN VAIN! _MAKE THEM PAY!!!!_ ”

 

Tassar had been having a very bad day. And it was about to get a whole lot worse.

 

-X-

 

The mission had barely started and it already seemed to be going wrong.

 

It was still dark, and that made the spots of red-and-orange light and flashes of white and yellow in the distance all that more vivid. Even though he and the rest of his team were on a pair of small rafts floating relatively quickly towards the city of Thagaste, its walls still seemed distant in the darkness, and Renault estimated it’d be at least half an hour before they arrived at the docks. Despite that, though, he thought he could hear shouts screams, and the dim clamor of combat, and thus knew that the flashes of light were those of spells and the spots of red were those of buildings set alight.

 

“What the hell,” muttered Braddock, huddling next to him under the tarpaulin that concealed the boats, “this can’t be right! How could the battle have already started? There’s no way Henken could’ve reached the city by now, it’s way too early!”

 

“Doesn’t seem like it’s our guys,” said Harvery from Renault’s other side. “From the looks of it I’d say something’s going on in the city itself.”

 

“Like a riot or something?”

 

“I’m not sure, but…if I had to bet, I’d bet on that.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” interjected Khyron, “we have our mission, and we WILL complete it, no matter what’s going on inside that city!”

 

“Yeah, like I wasn’t expecting that,” Renault mumbled to himself. Naturally, everyone else felt the same way, and for several more minutes nothing else was said as their boats drifted peacefully towards Thagaste.

 

There were nine of them, ten if you counted Lisse—she was now their official transporter, and had been brought along with a good deal of equipment and extra supplies in case they ran into any unexpected contingencies (which they already had) and, of course, to take care of any treasures they happened upon over the course of their mission. None of them had the inclination to enjoy the scenery passing them calmly by—their nerves were too strung. All they could do was huddle under the cover of their rafts and hope the Revolutionaries didn’t find them. That didn’t seem too hard, though—apparently, with all the chaos in the city, keeping a watch on the rivers was the least of its occupier’s worries.

 

Thus, the team had almost no problems washing up against the small piers near the south end of the city a few minutes later. It was almost deserted—not a rarity on a Sunday morning, but given the chaos now readily evident (Renault and his friends could hear the clash of weapons and the screams of people dying), it was easy to tell this was because everyone—both the revolutionaries and the citizens—was too busy fighting.

 

They moored the rafts to the piers and were ready to go in a matter of moments. After each of them had picked up their weapons and equipment, Khyron turned to Rosamia and Lisse before they began their attack.

 

“Rosamia, I want you to stay here and guard Lisse. When we rendezvous with Henken’s forces we’ll send a contingent of soldiers to come back for you.”

 

She was taken aback, though her companion looked pleased at having the extra protection. “Lord Khyron, I won’t be fighting with you and Apolli? Why? My training-“

 

“Don’t argue with me, girl,” he said irritatedly. “You’re the only other one besides me who knows how to use magic, which means you’re the only other one who can send signals to the rest of the army! If I die or the attack on the gatehouse fails, you’ll need to launch a fireball into the air to tell Henken what’s happened. If you’re unable to do that, he’ll have no idea what’s going on!”

 

She couldn’t argue with that, and a quick push from one of her friends cemented it.“It’s not that bad, Rosamia,” said Braddock. “I mean, you have to admit what Khyron says makes sense. And considering how rare it is for that guy to think through his plans, it’s something to be happy about, right?”

 

Even Rosamia, to her mortification, couldn’t stifle a chuckle at that, and Khyron shifted an angry glare between both of them, but at that point Braddock had already begun rushing off to the alleyway between two buildings. “Come on, everybody,” he called, “we don’t have much time! Stop standing around and get going!”

 

None of them could argue with that. Renault, Khyron, and the rest of them followed their friend, the Pegasus Knights keeping their mounts on the ground in order to keep from attracting any attention sooner than they wanted. All of them moved with direction—they’d memorized the city diagram, which was more than enough to refresh Renault’s memories of his birthplace, and had also memorized a quick route from the docks right to their target—through this alley, to a small road, then through another alley, which led to the main road which itself was connected to each of the city’s main gates.

 

 _This might be a blessing in disguise,_ thought Renault to himself as he ran besides Braddock through the city’s dark alleys. _All these rioters are gonna do a good job of keeping our enemies off our backs. I just wonder what set ‘em off._

He’d find the answer to that question very soon. And he wouldn’t like it at all.

 

As he and Braddock rounded an alley corner which led into one of the city’s main roads, both of them suddenly stopped and hurled themselves at the walls, keeping their profiles low. They’d just happened on one of the small battles taking place all over Thagaste.

 

Right in the middle of the street, several dozen citizens had constructed a makeshift barricade made out of garbage, old furniture, and anything else they could get their hands on. They were hiding behind it, shouting invectives and throwing rocks, pots of boiling water, and offal at their enemies—a band of Revolutionary soldiers charging towards them, composed of eight Mercenaries, about a half-dozen Soldiers, and a trio of Knights.

 

Braddock and Renault realized that the rag-tag band of civilians didn’t have a chance against professional soldiers, so with a single glance passed between them they leapt into action—literally.

 

“RAAAAAAAH!” With a blood-curdling cry, Braddock, clad in his heavy Warlord’s armor, pumped his legs and jumped straight into the air, the magical visor on his helmet glowing brightly as his Wolf Beil gleamed in the air above it. He landed right on top of the Knights at the head of the Revolutionary formation. The Wolf Beil came down with its wielder’s body, the air rushing around it as it cut through the Knight’s metal helmet like paper…and did the same to the rest of his body, cleaving him _entirely in half_.

 

Braddock was too caught up in the moment to be distracted by the gory spectacle. While the two bloody halves of the Knight’s body fell apart, trailing viscera as they did so, the Warlord swore as he raised his shield to deflect the attack of one of the other Knights, who hadn’t yet absorbed the full impact of his friend’s death.  Like it was nothing, the spear bounced off Braddock’s fine shield, who proceeded to bash it right into the Knight’s helmet, sending him staggering back, stunned. Not wasting a moment, he swept his axe to the side, cleanly decapitating the other Knight before bringing it back to finish the stunned one.

 

He would have been surrounded—the six Soldiers, well-trained, didn’t let the deaths of their comrades faze them, and they changed their focus from the now-shocked civilians to their new foe, keeping several feet between him and the ends of their spears, pointed at the ready. Behind him, the eight Mercenaries readied their weapons, ready to fall on the axeman…at least, that’s what they would have done if their second opponent hadn’t made his entrance.

 

“Gyah! Guh!” That was all two of the Mercenaries could say as a flash of metal sliced through the backs of their necks, nearly decapitating them as it soared back to its wielder’s hand in an arc. The dagger’s chain led it right back to Renault’s hand as he jumped in to aid his friend, jabbing forwards with his Steel Sword as he landed behind a third mercenary, skewering the unfortunate rebel. The man’s comrades quickly moved to deal with this new threat as well, but Renault was more than able to handle it. He jammed his right foot into the impaled man’s back, kicking and hopping back with a spray of blood. This gave him just enough time to raise the dagger in his left hand as one of the other mercenaries swung his sword, and the weapon bounced off the dagger’s hilt. Meanwhile, Renault shifted his shoulder just slightly to the side, and when a second mercenary slashed down with his weapon he found it deflected by Renault’s white-and-teal pauldron.

 

In response, Renault flicked his left wrist, pointed the dagger towards the mercenary whose weapon it had just blocked, and jammed it into his chest. The man screamed as his friend slashed down a second time, but Renault simply raised his right arm, parrying the man’s attack with the flat of his own sword, jerked back his left hand, extricating the dagger with a spray of blood, and turned and slashed it at the other merc’s neck, rewarding him with yet another pretty crimson spray.

 

Braddock hadn’t been wasting time either. The moment his friend jumped in to secure his back he charged forwards himself, swinging his axe, the force of it enough to send three of the Soldiers stumbling back with their weapons wrenched from their hands as if they were twigs. The other three managed to keep a hold of their weapons and score hits on Braddock…but the spears simply bounced impotently off his chestplate, pauldrons, and the other parts of his heavy armor, almost as if they were made of wood rather than metal. The Warlord didn’t even notice, and with one more swing his Wolf Beil sent their guts spilling out onto the ground.

 

Behind him, the Mercenary Lord swiftly dispatched the remaining three lesser Mercenaries. He raised both sword and dagger in an X over his head to fend off a two-handed swing from one of them, and raised his foot to deliver a swift kick to the man’s abdomen, sending him stumbling to the ground in pain—then with a swift chop from his blade Renault left a huge gash in the rebel’s head. The moment after he hopped to the side, evading another mercenary’s charge, and flicked out his left hand, sending his dagger flying right into the man’s back. The mercenary cried out in pain, but didn’t stumble back—rather, he fell _backwards_ as Renault jerked his hand back, the chain attached to his dagger attached to the mercenary as well. The man fell right to Renault, who let go of the dagger’s chain, keeping it embedded in his back, and instead wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck. Just in time he turned, meeting the rush of the third mercenary.

 

The unfortunate rebel thought he’d scored a kill…which he did. Not of the right man, however. He’d charged forwards, sword leading the way, intended to stab it into Renault’s back. When the Mercenary Lord turned, however, he found his blade sinking into the stomach of his friend, held by the neck in front of his enemy like a shield.

 

“Nice going, chump.” The visor of Renault’s helmet glowed brightly for a moment as the man smirked beneath it. The mercenary in front of him staggered back, shocked at what he’d done as the face of his comrade contorted in pain and he let out his last, ragged breath. Of course, his killer wouldn’t have much time to contemplate his mistake—Renault tossed the dead soldier aside like a bag of trash, jerking his dagger out of his back as he did so, and with the same movement swept his sword over the remaining man’s torso, sending him to the ground with a scream of pain.

 

For the moment, Renault and Braddock found themselves with no-one to fight. They glanced at each other, then around them, and realized what, exactly, they had done.

 

The three remaining Soldiers, their weapons knocked out of their hands, stared at their assailants with blank-eyed amazement. Then they turned to each other, broke, and ran for their lives, their morale totally shattered.

 

The civilians behind the barricade were looking at them with gaping mouths, too shocked to continue their rioting, or even do anything at all.

 

Finally, behind them in the entrance to the alleyway, Khyron, the Pegasus Knights, Harvery, and Apolli had managed to catch up and had witnessed the two of them dispatching fifteen well-trained Rebel soldiers almost effortlessly (and very bloodily). They couldn’t do anything but stand and stare as well…except for Apolli, who managed to blurt out:

 

“Th…that’s amazin’!”

 

“I…I know,” was the only thing Braddock could say in response to that. Whatever magic was in those Earth Seals definitely deserved its reputation.

 

Nobody would have much time to gawk, though. There weren’t any more enemies in the immediate area, but the unruly civilians weren’t sure who to trust. “Who…who’re you?” asked a young man behind the barricade. “You’re not with the rebels, are you?”

 

“No!” shouted Khyron, bounding up to the rioters as quickly as he could. “I am Khyron Caerleon, Mage General of Etruria, and these men and women are my servants and servants of the Crown! We’re here to liberate this city!”

 

Pointedly, he hadn’t mention how Henken had given those orders, but Renault wasn’t concerned with that. “Hey, you shouldn’t just tell them who we are,” he said, “we’re not sure if they’re our allies yet. We—“

 

He was cut off by a rousing cheer from the rioters—apparently he needn’t have worried. “The Royal Army,” they shouted, “we’re saved!”

 

They streamed over the barricade to embrace Khyron and his troops, and while none of them were displeased by the attention, they knew they had work to do. The first item on the agenda was figuring out what the hell was going on.

 

“E—Ah!” yelled Khyron, managing to wriggle out of the embrace of an old woman who’d given him a hug. “E-Enough of this! As the Mage General, I ORDER you to tell me what the devil is happening here! Why is this city aflame? We haven’t given the order to attack yet! Why are you rising up now?”

 

“We’ve had enough!” shouted one youth nearby. “Just this mornin’ the bastards in charge of this place killed Lady Monica! Everybody in this city loved her, and they took her away! Now we want revenge!”

 

Khyron shouted something in response, and Renault thought Braddock said something to him, but he didn’t hear. In all the chaos, the shouts and screams, the burning buildings around him, time seemed to have stopped. He only cared about one thing—the name of “Monica.”

 

Heedless of everything else, he rushed over and grabbed the boy by the lapels of his cheap shirt.

 

“W-what?!” he stammered, panicked and confused, but as he watched his assailant, along with everyone else in the vicinity, he couldn’t resist. He couldn’t see Renault’s face behind the glowing green visor, but he felt such force coming from behind it that he couldn’t convince his body to do anything but answer the man’s questions.

 

“Monica,” said Renault, his voice even and ice-cold, without the slightest tinge of passion. “Do you mean Bishop Monica of Zodian’s Rest?”

 

“Y-yes, I—“

 

“What happened to her?”

 

“I-I dunno! I just heard she was dead! She got into some argument with Tassar and—“

 

“Tassar,” Renault growled, rage beginning to creep into his voice. “TASSAR!” He violently shook the boy back and forth. “Where is he? TELL ME!”

 

“I-I think he holed himself up at the Cathedral,” whimpered the lad, “That’s where all this started. P-please, sir, you’re hurtin’ me!”

 

He had to endure a little more pain as Renault tossed him on the ground without a second thought, gazed off into the distance…and then broke into a mad run. Faster than anyone could have imagined for a man wearing such heavy full plate, the Mercenary Lord had darted off into yet another alleyway, heading towards a destination of his own.

 

“RENAULT,” Braddock shouted, “WAIT!” He started to pursue his friend, but Khyron stopped him in his tracks.

 

“WHAT THE DEVIL IS HAPPENING?” the Sage bellowed, loudly enough that both his comrades and the civilians stumbled back.

 

“Dammit, shut up, Khyron!” yelled Braddock as he resumed his chase for his friend. “That was Renault’s _mother_! I gotta find him before he goes off and gets himself killed!”

 

“His _WHAT?!_ ” Khyron was stunned for a moment as he absorbed the information, and by that time, Braddock had disappeared along with Renault. Already, the “Autonomous Company” had been whittled down to the Sage, his Sniper, the Assassin, the Pegasus Knights, and the Mage and Transporter waiting at the docks.

 

“L-Lord Khyron,” stammered Apolli, “W-what should we do? Should we go after ‘em?”

 

“No,” swore the Sage through gritted teeth, “NO! WE—“ He was interrupted by the noisy arrival of yet _another_ group of Rebel soldiers. A quartet of Wyvern Knights, likely survivors from the battle at Aquleia, crashed down onto the makeshift barricade, splattering it into dozens of pieces and sending the civilians fleeing in every direction.

 

Of course, their enemies were expecting them. An arrow through the head from Apolli took out one, a blast from Khyron’s spellbook scorched another, and Harvery’s knives carved up a third, leaving only their leader. But it seemed he’d be a much tougher nut to crack.

 

“Damn,” yelled the dusky-skinned Bernite with poofy blond hair, “You guys are tougher than I—“

 

He was interrupted by a flash of white lancing towards and over him, and he spurred his own mount back into the air as a wide grin spread across his face, dodging another arrow and spell from Apolli and Khyron as he did so.

 

“Kasha?! That you? Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon!”

 

The woman who’d just attacked him let out a manic peal of laughter. “C’mon, you know I couldn’t stay away from you for long! Now let’s go and FINISH WHAT WE STARTED!!”

 

Once again, Khyron shouted at them to stop, and once again, his order went completely unheeded. Kasha didn’t care in the least, now that she had another opportunity for the one-on-one duel she’d been waiting so long for. Both she and Yazan spurred their mounts upwards, and within a few moments they were dipping and diving at one another across the sky, far away from Kasha’s comrades below.

 

Yet again, Khyron was left to sputter to himself incredulously, as his underlings and Kasha’s sisters stared at the sky and then back at him blankly.

 

“Er, Lord Khyron,” said Kelitha meekly, “Do you want us to assist Ka—“

 

“DAMMIT! _DAMMIT_ ,” bellowed the Sage in response, “Does no-one in this company know how to follow orders?! I don’t have time for this! Kelitha, Keith, ignore your sister! To hell with Renault and Braddock! You’re going to fly out of this city and give Henken a report on what’s happening here. Apolli, Harvery, follow me to the South Gate, and with the assistance of the citizenry we’ll have it taken by the time the Ilians meet with Henken. And if any of you even THINK of disobeying me this time, I’ll incinerate you on the spot! UNDERSTAND?”

 

None of them needed to be told twice. Without another word, the two remaining Pegasus Knights took to the air and flew south, towards the advancing Royalist army. And Khyron turned back, towards the rioters who were beginning to regroup themselves.

 

“All of you,” he called, “If you call yourselves subjects of the King and citizens of Etruria, follow me! The outcome of this battle rests on us taking the South Gate out of the enemy’s hands! As the Mage General and your leader, I’ll bring you to victory!”

 

He began his run straight down the street, and with a rousing cheer the re-moralized mob charged after him, taking the very dismayed Apolli and Harvery along for the ride.

 

 

-x-

 

Henken didn’t know what was going on. And there was nothing he hated more than that.

 

He was marching at the head of the army towards Thagaste, Count Hallard and Reglay at his side, Gafgarion and Jerid leading their contingents behind them. Though they hadn’t slowed at all, the men were already whispering about what they were seeing and hearing—plumes of smoke coming from the city, and the sounds of battle carried over by the wind. They were almost there, the South Gate in plain sight, and they were very worried about what they’d find.

 

“What’ve you done, Khyron,” Henken muttered to himself—and as luck would have it, he’d have the answer quite soon.

 

“Sir, above us!”

 

The Great General did not stop his march, but looked up towards the sky where Count Hallard was pointing. Two forms were rapidly descending. Wyvern Knights? No…they were pure white. Pegasus Knights. They drew close enough that he could recognize their green hair as those of Kelitha and Keith, two of the three survivors of the Shrike Team.

 

As they alighted nearby, he didn’t waste a moment with pleasantries. “What’s the situation?” he asked. “Has something went wrong with Khyron’s mission?”

 

“No, sir,” replied Kelitha, her Pegasus trotting at pace with him. “Riots had begun in the city by the time our boat docked. The citizenry seems to have risen up against the rebel occupation.”

 

“Yeah!” exclaimed Keith. “I think the guy in charge killed somebody important…a bishop or something!”

 

“A bishop?!” Only the slightest tremor of voice from the Great general’s cyclopean helm gave any indication he was the slightest bit surprised. “Bishop Monica?”

 

“Yeah, that’s her! At least that’s what I think her name was.”

 

If anyone in the area had been able to see beneath Henken’s helmet, they might have managed to notice the tiny twitch of his face that passed for one of his grins. “It seems we’ve gained an advantage,” he said. “Has Khyron captured the South Gate?”

 

“Yes, replied Kelitha, “with little difficulty. He, er, had trouble controlling some of our more enthusiastic comrades, but he rallied a large band of citizens and captured the gatehouse with ease. You need to hurry, though. The rebels will suppress the rioters soon without the Army’s support.”

 

“But they won’t able to hold the city when they have to deal with both an insurrection and our attack,” Henken finished. He raised his axe in the air, an indication for Reglay to cast the usual voice-enhancement spell.

 

“THE PEOPLE OF THAGASTE HAVE RISEN AGAINST THE REBELS,” Henken shouted, “AND THE GATES OF THE CITY ARE OPEN TO US! _CHARGE!!_ ”

 

In full plate armor, he began a straight run towards the huge iron grates, Hallard and Reglay keeping pace behind him and the two Pegasus Knights floating above him. With a great, earth-shaking cheer, the rest of the Royal Army enthusiastically followed. As they neared the gates, they lifted and opened, allowing them to hear the shouts of despair of Revolutionary soldiers who were retreating further into the city (or away from it entirely) and the loud, raucous cheers of the rioting citizens who’d been attacking them with whatever makeshift weaponry they could get their hands on. It had been bloody—the bodies of a few rebels were surrounded by the bodies of dozens of rioters each—but as the Royalist forces poured into the city, they knew their victory was at hand.

 

As they passed into the city, the army branched out into three parts. Henken raised his axe into the air again and blared, “WHERE’S KHYRON?!”

 

“We’re right here!” yelled the Sage, rushing down from the nearby gatehouse where he’d been holding off Revolutionary troops, followed by Apolli and Harvery, along with the group of rioters they’d conscripted to assist them. All of them rejoined Keith and Kelitha along with the Great General, the two Counts, and Gafgarion and Jerid, with the rioters joining in the general revelry of the citizenry who were eagerly greeting the Royalist forces.

 

“Hah! I expected this mission to be difficult,” Khyron boasted. “Under my leadership, the people were able to capture the gatehouse almost by themselves! I—“

 

“We haven’t won yet.” Henken cut him off bluntly, leaving him to sputter. “Send Keith and Kelitha to gather up the other members of your Company. You, Harvery, and Apolli are going to accompany me and Hallard to take the castle.” He gestured to Gafgarion and Jerid. “You two will head for Thagaste. Reglay, your forces will secure the outskirts of the city, and your Valkyries will also provide us will long-range healing with their Physic staves.  That way, Tassar won’t be able to spring any trap he laid for you. All of you, do you understand?”

 

He received nothing but hasty nods. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and with another rousing cheer the army began dividing into three parts as it continued its rush into Thagaste, the rebel forces falling back further and further before it. And as Keith and Kelitha soared back up into the sky to search for their missing friends, Khyron, Harvery, and Apolli followed the Great General as his forces began their march towards the castle at the center of the city.

 

-X-

 

 _Damn, this isn’t gonna be easy_ , thought Renault to himself as he stayed hidden behind a corner of a house some distance from the great cathedral of Zodian’s Rest. He could tell from there that Tassar had locked himself pretty well into the structure—after he’d murdered Monica, Renault wagered, he and whoever he had with him had retreated to the tower at the far end of the building. He’d apparently recalled many of his forces to clean it out, maintain control of it and use it as a makeshift stronghold, as Rebel archers and spellcasters could be seen tossing projectiles and spells at the rioters below. And the rioters were absolutely incensed—a lot of them seemed to have gone mad, screaming and foaming at the mouth with “MONICA THE MARTYR!” on their lips. Tassar had managed to bring in enough of his men in time, however, and they wouldn’t be able to take the cathedral by themselves—though naturally, they’d meet with much more success once the Royalist army arrived, which Renault knew wouldn’t be too long—Khyron had definitely captured the gatehouse by now.

 

He knew the smart thing to do was to wait for the troops. In fact, he knew it had been stupid of him to just run off like that in the first place. But his rational mind couldn’t overcome his emotions. After what he’d heard, he had to see for himself.

 

And he knew exactly what to do. He quickly darted over to the other side of the building and clambered through a window—fortunately, the inhabitants were absent, apparently having joined in the rioting. He remembered them; at least assuming they still lived in this house, they’d been some of his mother’s favorite parishioners. He’d actually been here once as a youth. And lucky for him, he still remembered the little secret this house (and many like it) held.

 

When he was about 15, his mother had taken him along to a dinner this couple had offered to the Bishop. Being a disobedient, rebellious youth in the wake of his father’s death, he’d been none too happy about it…and as his mother talked with the couple, made a point to take advantage of her distraction to explore. And when he was searching their dark wine cellar, he’d bumped into something, causing some boxes to crash down on his head. But they revealed a secret he wished he’d been able to take advantage of at the time…and which now would come in very handy.

 

Renault rushed into the house and into its cellar, its layout still present in his mind even after all these years. The boxes weren’t even there any more, revealing his object clearly even in the darkness.

 

A door.

 

His mother had heard the noise and rushed down to scold him, but lucky for him the owners of the house were much more indulgent—“boys will be boys,” they said. They’d even explained to him where the door led. Apparently, there was a network of catacombs beneath the city, dating back from the days of the Scouring, where humans took refuge against the onslaught of the dragons. They provided many hidden escape routes for the citizenry, and one of these routes led to an old church…the oldest church in Thagaste, in fact…the church on top of which Zodian’s Rest was built.

 

Time to find out if that old tale was true. Renault kicked the door wide open, and it revealed a dark stone passageway, completely unlit. Fortunately, the magic of his helmet gave him good vision even in the darkness, and he charged straight into it without thinking. He didn’t keep much track of time in his state, but it didn’t seem like long before he reached a stairwell and took it. And when he popped his head through the exit at the top, he knew the couple had been right.

 

He was in the first floor of the tower of his mother’s cathedral. He was peeking his head out from under an old desk, actually, which had been moved over the spot to conceal the hidden entrance. He raised an arm to push it easily out of the way and stood up. In the morning light filtering through the windows it definitely wasn’t hard to tell what sort of room he was in—the administrative offices. And in the center of the room, sitting in front of the largest desk, was…Monica.

 

“Mom?! MOM!”

 

Without a second thought, Renault rushed over to her still form and grabbed her. She didn’t move in response—in fact, she just slumped backwards in her seat when he touched her, her eyes completely shut and her mouth just slightly parted as if she didn’t even note his presence. And when he took a better look, he knew exactly why.

 

The huge, bloody gash in the middle of the great red stain that covered her entire chest.

 

“M…mom…” Renault stammered. Memories came flooding back to him of his early childhood, his mother singing to him and feeding him, the smiles on her face…

 

And those were quickly replaced by her shouting at him, scolding him, reprimanding him for his impiety, and looking at him with haggard, disappointed eyes—all because he refused to worship the God who took his father from him.

 

When he first saw her body, he had almost been overcome by sadness. But as those bad memories came flooding back, anger washed over him, hot and bright, before he could even think about properly mourning. “Dammit! You idiot! IDIOT!” he shouted. He should have taken it as a warning sign that the cathedral tower was empty, even though the surrounding buildings were filled with rebel soldiers, but in his state he didn’t notice. “I told you! I told you! Your damn God wouldn’t help you! You never listened, and this is how you ended up! DAMMIT!” Angrily, he shoved her body to the floor, staring down at it with hatred and disgust.

 

And as he did so, he heard a low chuckle coming from behind him.

 

“It’s been a while, Renault. You haven’t changed at all.”

 

He whirled around to see Tassar stepping out of the shadow of the back stairwell towards him, anger gleaming in his eyes.

 

His voice didn’t show it, though. “Well, you’ve changed a little bit, I have to admit,” he chuckled again. “That armor and dagger’s pretty nice, for one. But the way you act’s just the same. Knew you’d react like this when you saw your mother. Hell, I even bet you’d come in here through that little secret entrance under the desk. So predictable. I dunno how you managed to survive this war without me.” He nodded over to Monica’s body. “Sorry about that, though—couldn’t give her a proper funeral, obviously,” he said matter-of-factly. “Had to keep her in here. The townies would go berserk if they got a hold of her body, and they’re mad enough already.”

 

“Tassar.” Renault didn’t care about small talk—you could almost feel the white-hot rage burning through his voice. And he only wanted to know one thing.

 

“Did you do this?”

 

Tassar replied with a cold sneer. “What if I did? You hadn’t seen her in years, Renault, and you hated her anyways. Why the hell are you so mad at me for that? You owe me a favor, all things considered.”

 

“So? She was still my mother, Tassar. I hated her, yeah…but not as much as I hate you. You were…you were USING me! I was just a pawn for you and Paptimus!”

 

“Again, why do you care? Weren’t you happier as a mercenary?”

 

“I may have been,” replied Renault through gritted teeth, “but that was until I found out you betrayed me, you son of a bitch!”

 

“BETRAYED you?” Tassar’s voice began to tremble slightly itself. “Renault, I was the one who took you away from a mother you hated, I took you away from a do-nothing life in this shithole city, and I turned you from a worthless delinquent into a real warrior! And how did you repay me? By running off to the Royalists, ruining this revolution for the sake of some noble whores, and humiliating me in front of my leader! And you think I betrayed YOU?!”

 

“Yeah, that’s right, Tassar. I only gave you what you deserved. You think I’m stupid? I read the letter I stole. You knew what was waiting for me at Scirocco, but you still fed my reputation to the wolves all for this damn revolution Paptimus started! You played me like a fool, grooming me and Braddock into good little soldiers for him! And nobody does that, Tassar. _NOBODY_!” He stood up, raised himself to his full height, and pointed his sword right at the mercenary. “My mother’s death is just icing on the cake, you bastard. Gives me the last bit of motivation I need to slaughter you, right here, right now!”

 

“Convenient enough.” Tassar’s wolfish grin widened. “I want the same thing, boy. You made a fool out of me and set Paptimus against me! Even if this city falls, even if the Revolution fails, and even if I end up dying, I only want two things: Your death and Reglay’s death. Now, let me get started on the first!”

 

He rushed forwards with an overhead swing, which Renault quickly blocked with a crossed dagger and sword. However, he didn’t counter—rather, the Mercenary Lord stepped to the side and gave a sharp, angry, guttural chuckle.

 

“You wanted a piece of Reglay? Let me guess, you were counting on him coming here, right?”

 

Tassar didn’t answer—he just took a couple of steps back, holding his sword and shield in front of him.

 

“Got some bad news for you, Tassar. I knew you had a grudge against him, so I told him you were waiting for him. He’s taking it nice and easy on the outskirts of this city. Even if you manage to beat me, you’ll never be able to get at him, not before the Royalists kill you!”

 

For the first time in Renault’s life, he saw Tassar’s calm, controlled veneer crack slightly. The man’s face reddened and he bared his teeth. But true to form, he didn’t lose control entirely. No, instead, he smiled.

 

“All right then,” the veteran mercenary snarled, “that just means I’ll unload the prize I was keeping for him on you, kid. DRUIDS, SMASH HIM!”

 

“What the—“ was the only thing Renault could say as the shadows around him, all over the room, warped and twisted, revealing the six Druids who were hiding within them. And before he could react, they raised their arms, summoning six writhing globules of darkness, and sent them right at him.

 

He didn’t even have time to scream before his world went pitch-black.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

First off: Thanks to Enilas for beta-ing :D Secondly—not much to say aboot this chapter, except that I hope you liked it! Hope the AWESOME has been kept up in this chappie. I have to confess, though, this was originally intended to be one BIIIIIIIG chapter, but when the word count started creeping upward I figured it’d be best to split it into two parts, so as not to overwhelm my readers. That’s why you’re getting a double dose this month! :D

Anyways, a note about cathedral architecture. As most of y’all know, many (though not all, or even most) IRL cathedrals are shaped like crosses. However, since the cross has no significance in Eliminism, I decided to make up my own architectural basis, which is (hopefully XD) both original and cool. Hope ya like it! The significance of the tree in the Eliminean faith will be expounded on…*much* later (I mean in the latter quarter of the fic…like around chapter 60 or so. XD;;;; )

 

So how was this chapter? Were you expecting Monica to buy it? Remember, even though Renault and Braddock’s fates may be sealed, you don’t know what’s gonna happen to anyone else ;) Just as a note, Monica’s death with primarily inspired by all the unwanted criticals you sometimes get in FE games—like if you give Bartre a low-accuracy axe, sometimes he’ll just kill Karla with a critical hit when you try to recruit her in FE7. That really sucks…and now, Tassar knows the pain. D: XD XD So tell me what you thought of it! Revuus, please~~

 


	28. The Siege of Thagaste, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle continues, and heats up, too! Who will hold the city of Thagaste at the day's end--the Rebels or the Royalists?

**28: The Siege of Thagaste—Part II**

“Hah, hah, hah! Stupid kid!”

 

Renault heard Tassar laughing at him as he felt the globes of darkness which had engulfed him surge not just towards him but _into_ him, the force of their shadowy energies attempting to consume his armor and his flesh.

 

As he heard Tassar laughing, though, he didn’t cry out in pain or rage. No, instead, he grinned viciously.

 

The dark energy was _trying_ to eat into him, yes, but without much success. He felt a tingling all over his body as the Pure Water he’d splashed over himself while making his way through the underground passage pushed the shadowy forces back. Though he felt an ache deep into his bones as pieces of his flesh disintegrated, the wounds were tiny and insignificant—the Pure Water kept the magic from doing any real damage.

 

He definitely owed Braddock a thank-you.

 

That would come later, though. Though his vision was still impeded by the orbs of darkness surrounding him, he could hear Tassar laughing. And that was all he needed.

 

“Hah, hah, ha—what?!”

 

With a flick of his wrist Renault sent his chaindagger flying out of the pulsating spheres of darkness, and he heard Tassar swear as he stumbled back and hastily blocked it with his shield. Without wasting a moment, Renault charged straight towards the off-balance Hero as his Druid companions looked on in shock, not expecting their opponent to still be alive.

 

Tassar, of course, hadn’t lost his composure for long. “Dammit! How the hell are you still alive?!” he spat as he raised his own Silver Sword to deflect Renault’s rushing overhead chop.

 

“I’ve always been full of surprises, haven’t I?” Renault drew back his sword-arm and punched at his foe with the hand that held his dagger. Once again, Tassar raised his shield to block, but this time, as Renault’s dagger knocked against its metal, he pushed it forwards, not hurting Renault but forcing the man to stumble back a few steps.

 

“Not nearly enough,” Tassar smirked, and Renault didn’t have time to respond before he felt a surge of magic run under his feet. As quickly as possible, and very adroitly for a man in full plate, he hopped to the side to avoid the black vortex that materialized in the air where he’d been standing a moment ago, then quickly ducked to the ground to evade the six small orbs of darkness sown into a field of purple runes that had appeared right where his chest would have been.

 

“Damn, Luna?!” Renault grunted to himself. He was no scholar of Dark Magic, but he was familiar with the spell from watching Druids and Shamans use it while he was still with the rebels, and knew how dangerous it was, even with his Pure Water barrier. With another flick of his wrist, from his crouching position Renault sent his dagger flying into a Druid’s cowled face, sending the man to the ground with a pained gurgle as his Luna tome fell beside him. However, the satisfaction he gained from making a kill was quickly replaced by pain as two more globes of darkness rose from the floor to swallow him. This time they hurt—the Pure Water’s enchantment was weakening, and Renault felt a bizarre, cold sort of pain as he felt the dark force _disintegrating_ his flesh under the skin. Grimacing, Renault held his arms in front of him and darted out of the sphere’s area of effect—and shifted his shoulder upwards just in time to let his pauldron take a slice from Tassar’s Silver Sword. Fortunately, the armor was thick enough to deflect it, but just barely—the enchanted metal left a deep cleft that would have otherwise been on Renault’s head.

 

He stabbed his Steel Sword down, aiming at Tassar’s feet, and the man had to break off his attack and hop backwards to avoid getting his leg skewered—that left Renault an opening. He felt surges of dark magic crackling through the air around him, so he let loose with his chaindagger again. He tossed it not at Tassar’s body but at the hand that held his sword, catching the mercenary off-guard—for the dagger hadn’t sunk into his arm but flew past and around it, allowing the chain to wrap itself around his wrist., though not tightly. In the same movement, Renault hopped to his feet and stepped back, jerking the dagger towards himself—and taking Tassar with it.

 

“What the—AAAH!”

 

The chain was not wrapped around his arm tightly, and when Renault jerked his arm back it retracted quickly, leaving a nasty burn on the other mercenary’s wrist. That wasn’t the real benefit of his action, though. Renault had backstepped just out of the area of effect of the incoming dark magic spells, but he’d dragged Tassar into the middle of it.

 

“WATCH OUT!” shouted one of the Druids, who hastily canceled his spell, along with another one who managed to do so just in time. The others, however, were not so conscientious, and Renault was rewarded with an angry, pained scream from Tassar as he caught the shadowy energies of a trio of Flux spells. He was quick enough to collapse to the floor and roll out of the way before the spells could do too much damage, but he’d still taken a nasty hit—evident by the way he staggered unsteadily to his feet.

 

“YOU IDIOTS,” he shouted, voice trembling from the pain, “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU AIMING?!”

 

“Guess your plan’s not working out as well as you hoped, you worthless son of a bitch!” shouted Renault, who brandished his weapons and charged straight at the weakened Hero.

 

“Shit!” Tassar knew it was time to make an exit. He turned his back to Renault and vaulted straight over one of the desks, much faster than Renault thought he could in his weakened state. As he did so he flipped it over with a midair kick, surprising the Mercenary Lord again and tripping him over it.

 

“KEEP HIM BUSY!” Tassar shouted as he broke into a run towards the stairwell leading to the second floor, sheathing his sword and reaching for the Vulnerary at his belt.

 

“GET BACK HERE!” Renault shouted, getting to his feet and resuming his run, and then growling in irritation as he was forced to skid to a stop a moment later and whirl to the side in order to avoid another series of Flux vortices that had emerged all around him.

 

“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY! I WANT TASSAR!” Renault screamed in rage and frustration. He swept a foot across the floor and kicked an overturned book right at one of the Druids, who was standing with his fellows right in front of the stairwell door Tassar had just disappeared into. It hit the robed man in the stomach and sent him staggering back with a loud “Ooof!” A moment later he let out a louder cry of pain as Renault charged right into him, running low with his sword and dagger leading the way. The Druid’s fellows were shocked once again—they couldn’t react fast enough to keep Renault from slamming his weapons right into their comrade’s stomach. Both blades sunk deeply into his flesh, protected only by thin black robes, with the sword’s edge protruding right out of his back—and in the same moment, Renault used that to _lift the man into the air_ , raising his arms and twisting his body to send the Druid flying off the weapons he’d been impaled on and straight behind him.

 

Without wasting a second, Renault dashed through the spray of blood left by his maneuver, through the door, and up the stairs, chasing after his hated enemy and leaving the Druids to yell at each other to follow.

 

-X-

 

“Shit! Renault, where the hell are you?!”

 

Braddock had actually lost sight of his friend several minutes ago—though they were both wearing heavy armor, and Braddock had called repeatedly for him to stop, the Mercenary Lord was so angry that he was running much, much faster than the Warlord had expected. He knew where Renault was going—if what the townspeople had said was accurate, Tassar was holed up in the Cathedral, and that would have been where Renault was running. Even though Braddock couldn’t keep up with him, and even though he didn’t know the city nearly as well as Renault did, the spire of the great holy building was very visible in Thagaste’s skyline, so the Warlord hadn’t gotten himself lost.

 

He had, however, apparently managed to lose Renault. He was hiding behind the corner of one of the houses some distance from Zodian’s Rest—unbeknownst to him, unfortunately, the same one which contained the secret passage to the church. Since he didn’t know that, he was left wondering where his friend had gone.

 

Because there was no way Renault could have gotten inside by himself. The outside of the cathedral was utter and complete chaos. A good portion of the rebel forces had been summoned and had managed to gain control of the cathedral itself, but at this point they were barely holding out. As word of Monica’s death spread like wildfire throughout the city, the subjugated people had emerged from their homes in rage and were descending upon her ecclesiastical seat. Rioters were swarming around the building like flies, surging forwards and then being driven back from the barricades set up in front of its entrance by the hail of arrows and spells raining down on them from Rebel soldiers in the windows.

 

Despite how difficult it would be, Braddock knew he had to get in there somehow if he wanted to help his friend. “You’re gonna owe me a whole lot for this, bud,” he grumbled to himself as he wiped some blood off of his Wolf Beil, took a flask of Pure Water from its place at its belt and splashed a good dollop of it all over himself as preparation for what he was about to do.

 

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Braddock charged out from behind the house and straight at the largest barricades in front of the main entrance. Almost like the waves parting, the crowd of rioters scrambled to get out of the way, opening a path for him. The two Generals behind the largest barricade noticed that an actual soldier—one with a very nasty-looking weapon and an intimidating set of armor—was barreling straight down on them. “D-DAMMIT,” one of them shouted, “CONCENTRATE ALL FIRE ON THAT ONE! KILL HIM!”

 

The two Generals tossed a Javelin and hand axe at the Warlord, and from the windows of the cathedral came a veritable hailstorm of arrows and spells straight at him.

 

None of it had the slightest effect.

 

Braddock couldn’t keep himself from smiling as the javelin, hand axe, and the multitude of arrows bounced harmlessly off his sturdy shield and incredibly strong armor, and thanks to the Pure Water, the waves of fire washing over him left him with only a few mild burns. They hurt, but he was so caught up in the fury of battle that he barely noticed. With another bloodcurdling scream he leapt into the air and slammed down right on-top of the hastily-built barricade. It flew into hundreds of pieces and sent the Generals stumbling back, leaving more than enough time for Braddock to fall all over them. A few steps forward and a few gleaming flashes of his Wolf Beil left their armor and their bodies cut to shreds.

 

For a moment, the combat around him stilled as everyone, rioter and rebel alike, stopped what they were doing to get a good look at this strange new entrant to the fray. It was an opportunity Braddock was determined to exploit. He raised his axe in the air and as loudly as he could he hollered, “THE ROYALIST ARMY IS HERE AND THE REBELS ARE IN FULL RETREAT! FOLLOW ME, PEOPLE OF THAGASTE, AND WE’LL GET REVENGE FOR RENAULT’S MO—uh, shit, I mean, LADY MONICA! _CHARGE!!!_ ”

 

Another pump of his strong legs brought him right in front of the huge oak doors which served as the entrance to the cathedral, and another sweep of his Wolf Beil blew them into hundreds of little splinters.

 

This gave the rioters a huge burst of morale and absolutely shattered that of the rebel defenders. With a loud, riotous scream the former surged forwards while the latter reeled backwards. The unfortunate Generals and Knights manning the rest of the barricades screamed in terror as they were overwhelmed by the mass of enraged citizenry rushing for the cathedral, and for the most part the archers and mages at the windows broke and ran, throwing down their weapons and making a desperate run for the nearest exit. Braddock made his way straight into the cathedral with a minimum of trouble, a huge mob right behind him.

 

When he actually got inside and saw the situation, he almost wished he hadn’t. He stumbled slightly as he ran forwards, not allowing himself to fall and get trampled by the mob, but it took all of his strength to keep from retching inside his helmet.

 

The interior of the cathedral looked more like a charnel house than an abode of God. Virtually every pew, along with the altar and other ecclesiastical trappings, was either overturned, broken, or covered in blood. Corpses of rebel soldiers were strewn all around the area (the long, central part of the cathedral structure where the religious proceedings such as Mass took place, called a nave), covered in blood and mutilated horribly, in some cases looking like they’d had the skin peeled off of them by hand—which probably happened. They’d given as good as they got, though—for every rebel corpse there were at least a dozen dead civilians with slash or burn marks all over them.

 

There were a few rebel troops making a staunch, futile defense of the bloody cathedral. A bash from his shield took out one stalwart bowman, while the rioters set upon and tore apart several more. Braddock didn’t care, though. The only thing he noticed was that neither Tassar nor Renault could be seen anywhere.

 

If they weren’t in the cathedral nave, they had to be in its tower…where else could they be?

 

At least Braddock hoped they were there. He’d feel mighty stupid commandeering a mob for nothing.

 

“Monica’s murderer is in the tower!” he shouted. “Come on, everyone! Let’s make him pay! FOR KING AND COUNTRY!”

 

With another loud cheer, the rioters followed the Ostian down the aisle, past the altar, through the double doors in the back, and into the cathedral sanctuary—the open space behind the nave and altar which was a grassy area enclosed by the square structure of the monk’s residences and the auxiliary chambers. In its center was a great evergreen tree—Braddock had never been trained much in religion, given not only his own antipathy towards it but the generally lackadaisical attitude Lycians took to Eliminism, so he didn’t recall what the tree was supposed to symbolize.

 

And at the moment, nothing could be less important. Much, much more significant was the strange figure standing at its very top, seemingly in defiance of the laws of gravity.

 

“Hey, why’re you all slowing down?!” Braddock asked as he turned to see the mob behind him stumbling and then recoiling, seemingly bereft of the fanatic enthusiasm they’d possessed just moments before. He couldn’t understand why…until he saw the strange wisps of black smoke floating around the area, heard a low, strange chuckle from above him that sounded like it came from a corpse, felt the chill run down his spine, and looked up to see an unfortunately familiar face…well, helmet.

 

“The strength of your soul continues to astonish me, Maxim,” said Yurt, perched with nigh-perfect balance on the very tip of the evergreen tree, around which was swirling the tendrils of black, noxious smoke the Silent Chief was known for. “You and your friends are the first men in centuries to have survived the Reaper’s Labyrinth.” Though his face couldn’t be seen under the darkness beneath his black visor, as Braddock stepped back in fear and shock he realized the assassin was looking at him and the mob, which now looked ready to break and run as the rebels had.

 

“Where are they, though? Did you come alone?” Yurt chuckled. “Not literally, of course. But surely you know such pathetic rabble is of no use against me?”

 

As if on cue, an ice-cold wind blew through the Sanctuary, sending trails of that black smoke towards Braddock and his mob. Instinctively, the Warlord ducked and covered the lower portion of his helmet with his hands, protecting him from the worst of the smoke. The rioters weren’t so lucky. All of them staggered back, choking and coughing on the noxious fumes, made all the worse by how closely packed together they were.

 

“No! NO!” Braddock could only watch as the Silent Chief leaped down from his position in the tree with a black flash and dove into the frightened, demoralized civilians. Ribbons of blood streamed through the air as shotel and dagger worked together with devilish efficiency. Almost faster than Braddock’s eyes could see, the assassin butchered the rioters left and right—within the span of a few seconds dozens were lying on the ground among their innards.

 

“I-IT’S A DEMON!” screamed one man. “THE SILENT CHIEF! RUN!!!”

 

As one, and as quickly and enthusiastically as they’d entered, the terrified mob smashed right back through the way they came, their desire to avenge Monica entirely forgotten as they trampled over each other in a mad attempt to get away. Very soon, the only two people left in the Sanctuary were the Ostian and his old adversary.

 

“D-dammit!” Braddock couldn’t deny it—he was shaking in his armor. “You…you weren’t this strong the last time we met!”

 

Yurt let out another cold, corpselike chuckle. “My orders are no longer to go easy on you and your friends,” he said. “Now, I have only one objective: Your death!”

 

With that, he leapt straight at Braddock, and it didn’t take long for the Ostian to find that Yurt wasn’t kidding.

 

-X-

 

 

Khyron was not a “soft” or compassionate man, but he couldn’t be described as a bloodthirsty one either. However, even he had to admit he hadn’t ever had such a glorious thrill as this.

 

He was currently racing towards Thagaste’s great castle as fast as he could, Henken and Count Hallard beside him, Apolli and Harvery behind him, and their great Royalist army behind them, with the masses of loyal Etrurian citizens cheering them on. And none could stand against them.

 

The rebels were in complete disarray. Already bewildered by the outbreak of the citizen’s riots, the arrival of the Royalist army had completely demoralized them, and most of their troops were fleeing the city as quickly as they could. Those few brave soldiers that remained were no match for their foes. One unfortunate Knight emerged from an alleyway and readied his spear to skewer Khyron; the sage simply pointed a finger at him and blasted him away with an Elfire spell, without even bothering to stop. Hallard unlimbered his Bolting tome and electrocuted a pair of Snipers sitting on a rooftop of one of the houses who had been drawing a bead on Henken.

 

Not that it would have been able to do much—the man was more than capable of taking care of himself. His magic axe was buckled to his belt, and instead he was relying on a pack of Javelins to fight. His armored hand flashed faster than anyone could see, taking a Javelin and launching it at some unfortunate rebel seemingly every moment. The effects did not fail to impress—the projectiles were launched with enough force to penetrate both armor and flesh, and as he ran Henken left scores of bloody corpses strewn all through the road around him, gaping holes blasted through their torso or their skulls and brains splattered all over the walls of nearby houses.

 

In just a few minutes Khyron and the army were in sight of Castle Hallard. It wasn’t a particularly distinctive building—though relatively large itself, with a strong outer wall and several tall spires, it was nowhere near as large as the Holy Royal Palace, with fairly unspectacular grey stone and red shingles having been used to construct it. It did have a moat, though, which would be difficult to get by, and though the rebels had not fortified it seriously (not expecting to have been defeated so readily at Aquleia, nor have the outer defenses compromised so soon), many of them had holed up within its confines to resist the rioters and they had entrenched themselves quite securely, lifted the drawbridge, and set up a series of ballistae against the walls.

 

Those ballistae would be quite a problem…or at least it seemed like it. “DAMN! Don’t panic, men! Stay strong!” Khyron shouted as he stopped his run and dove to the side, just in time to avoid getting skewered by a bolt—one of many that had been launched in one simultaneous volley from the dozens of machines set up on the castle walls. Hallard had done the same, and the entire army slowed in order to avoid the deadly shower—not entirely successfully, for Khyron heard the screams of dying men from behind him, and even Apolli yelped as a great bolt passed uncomfortably close to his head.

 

Henken had slowed his advance too—but not because he was intimidated.

 

Instead, he met the volley head-on.

 

He stood, unmoving, as gigantic bolts smashed into the ground around him, each almost as large as a man. One soared straight towards him, and the Archer who’d launched it whooped in delight from his perch near the raised drawbridge, thinking he’d managed to kill the Great General himself. On the ground, Khyron groaned—“what the devil is that Lycian thinking? How dare he criticize me for my tactics when he won’t even dodge!”—but his eyes widened—as did those of everyone else on the battlefield—when he saw what Henken had done.

 

The General hadn’t even bothered to dodge, no, but he had something else in mind. He dropped the Javelin he was holding and raised both hands in the air…and just when the bolt was about to slam into him, he _caught_ it.

 

No normal man could possibly withstand the force of a ballista’s strike—this much was evident from the way the stony ground cracked beneath the Great General’s feet. But his legs didn’t buckle—he bent his armored knees slightly, and that was the only indication he gave of having caught the massive bolt with any more difficulty than a child might have catching a thrown ball.

 

Khyron, along with everyone else (both rebel and Royalist) could only stand and gape at this display. But Henken wasn’t done—not at all.

 

He tossed the massive bolt in the air—as if it was nothing more than a normal Javelin—and caught it again with one hand. The single Cyclopean eye of this helmet glowed with malevolence, and Henken took a step forward, then another. Holding the bolt above his head, he then drew back his arm and launched it straight at the upraised drawbridge and castle barbican, again, just like he was throwing a Javelin.

 

Except, of course, this particular Javelin was much larger and packed much more of a punch. It blew through the drawbridge, shattering it into a multitude of pieces, and _continued_ straight into the iron gate behind, tearing that to shreds too.

 

And while all this was happening, both armies, along with the citizenry, could only stand and watch.

 

“Never change, Char,” Khyron heard Harvery mumble behind him. He hadn’t intended Khyron to hear, and the Sage was about to ask who Char was before the Great General interrupted him with new orders.

 

“SAGES, USE YOUR MAGIC!” Henken shouted, his enchanted helmet amplifying his voice. “DESTROY THE BALLISTAE! KHYRON, HALLARD, TAKE CARE OF THE MOAT!”

 

With another resounding cheer, the Royalist Army went into action—the members of the Mage Corps in position behind the more recent conscripts raising their hands and tomes and unleashing their fearsome magic. Torrents of pure electricity rained down upon the walls, frying the Rebel ballisticians and in some cases, tearing clefts into the walls themselves. It took Khyron a moment to understand what Henken had ordered him to do, though—and then he remembered the Fimbulvetr tome they’d “liberated” from the Reaper’s Labyrinth.

 

“Understood!” Together, he and Count Hallard, who also had one of the eldritch tomes, rushed up to the moat, dodging the arrows and bolts from the few remaining survivors on the walls. They readied their magic, gusts of ice-cold wind blowing around them, but they didn’t aim it at any Rebel foe—no, they pointed their hands straight at the moat. Great gusts of snow and ice spilled from their outstretched fingers towards the water, and when it hit the water froze solid straight to the bottom of the moat—forming an ersatz, temporary, but still effective bridge for the army to enter.

 

“Good work,” called Henken, the highest compliment Khyron had yet heard him give. “EVERYONE, GET MOVING! PENETRATE THE CASTLE BEFORE THE BRIDGE MELTS!”

 

Khyron and Hallard weren’t slow to follow that order—they were right behind Henken as he rushed across the ice bridge, managing to keep his balance despite how slippery it was. Fortunately, the Sages didn’t have much trouble with it either, and neither did Apolli or Harvery behind them, though as the rest of the army followed several of them splashed into the water below. It was of little consequence, though—the Royalists outnumbered the Revolutionary defenders several times over, and many of them, led by individual commanders, were already busy making alternatives—the few engineers among them were using what little siege equipment they had to build ladders and spare bridges, and the ice bridge Khyron and Hallard had made was still large enough and thick enough to admit a constant stream of soldiers, even if a few slipped off here and there.

 

Henken, Hallard, the first wave of the Royalist soldiers, and Khyron’s men made their way through the courtyard and straight to the great gate of the main castle building, slaughtering the shocked and scattered Rebel soldiers milling around in panic—at least those few that hadn’t already surrendered or fallen back into the castle. They still hadn’t given up entirely, though—a steady stream of arrows and spells was pouring out of the windows and murder holes and from the spires and rooftops. It wasn’t enough to stop the King’s army. Khyron and Hallard had replaced their Fimbulvetr tomes with humble but effective Fire books, sending fireballs over their heads as they ran to burn away any incoming arrows or ballista bolts. Around them, thunder and lightning continued to slam down, further whittling the ranks of the rebels, and the moment they reached the huge gates of Hallard’s old residence, Henken unlimbered his magic weapon, holding it into the air as it began to glow brightly, and slammed it straight into the gates, reducing them to a twisted mass of glowing cinders.

 

The castle was open to them.

 

“The battle’s as good as over!” yelled Khyron happily. “We just need to take the throne room and secure the rest of the castle and we’ve won!”

 

If he had noticed the strange tendrils of fog creeping stealthily out from the destroyed gate, he might not have been quite so cheery.

 

“Hallard, Khyron, and a contingent and I will secure the throne room,” said Henken. “Khyron, your Sniper and your Assassin can help with the rest of the castle—his lockpicking skills might be needed.”

 

“That sounds reasonable,” said Khyron, and Hallard, Harvery, Apolli, and the rest of the men in the vicinity agreed. Once again, Henken charged into the castle’s depths, axe leading the way. He swept aside a few brave Soldiers with a couple of swings of his axe, and Khyron blasted a General out from a door leading to another wing of the castle several feet away.

 

“Thanks, boss!” Harvery called happily as he led Apolli and a few other men down in that direction. Khyron didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. All that mattered to him was taking the throne.

 

The Royal soldiers continued to pour both into the castle proper and the surrounding area, forcing the Rebels to retreat or be overwhelmed. The other troops around him, aside from following Harvery into the basements, made their ways upstairs and into the other parts of the building, ensuring their leaders wouldn’t run into any surprise reinforcements from the rest of the castle. It probably wouldn’t be necessary, though—there weren’t many troops left. Khyron didn’t know what was waiting for him in the throne room, but it didn’t matter—at this point, what could possibly stand against the might of the Mage General? (and the Great General, though Khyron was still loathe to give the Lycian much credit).

 

It wouldn’t be long for him to be proven wrong.

 

“Gah!” yelled Khyron as he tripped over something. He looked down to see why—and noticed he couldn’t see his feet. As they trekked closer and closer to the throne room, even he had to notice the strange fog that was growing steadily thicker around his legs.

 

“What is this?” mused Hallard thoughtfully. He and the rest of the men and slowed, sensing something was amiss, clustering nervously behind the Great General. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it…”

 

“The rebels are fond of dark magic,” echoed Henken. “We can’t stop now, but we’ll have to be cautious. Look,” he said, pointing to the door to the Great Hall in front of them—the fog was especially thick around there. “That’s where it’s coming from. You there,” he said, gesturing to one of soldiers—a Knight—nearby, “open it.”

 

“M-me?”

 

“Do it.”

 

“Coward,” Khyron muttered to himself, but given how uneasy he himself was at this point, he couldn’t say much more. The man was just as afraid, but even more scared of the Great General’s wrath. He stepped forward and poked at the thick wood doors with his spear. Nothing happened. He poked them again, the same. Finally, gathering his courage, his walked up and SLAMMED the doors open.

 

“Hey,” he said, “there’s nobody here!?”

 

“Eh? What are you talking about?! Are they making fools of us?!” Khyron barged past Hallard and Henken, despite the latter calling for him to wait, and strode straight into the throne room.

 

It was indeed empty. The great hall, a massive, rectangular space with a very high ceiling and a set of unadorned windows, was completely deserted—at least it seemed to be, for Hallard’s throne, at the far end of the room behind a rather opulent (though somewhat damaged) rug and a series of large, thick pillars which held up the ceiling, was entirely shrouded in darkness. Indeed, the entire room seemed much darker than it should have at this time of day, almost as if it was night outside.

 

Henken and Hallard quickly followed him in, along with the rest of the men they’d brought. “You fool,” said Henken with the slightest tremble in his ice-cold voice, indicating his frustration. “Don’t disobey my orders again.”

 

“It’s meaningless, Lycian!” Khyron responded indignantly. “Look! There’s no-one here! We’ve been had!”

 

“Don’t speak too soon,” murmured Hallard in response, and as if on cue, the massive doors they’d just opened slammed shut—trapping them.

 

“GAH!” yelled Khyron, jumping straight into the air. “Stupid castle! Somebody open it and let’s get out of here! We’ve wasted enough time already!”

 

Two soldiers moved over to the door and began pulling on it with all their might—to no avail. “I…it’s no good, m’lord! It won’t budge!”

 

“What’s go—“ started Khyron, but Henken brushed past him disinterestedly. “Move,” he said coldly. The two soldiers did so, and he brandished his axe, glowing brightly. He leveled it at the door, then swung it with all his amazing strength.

 

Just before it hit, it suddenly paused as if it had been frozen in the air by some unfathomably powerful but invisible hand. Henken grunted as he attempted to finish his strike, but for the first time his strength was not enough—he was pushed back by the same strange force, that force which seemed to be related in some way to the fog all over the ground, which had begun to rise to cover the door.

 

“We’re trapped,” he said bluntly. “This must have been what they intended.”

 

“D…dammit!” yelled Khyron, realizing what he had just done. “W…who could have done this?!”

 

His answer would come in the form of a gentle but contemptuous chuckle coming from the throne. Out of the shadows stepped a sinister man clad in what seemed to be a Paladin’s armor, but completely pitch black. Only his pale lips and the wan skin around them could be seen of his otherwise concealed face, but they were curled up in a mocking sneer.

 

“It’s been quite a while, Khyron,” said the Black Knight in his mellifluous voice. “I don’t suppose you remember me from your attempt to take old Castle Nerinheit, do you?”

 

Khyron definitely did. “Y-YOU TREACHEROUS CUR! DIE!” He raised his hand and launched two orbs of Elfire magic straight at Trunicht—who simply laughed and disappeared into the shadows, reappearing again beside the throne.

 

“I’m very glad you brought Henken here,” Trunicht laughed. “I owe you a favor! The Great General was our real target, after all, and now he won’t escape. The Fool’s Idol will make sure of that.”

 

“Fool’s Idol?” Hallard’s eyes narrowed. “I…I…”

 

“Tell us what it is,” said Henken and Khyron simultaneously, the former adding a very cold “ _now_.”

 

“It’s a rather nasty little artifact—I don’t like using it, personally,” said Trunicht, “but I was left with no other recourse. I was assigned to help Tassar hold this city, after all, but since he failed so miserably, it would anger Brother Paptimus horribly if I failed too. Fortunately for me, there’s no shortage of young, female virgins in this city—thanks to that religion of Elimine’s, I suppose. And a pure young lady, along with a great deal of spare life force generated by this war and a few forbidden enchantments from Ilia’s forgotten history were just what I needed to generate an Idol.” He laughed again, brandishing a Warp staff and disappearing in a flash of light with these last words:

 

“Enjoy yourselves!”

 

“That worthless—“ started Khyron, but the words were taken out of his mouth when the shadows around the throne receded.

 

There was a young girl on the throne—no older than 17 at most—clad in what seemed to be pitch-black mourning clothes. And she seemed to be sobbing—Khyron could hear her soft voice and see her shoulders rising and falling unsteadily.

 

“H…help me,” she cried. “P…please…”

 

“That blackheart!” yelled Khyron, completely outraged. “What has he done?! I’ll—“ he stepped forward, preparing to help the girl, but was stopped cold when Henken grabbed his wrist in a grip that was as irresistibly strong as it was cold.

 

“Don’t. Move.”

 

“Are you just going to let her suffer? You pusillanimous—“

 

Khyron’s condemnations were cut off when the girl began to scream.

 

It started out low, but rapidly advanced into a high-pitched unbearable Banshee’s wail, and as the girl raised her face to the heavens Khyron could just make out her tear-stained face. It was indeed pretty—she must have been quite a looker before this happened to her. But her eyes…they weren’t there.

 

Only pools of inky blackness resided in those sockets. And they were weeping profane droplets of that same shadowy substance.

 

“eeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEE **EEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”**

 

The woman bent over on the throne, clutching her stomach as if in great agony, and everyone in the room—including even Henken—stepped back in surprise. Her horrible keening deepened and strengthened, becoming so loud Khyron had to cover his ears and shut his eyes.

 

As suddenly as it started, though, it stopped. And almost immediately, it had been replaced by a deep, throaty, and horribly malignant laugh.

 

When Khyron opened his eyes, he couldn’t believe what he saw.

 

The woman on the throne had been…transformed. Horribly. At first, nothing seemed to be very different about her, except for the fact that her formerly fair skin had been colored an ashen grey. However, as she unbent her body and unfurled her arms, Khyron could see an extra pair unwinding themselves from within the depths of her robes. And her eyes…the inky blackness was still there, but within them now burned a small red spark that reminded him of Barbarossa’s eyes.

 

Those devilish eyes focused themselves squarely on him, and the woman smiled—the most evil, chilling smile Khyron had ever seen, the fact that the mouth was now filled with two rows of razor-sharp teeth adding to the terrible inhumanity of it.

 

The woman…creature…Fool’s Idol let out another terrible laugh an extended a hand towards Khyron.

 

He felt a great force crash into him—but luckily for him, it was the armored form of Henken, and not the Idol’s attack. A moment after the Great General swept him away, a pillar of bright light, surrounded by a trio of halos, slammed into the ground where he’d been standing.

 

“A…Aura!” stammered Khyron, still held in Henken’s firm grip (they were now taking cover behind one of the room’s pillars). “How…it’s…”

 

“The Fool’s Idol is a mockery of holy religion,” said Hallard, kneeling behind another pillar nearby. “With the use of Dark magic, they’ve created a being that can use the most powerful Light spells. It’s…”

 

“Blasphemy!” yelled Khyron. As he was about to find out, however, blasphemy was the least of his problems.

 

“D…damn creature! It can’t stand up to all of us! DIE!” The other soldiers in the room had gathered together near the door in an attempt to break it down, and after they’d seen the Aura spell they realized that creature, whatever it was, had enough power to keep them all trapped in here. Thus, they resolved to kill it and earn themselves an escape.

 

“Stop!” called Henken, but it was too late. The motley band rushed towards the throne the Fool’s Idol sat on…and was met with a series of Aura spells piercing the darkness and fog around them, blasting their bodies into pieces and reducing all them to scattered lumps of gore staining the floor and rugs. Within a few moments, only Khyron, Henken, and Hallard were left alive in the throne room.

 

“Fools,” muttered the Great General, and then, more loudly, he exclaimed, “DODGE!”

 

Khyron had regained his composure, and he knew better than to argue. He dove to the side, away from the pillar, just in time to avoid the Aura spell that came crashing down on him and Henken. He broke into as run immediately, grimacing as he heard both the Idol’s profane laughter and the sounds of Aura spells fired off just steps behind him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to dodge it forever.

 

Fortunately, though, it seemed he wouldn’t have to. “Keep her busy!” yelled Henken as he saw an opportunity. The woman may have had four arms, but she only had one head—which was currently turned towards Khyron, running around the eastern pillars which held up the throne room. With a Swordmaster’s speed, despite his heavy armor, Henken darted over to the west side. Hallard, realizing what he was trying to do, helped distract the Idol as well—summoning all his magical power, just when she was about to send down another Aura bolt which would have killed Khyron, Hallard blasted her with his ice magic, encasing her in cold blue frozen crystal.

 

As he expected, it did little good—he knew from his studies that the Fool’s Idol was all but immune to magic. With another unearthly laugh, the crystal encasing her shattered, and she turned her baneful gaze to the Count whose throne she sat him, preparing to wipe him from existence…

 

Before a flash of red coming from behind her sliced her cleanly in half.

 

Henken said nothing as a spray of black blood fell all around him, while both Khyron and Hallard stood gaping on him. The Great General had swiftly gotten himself into position behind the throne, and while the Fool’s Idol had been distracted, he’d destroyed her—along with the throne—with one sweep of his magic axe. He stood calmly among the blood-spattered pieces of Hallard’s throne and the two halves of the Fool’s Idol, leaking black viscera onto the ground around him, staring at his two companions with his helmet’s unsettling Cyclopean gaze.

 

“That should have dispelled the enchantment on the doors,” he said. “We should be able to—wait.”

 

As he stepped away from the Idol’s corpse, his allies following him as he headed towards the door, all of them stopped when they heard calls, shouts, and curses coming from outside the throne room’s doors. There was clearly a large crowd gathered outside of it, and judging by their cries of “The Great General’s in there!” and “We have to help them!” they were friendly. Also, judging by the loud banging and slams on the door, they were trying to get in.

 

But they couldn’t.

 

And there was another sound that Khyron, Hallard, and Henken were hearing. It was…something. Something very strange.

 

 

“Wh…what’s that noise?! Where’s it coming from?!” Khyron stammered, but even as the strange voice became louder and louder, he couldn’t tell. It definitely wasn’t coming from the Idol’s corpse, because it was a man’s voice. It seemed to suffuse the air all around them, making it impossible for them to make out where it _was_ coming from. They could all hear it clearly, though…

 

_Laye vessin chandare…El korapesh andaro…Laye vessin chandare…El korapesh andaro…_

“What’s it saying?” asked Henken, and the slight tremor in his cold voice indicated he wanted an answer…which, much to their dismay, Hallard and Khyron both had.

 

“It…it’s Old Draconic,” stammered Khyron. “Again and again the cycle turns…I give you life once more!”

 

The eye in Henken’s visor glowed. “Give you life? What—“

 

There was a bright flash of light behind them…accompanied by another peal of familiar, malevolent laughter. All three warriors turned around, utter dismay in their hearts, to see sparks of light floating about like petals of flowers thrown around by a strong wind…and at the center of them, the two halves of the Fool’s Idol floating in the air, moving together, and then _merging_ , producing a maelstrom of dark energy similar to a Flux spell, but much larger. And when that maelstrom dissipated…left was the Fool’s Idol, smiling viciously at all of them, looking as hale and hearty as if Henken had never even touched her.

 

At this point, Khyron was too used to nasty surprises to even let out a word of complaint. With nothing but a grimace on his face, he readied his spellbook and prepared for the second round.

 

-x-

 

“Follow me, kid! And keep me covered while you’re at it, too!”

 

“G-Got it!!”

 

As Apolli followed Harvery through the twisting spiral staircase which led to Castle Hallard’s basement, though, he got the distinct feeling the Assassin didn’t really need any help. Apolli hadn’t found himself with much work to do—every time he caught sight of an enemy, Harvery had already flashed by the man and left him drowning in his own blood on the floor.

 

He wasn’t exactly sure where they were going, either. Shouldn’t they have been assisting Khyron and Henken? Still, he’d been told to help Harvery, and that’s what he was going to do.

 

After a few minutes, the two of them exited the stairwell into the basement, and Apolli immediately stopped, readied his bow, and sent an Arrow into the heads of two Mercenaries who were waiting for them.

 

“Thanks, Apolli!” called Harvery as he dashed off, to which Apolli could only stammer, “H-hey, wait for me!” He immediately broke into a run, not wanting to be left behind, but as it turned out he needn’t have worried—Harvery hadn’t gone far.

 

“We’re here!” exclaimed the spy happily. He was standing in front of a locked door, which he promptly opened with his trusty lockpick to reveal…

 

Treasure chests. Half a dozen of them, in fact.

 

“H-Harvery!” sputtered Apolli. “What’re you—“

 

“Hey, don’t be having second thoughts on me, now!” responded the assassin with a gleeful grin on his face as he moved to devour the treasure just waiting for him. “Khyron ordered you to help me, remember? Now keep an eye on the door and keep ‘em off me if they come!”

 

“B…but this is Hallard’s stuff! W-We can’t just”

 

Harvery rolled his eyes. “It’s the Rebel’s stuff now! We’re just “requisitioning” it, as loyal servants of the crown are supposed to! You don’t wanna be disloyal, do you?”

 

“Well…but…doesn’t Khyron need our help?”

 

“With Henken? Nah, he’ll be fine. Now lemme work my magic, kid!”

 

“I—“ That was all Apolli could say as Harvery dove into the chests with gusto and a pair of Revolutionary soldiers rounded the corner, eyes widening as they saw the open door to the treasure room. “THIEVES!” they screamed…just as Apolli sent arrows straight into their foreheads.

 

“Saint f’rgive me,” he muttered as he watched their bodies crumble, while behind him Harvery yelped excitedly, “Guiding Ring? A White Gem?! JACKPOT!” Apolli didn’t pay much attention to his jubiliations, focusing on continuing to pick off the Rebel soldiers who continued to pour in. However, after he’d killed another pair of soldiers (accompanied by Harvery’s happy shouts of “Hero’s Proof!” and “Elixir!”), a new combatant entered the fray.

 

He almost seemed to be growling, and the countenance beneath his shock of orange hair was frightening—a hard, rugged, bearded face, seemingly twisted into a perpetual scowl which possessed only one cold, bleary blue eye, the other held under a grim black eyepatch.

 

Despite all this, though, that face was…familiar to Apolli. As he drew another arrow and readied it at the angry Fighter, he realized he couldn’t fire. Because he realized it was his friend—Roberto.

 

Or was it? The Fighter didn’t seem to share the recognition. With another vicious growl he charged straight at the Sniper, forcing the latter to yelp and stumble back through the door to the treasure room in order to dodge the heavy swing of the axe.

 

If it was Roberto, he’d apparently became a great deal more skilled since Apolli saw him. Still, the bowman had to make sure—after losing Yulia, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he killed his—well, ex—best friend too. “ROBERTO!” he shouted. “ROBERTO, IS THAT YOU?”

 

That was enough to give the axeman a moment’s pause. He stopped his charge, lowering his weapon to look at Apolli curiously. However, it seemed like he still didn’t recognize who was talking to him—which was bad, because in a moment he’d be dead.

 

“Dammit, Apolli, what’re you doing?” groaned Harvery, standing up and readying his knives. “I told you to—“

 

“NO! HARVERY, DON’T! I—“

 

Apolli was cut off by Roberto’s resumed attack. With another shout he slammed into the smaller bowman, picking him up and holding him in the air, and raising his axe in preparation to slice through his head. Before he could, though, Apolli screamed, at the top his voice,

 

“ROBERTO! STOP! IT’S ME! IT’S ME, APOLLI!”

 

This was enough to put the vicious Fighter to a stop and cause Harvery to heave a sigh of relief, glad he wouldn’t have to take yet another life right now, at least. Roberto gazed at the man he held in the air, nothing but confusion evident in his gaze.

 

Confusion rather than anger. That was a start, at least.

 

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last long. The confusion on Roberto’s face turned to rage as soon as he realized what he was looking at. With a roar and a scream from Apolli, he tossed his young former friend aside with as much force as he if he were angrily throwing away a bag of trash—the Sniper coughed and gasped as he slammed into the wall with terrific force. “R-Roberto, I—“

 

“COWARD!” screamed the enraged Fighter. “YULIA’S DEAD ‘CAUSE O’ YOU! WORTHLESS PIECE OF—GRAAH!”

 

He staggered back, blood flowing from a series of cuts on his arm as Harvery flashed by him. “N-no! I told you, don’t kill him!” shouted Apolli, still trying to protect his friend, and Harvery seemed to realize that—as well as his limits. “You owe me for this, kid,” he grumbled as he ducked past another hack of Roberto’s axe, “I’ll try to just distract him, but this won’t be easy!”

 

It was enough for Apolli, who nodded in thanks at the Assassin and resumed his attempts to reason with Roberto. “L-Listen t’ me, Roberto!” he cried, the sight of his old best friend beginning to crack what remained of his emotional composure—his voice was beginning to tremble. “Please, bud, you gotta—“

 

He swiftly hopped to the side in order to evade Roberto screaming and throwing his Steel axe at him. However, as he struggled to regain his footing, he left himself open for the big man’s unarmed charge. Once again he found himself slammed against the treasure room’s cold stone walls, Roberto’s hands wrapped around his throat, choking the life out of him.

 

“Aw, dammit!” yelled Harvery, readying his daggers for a killing strike, but stopped and stumbled back when Apolli, with his free hand (the other was at his neck, trying vainly to pry away Roberto’s fingers) threw his bow at him—even when the youth was being strangled, his determination to keep his former friend from harm couldn’t be stopped.

 

“IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!” shouted Roberto, tightening his death-grip. “YOU KILLED HER! YOU, N’ KHYRON, AND ALL O’ EM, YOU—“

 

Apolli clawed at his hands, his consciousness rapidly dimming…but not enough for him to let out one last, desperate cry.

 

“PAPTIMUS KILLED HER!” Apolli screamed this out with every last bit of his dwindling strength. “F’R GOD’S SAKE, ROBERTO, IT WAS PAPTIMUS!”

 

This was enough to shock the man, at least sufficiently for him to loosen his grip, allowing Apolli to slide to the floor and Harvery to lower his daggers for a moment, breathing another sigh of relief.

 

“What’re you…” stammered Roberto, almost without comprehension.

 

“I…it was Paptimus. All Paptimus,” Apolli gasped from the floor, rubbing his throat. “He was the one who sent all of us off t’…t’ Scirocco. He…’twas all part of this plan of his. He wanted to frame us f’r poisonin’ the town so he could drum up hatred ‘gainst the Crown and start up this whole damn rebellion…th’ one YOU joined, Roberto! Y’r fightin’ against the wrong guys! It…it was Paptimus who…who killed Yulia. He…he sent ‘er to ‘er death…an’ didn’t even bat an eye at it!” At this, genuine anger warred with pain and despair in Apolli’s voice. “That…that damn bastard! Ev’rythin we’ve been through…ev’rythin we’ve lost…he’s responsible for all of it! ALL OF IT!!!”

 

Roberto, unfortunately, wasn’t convinced. “SHUT UP!” he shouted, kicking Apolli square across the face, sending the unfortunate young man sliding across the floor, slamming into an empty chest. “Y’R LYIN! YOU JUST STOOD BY AND DID NOTHIN’ WHEN YULIA DIED, AND Y’ THINK I’LL LISTEN TO Y’ NOW?! IT’S YOUR FAULT SHE’S DEAD! YOURS, N’ KHYRON’S, AND THAT GOD-DAMNED KING’S FOR SENDIN’ ‘ER OVER THERE!” Roberto screamed, his voice seeming to shake the very foundations of the castle itself. ‘THEY KILLED ‘ER, AND NOW Y’R WORKIN’ FOR ‘EM? I’LL SLAUGHTER YOU!”

 

He stepped forward, grabbing his axe from the ground, but was interrupted by a scream that was just as loud and pained as the ones he’d just let out.

 

“PLEASE, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE ME!” Apolli burst out, struggling to his knees. Harvery, who’d once again readied his dagger, had to pause in astonishment as he saw the young man’s face scrunch up and tears well from his eyes. This was enough to stop even Roberto, who could see that his former friend was now _weeping_.

 

“I…I loved her,” he continued, his tears dropping straight to the floor and forming a puddle under his face. “Roberto, I…if y’ve ever believed anything in y’r life…’f there’s even one thing in th’ whole world that’s true…y’know it’s that.

 

“I know I’m a coward. I know I’m worthless. I know it’s my fault she’s dead. But…but I never wanted her to die. I loved her! I _loved_ her! S…she was everythin’ t’ me. She…n’ you, Roberto. You…y’were everythin’ I had back then.”

 

Roberto opened his mouth, looked as if he was about to accuse Apolli of lying again…and then stopped. Because he knew he couldn’t.

 

Apolli might have known he was getting through. But as he bent over, with Roberto and Harvery doing nothing but watching him speechlessly, even as the battle raged above and around them, he didn’t care. It was as if he was caught in his own world.

 

“I’m not lyin’…there’s nothin’ else I’ve ever said that’s been this true.” He looked up at Roberto, with all of his emotions roiling within his eyes. “Roberto…if I wasn’t as sure as I’ve ever been o’ the truth, if I didn’t know for CERTAIN that Paptimus was the one who sent Yulia to ‘er death, I’d’ve killed Khyron m’self. I may be a worthless coward, but the only thing I want is to make the ones responsible for Yulia’s death t’ pay…just to let her rest in peace. And it ain’t Khyron n’ the King who’s responsible. It’s…It’s Paptimus.”

 

Roberto was silent for a moment that seemed much longer than it was. He finally broke it by saying, “How the hell d’ _you_ know f’r sure?”

 

“I seen it with m’own eyes, Roberto! R…a coupla traitors to the army brought a letter Paptimus wrote that said the whole thing. There’s no denyin’ it, it’s his handwritin’ an’ everything, clear as day. Y—“

 

“Where is it?”

 

“K-Khyron has it. He—“

 

At that moment, he was interrupted by the arrival of another pair of rebels—two Soldiers, who came running through the open treasure room door. “Brother Roberto!” one of them called, “We need your help! The upper levels are—“ he stopped and looked dumbly at the scene before him—Roberto standing in front of a weeping Royalist Sniper and an apparently equally dumbfounded Assassin, seeming as if he was their ally rather than their foe. “B-Brother Roberto,” stammered the other soldier, “W-what’s going on? Aren’t these the King’s men? Aren’t they stealing our treasure? Why aren’t you stopping them?”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” growled Roberto in response. Just as the pair’s eyes widened in (even greater) surprise, Roberto hefted his axe and swung it at their heads, splattering both of their skulls across the walls and floor.

 

“R…Roberto,” stammered Apolli, blinking his tears out of his eyes, “A…are you really—“

 

The axeman merely nodded.

 

“R-ROBERTO!” Apolli was crying again, but with happiness rather than self-loathing this time. “I-I KNEW YOU’D COME THROUGH! THANK YOU, TH—“

 

“Stop y’r snivelin, coward,” Roberto growled. “I’m with ya f’r now. But if I find y’ve lied to me, your head’s next!”

 

“Wouldn’t want anythin’ different,” said Apolli defiantly, still sniffling. “If I was lyin’ t’ you, I’d deserve to die!”

 

“So where’s Khyron?”

 

“He’s with Ch—I mean the Great General in the throne room,” said Harvery. “C’mon, I’ll take you to him and then we can get this whole thing sorted out!”

 

However, Roberto seemed less than pleased—he slammed a fist into the wall. “The throne room? DAMMIT!”

 

“W-what? What’s the problem?”

 

“Trunicht left a trap in there. Some kind of magic thing…if they activated it, they’ll never be able t’ leave, and they’ll die pretty quickly. We gotta take it out.”

 

“H-how?!” stammered Harvery. “What’re you talking about?”

 

“Jus’ shut up and follow me!” spat Roberto, whirling around and heading for the exit. “Keep up! And remember, if it turns out y’r lyin’, y’r all dead!”

 

Neither Apolli nor Harvery wasted a moment following his order. And as they made their way up the stairs to the first floor behind him, and then up another flight of stairs leading to the castle’s higher levels, as they watched him sweep aside the Rebel soldiers he’d been allies with just a few moments ago, they could do nothing but hope with all their hearts he wouldn’t turn on them either.

 

 

-X-

 

“Tassar! Where are you?!”

 

Renault burst through the stairwell door into the second-story library. He found it somewhat comforting—at least in his state—to see that it was just as he remembered, and he recalled it relatively well, having spent much time here with his father as a youth. Just like the first floor, it was somewhat small, circular room, but it only had one desk lit by small candelabra at its center—the path to which was framed by a red rug from the doorway Renault was in. Surrounding it and the rug were a series of curved bookshelves, arranged in such a way as to create a set of aisles and paths through which the library’s proprietor (Bishop Monica) could move around the room and access them, as well as the stairwell to the next level at the other end. Though the candles on the desk were lit, Tassar was nowhere to be found…

 

Until the bookshelf right behind Renault creaked and turned over, threatening to crush him beneath its weight.

 

“Dammit!” Instinctively, Renault hopped backwards, just barely managing to avoid the shelf’s fall as it hit the floor and released a cloud of dust and scattered pages. From the resulting cloud of debris came Tassar, Silver Sword leading the way. Renault whipped his steel sword upwards to bat away the descending blade with its pommel, then punched out with his dagger, a blow Tassar avoided by shifting to the side and allowing his left spiked pauldron to take. He then slammed his shield into Renault’s chest, doing little damage but forcing the man to stumble back…and allowing the Druids who were coming up behind him to draw a good bead on him.

 

“DAMMIT!” he swore again as he felt an orb of darkness surround him and start chewing away at him. He quickly darted away from it and the four others which had been summoned around him behind another nearby shelf, gasping in pain—he could feel the _inside_ of his body shifting, as if tiny pieces of his innards had been disintegrated; his Pure Water had almost completely worn off. He couldn’t allow the pain to distract him, though—he continued his run to avoid more Flux spells, the dark magic turning the books and their shelves to dust as the sigils appeared on the ground beneath his feet, following his footsteps. Fortunately, they couldn’t see him behind the shelves, but as he neared the end of the aisle someone definitely could—Tassar, who was waiting for him with sword drawn and ready.

 

Renault didn’t bother to slow down. Instead, he sped up, catching Tassar off-guard. He lowered his shoulders and charged straight at the man, who remembered even his Silver Sword couldn’t cut through Renault’s armor easily. Tassar instead hopped to the side, bypassing Renault’s attempt at a tackle cleanly, grinning to himself as the Mercenary Lord brought himself too far away from his enemy to attack.

 

“You left those Druids alive?” Tassar called. “Sloppy work, boy. Never turn your back on an enemy you haven’t killed!”

 

“Don’t have much time for small fry,” grunted Renault in response, smiling himself underneath his helmet—a little extra distance was actually exactly what he’d intended to gain. “I only want you, Tassar!” He leveled his blade at the man—and Tassar let out a small gasp of shock when he saw the blade was a strange golden color rather than regular steel. As he ran, Renault had sheathed his Steel Sword and replaced it with his Runesword. And Tassar could only let out a pained grunt as he felt his life force being stolen from him by six black orbs which exploded from his body and flew over to Renault’s, healing somewhat the injuries the latter had sustained from the Druids.

 

“Enough of this,” Tassar grunted. “DRUIDS, KEEP HIM PINNED DOWN! I’LL FINISH ‘IM MYSELF!”

 

“More stupid Flux spells?” Renault smirked, preparing to dodge them all—a task which had grown easy for him, now having familiarized himself with the attack patterns of this group of magic users. However, his smugness would turn to surprise when he felt tendrils of dark energy wrapping themselves around him—but not eating into him—and his Runesword fly out of his hands as if it had been grabbed away by some mysterious force. The very same force, in fact, which was holding his entire body in an inexorable, vice-like grip, prying his arms and legs apart and floating him into the air.

 

He couldn’t see them, but he remembered the way Paptimus had pinned Braddock in the air before the two of them made their escape from the Rebel army. He realized these Druids must be doing the same thing—utilizing their magic indirectly rather than for direct offense. And, of course, given that Tassar now had a wide, sadistic smile on his face as he rushed at his immobile foe, Silver Sword at the ready for a fatal thrust at Renault’s less-armored abdomen, it was just as dangerous in this situation.

 

The Mercenary Lord was ready, though—the power of the Earth Seal had given him improved resistance to magic as well. He reached out with his mind, concentrating all of his formidable willpower on his legs—just enough to loosen the invisible tendrils around them. So when Tassar reached him, the Hero didn’t receive the prone, easy target he was expecting. Instead, Renault kicked out with both of his now-free legs, landing a solid hit straight on Tassar’s chin and sending him literally flying through the air to crash into another bookshelf, sending tomes and scrolls everywhere. This resulted in the druids losing their concentration, setting him free once again.

 

“YOU IDIOTS!” Tassar roared in pain, attempting to extricate himself from the mess. “WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG WITH YOU?!”

 

“He’s stronger than we expected, Brother Tassar!” one of the Druids cried. “We—AAAGH!” He had been holding Renault’s Runesword, which had been drawn to him by the strength of the dark magic he’d used to pin down the Royalist, but he found it slipping from his grasp and back into Renault’s hands when the man rushed up to him and slipped a chain-dagger into his chest.

 

“You won’t get that weapon again!” yelled another Druid, a bearded man like the one from downstairs, as he held out his hand and reached out to the fallen sword with his magic. The Runesword shook, rose into the air, and then levitated its way into the hand of one of the remaining Druids standing behind the table with the candelabra.

 

“Damn flies!” Renault dislodged his dagger from the other Druid’s chest with a swift kick to his stomach and then immediately whirled around to avoid another series of Flux spells, and vaulted over to the desk. To the Druid’s surprise, however, the Mercenary Lord didn’t strike out with his dagger. Renault’s visor glowed for a moment as he smirked beneath it, reaching out to grab the lighted candelabra and in the same moment thrusting it into the Druid’s face.

 

“B-Brother Doren!” cried one of the remaining two druids as their unfortunate comrade’s thick beard and hair immediately caught fire, turning his head into a torch and sending him wailing straight into yet another bookshelf behind him. And this one was filled with ancient scrolls and tomes made out of bone-dry parchment.

 

Renault’s ploy worked even better than he expected. “IT’S ON FIRE! THE BOOKS HAVE CAUGHT FIRE!” screamed another Druid as a blaze erupted all across the shelf his fallen comrade had managed to fall over—not only that, but the shelf tipped backwards, toppling to the floor and sending dust, sparks, and flaming fragments of paper all over the room, making things even worse.

 

“You _IDIOTS!_ ” screamed Tassar, who’d managed to extricate himself entirely from the other fallen shelf. “Put it out! NOW!”  He wouldn’t help in that endeavor—to escape the spreading conflagration, as soon as he got up he darted for the stairwell leading to the third floor, disappearing into it with only the echo of his footsteps left behind as his followers looked at Renault and the fire around them in panic, unsure of which to concentrate on first.

 

The Mercenary Lord made that decision for them. Swiftly picking up his fallen Runesword, Renault bounded over to one, slammed the pommel of the sword into his forehead to stun him, then swept his dagger over his neck. The single Druid who was left finally took this as a sign to ignore the fire and cast a spell at Renault, but it was already too late—Renault threw his chain-dagger in an arc that caught the magic-user in the neck, but not with the blade. The Druid gagged as the chain wrapped itself around his neck, then found himself falling forwards straight onto the burning bookshelf as Renault gave it a jerk. He smiled as he flicked his hand back to activate the chain’s return mechanism—it loosened around the Druid’s neck and brought the dagger back to Renault’s hand with a loud WHRRRRR that was drowned out by the screams of the Druid as his robes caught fire.

 

With the agonized wails of burning men echoing behind him, flames and cinders encouraging him on his way, and a cloud of black smoke leading the path, Renault turned straight towards the stairwell, ascending to the third floor.

 

-x-

 

Braddock wasn’t quite sure how, but one way or the other he’d managed to survive for more than five seconds. Yurt’s shotel and dagger were coming at him from seemingly every direction, and only through sheer luck, he assumed, were his shield and armor deflecting the dozens of slashes raining down on him.

 

Of course, his luck wouldn’t last forever. He raised his shield to deflect another flurry of blows, and then cried out in pain as the long, curved blade of Yurt’s shotel arced over and around the shield, managing to insert its narrow but devilishly sharp point into the chinks in his armor and the vulnerable spots covered only by mail. Desperately, he swung his axe downwards as fast as he could, and managed to succeed in driving the Silent Chief back—for a moment. Yurt dodged the chop with a swift backstep, and laughed cruelly at his prey’s desperation. “An impressive suit of armor and a very decent shield, Maxim. But of course, you realize an Assassin such as myself is an expert at bypassing such defenses!” With another cold laugh he leapt at Braddock, but this time the Warlord didn’t even bother to guard—instead, he met Yurt’s attack with one of his own.

 

 _Gotta keep on the offensive_ , Braddock thought to himself. _Even if he’s that much faster than I am, I’m still stronger. One lucky hit’s all I need…_

Once again the Wolf Beil descended as Braddock threw himself at Yurt to meet the latter’s charge, but it only bit into the grassy ground of the Sanctuary as Yurt whirled to the side and around Braddock, launching a trio of quick slashes with his Shotel at the man’s exposed back. Braddock turned swiftly enough to block one of them with his large right pauldron, but the other two managed to catch him on the mailed portion of his back, cutting cleanly through the rings and leaving him with a pair of serious wounds. He grit his teeth and did his best to ignore the pain, lashing out again with his axe in a great, circular cut as he turned. Yurt dodged this by performing a backflip through the air, still cackling as he did so, but paused for a moment when he realized the Ostian hadn’t stopped spinning. Just like Henken had done at the battle of Thagaste, Braddock had turned himself into a miniature cyclone, which would have been an impressive move to anyone but the Silent Chief.

 

Yurt simply leapt into the air over Braddock’s head, evading the arc of his spinning cut, and aimed his shotel at the unprotected juncture between Braddock’s helmet and gorget, intending to pierce his neck.

 

But the blade passed through empty air.

 

“Why, you--?!” When Yurt landed and turned to look behind him, he saw what had happened. The Warlord had stopped his spin by hurling himself straight onto the ground onto his hands and knees, facing Yurt. He’d dropped his axe and shield, and it was apparent he wanted to continue the fight with nothing but his body. “EAT THIS!” he screamed, bursting from his kneeling position into a leaping tackle straight at Yurt. The Assassin dodged this as well with another twirl to Braddock’s left, sweeping out his shotel and cutting through the chain on the Ostian’s arm, leaving a long and bloody gash.

 

That was a hit the Ostian was willing to take, though. He may not have had his Wolf Beil or shield, but he still had the Hand Axes at his belt, and he twisted, reached for one, and sent it flying at Yurt’s head.

 

 “Curse you!” he yelled as he quickly raised his shotel to block the projectile. He succeeded, but the force of Braddock’s impressive strength behind the throw was too much for his swordarm and the Assassin lost his balance. Another axe came flying at him and he attempted another dodge, which almost fast enough, but not quite—the weapon grazed his left pauldron, just enough to throw him even further off-balance. He took a moment to regain his footing, but to his surprise, that was all Braddock needed. Rather than throwing another axe as Yurt expected, the Warlord threw _himself_ at his foe, his speed belying both the size of his frame and the heavy armor he wore. Yurt grunted in pain as one of Braddock’s arms smacked him solidly across his midsection, and then gasped as he felt himself being lifted from the ground, along with a great pressure which made it very hard for him to breath.

 

The Warlord had caught him in a tight bear-hug, and the sound of metal crunching could be heard as he tightened his grip. With his new power from the Earth Seal, Braddock was well on his way to snapping the Silent Chief cleanly in half. “No way you can wriggle out of this, you bastard!”

 

To Braddock’s shock, Yurt didn’t appear to be the least bit phased. “Quite the contrary!”

 

“What the hell?!” Rather than a man, Braddock suddenly found himself bear-hugging a cloud of grimy, viscous black smoke. He bent over, hacking and coughing, but straightened out as quickly as he could, looking to and fro. The Assassin had disappeared! Only the fingers of inky black smoke still trailing from Braddock’s arms gave any indication he’d even been in the area at all.

 

“Hah, hah! Where are you looking, fool?”

 

“Ah!” Braddock whirled around to see a pitch-black vortex of that same smoke erupt from the ground behind him, and out of that vortex leapt Yurt. Reflexively, he brought his gauntleted hands up to his face, just in time to deflect a series of stabs from Yurt’s dagger, and tossed his head back, just in time for his helmet to block a swipe from the shotel which came as the Assassin flew above his head, twirled in the air, and landed expertly on the ground, black smoke pouring from beneath his feet and surrounding his hands and weapons.

 

“As I said, Maxim,” snickered Yurt, “I’ve no longer any orders to treat you and yours with leniency. It’s high time for me to finish what I started all those years ago!”

 

“Just try!” Braddock let fly with another handaxe, which struck only another puff of smoke as the Silent Chief disappeared once again. This time, however, Yurt did not reappear. Instead, Braddock could only stumble back a step and stare at the ground in amazement as those noxious fumes suddenly started pouring out from under his _own_ boots.

 

“WHAT THE HELL?!” he yelled as he soon found himself enveloped entirely within a large inky black cloud. He punched and kicked it, he tossed a pair of axes out of it, but to no avail—he could only sink to the ground, gasping and choking as the gas covered his helmet’s visor in a darkness even its magic couldn’t penetrate and replaced the air he breathed with its vile essence. It engulfed him completely, providing no escape whatsoever, and it was so dark he couldn’t even see his hands in front of him—it was as if he’d been pitched into an endless, impenetrable void. But he knew Yurt was outside that void, somewhere—because he heard the Assasin’s cold, corpselike voice echoing in his ears:

 

“I so enjoy a job well done!”

 

-x-

 

“YA-HOO~!”

 

The feel of her lightning-fast steed between her legs, the wind blasting over her skin and through her hair, and, of course, the screams of dying men below her and the clash of steel as her weapon met Yazan’s above her…this, Kasha thought, must be what heaven was like.

 

The two of them were soaring above a group of houses—more like shanties, really—in the northeastern section of Thagaste, where much of the city’s indigent (and in the case of the diseased, lepers) made their home. These people had been among the most dependent on Lady Monica’s beneficence, and thus, the chaos in this area was stronger than in almost any other when the riots following her death broke out. Of course, Kasha neither knew nor cared about all this—she was only concerned with having as much fun with Yazan as she could.

 

She and the Wyvern Lord were flying side by side at the moment, their speed matching, until Kasha suddenly sped up and descended slightly, raising her lance to poke at Hambrabi’s vulnerable belly. A growl came from both the Wyvern and his master, and the beast banked and veered to the side, avoiding impalement but still suffering a gash across his stomach. He slowed down, allowing Kasha and her mount to flash by them, and Yazan unlimbered a Javelin from his back and tossed it at her, which she easily dodged with a laugh and a flap of her mount’s white wings which sent it over the weapon’s trajectory. She immediately stopped laughing (though her eyes still gleamed with joy and excitement) when Yazan swooped under her mount and tossed up another pair of javelins, these aimed at her steed’s wings this time, which were held out parallel to him as he glided across the sky. Instinctively, the Pegasus folded his wings just in time to allow the javelins to pass by them harmlessly, but this also resulted in him plummeting straight downwards. Yazan swore as he veered his own mount to the left to avoid crashing into Kasha’s, but when he saw the woman rise into the air again almost as quickly as she descended, expertly guiding her Pegasus as he spread his wings again (a move which otherwise might have torn them off thanks to the force of the air surrounding him as he fell) and shifting on his back to maintain balance, the Bernite had to laugh.

 

“You really are somethin’,” he called to Kasha, now flying ahead of him, dipping up and down, right and left to avoid the Javelins he continued to toss. “Damn shame you didn’t join up with me when you got the chance!”

 

“But like I told you last time, if I did, we wouldn’t be able to fight like this, right?” she called back with a loud giggle. Yazan grinned and shrugged, not able to argue with that, then squinted his eyes when Kasha suddenly spurred her mount upwards; the beast folded his wings, kicked his legs, and flew in an arc towards the sky…or more specifically, the sun, flipping over so that Kasha was literally upside down, staying in her saddle only thanks to the strength of her legs. She readied her spear, clearly expecting Yazan to look upwards in order to defend against her coming dive.

 

 _Not gonna fall for that,_ the Bernite thought. He knew she was counting on the glare of the sun to blind him—a common tactic in air battles, where the party which kept its back to the sun had the advantage and the contestant who had to look in its direction was worse off. There was a clever way around that trick, though, and Yazan was very familiar with it. Rather than looking up, he looked _down_ , at Hambrabi’s back. The Wyvern spread his wings in accordance with his master’s desires and began to glide, seemingly making it easier for Kasha to land a blow.

 

However, it also made a larger area onto which her shadow would fall.

 

Yazan grinned when he noticed a dark, growing patch appear over Hambrabi’s left wing. The Falcoknight thought he’d be looking up, blinded and disoriented by the bright sun in his eyes, but by concentrating on the shadow she cast he had a good idea of her position without disadvantaging himself. Quickly, he put away his Javelin and readied his Steel Spear in his left hand, swinging it just in time to deflect a blow from Kasha which would have torn a hole in Hambrabi’s wing.

 

“Ahhhhhhahaha~! Nice!” Kasha laughed, veering around in the air from her new position below Yazan for another rising strike at his mount’s underbelly. Yazan didn’t respond to the compliment—he merely muttered to Hambrabi, “Hate to do it, but let’s end this!” He soared upwards, just like Kasha had done, now using the sun to his own advantage. Kasha, however, recognized the trick he’d used and replicated it, spreading her own mount’s wings and gliding to see where his shadow fell. Thus, when he began his dive with his spear held in his right hand this time, just as he expected his spear was knocked away by hers, in a perfect defense against the shadow she’d seen falling over her mount’s left wing.

 

What she wasn’t prepared for, however, was the small dagger Yazan had unsheathed from its hidden pouch with his right hand and flung at her unarmored abdomen the moment their spears had clashed.

 

She gasped in pain and broke away from him, grimacing as she used one hand to hold her spear and brought the other to the knife in her gut, letting go of her Pegasus’ reins. “What the hell was that?!” she yelled angrily at her foe.

 

“C’mon, you don’t think I lived this long ‘cause I fought fair!” Yazan laughed. “Sorry, girl. It’s been fun!” He offered a sharp kick to Hambrabi, who let out a roar of victory, flipped over in the air, and dove straight down towards the vulnerable Falcoknight. Kasha swore and jerked her legs, and her mount, following her intent, attempted to bank to the side, but without Kasha’s firm guidance it wasn’t fast enough. The flying beast let out a cry of pain as Yazan’s lance tore through his right wing.

 

“DAMMIT!” the Falcoknight screamed as she attempted to control her mount’s fall, which was bringing both of them down onto one of the largest buildings in the poor area of Thagaste—the old parish church, an old building of stone and wood which Monica had attempted to refurbish recently but upon which work had not yet begun.

 

Yazan smiled as he watched her crash through the building’s roof.  Now it was really time to kick things up a notch.

 

-X-

 

The moment Renault poked his head out of the stairwell to the third floor and entered the Bishop’s personal throne room, he met a Hand Axe spinning straight towards it.

 

Not that he expected anything else. His Steel Sword was already prepared, and the axe bounced off of it harmlessly as he raised it an inch higher in front of his face. Another axe came flying at him, which he deflected with similar ease as he stepped into the circular, wide-open space. And finally, just as he expected, Tassar himself came straight at him, rushing out from behind the large throne in the center of the room, sheathing his Hand Axe in favor of his Silver Sword, and bringing that down in a sweeping overhead cut as he ran. Renault met his charge with one of his own, crossing his dagger and sword over his head in an X.

 

In many ways, the throne room was a perfect arena for a one-on-one battle. Its stone floor was mostly covered by a large, opulent, gilded red rug, at the center of which was situated Monica’s throne, a great oak chair much larger than her slight frame actually needed (and indeed, even larger than its original occupant, Sergion, required) which had enough gold trim and skillful carvings on it to rival Hallard’s throne in grandeur. Around it was a circle of chairs arranged around the room for her guests or noble audience to sit, over each of which was a fancy stained-glass window depicting a different scene from the life of Elimine. Framing the entire area was a large chandelier holding hundreds of tiny candles which provided light when it was dark. Much like the lower level’s candelabra, they were still lit, not having burnt out yet.

 

It was in the middle of this impressive room, a few feet in front of the throne and on top of the rug, that the two rivals clashed. Tassar’s Silver Sword crashed into Renault’s X guard as they each halted the other’s advance. Sparks flew as the blades scraped against each other, Tassar pushing his downwards with almost manic strength while Renault did his best to keep him at bay with the flat of his own weapons. The Hero had succeeded in forcing Renault’s block downwards, still pressing as hard as he could and leaning into his hated enemy, so close that they were virtually face to face.

 

Renault wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “I’m disappointed, Tassar,” he grunted, pure hatred dripping from every word. “I knew each and every move you were gonna pull the moment I stepped in here. And you call me predictable?”

 

“Don’t speak too soon, kid,” Tassar smirked in response. While maintaining the pressure on Renault with the sword held in his right hand, he punched out with the shield in his left, slamming it into Renault’s armored chest. It obviously didn’t do any damage, but it forced him to stagger back and broke his guard. The X of his weapons fell from above him and Tassar’s blade descended, but not before Renault shifted his shoulder so it fell upon his pauldron rather than his neck. Now both his pauldrons had large cuts in them, and Renault cursed himself for falling for Tassar’s attack twice, but he still wasn’t fatally wounded, and Tassar grimaced when he realized the blade was caught in the armor and he was entirely open for a fast stab from Renault’s dagger.

 

Quickly, just as Renault was so fond of doing, he brought up a foot and gave the kneeling Mercenary Lord a solid kick, dislodging his sword and propelling them both away from each other with a yelp of pain from Renault. Renault was now lying on his back and realized what a precarious position he was in. Tassar crouched and prepared to leap at him, readying his Silver Sword for a stab that would end Renault’s life.

 

In response, the Mercenary Lord desperately tried to hold off Tassar for as long as he could. He leaned on his sword arm and raised his body upwards, whipping out his left hand and throwing the chaindagger it held.

 

“Where are you aiming?” Tassar smirked, pausing for a moment—from his crouching position, he hadn’t even needed to dodge; Renault’s dagger had whizzed harmlessly far above his head—then gasped when he heard something creaking over his head, and immediately leapt to the side just in time to avoid the chandelier which came crashing down on him. Renault hadn’t been aiming for him at all—he’d aimed his chaindagger at the room’s lighting, easily cutting through the rope which held the chandelier aloft.

 

The veteran mercenary grimaced and raised his shield to block the bits of debris flying at him as a result of the crash, and this gave Renault more than enough time to bring himself up, retract his dagger, and take the offensive. Tassar swore and stumbled back even further as Renault dashed up to him, quickly jabbing at his shield three times with his dagger, intending not to actually hit Tassar but to keep him off balance and distract him. This worked relatively well as Renault drew back his dagger and swiftly thrust his sword downwards, intending to bypass Tassar’s shield by striking his unguarded legs.

 

Befitting of his skill and experience, though, Tassar adroitly flipped over his silver weapon in his hand and brought it down and across just in time to bat away the thrust.  He continued the movement, surprising Renault by entering into a risky spin that might have left him vulnerable, but that Renault was just a moment too slow to exploit. Instead, he delivered a nasty punch to the side of Renault’s head with his shield hand, forcing the man to stagger, and continued his spin, preparing to stab his blade down on his lowered opponent.

 

Renault wasn’t stunned, though, and just as quickly, even as he reeled from the punch, before Tassar could complete his stab he lurched forwards, slamming his helmeted head  into the man’s armpit and halting his attack. On reflex, Tassar accepted the blow and spun around it before Renault could ready either of his weapons for stabs and slices at his midsection. The two men wheeled around to face each other, cold anger burning in their gazes, but launched into no further attacks. Instead, they warily glared at each other, having gained newfound respect for the others’ prowess as their circled around the room, with Tassar standing in front of the throne with his back to it, just as before.

 

The fires from downstairs had continued to burn, and by this point the smoke was pouring from the stairwell into the third floor and beginning to irritate both combatants. Tassar saw this as the perfect opportunity to goad his foe a little.

 

“I thought you were pretty angry when you saw your dead mother, but I have to admit, Renault, you’ve fought like a real cold-blooded expert so far.” He grinned coldly. “You’ve ruined her cathedral in an effort to get to me like you don’t even care she’s dead. Got a hold of yourself again so quickly? Some son you are.”

 

“Nah, I’m still mad, you bastard,” Renault snarled. “I just remember your lessons well!” Faster than the veteran mercenary anticipated, faster than he thought was even possible for a man wearing such heavy armor, Renault sprinted forwards with a trust from his Steel Sword. His visor was glowing brightly, but its magic reflected his emotional state, and the fact it was now _red_ rather than green indicated the depths of his rage “I’m not gonna let my anger use me like you did. _I’M GONNA USE IT TO CRUSH YOU_!”

 

“Good luck, kid,” muttered Tassar calmly and sarcastically, who didn’t bother to parry the thrust but instead ducked and rolled to the side. The attack pierced straight through the ornate throne behind him, and Renault swore in frustration, immediately removing his blade with a flourish that turned into a slash which both shattered the expensive seat but also dissuaded any attempt Tassar might have made at an attack from the side.

 

It turned out to be unnecessary, though—the Hero was more interested in escape than fighting at this point—the smoke and ash from downstairs was growing increasingly annoying, especially since his eyes weren’t protected by a magic visor. “You damn coward!” swore Renault as he watched the man disappear into the stairwell that led to the fourth and final floor of his mother’s cathedral.

 

He didn’t spend any time complaining before following the man’s footsteps, though. A slight delay didn’t really matter—their duel was almost over, and the victor standing alone under the bells of Zodian’s Rest was as fine an end to it as any.

 

 

-X-

 

Was it the sixth or seventh time they’d destroyed the Idol? Khyron couldn’t tell. And at this point, he doubted it really mattered.

 

He watched the sparks of light coagulate around the pieces of the broken Idol while that infernal chanting echoed all around them, just as it had done several times before. Khyron was nearly exhausted, along with Hallard, both of them only keeping on their feet unsteadily after having expended so much energy on firing their spells—uselessly—at the creature. The throne room bore witness to the results of their struggle, with one pillar having been blown away and a series of holes blasted through the windows and walls. Through those holes came masses of that same, impenetrable fog, foiling any other hopes of escape the trio had.

 

Only Henken didn’t seem to be much worse for the wear, and even his unearthly stamina seemed to have limits—Khyron noticed how the rise and fall of his armored shoulders seemed to be just a bit less even than it was before. And it seemed their opponent realized this as well.

 

As the petals of light massed together, with another bright flash the Fool’s Idol floated before them, almost seeming to be sitting in an invisible throne in the air while it gazed down upon them with its cruel, inhuman eyes. The two Sages and the Great General stood before it, and while the former’s reactions were slow, the latter wouldn’t allow the thing a chance for another attack. He immediately leapt at it the moment it reformed, swinging his axe, but to his surprise, this time it didn’t connect. The Idol disappeared with a bright flash of light, leaving behind only another peal of laughter.

 

“W…what?” asked Khyron. “Where—“

 

“Behind!” yelled Henken, and the three of them didn’t even turn around before they scattered in different directions as another hail of Aura spells fell around them.

 

“Warp magic?” gasped Khyron, staring at the Idol, which was now behind them and readying more spells. He didn’t have time to ponder the extent of the creature’s abilities as it extended all four of its grey arms towards them, sending forth beams of shining light to blast them away. Khyron was successful in avoiding them with a quick roll to the side, and Henken raised his axe to actually reflect a beam, the blade glowing as its enchantment dissipated the Idol’s magic and sent it away from its target to make another hole in the roof. Hallard, however, wasn’t quite so lucky—though the beam aimed at him didn’t blow a hole in his chest, he screamed and slammed into the floor as it took a sizable chunk out of his shoulder.

 

The Idol laughed, sensing vulnerable prey. It aimed all four of its arms at the man groaning on the ground, energy coalescing around its fingers at it prepared to fire another volley to finish him off, but as it released its energy it hit a flash of red which had bolted right in front of the fallen Sage.

 

Henken staggered as he stumbled across the floor, his form smoking as he held Hallard’s prone body slung under one arm…while the other, which held his magic axe, lay smoking on the ground several feet away, blown clear out of its smoldering socket.

 

“H…Henken!” gasped Khyron before scurrying behind another nearby pillar on the other side of the room from the wounded Great General as the Idol fired more Aura spells, laughing wildly as she did so.

 

“Ignore me,” he replied curtly. “Hallard, can you move? Do you have a staff?”

 

“Y…yes,” he said, holding his wounded shoulder while looking dazedly at Henken’s destroyed arm, amazed that the man barely seemed to notice the wound.

 

“Grab it and reattach it.”

 

Hallard just looked at him blankly, while Aura spells continued to blast the area around them.

 

 _“Do it._ ”

 

That was enough to frighten him into action, and while Henken leaned against the pillar, ignoring the pain in his shoulder Hallard unlimbered his Recover staff as he leapt to grab the Great General’s dismembered limb, which was still clutching the axe. Khyron, realizing what he was doing, didn’t waste a moment to assist, jumping out from his hiding place to launch a series of Fire spells not at the Fool’s Idol herself but the ground in front of her, hoping the dust and smoke would throw off her aim. The strategy worked, and none of the Aura spells the being was launching managed to hit Hallard, who grabbed his commander’s arm and immediately rushed over to him.

 

Henken didn’t even say “thank you”—he merely nodded as Hallard held the limb to its socket, chanting as the powerful staff’s energy caused strands of flesh and sinew to grow from the socket and attach themselves to the arm, drawing it back and setting it firmly with a flash of blue light and a sickening squelch. Henken took no note of it—he flexed his arm and swung the axe in its grip once, and just nodded again.

 

“We can’t keep this up forever!” shouted Khyron, who once again had taken cover this time behind a pile of rubble near the door as “If we can’t figure out how to kill this abomination permanently, we’re as good as dead!”

 

Henken couldn’t argue with that, but even the master warrior and strategist found himself, for once in his life, thoroughly outclassed. He’d never fought an opponent like this before and had no idea of how to triumph over it. The continuing chanting emanating from seemingly everywhere around them made his impotency even more clear.

 

Until it suddenly stopped.

 

Hallard and Khyron blinked, not sure at all of what was happening, and even the Fool’s Idol itself seemed surprised—its laughing had stopped as well, and for the first time an expression of unease settled across its monstrous visage. Indeed, now everyone in the throne room could actually hear…footsteps, coming from three people, apparently. Wherever that voice was coming from, someone else had entered its field of enchantment.

 

“Ah-ah! Brother Roberto!” stammered the voice, heedless of the fact that both the Idol it was sustaining and the Royalists on the floor could hear it talking. “W-what brings you here?” Now Khyron could make it out much more clearly—the person talking seemed to be an elderly, infirm man with a very weak constitution, judging by how his voice trembled so.

 

“You’re feedin’ that Fool’s Idol thing or whatever it is in the throne room with…somethin’, aren’t ya?” Khyron remembered that voice, along with the name, but it couldn’t be…

 

“Y-yes, of course! W-we’ve trapped the Great General AND the Mage General in there, and the Idol will take care of both! It’s—a, ah, what are you doing?!”

 

The man’s stammering voice suddenly become a loud, high-pitched scream…and then stopped abruptly as several unnerving crunching noises echoed throughout the throne room. The Idol, upon hearing this, shut her mouth, her black eyes now reflecting utter fear.

 

“Hell, look at him!” came another echoing voice that Khyron recognized as Harvery’s. “Don’t you think that was a little excessive? His face looks like—“

 

“W-well now that Fool’s Idol or whatever it was can’t revive anymore, right?” came another voice Khyron knew was Apolli’s. “That means—“

 

“Yeah,” said Roberto, and then he let out a small grunt which indicated he was hefting something over his head. When a loud crash came from above them and something came flying down from a newly-made hole in the roof to splatter on the floor of the throne room, Khyron realized what it was.

 

The body was mangled beyond recognition, largely from the force of its fall but also from what Roberto had done to it earlier. Still, Khyron could recognize what it had once been—its black robes marked it as a Druid, and some of the sigils on it specifically indicated a master of arcane magic used to send energy to certain types of creatures—like this Fool’s Idol.

 

“It’s vulnerable!” shouted Khyron. “Great General, now is our chance! KILL IT!”

 

Henken didn’t need to think twice about that order. The Fool’s Idol raised her arms towards him, letting out a fearful wail rather than her previous mocking laughter, but she was still too slow. Four beams of light lanced straight towards him, but hit only the floor as the Red Comet leapt straight into the air to dodge, spun at the height of his jump once, twice, then came crashing down on the Fool’s Idol, axe leading the way. Just as before, her body was sliced cleanly in two, and Khyron and Hallard watched warily as those pieces glowed and dissipated into a thousand petals of scattering light.

 

This time, however, there was no chanting to bring the pieces back together. Instead, the trio only heard a soft, female voice, seemingly coming from above, speaking two words:

 

“Thank you.”

 

With that, the sparks of light flickered, dimmed…and disappeared. Along with the strange mist which blocked away the doorway and any other entrance or exit to the throne room, allowing sunlight to shine brightly through the windows and other openings, as if nothing had happened at all. Indeed, the only evidence that a fight had actually taken place was in the damage done to the room itself.

 

“H…have we won?” asked Hallard, his free hand still on his wounded shoulder.

 

When the doors to the throne room burst open, flooding it with a mass of surprised Royalist soldiers who hadn’t expected their attempts to open it to suddenly meet with success, calling and cheering for their leaders, yelling in joy that the Great General was still alive, and extolling their epic victory over the rebels, Khyron, Hallard, and Henken knew that the answer to that question was a resounding yes.

 

-x-

 

“Man, this place is a dump. I thought they took religion seriously in this city!”

 

Yazan said this as he strode through the open doors of the church and stepped inside, viewing everything before him with a distinctly unimpressed eye. It was obvious why Bishop Monica had wanted to renovate the church before her untimely death—though the parishioners had apparently kept it in as good a condition as they could, the wooden roof and the pews surrounding the aisle which led to the altar were both rotting in many places, and the stones of the walls were in equally poor condition, crumbling and unstable.

 

The building was completely deserted, its flock probably having left it to join in the rioting taking place all over the rest of the city, Yazan surmised. The sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows gave the area a strangely eerie yet beautiful atmosphere, as the multicolored rays highlighted the dust floating in the air and the debris strewn across several of the broken pews and the overturned altar—which was framed by the bloody corpse of Kasha’s Pegasus, highlighted within the bright circle of the sun shining unfiltered through the hole he had made as he crashed through the roof.

 

“Huh.” Yazan walked over to the beast and kicked him roughly. Judging by the blood pooling around him, he’d died of shock from the wound to his wing. Kasha had been injured too, but not fatally. Where was she?

 

He again looked down, this time at the pool of blood on the floor, squinting at it. Was that…yes, it was. He grinned to himself when he saw a trail of bloody footprints leading away from it towards the confessional behind the broken altar.

 

“Tryin’ to hide from me?” he laughed quietly to himself. “Hurts my feelings, Kasha.” Confidently, he followed the footprints straight towards the confessional, standing in front of the drab wooden box with his Steel Sword drawn. He looked down at the droplets of blood on the ground in front of one of the confessional’s thin wooden doors, the one in which parishioners were supposed to enter, and his grin grew wider.

 

With one swift movement, he thrust his sword straight through the door and into the confessional’s occupant.

 

His grin disappeared and his eyes narrowed, however, when he realized that he hadn’t actually hit anything.

 

“What the hell?” Annoyed, he withdrew his blade and threw open the confessional door. There was no-one there. But when he looked down, at the small cushion provided for parishioners to kneel while they spoke to the priest behind the screen, he noticed…a pair of bloody Ilian boots along with an empty Vulnerary.

 

“SURPRISE!” came a joyful shot from behind the priest’s screen, and Yazan instinctively stumbled back with a gasp as another steel blade slashed right through the screen, thrusting into the air where his head would have been a second ago. Not allowing him any reprieve, Kasha burst out of the priest’s confessional chamber, laying into the Bernite with a series of wild slashes which he barely managed to parry, and at the cost of him losing his balance and tripping over his own feet, swearing as he fell squarely onto his behind.

 

 It was an ingenious ploy—when she realized Yazan hadn’t just flown in after her but had set down outside of the church, without wasting any time Kasha had intentionally tracked the blood of her dead mount to the parishioner’s side of the confessional and downed her vulnerary there, then removed the boots and snuck into the priest’s chamber, waiting for Yazan to be lured over.

 

“You son of a bitch,” she cackled, her eyes wild and somewhat crazed—even more than usual, Yazan realized. “You killed my Arthas! ARTHAS! MY PEGASUS! I’M GONNA MAKE YOU SUFFER!”

 

If Yazan could feel guilt he would have felt a pang of it right then—even though he rode a Wyvern rather than a Pegasus, he understood all too well the bond between a mount and its rider. However, as the crazed Ilian stood over him, blade held over her head to deliver a finishing blow while his had been knocked out of his hands, empathy was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he simply looked up, the cocky grin on his face back again, and asked his would-be killer, “hey, aren’t you forgettin’ somebody?”

 

She hesitated for a moment, during which confusion briefly replaced rage on her face. This gave Yazan just enough time to scream, at the top of his lungs,

 

“HAMBRABIIII!!!!!!”

 

The Wyvern had set down several minutes ago in front of the church, allowing its rider to get off, and had been ordered to take off again and roost at on the building’s roof, both to keep an eye out for encroaching company and to be on call in case Yazan ran into any unexpected surprises, which he had. Hambrabi’s incredibly keen Wyvern ears could hear the call of his master from literally miles away, and when he heard Yazan’s voice from below, he immediately slammed straight through the flimsy wooden roof with his claws…right on top of Kasha.

 

The woman didn’t even have time to scream before she was buried under several hundred pounds of scaly lizard. She gasped as Hambrabi used his weight to keep her lower body pinned to the ground, grabbing each of her arms with his forelegs to keep them pinned as well. The monster’s grip was extremely strong, and Kasha felt her blade slip from her hand as he squeezed, almost crushing her wrists. He craned his long neck to bring his scaly face right in front of hers, waves of his fetid breath assaulting her nostrils and making her gag. He let out a long, low growl and eyed her hungrily, looking as if he was almost going to take a bite out of her, but was stopped by Yazan laying a firm but comforting hand on the squamous crest behind his eyes.

 

“Easy now, Hambrabi,” the Bernite laughed. He looked down at Kasha, smiling at the anger and pain on her face and enjoying his victory. “God damn, that was really quite a fight. I almost thought you had me there.”

 

She didn’t respond with anything else besides a gob of spit launched upwards, at his face. He dodged that easily with a chuckle, simply stepping to the side.

 

“C’mon, are you mad at me?” he asked. “I don’t wanna end things on a bad note. The fight was fun, wasn’t it? And you did real good. I’m sorry about your Pegasus, but…I just did what I had to do, you know? Don’t hold it against me, hon.”

 

He picked up his fallen blade and leveled it at her, while Hambrabi growled above her. “Don’t be a sore loser, Kasha. Just accept it and it’ll go a lot easier for you.”

 

This seemed to get through to her…in a way. Her grimace twisted into a wild smile, and she let out another peal of laughter. “Okay, okay, Yazan, you got me. You’ve won, you’re better, and I accept that. But you can’t blame a girl for being a little angry about it, right? Maybe if you did me a lil’ favor I wouldn’t hold it against you so much…”

 

“Oh?” Yazan arched an eyebrow up and leaned down, closer to her. “What’s on your mind?”

 

“Well…” she began, and then suddenly cut it off with a cry of pain when Yazan stabbed down, impaling her right hand with his blade.

 

“I knew what you were gonna ask, Kasha. ‘Just get that wyvern offa me, just a little,’ or something like that, right? C’mon, you don’t think I’m that stupid, do you? I saw you reaching for your sword. Gimme a bit of credit here, seriously!”

 

Once again, Kasha let out another wild peal of laughter—an honest one this time, her anger at her mount’s loss seemingly all but forgotten, though by this point Yazan had gotten used to the madwoman’s mood swings. “All right, all right, you’ve got me good, Yazan,” and the pain of Hambrabi’s pinning as well her ruined hand were clearly evident in her voice, “just can’t get anything outta you, can I? Looks like this really is it for me Can I just ask you for one more favor, then? It’s a real one, I promise!”

 

Yazan rolled his eyes. “What?”

 

Kasha took a deep, ragged breath. “There’s a guy in the Royalist army. I’ve told you about ‘im before, his name is—“

 

“Renault, I know,” replied Yazan. “Big guy, teal hair, hangs out with this Lycian all the time…lemme guess, you want me to take him out.”

 

Kasha allowed herself an unsteady grin as she nodded her head upwards from the floor.

 

“Can do. He’s on the other side anyways, I’ll probably get to him eventually. Is that all?”

 

“N…no. One more thing.”

 

“This is pretty long for a last request, hon.”

 

“Seriously. Look, I’ve got two sisters…they’re Pegasus Knights like me. Got the same green hair too. Their names are Keith and Kelitha. I want—“

 

“Aw, man, you want me to go easy on them? Spare them if I meet ‘em on the battlefield?” Yazan frowned. “You know I can’t do that, I—“

 

This elicited the last peal of manic laughter he’d ever hear from his Ilian friend. “No, no, you idiot! Just the opposite! I WANT you to kill ‘em, Yazan! Don’t show ‘em any mercy whatsoever. None! See, if I had to be killed by anybody,” Kasha gasped with a wide grin on her bloody face, “Yazan, I’m glad it was you! And I don’t want my rival, Renault, OR my sisters to go down to anybody besides the man who finally beat me in battle!

 

“So remember it, Bernite! You see a teal-haired guy in armor or a pair of green-haired Ilians, you slaughter ‘em before anybody else has a chance to!”

 

Upon hearing this admission, Yazan blinked, briefly stunned into silence. Then he nodded in satisfaction.

 

“I can do that, Kasha. I most DEFINITELY can do that,” he said, looking down on her with affection. “You know, you’re a hell of a girl, and damn, am I sorry to see you go. But I guess all good things really do have to come to an end.”

 

With a wide smile on his face that was tinged with just a bit of sadness, he raised his steel sword, hesitated for just a moment, and then brought it down on Kasha’s neck.

 

The deed was done. He stared at the Ilian’s severed head for yet another moment with resignation, then shook his head, realizing how silly and sentimental he was being. Well, maybe a *little* sentimentalism wasn’t such a bad thing. “Hey, cut that out,” he told Hambrabi sternly when he noticed the Wyvern sniffing at the decapitated corpse he was still on top of. “Kasha was our friend, and we don’t eat friends.”

 

Hambrabi whined in response, and Yazan gave him a small, sad chuckle and a pat on the head. “I know you’re hungry. We’ll get something for you later. For now, though, we gotta go.” He got on his companion’s back and gave him a light kick in the sides, convincing him to stretch out his wings, flap them, and rise through the hole he’d made in the ceiling. The Bernite squinted as he came out into the bright sunlight again, then looked down at the battles raging throughout the city.

 

“Just like Trunicht said, we’ve lost,” muttered the Bernite, surveying the situation below him. “Man, who would’ve thought Tassar would turn out to be such an incompetent? Well, none of my problem.” He gave Hambrabi another kick in the sides, this time encouraging him to turn and head east. “Let’s start moving. Trunicht said that even if Thagaste falls, we can still win this war if we help Dougram over in the east. No idea what that means, though. Guess we’ll find out, eh?”

 

With another loud laugh that seemed to echo all across the city, Yazan spurred his mount on to meet whatever task awaited them next.

 

-x-

 

If he had to die, Braddock wished he could at least see his death coming. As it was, he could see nothing but blackness all around him and Yurt’s laughter echoing in his ears—he couldn’t even tell where it was coming from.

 

“Dammit! DAMMIT!” he coughed in despair and frustration, punching the smoke-filled air around him, but to his immense surprise…it seemed to have an effect. “D—h-huh?” All of a sudden, the smoke dissipated, leaving him to stumble around d awkwardly for a moment under the bright sunlight before looking around to realize that he was still standing on the grassy ground of the Cathedral’s Sanctuary, right in front of the big tree, in fact.

 

However, he realized that he was no longer alone with Yurt.

 

“Annoying flies!” yelled the Silent Chief from behind him, the smoke with which he’d enveloped Braddock trailing from his fingers, dissipating as he lost the concentration necessary to maintain their enchantment. He lost it because he was now very busy dodging a series of javelins and fireballs coming at him from above.

 

The cavalry had arrived…aerial cavalry, to be exact. The Pegasus Knight sisters, Keith and Kelitha, had finally made their appearance in the battle, with Rosamia sitting behind Kelitha in the saddle.

 

“Sir Braddock! Are you alright?!” shouted Keith as she soared over Yurt’s head, jabbing at him with her lance. “We gave our report to Henken, then we picked up Rosamia and got ordered to this cathedral! What’s going on?!”

 

“I—ah!” Braddock raised an arm to block a jumping slash from Yurt’s shotel—despite everything, the assassin was still concentrating on him. “Renault’s in the tower, but this Assassin’s in my way!”

 

“He’s next on my list after you’re dead, fool!” Yurt crouched and prepared for another charge at his target, but instead was forced to disappear into another puff of smoke as a pair of javelins along with a fireball landed on the ground where he’d been.

 

“B-Braddock!” gasped Rosamia as Kelitha landed on the ground nearby, letting her off. “Is that the assassin we met the last time we were in this city?”

 

“Yeah, and he’s a lot stronger—WATCH OUT!” Braddock reached out and swept her aside, shocking her as she stumbled away, but it was just in time to evade a knife in her back—Yurt had popped out of the air behind her and attempted another stab.

 

The Assassin hopped back as a dark-black flash, that inky black smoke gathering around his knife and shotel again. “Your worthless friends won’t help you this time!” He slashed both weapons through the air, and from them emanated streaks of that vile smoke, aimed straight towards the faces of the Pegasus Knights. Both of them cried out in surprise as the substance covered their mouths and eyes, forcing Keith to land again and allowing neither of them to make any more attacks, distracted as they were.

 

Desperately, Rosamia, standing at Braddock’s side, launched another fireball at the Silent Chief, to no avail—another sweep of his shotel sent up a cloud of black smoke which covered the spell and snuffed it out. Again, Braddock tossed another axe—his last one—at Yurt, but the Assassin disappeared with another puff of smoke. And now all of his enemies were defenseless.

 

Or were they?

 

Just as Yurt reappeared behind Braddock, Keith cried out, “CHARGE HIM, MARIUS!” Her Pegasus had been pacing around the area warily, keeping an eye out for the assassin, because while his rider may have been blinded—the smoke still hung thickly in front of her shut eyes—he was not, and indeed, Pegasi were creatures sensitive to magic; he could detect the energy of Yurt’s dark spellcraft and thus predict, to an extent, where the man would reappear.

 

Keith didn’t bother to attack him, since she knew she wouldn’t be able to hit, but that wasn’t what she cared about—distracting him was enough.

 

“My countrywomen are as persistent as ever,” muttered Yurt as he slid to the side with a flourish of smoke to avoid being trampled. “Still, I’ll show you no mercy! For assisting my prey, you’ve earned your own death!”

 

“Y-you’re the one who’s gonna die, villain!” Keith cried in response. She sounded a lot braver than she actually felt—in fact, at the moment, she was absolutely terrified, having never been blinded like this before. But her resolute determination to live up to her mother’s memory meant that she wouldn’t crack, even when facing someone as terrifying as Yurt. Fortunately, she wasn’t facing him alone.

 

“ARIS, CHARGE!” shouted Kelitha, who heard what her sister said and realized it was a good idea. Yurt was expecting this, though, and the Pegasus charged through another cloud of inky blackness…but one that lingered, clinging onto the unfortunate beast’s eyes and mouth as he became blinded just like his rider.

 

 _Definitely not looking good now,_ Braddock thought to himself as he and Rosamia stood back to back, both keeping an eye out for the Silent Chief’s inevitable reappearance. While the Ilians had kept Yurt distracted he’d gone to pick up his Wolf Beil and shield, while Rosamia put away her Fire tome in favor of Thunder. Braddock’s wounds were exhausting him, though, and he was rapidly running out of stamina. The sisters were disabled, and Rosamia, despite being a competent mage, wasn’t nearly good enough to stand toe-to-toe with the master assassin.

 

To their massive relief, though, they wouldn’t have to. Both of them forget about Yurt for a moment when they heard a massive clamor coming from the main portion of the cathedral. Out of the double doors which led to the devastated aisle and altar from the sanctuary poured a mass of Knights, Soldiers, Mages, and other Royalist troops, led by a man in armor and a horseman Braddock recognized.

 

“What’s goin’ on?” grumbled Jerid as he led a contingent of Knights into the Sanctuary. “They told us to capture this place, but it looks like somebody got here before we did!”

 

“Seems like—who’s that?!” replied Gafgarion, who had dismounted and was leading a group of spearmen behind Jerid’s. He was looking up and pointing to the top of the evergreen tree.

 

What they saw lasted for only a moment. Yurt stood at the top of the tree, just as he had at the beginning of the battle, glowering down at the exhausted and vulnerable Braddock.

 

“You have had three escapes, my prey. There won’t be a fourth.”

 

With that, he disappeared in another cloud of smoke, allowing Braddock and his allies a huge sigh of relief as Gafgarion, Jerid, and their men gathered around them, curious as to know just what had happened.

 

“You guys arrived just in time,” the Ostian breathed appreciatively as Jerid clanked over with a quizzical expression on his face, holding out a Vulnerary. “This battle’s been crazy. Have you heard what happened to—“

 

“The Bishop?!” asked Jerid, and the ashen expression on his face indicated he had. “Is it true? She’s dead?”

 

“Yeah,” came Braddock’s reply. “The moment he heard, Renault bolted for here and I followed right after him.”

 

“After we gave our report to Henken we were ordered to help with the cathedral before you guys came!” chirped Keith happily—the smoke had dissipated from her and her sister’s eyes. “We picked up Rosamia from the docks, left some friendly soldiers to protect Lisse, and headed over as quickly as we could!” She looked at Braddock like she was begging for approval. “We came just in time to help fight off that weird assassin! You n’ Renault will be proud, right?”

 

“Yeah, you did great. You saved my life, girls! That’ll definitely make Renault happy.” smiled Braddock, but his smile soon became a concerned frown as he turned to look at the cathedral tower, the windows of which were now belching smoke and ash. “And speaking of, we really gotta get into that tower! I bet that’s where Renault is, and something sure looks like it happened in there!”

 

Kelitha looked over to the edifice Braddock was pointing at, then turned her eyes upwards. “Wait a moment…who’s up there? Is that…?”

 

“Huh?” Braddock didn’t know what she was talking about, but he followed her eyes anyways. And when he saw what she did, he realized he wasn’t the only one who’d been keeping very, very busy.

 

-X-

 

Renault didn’t bother to say anything to his adversary the moment he met him on the fourth and final floor of the cathedral—partially because there was no need, and partially because he was momentarily taken aback by the view.

 

His father had brought him up to see the very top of the cathedral once before, when he was a young boy. It still provided a majestic perspective of Thagaste. The stairwell which he exited the third floor from terminated not into a doorway but into a hatch near the center of the bell chamber. Much like the previous floors, this one was circular as well, but it was not enclosed fully by walls—rather, the ceiling (which was a pearly-white dome, on top of which was a life-size icon of the Saint herself, arms wide and beckoning to the faithful of the city) was held up by four pillars with nothing in-between them, which provided both sizable openings for any incautious unfortunate to fall from and splatter onto the ground several stories below. The pillars themselves were wide, thick, and very strong—for they had to be, since they held up not only the ceiling’s weight but also that of the single huge bronze bell attached to it, next to which hung a thick rope which had to be pulled by three strong monks to ring the device which would call the faithful from all over the city.

 

Despite the danger such an arena posed to dueling swordsmen, however, it also provided a near-perfect vantage point from which to survey the entire city. Under regular circumstances, it would have been beautiful—the puffy clouds dotting the pure blue sky and the birds (particularly doves—Elimineans encouraged the creatures to roost around their churches, and several of the gargoyles dotting the exterior of the cathedral tower and main buildings actually intentionally contained spots where the creatures could easily build nests) provided a poignant frame for the scene below—people milling about the streets looking as if they were small dolls, the buildings forming a pastiche of white and grey, and the proud spires of Castle Hallard jutting into the air proudly in the distance. Of course, there was also the hubbub and noise of the busy crowds forming an undifferentiated din even this high up, which Renault hated. However, today, rather than the typical cacophony the rabble produced, there was nothing but a symphony of screams, spells, and clashing steel framed by flames and smoke rising from the scene below, especially from fires on the other side of the cathedral and its tower, very close by—all part of the glorious concerto of battle, which Renault had grown to love.

 

His opponent seemed to realize this. “Great view, right?” smirked Tassar. “I just wanted to give you something nice to look at before you died. Guess I still have a soft spot for you, Renault!”

 

“Your loss,” he retorted. “There’s nowhere for you to run, you bastard. You’re trapped!”

 

“So are you!” With that, Tassar sprinted towards Renault with another vertical cut, which Renault caught with the hilt of his sword, and when Tassar punched out with his shield, as Renault had already experienced twice; he blocked that by punching forwards with the bottom of his dagger himself. However, he was pushed back into the stairwell by Tassar, and might have lost his footing and tripped over, but fortunately, he didn’t slip, and instead began pushing back. The weight of his armor gave him an advantage, and now he was the one advancing on Tassar.

 

The veteran mercenary disengaged by shifting to the side suddenly, causing Renault to stumble forward as Tassar slipped behind him.  The Mercenary Lord didn’t leave himself vulnerable, though—he turned just in time to parry Tassar’s swing at his back with the flat of his sword.

 

With this, they began their duel in earnest. Tassar maintained his offensive; after Renault parried his attack he hopped back and then forwards with a quick thrust at his foe’s abdomen. Renault sidestepped this and responded with a sideways jab of his dagger, aimed at Tassar’s vulnerable armpit but hitting a shield raised just in time instead. Undeterred, he followed up with another trio of jabs from his dagger, all of which bounced off Tassar’s shield as well, but which were intended as masks for his real attack. Withdrawing his dagger in his left hand, Renault stepped forwards, quickly turned and sneakily swept the sword in his right over to Tassar’s left side in a horizontal cut that seemed as if it was aimed at his head. As expected, Tassar raised his shield to defend, which was the beauty of Renault’s move. He moved the blade upwards so it swept _over_ Tassar’s head and shield, bringing his sword arm bent and crossed over in preparation for his true strike—a powerful sweeping horizontal cut aimed at Tassar’s _lower_ body, which would have almost certainly dealt him a crippling wound.

 

“Would have” were the key words there. Tassar saw what his former mentee was doing, and smiled inwardly—as much as he hated Renault, he still had to applaud the man for his growth as a warrior. Even so, he still saw the move coming. Tassar didn’t bother to parry with his own blade, because he knew the strength from Renault’s blow would still be enough to knock him off-balance. Instead, in a display of acrobatic skill worthy of an Assassin, Tassar jumped backwards, tucking in his legs and somersaulting in the air above Renault’s descending blade.

 

“Damn!” Renault was taken completely by surprise, but as a testament to his growing skill, he didn’t lose his composure. The moment he saw his edge slice through empty air rather than Tassar’s legs, he didn’t stop his attack but rather used its momentum to keep himself low to the ground, and also used it to propel his left dagger-arm forwards in the same movement. He released his grip and the weapon went flying upwards, at the Hero who had just jumped out of sword-reach…and under one of the huge brass bells suspended from the tower’s dome.

 

“Not falling for that again, kid!” Tassar smiled as he ducked under the flying dagger, and then swung his sword upwards, at the chain that was following it.

 

Renault could only watch in dismay as the flash of silver cut cleanly through the chain as if it were paper, sending the dagger soaring far past the bell and outside the bounds of the pillars, straight into the distance and down to the city below.

 

He didn’t have much time to reflect on his misfortune—Tassar was upon him again. The mercenary advanced with a series of thrusts and jabs designed to take advantage of Renault’s lack of a second weapon in his left hand. Fortunately, however, the Mercenary Lord hadn’t forgotten how to fight with longsword alone. Several deft sweeps of his arm and twists of his wrist batted each of Tassar’s attacks away successfully.

 

Regaining his confidence, Renault attempted to regain the offensive as well. He hopped back to give himself distance and a moment’s extra time to shift into a picture-perfect Roof stance, holding his blade above his head with both hands at an approximately 45-degree angle. He then immediately brought the blade down in a powerful cut which would have bisected Tassar’s head if he hadn’t backstepped. Tassar could have counterattacked, but the moment the tip of his blade sliced into the floor Renault jerked his wrists and flipped the blade back up in a rising jab which might have taken Tassar under the chin—he grunted in annoyance as he awkwardly jerked back to avoid it, suffering a minor cut on his cheek as the blade grazed it.

 

This gave him a perfect opportunity. As he fell back, Tassar raised his shield and punched it against Renault’s upraised arms and withdrew his Silver Sword for a fatal thrust into Renault’s abdomen. The off-balance Mercenary quickly weaved to the right and managed to evade a direct hit, but cursed as the fine silver edge flashed by his side and leaving a gash that wasn’t fatally deep, but still large and bloody.

 

Tassar loved the scent of that blood, for he knew it heralded victory. As Renault staggered slightly, the Hero blasted forwards with a vicious series of overhead slashes. His foe managed to block both of them, keeping one hand on his sword’s handle and another on the blade itself, holding it up as a roof against which Tassar’s silver hammered. He felt his arms going numb from the force of the blows, though, and realized he couldn’t keep it up forever.

 

Desperately, he tried one last attack. In the split second it took for Tassar to draw back his arm for another slash, Renault flicked his blade out from his left hand, sending it at his foes’ head hoping to at least score a minor hit to one of Tassar’s eyes. Alas, it was not to be. Tassar quickly ducked and chopped upwards with the rim of his shield, hitting Renault’s hand and forcing him to totter back in despair as the impact knocked his remaining weapon out of his weakened grip. Renault immediately stumbled back, quickly enough to get out of Tassar’s effective range, but his weapon had been batted far away, landing and sliding across the floor and off the building’s edge down to the battlefield below.

 

“It’s over, Renault,” snarled Tassar, standing back and leveling his weapon against his now-unarmed opponent, who was tottering before him on unsteady feet. “Accept your fate!”

 

“Shit!” Renault knew he was against the wall. However, he still had one more card to play.

 

Tassar stepped forwards and once again brought his sword down in a great chop, intending this attack to be the last. If Renault hadn’t brought up his left arm in front of his face to block, it would have been. Instead, the Silver Sword chopped through the large, thick gauntlet and dug very deeply into Renault’s left forearm, right into the bone. Even if it wasn’t fatal, it still would have been a debilitating wound under other circumstances.

 

As it was, however, it was exactly what Renault was hoping for. Just as his pauldrons had done, the metal of the thick, protective gauntlet had trapped the blade for just enough time to allow Renault to unleash one final gambit.

 

“Eh?!” Tassar started, realizing he hadn’t hit his opponent’s head as he’d intended.

 

“RRRRRAAAAAHHHH!” Drawing upon every bit of strength he had left, Renault, keeping Tassar’s sword wedged in his forearm, reached out with his right hand and grabbed the rim of Tassar’s shield, then burst forwards in a mad run, pushing the man straight into the space between a pair of pillars—straight to the floor’s edge, with nothing but air to break the fall they’d take.

 

Tassar realized what he was doing, but a moment too late. “NO!” he shouted uselessly, trying but unable to free himself from Renault’s grasp or stop his charge. For a moment, he and his rival teetered precariously on the brink of the belltower’s edge. Then, with a final, manic surge of strength that overwhelmed Tassar, Renault pushed forwards and sent them both over.

 

Both men felt their stomachs lurch as Renault heaved them into the air, and then into free-fall. Now, there was nothing either of them could do but share their last words to each other in the scant seconds they had before they splattered onto the ground. At least, that was what Tassar thought.

 

“YOU IDIOT!” he screamed, partially out of frustration, and partially to be heard over the air rushing past him. “YOU’VE KILLED US BOTH!!”

 

“Think again! Don’t you remember one of your most important lessons, Tassar?” Renault retorted as they plummeted downwards.

 

“ **ALWAYS CARRY A SPARE!”**

 

Tassar’s eyes widened with fury and frustration when he saw Renault flick out his unwounded right hand to catch a dagger flashing down out of his armor. He had chaindaggers in _both_ pauldrons, not just his left one! The Mercenary Lord’s visor shone brightly red for a moment as he delived a swift midair kick to Tassar in order to extricate himself from the man’s grip, releasing the Silver Sword from his forearm with a spray of blood. He then spun and swung his right arm to throw his chaindagger upwards! It wrapped around one of the gargoyles overlooking a third-story window, and though Renault felt a jolt of pain shoot up his right arm as the chain hooked, it still slowed its descent, and Renault immediately grabbed a nearby crevice with his injured left hand to further support his weight. This left him just enough time to look downwards and catch a glimpse of the most satisfying thing he’d seen so far in his life.

 

Tassar plunging to the earth, disappearing into the rising clouds of smoke and ash from the fires of burning barricades and spell-blasted debris below with a single bloodcurdling cry of pure hatred:

 

“ _RENAAUULLT!”_

 

He could only smile as Tassar’s voice trailed away, then suddenly cut off.

 

He heard the creak of his dagger’s chain being pushed to its limits supporting his weight, felt a growing ache in his right arm, and knew that his left, with the huge, deep wound Tassar had given it, wouldn’t be able to keep him propped up either for long. He’d achieved the victory against Tassar he’d been waiting so long for, but it wouldn’t mean much unless he found a way to get out of this situation fast. He turned his eyes to the nearby third-story window, figuring if he managed to winch himself up he might be able to smash through it and rest for at least a little bit, but a voice calling to him from below suddenly solved that problem.

 

“Renault! Renault!” He started in surprise, almost losing his grip on the wall when he heard that familiar voice. He turned his head left and right, looking all around him for its source, and finally found it, floating up towards him as it flitted around from the other side of the Cathedral.

 

Keith, her eyes wide with worry as she drove her Pegasus on to rescue him.

 

The red glow of his visor flickered for a moment, softened, and then went out completely, returning it to its original empty shade of green. Underneath it, Renault closed his eyes. In exhaustion, he slackened his left hand’s grip and his right chaindagger’s wrap around the gargoyle loosened, but right now it didn’t matter. Keith’s mount soared upwards to meet him, and when he fell it was onto the beast’s back, right behind his friend. The girl cheered as he steadied himself behind her, not noticing the blood staining her shoulder as he placed his left hand on it, and paying no attention to the whirring of his right hand’s mechanism as he jerked on the chain, retracting it automatically and sending the dagger right back to him (breaking off a bit of the gargoyle in the process).

 

She was talking nonstop, about how glad she was to see him again, how she saved Braddock, and how the rebels had been beaten back, but right now, Renault didn’t care much about any of that. He just waved downwards, telling her where he wanted her to go. In a moment he felt the air rushing around him, indicating that she was moving, but his eyes were still closed. Was she following his orders? He assumed so, but honestly, he really didn’t care.

 

The battle was finally over. For now, that was all that mattered.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

I think this might be my favorite chappie yet…this was gonna be another “centerpiece” chapter with a WHOLE lot of epic in it, and I’ve been dreaming about it and planning it for a LONG time. It didn’t turn out exactly like how I first envisioned, but I am very very pleased with the result. I hope you guys feel the same! ^^ Anyways, a few notes and a few questions:

 

1: Yep, Roberto is on the side of the good guys again ;) Remember, this is a Fire Emblem fic, so I really wanted to portray someone being recruited from the enemy side. :D You should play “Together, we Ride” or something from a FE OST while you read that scene, hehe. XD

 

2: I gotta ask, were you expecting the deaths, especially Kasha’s? :o Lot of them in the past two chappies (which was originally intended to be just one—good thing I split it up, otherwise it would’ve been over 40k words long!) and there’ll be more in the future! Keep on your toes ;)

 

Thanks as always to Enilas for betaing and all you fine people for reading!


	29. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both the Rebels and the Royalists react to the great Royalist victory at Thagaste.

 

**29: Aftermath**

 

Renault hated funerals. In fact, he hated the very concept of mourning, which he’d never done in his entire life. He hadn’t even attended his own father’s funeral, and he loved the man. Thus, he definitely wasn’t going to attend his mother’s funeral.

 

That didn’t mean he couldn’t watch the spectacle, though—and funerals for clergy as high-ranking as a Bishop were definitely spectacles. From his seat looking out from the windows of one of Castle Hallard’s tallest spires, Renault watched the great line of people march through Thagaste’s main road. Though from this distance he couldn’t make out the details of the crowd with any clarity, he knew enough to guess both their composition and where they were headed. Every last one of them was clad in black—in fact, it seemed the entire city had broken out its best mourning clothes for the day, even those who were too poor to afford little more than pitch-covered rags. It seemed almost like a shadow was flowing through that road, not so different, ironically enough, from the little shadowy familiars Dark magic users like Paptimus were so fond of. The very front of the procession would have held the creature’s ‘eyes’—ahead of the black mass were a series of twinkling dots of light. Though it was evening—not dark enough to really necessitate the use of torches—the mourners at the front were some of the cathedral’s monks carrying ceremonial lamps which served some kind of ritual purpose. Perhaps lighting the way for the soul of the deceased to travel to God’s country? Renault didn’t remember, and he didn’t care either. After them came the pallbearers who held Monica’s heavy oak coffin, many times larger and heavier than the Bishop had ever been in life. It was covered in beautiful golden decorations and gilding, and the lid was embossed with the symbol of the Eliminean faith—a single line with a circle surrounding its end.

 

Renault had once been told what it meant. He took pride in the fact he didn’t remember that either.

 

The pallbearers were carrying it from the castle—Monica’s body had been moved to it from the cathedral in order to prepare it for burial and make her look presentable—to Zodian’s Rest, where she would be interred in its catacombs, next to her departed husband. Behind those came the crowd of mourners following along—a black-clad mass drawn from seemingly every strata of Thagaste’s society, the rich and poor, and small and great. Even those who weren’t part of the procession expressed their sorrow at the Bishop’s passing, with black flags hanging from many windows of many houses and torches glimmering from their rooftops. Though the people were more or less apathetic towards the nobles and greatest merchants of their city, almost all of them had loved Monica.

 

Of course, they didn’t know her like Renault did.

 

He may not have joined their ranks, and he may not have had any intention of mourning for her like they did, but all the same Renault couldn’t tear his eyes away from those mourners. The sight of them reminded him of the battle he’d just won, as well as why he fought it. It seemed like he could see every memory of the past few years, both good and bad, swept up within that black stream. Tassar’s death was still fresh in his mind, of course, but he also saw his first meeting with the man at the Ruby Tortoise—it seemed like ages ago, yet not even half a decade had past. His first terrifying battle at Scirocco, the time he’d spent with Braddock afterwards, fighting the Royalists at the Fortress of Spears, fighting Barbarossa at Khyron’s side…

 

Yet all those memories were eclipsed by one—one moment in Renault’s life which shone brighter than all the others. It was the sight of his mother lying on the floor, blood streaming from her nose as Renault stormed off into the darkness of Thagaste’s night.

 

Even though she was dead, and indeed, even though he had avenged her death, Renault furrowed his brow and scowled as the sound of her weeping echoed in his head. Nothing he could do, or think of, could banish it. Even turning his eyes away from the funeral procession and finding something else to distract himself with—he and his comrades had been given orders to relax, after all—was not an option. He knew he couldn’t run away from his mother’s death, regardless of whether or not he even looked at her funeral.

 

However, there was one man who could help him through it.

 

So preoccupied was he with his gloomy ruminations that Renault didn’t even noticed the heavy steps tramping up the stairs behind him, and if it had been anyone else he would have whipped around, fists at the ready, when he felt a strong, firm hand on his shoulder. He would recognize that touch anywhere, however, and thus, he simply turned to look at who was behind him, a slight jerk and widening of his eyes the indication of his surprise.

 

“Sorry, did I sneak up on you?” Braddock smiled. “I just wanted to see how you were doing, is all. I mean, it’s been a couple of days, and you’ve been sleeping for most of that time. And I remember you were hurt pretty bad when Keith found you hangin’ off of that gargoyle. How’re your wounds doing? They still hurt?”

 

“Not really.” Renault grinned, bringing up his arm and twisting and flexing his wrists and fingers. He then held it still, peering at the arc of hard skin which represented the spot Tassar’s sword had bitten into it. “I wonder if these scars will ever go away, though.”

 

“I doubt it,” Braddock smiled sadly. “That’s the thing with magic. Khyron did a decent job of patching you up when we brought you to him, but judging from what he said, if big wounds like the ones you got aren’t healed right away, you’ll be left with those scars. Still, it’s not so bad, right? Better a scar than a lost limb. And besides, they’re makin’ you look like a bona-fide mercenary now! Nobody wants to hire a prettyboy who looks like he’s never been in a fight!”

 

Renault had to laugh at this. “I guess you’re right, bud. Thanks.” He returned Braddock’s smile with genuine affection in his eyes. “I needed that, I really did.”

 

The Ostian nodded. “Yeah, I figured. That’s why I came up here…when I heard they’d been having a funeral for her, I figured this is where you’d be. I mean…look, if you don’t, I understand, but…Renault, you wanna talk about it?”

 

The city boy nodded gratefully. There weren’t any chairs in Castle Hallard’s watchtower, but Renault took a spot on the wall to lean against it, and patted the area next to him to indicate where Braddock could lean as well. His friend happily took the offer.

 

“Braddock,” asked Renault, looking intently at his friend, “I…well, look, this probably sounds weird, but…if your parents died, how would you react?”

 

“Huh?” Braddock wasn’t expecting this. “My parents? Haven’t seen ‘em in years, man. I don’t even know if they _have_ died, in fact. Never gotten any news from Ostia, for obvious reasons. So I guess I really wouldn’t know, but…” his voice trailed off as he lost himself in thought. “Honestly, though? If I really had to think about it…If I heard, somehow, that they died, one way or another…” he sighed, looking somewhat ashamed of himself. “I…I don’t think I’d care. Would I be happy? I doubt it, but…Renault, I told you this before, right? How my family treated me…my…Pamela was closer to me than any of them ever were.” A faint shadow of anger flitted across his face. “At least she actually cared about me. My siblings just looked at me as an obstacle, and my parents thought I was just a failure…just unnecessary. If they died? I wouldn’t shed a tear.” The anger disappeared as he looked at Renault sheepishly. “Still…they are…were…I dunno. My parents. I guess I must be a real terrible son to feel that way, huh?”

 

Renault smiled and shook his head. “Nah, not in my view. It’s just what I wanted to hear, actually. I thought I was the only one who felt like that!”

 

Braddock smiled as well. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, if I didn’t, I’d be out there in her funeral instead of up here, right?” Renault stared out the window again. “It’s just…I don’t know how I SHOULD feel, man. I felt the same way about my mom you did about yours…though I liked my dad better, I guess.”

 

“You told me before,” Braddock nodded sympathetically. “He sounded like a great man. But despite that, his God still didn’t save his life. And even after all that, your mom clung to the church? And tried to get you to cling to it too? I can understand why you hated her.”

 

“Uh-huh. But like you’d say, she was still my mom. So when Tassar killed her…I knew I had to avenge her death.

 

“But…ah, I probably sound like a fool, but I can’t shake the feeling that…she’s not resting in peace. Even after I saw Tassar take that fall…it feels like there’s something I still have to do. But I don’t know what!”

 

“I know what you’re talkin’ about,” Braddock replied. “Huh…maybe he’s not dead?”

 

Renault laughed. “Be serious, man! How could he have survived a fall like that?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Renault. But…well, look. Her whole life she wanted you to follow in her footsteps, right? Maybe the only way she’d ever be happy is if you joined the clergy or something, like she wanted.”

 

“Hah! Not gonna happen.”

 

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that. In that case, though, you could at least attend her funeral, right? Even if you’re not genuinely grieving, just the act of mourning might—“

 

“Nah. I’m not gonna ‘mourn’ for her either.” Determination was on Renault’s face. “I never even mourned for my dad. Why should I mourn for her?”

 

“Huh?” Braddock was taken aback. “But I thought you loved your old man?”

 

“I did. But that’s the thing.” Renault shook his head. “When he died, I didn’t pray. I didn’t even do anything close to mourning. I took walks around town, I spent a lot of time in the library, and hell, during his funeral I slipped around the taverns to see what they were like when they weren’t crowded.

 

“It’s not ‘cause I didn’t love him. It’s because there’s no point in mourning.

 

“I know there’s no God—if there was, He wouldn’t have taken Dad away from me. And there’s no heaven or afterlife or whatever either. There’s just death, and nothing beyond that. It’s the worst thing in the world…and crying about it won’t make it go away. So I thought to myself, what the hell’s the point of mourning? Of crying, or even just being sad? It wouldn’t bring Dad back. The only thing to do when you lose someone is to slaughter the bastard that took them away from you.” Renault looked down at the scar on his arm thoughtfully. “In the case of my dad, I couldn’t do anything, obviously, ‘cause it was a disease. But for my mom…I killed Tassar, didn’t I? That should mean something. But still…”

 

“Is that how you feel?” Braddock blinked, looking at Renault with an uncertain expression on his face—his friend couldn’t tell if it was condemnatory or not. “I guess I can’t blame you for that. When Pamela died, I didn’t mourn either…just smashed in Volker’s head and ran off. Maybe when I kill Paptimus she’ll be able to rest, but that day hasn’t come yet.” He shrugged, looking out the window as Renault did. “That’s the thing, though. Your mom hated the rebels, right? Even if Tassar’s death wasn’t enough, maybe if you…we…keep fighting and end this war…you think that might be enough to put all this behind you? If you were my kid, I’d be happy with you, in that case.”

 

Renault nodded, slipping back and relaxing against the wall. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that may be the case. Maybe when all this is over…that’ll be just what I need to finally get her off my back and outta my head. Thanks, Braddock.” He smiled, widely and broadly this time, and it looked like a shadow had fallen from his face, though it still lingered at the edges. “I…it’s really what I needed to hear. I—“

 

“Hey, no need to get all sentimental,” Braddock laughed. “We’re friends. It’s what we do, right?”

 

“Heh, exactly. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Speaking of what we do, though…when do we have to get ourselves down to meet with Henken?”

 

“You mean for our next battle orders? Pretty soon, I think. In about three hours or so.” Braddock made a sour face. “Can’t have too much rest, after all. We’ll all have to be there, including Roberto…”

 

“That’s gonna be fun,” drawled Renault sarcastically. He and his friend had no idea how their old comrade from Scirocco had joined them once again—when Renault had woken up after the long nap he’d taken the moment he’d been shown to his and Braddock’s room in the castle, one of the first things Braddock had told him was that Apolli had somehow managed to pick up a new ally from the rebels. Renault didn’t know what he’d said to convince the angry country boy to join them, and he didn’t care either, but he’d had the misfortune of crossing Roberto’s path a few times since Henken had assigned the Fighter a room not far from his, and that was enough to convince him he didn’t want to see the guy any more than he absolutely had to.

 

Still, it was an inevitability, so Renault didn’t dwell on it much. Instead, he just shrugged his shoulders and walked past his friend, down the stairs from the watchtower. “Hey, where’re you going?” Braddock asked.

 

“To the cathedral,” called Renault. “The funeral’s almost over, so by the time I get there the place oughta be deserted. I started a big fire in the library there when I fought Tassar, and I wanna see if any of my parent’s books managed to survive. They might be useful, and I promise I won’t be late for the meeting.”

 

Braddock merely nodded, both understanding the wisdom of his friend’s words and that he’d probably want to be alone for this trip. Thus, he merely watched from the tower’s window as Renault became a small speck on the ground amongst the dispersing mourners, traveling towards the cathedral they’d just left.

 

-x-

 

It didn’t take long for Renault to reach Zodian’s Rest, which by now was deserted. Night had fallen, and the funeral procession had dispersed. Renault wasn’t wearing any armor anyways, so naturally he did not need to make any particular effort to look inconspicuous.

 

Within a half hour he had stepped through the cathedral’s broken doors and into its wrecked nave. Though the citizenry had begun efforts at reconstructing it, the building had been severely damaged, and it would be very long before it regained its former glory. They hadn’t even appointed a replacement for Monica (though Renault figured it would be Montero, Henken’s precious informant), and most of their attentions had been directed towards giving her a proper funeral.

 

Didn’t matter to Renault. It was fine by him so long as nobody got in his way.

 

He made his way through the ruins of the altar and through the back door to the sanctuary. The tall evergreen in its center seemed to glimmer under the moonlight, along with something else under it…something strange.

 

It was a Pegasus. The beast stared at Renault curiously, seeming to glow faintly in the night, and Renault could only respond by giving it the same quizzical look.

 

“The hell?” he muttered to himself. “Keith? Kelitha? Or…?”

 

He didn’t bother to light the candles he kept at his belt, knowing it might give him away. Instead, keeping himself low to the ground, he cautiously and quietly opened the door to the first floor of the cathedral’s tower. In the darkness, he could see no-one there. Perhaps on the second floor? He made his way over to the stairwell and ascended, carefully keeping himself low and keeping a hand on the stairs so as not to take a nasty fall. As he neared the ingress to the second floor he was rewarded with the sight of the soft glow of a small flame. Someone was definitely up there, all right.

 

When he got to the doorway, as silent as a cat he peered over its edge and into the room. The fire he had started in his battle with Tassar had been put out, but little else had been done—his parents’ library was in complete disarray. The floor was covered in ash, scraps of burnt paper and parchment, and the scorched remains of bookshelves, tomes, and scrolls. On top of one overturned but still relatively-undamaged bookshelf, however, there sat a young green-haired girl clad in a Pegasus Knight’s raiment, with a glass lantern set at her side, peering intently down at the remains of a tome which hadn’t been *completely* destroyed.

 

“Hey,” said Renault, quietly stalking up behind her, “why’re you up here?”

 

“EEEP!” she shrieked, quickly jumping up and almost tripping, though to her credit she didn’t topple over her lantern, which would have been bad for a variety of reasons. “I-I’M SO SORRY, I DIDN’T MEAN TO TRESPASS, I—“

 

“Kelitha?” Renault asked—she’d turned around to look at her most unexpected guest, and even with the wide-eyed, fear-stricken expression on her face Renault could tell it was the older Pegasus sister he was talking to. “I asked—“

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she continued, “I—“

 

Renault realized she still hadn’t recognized him. “Take it easy, Kelitha. It’s me, Renault. Remember? Your ally? You saved my life a few times, I saved your sister’s, and all that?”

 

That seemed to finally get through to her. “Oh…Renault?” she asked, her breathing becoming steady. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was…uh, just surprised, is all. But what are you doing here?”

 

Renault took a seat on the singed bookshelf next to where she’d been sitting. “Well, there were a lot of texts in here on magic Khyron might’ve found useful, and a few treatises on tactics. I didn’t expect anyone else to be here, though.” He peered at her suspiciously. “I answered your question, now answer mine.”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she continued to apologize, managing to befuddle, amuse, and slightly annoy him all at the same time. “Like I said, I didn’t mean to trespass or anything. I’m just, er, really interested in history and magic, and a Bishop’s library seemed like it’d be a treasure trove for somebody like me! So I just wanted to take a look inside, you know, just to see—“

 

“Really?” Renault raised an eyebrow. “An Ilian like you?” She looked somewhat offended, but Renault didn’t pursue the subject much further, since he believed her. He remembered some time ago she’d mentioned what he thought had been a comparatively good book of military history, so he wasn’t entirely surprised to see she had some fairly scholarly interests. He then gestured around to the wrecked library around them. “Well, you’ve taken a good look around this place. Have you managed to find anything readable out of all this burnt crap?”

 

She looked crestfallen. “N…no. Only a few pages were salvageable, and the rest were a total loss.”

 

“Really? Damn shame,” said Renault, and the sadness in his voice indicated he meant it. “This library really was a treasure trove. I was just telling Braddock how I spent a lot of time here as a kid…there was so much good stuff in here. And I was the one who burnt it all down…well, it was Tassar’s fault, really, since he chose this place as his battlefield, but still…” Renault sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “Ah, well. What’s done is done. At least I killed the bastard.”

 

“Ah…yes, you did. You did an excellent job,” she nodded. “But, er…you mentioned you spent a lot of time here as a youth?”

 

“Yeah. This was my parent’s library.”

 

“Your parents…?” Kelitha suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry! Renault, I had no idea! This must be so disrespectful, I—“

 

Renault laughed. “Don’t worry, Kelitha. I don’t mind at all. You didn’t mean any harm, right? So it’s fine.”

 

“Ah…thank you,” she said, calm once again. “But your parents…this was Bishop Monica’s library, wasn’t it? Does that mean—“

 

“Uh-huh,” said Renault laconically, “I’m her son.”

 

“Oh…oh, I remember Braddock mentioning this! I…oh, Renault, er, what should I say…” She quickly bowed her head, surprising the man. “Renault, I’m very sorry for your loss. It must have been terrible for you.”

 

“Huh?” Now Renault was totally confused. “What’re you talking about?”

 

“I know how you must feel, Renault…I mean, my mother, Fontina…I lost her too…”

 

“Hah.” Renault was being somewhat cruel, but he didn’t care. “I dunno how it was for you, but for me…me and Mom never got along. I’m glad I got the guy who killed her, but aside from that? I’m not shedding any tears over her death.”

 

He turned to look at Kelitha, who was staring at him with an even more wide-eyed expression. “You probably think I’m a real bad man, right?”

 

“Er…um…n-no,” she said, but the way she looked away and the tone of her voice indicated what the truth really was. “I…I just can’t understand why. I loved my mother…how could anyone not feel the same?”

 

“Hah! You really wanna know?” Renault sneered, and he stood up, looming over her. “Religion, that’s why. It was just like I was telling Braddock, girl. My dad was the Bishop of this city, and one of the best men I ever knew. And he ended up dying of consumption anyways. What kind of God would take a man like that away from me? But still my Mom worshipped that God, bowed down at his altar…and asked me to do the same! You think I’m dumb enough to do the same? No, no way. So I turned my back on her Church, and she turned her back on me. Why would I cry about her death now?”

 

He noticed Kelitha had began to shrink away from him, and that inflamed his anger. “What, are you gonna preach to me now?” he snarled. “Tell me to repent or something? To follow in my mom’s footsteps? To become another good lil’ believer like you?”

 

“N-no! Renault, I-I agree with you!” she squeaked, clearly extremely intimidated.

 

“Huh?” Now Renault’s anger had been replaced by curiosity, though he was still looming over her. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, I…I feel the same way…”

 

“Huh?” Renault repeated. He could tell the girl was quite emotionally distraught, but he wasn’t sure what she was trying to tell him. “You mean you’re telling me you don’t believe in God either?”

 

“I…uh…yes?” She looked up at him, almost pleading. “I-I don’t mean to offend or anything, but…“

 

A long moment of silence stretched out between them, in which Kelitha apparently feared the worst. She was surprised, however, and immensely relieved when Renault laughed out loud and gave her a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Me, offended? To hell with offended, I’m glad to meet somebody who feels the same way! I dunno how long you’ve been in Etruria, girl, but the Church has its claws deep in this damn country. Braddock’s the only other guy I’ve met so far who can understand how I think, WITHOUT buying into all that revolutionary crap everybody else’s been infected with. I’m not offended, I’m happy to meet somebody like you! Here, sit down,” he said, smiling broadly, and it was with an equally great smile of relief that Kelitha took his offer.

 

“So…you’re not mad at me or anything?” she asked.

 

“Nah, exactly the opposite,” he grinned. “You saved my life a few times, so I know you’re a good fighter. I’m glad to see you’re smart, too.” His expression darkened slightly. “So you can see why I didn’t get along with my mom, right?”

 

“I…well, I’m still not sure,” she said hesitantly, “But…since I share your view of religion, I can understand why you weren’t as close to your mother as I was. I…while I can respect religious people, if someone tried to force faith on me like that, I’d hate them as well. It’s nothing like what my mother did…or how we do things in Ilia. There really wasn’t any comparison. I’m sorry for judging you, Renault.”

 

“Well, as long as you’re sorry,” he smirked. “So anyways, how did they do things in Ilia? I’m not really familiar with that country’s culture.”

 

“Mmm.” She smiled, happy to recall her homeland. “In Ilia, there are many gods, not one as there is in Eliminism. There’s no established Church, either…our faith…faiths…are more, er, decentralized, I guess. Though some gods are worshipped all across the land, like Byelsert, the Lady of Ice, and Carlsbrant, the Laughing Herald, some regions even have their own. In one part of the country, I think they even hold a festival in honor of an ice dragon, for instance!

 

“We give up offerings to them regularly, hold feasts and festivals in their honor, and some even pray to them, but aside from that…the gods don’t hold much sway. There are people who really believe in them, but for many of us, they’re just symbols of our country and its history, along with an excuse to enjoy a celebration every now and then!”

 

“So I guess you’re one of the latter, then?” Renault asked.

 

“Yes,” she said. “In my view, the gods were…metaphors, more than anything else, rather than actual beings. Ideals to aspire to, or shun in some cases, but not real entities. In a land like Ilia, it’s hard to believe any god takes much of an interest in human affairs…at least any gods worth worshipping.

 

“But in Etruria…I haven’t been here long, but it’s so strange. One the one hand, the Royalists seem to take Eliminism so seriously. But the way some of those clergymen and nobles have looked at my sisters and I…” she shuddered, and Renault nodded knowingly. “What has their belief done for them? It’s easier to believe in nothing at all, if that’s how they act. At least in my view. But on the other hand…” her voice trailed off. “The rebels we’ve been fighting…look at how they’ve ruined their own country. In the name of ‘freedom’ they slaughter anyone who doesn’t agree with them and place their own citizens under surveillance. Are they any more rational?”

 

“Nah, they’re not,” grunted Renault. “They’re just as bad. Rat bastards, all of them. Tassar played me and Braddock for fools, and Paptimus…well, let’s just say this damn civil war is the _least_ evil thing he’s done. Anybody who lived in Lycia can tell you that. Besides, like I told you a while back, you and Keith have a personal grudge against him too. He’s the one who poisoned your mother, remember? Along with everybody else in Scirocco, all so he could frame me and my friends!”

 

“Yes,” Kelitha responded with determination, “you’re right. I might not have been able to believe it when you first told me, but after I’ve seen the way his soldiers fight…I can believe it easily. To honor my mother’s memory…I’ll fight as hard as I can!”

 

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” grinned Renault, and then his face settled into a more somber cast. “And it’s not just your mother, either. I, uh, heard about your sister…”

 

Kelitha nodded, but Renault couldn’t tell if she was sad or not—her expression was entirely neutral. “Yes, Kasha. You know what happened, don’t you?”

 

“Uh…yeah. Some soldiers told me they saw a Wyvern Lord and a Falcoknight going at it over the slums, and by the time the battle was over they only saw a Wyvern Lord flying out of the city. They found Kasha’s body a little while later, didn’t they?”

 

“Yes, in a church of all places.” She chuckled sadly. “We wanted to give her a cremation, as is our custom, but the soldiers were ordered to simply bury her in the pauper’s cemetery. I suppose we should be grateful she received even that…”

 

“Er…yep.” Renault had no idea how to respond to that, so he attempted to change the subject. “So…how’s Keith holding up? I mean, uh,” and Renault said this a little bashfully, “she’s a friend too, I’m just worried about her. Did her oldest sister’s death shake her up too much?”

 

Kelitha shook her head. “No. They were never close, and especially given the sort of person Kasha was, she…she isn’t mourning.”

 

“Big surprise,” muttered Renault to himself. He didn’t intend Kelitha to hear, of course, so it was with a sizable amount of dismay he noticed her staring at him.

 

“Heh,” said Kelitha sadly, “I thought you’d say something like that.”

 

“Well, what’d you expect?” blurted Renault. “I mean, I can’t lie. Kasha was crazy, and she had it out for me! Now she’s dead, and I can sleep at night without worrying about her trying to skewer me! What do you expect me to feel?!”

 

“No, it’s alright. I…I feel the same way,” said Kelitha.

 

“Uh…really?”

 

She nodded sadly. “After our mother died, Kasha was the head of the family. She…she treated us like she did you. I don’t know why she had such a lust for battle, and her…her love for…other things, I—“ She shuddered and sniffled, and looked down. Renault didn’t know what to make of it, so he thought to himself, _what would Braddock do?_ Thus, he reached out and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

 

“I…I get the idea, Kelitha. You, uh, you don’t have to talk about if you don’t want.”

 

“Ah.” She sniffled and wiped away a bit of moisture from her eyes. “Th…thank you, Renault. I suppose I seem like a terrible sister for having tears of happiness rather than pain at Kasha’s passing, but…”

 

Renault grinned. “Hey, I’m an even worse son. You can’t be that bad, right?”

 

This elicited a chuckle and a small smile on her face. “Thank you.”

 

“So anyways, you mentioned being interested in history and magic, right? I should still have some of my dad’s old books with me somewhere in my pack. I’ve been carryin’ them around for years. You can borrow a couple, if you like.”

 

Kelitha clapped her hands together and looked at Renault in undisguised delight. “You mean it? Really?”

 

Renault laughed. “Of course! At least if we have time and neither of us end up dead. We’re mercenaries, right?” This elicited a chuckle from both of them. “Seriously, though, you’re my friend, Kelitha.” He said this quickly and confidently, something of a surprise to the girl, since they previously had been more allies-in-arms than comrades—that was how quickly he took to someone who didn’t believe in either Eliminism or Revolutionary nostrums, it seemed. “You need a favor from me, on the battlefield or off, you don’t even need to ask.” He stood up, glancing outside. “Damn, though, I might need a favor from you, though. It’s getting late, and we gotta get to Henken soon. Think you can give me a ride?”

 

“O-of course!”

 

“Then let’s go, eh?” Without a second thought, Renault had picked up Kelitha’s lantern and had started towards the door down. The woman took a moment before following him—she wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed to make a real friend out of him. But whatever she did, it had worked.

 

“Hey, are you coming?”

 

“Yeah!

 

With that, she disappeared down the stairwell after him.

 

-X-

 

 _Gracious Ethlea_ , the letter began, _itts been a most long while and a trying ordeal. I wish you were by my side, but not on the batelfld battlefield off course, as yur prsemce_

 

Jerid blinked his bleary, alcohol-addled eyes and crumpled up the ruined letter in frustration, tossing it behind him and sweeping both his quill and inkpot off the desk in his small room in anger.

 

“Givin’ in to wrath,” he mumbled to himself dejected, “wonder what L-Lady Monica’d say t’ that?” He reached out a faltering hand to the flask of whiskey sitting cheerily nearby, clutching at it and nearly tipping it over before managing to grasp it firmly in his right hand. Aside from the fact that he wouldn’t know what to do if he spilled it, it had become his closest friend over the course of the past few days—he couldn’t treat it with disrespect, after all.

 

“Givin’ in to drunkenness,” he mumbled again with an equal amount of self-loathing right before he took a great swig. Blinking again and licking his lips, he peered at the bottle. “Wonder what Lady Monica’d shay t’ that? ‘Corse, she’s dead, right?”

 

Jerid looked at his bottle—empty. He hiccupped, tossed it away, sunk into his chair and laid his head on his desk into his hands.

 

“Monica…Lady Monica…Lord—hic!—why? D-dammit, I knew I shouldntagreed t’ bein a pallbearer. Knew it woulda worked me up like this…”

 

His eyes were watery from more than just the booze, and he would have been deeply ashamed if anyone saw him, but fortunately for him he was alone in his room. At least so he thought. He was so inebriated and occupied with mourning for the Bishop that he completely failed to notice the visitor who’d invited himself in.

 

Jerid, busy sniffling to himself, didn’t hear his door creak open and didn’t hear Henken’s voice say to him, “Jerid, the meeting’s about to start. I want you to—“

 

The Knight continued to sniffle haplessly. Even when his General stepped right up next to him, he didn’t notice.

 

Only when he felt a strong force around his neck, only when he felt himself suddenly rising from his chair, his empty bottle slipping from his grasp, did he realize he had company.

 

He was still drunk, but raw fear cleared his mind somewhat. “Ah! Ah!” he sputtered as he was turned around. He brought his hands to the grip around his neck and found he couldn’t pry it away, and when his watery eyes focused, he could make out Great General Henken’s visage staring at him as the man held him in the air in front of him, staring at him with an expressionless visage but a small spark of anger in his cold grey eyes.

 

“You’re one of the top men in my army, Jerid. You won’t let yourself go like this again.”

 

“I—I—“ Jerid stammered, but he was interrupted when he suddenly found himself flying through the air to crash into the wall on the other side of the room. He slumped to the floor in a daze, looking up to see the angry Great General looming over him.

 

He wanted to get angry in response—to shout at the man that he never wanted to be a soldier, never wanted this war to happen, never wanted Lady Monica to die, never wanted his position, and never wanted _any_ of this.

 

But even in his drunken state, a voice in his head told him that was the wrong thing to do. And it sounded like Lady Monica’s.

 

Instead, he did something even worse, or at least just as bad, in the view of a man from Thagaste. He started to cry.

 

Not weep. A few tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t lose control of himself entirely. Even those few tears were far more than he’d like to admit, though, so he tried to do his best to stop them. Lowering his gaze to keep his face hidden from his commander, he mumbled, “Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He attempted to get to his feet, but stumbled and plopped back on his behind—and this time he couldn’t tell whether to blame that on his drunkenness or his miserable emotional state.

 

The only thing he could do was stay in his prone, pathetic position for a few moments longer. He didn’t say anything to Henken, who he knew was staring down at him with disapproval and anger, but instead let the silence between them continue on for several moments, punctuated only by his own heavy, ragged breathing.

 

“Getting drunk won’t stop any of this,” Henken finally stated. The tremor in his voice was gone—and Jerid knew that was a good sign. “Crying won’t either.”

 

“I…I know, sir,” Jerid sputtered, breathing heavily and attempting to control his tears. “God knows I know. ‘S what M-Monica would’ve said. But God help me, Henken, I’m n-not that strong. I have to tell Ethlea—haven’t seen her in years, only got to see her for a week, and now I dunno ‘f I’ll ever see ‘er again—our hometown’s been ruined and our bishop’s dead.

 

“L…Lady Monica was a pillar of our city,” he continued. “She…she w’s kind to errybody, she kept the great on the straight n’ narrow, never lettin’ em forget that God was above ‘em all, and she gave the small of our city an example of strength…even when she had to deal with a Godforsaken son like Renault. Renault, for God’s sake! She was an inspiration, Lord Henken! Somethin’ for us to look up to, t’ aspire to…somethin’ for guys like me.

 

“I…I know I’m bein’ a fool, m’lord. I…God dammit! I promise I-I’ll never do this again. I’ll throw out my flask, I’ll quit drinkin’, all that. But please, m’lord, I…”

 

His voice trailed off. Another silence broke out, and this one seemed even longer than the first.

 

“You’re excused from this meeting,” Henken finally said. “You have tonight to collect yourself. And only tonight. If you’re not ready to be briefed by tomorrow, though…” The Great General didn’t need to say any more to make his threat clear.

 

The tears had returned, but at this point Jerid was too far gone to care. “Yes, m’lord! Yes! Thanks, it’s all I need, thank—“

 

Henken simply turned his back on his underling’s continuing genuflections and stepped out the door as if he didn’t hear anything at all. Right before he left, though, he paused.

 

“If you can’t do this for my sake, do it for Monica’s.”

 

With those words, the Great General left Jerid alone in his room.

 

-x-

 

“Elicia? What are you waiting for?”

 

Count Reglay said this to his wife as they headed back towards Castle Hallard, their duty to attend Bishop Monica’s interment at the cathedral finished. Reglay had never cared much for funerals in general and this had not proved him wrong; the sermon Father Montero (soon to be Bishop Montero, he surmised) had provided was very far from the most inspiring he’d ever heard—and he had a good deal of respect for the more gifted preachers the Church counted within its ranks, making Montero’s mediocrity even more apparent. Still, he was a noble, not a clergyman, and it concerned him little. However, judging by the way his wife had stopped to stare back at the cathedral, perhaps it concerned her more.

 

“Elicia? Is something the matter?”

 

“Ah?” She turned back to look at him quickly, then looked away. “No, no. I’m sorry. It’s just…the cathedral was in ruins. The battle for this city was horrible, wasn’t it?”

 

Barim nodded, brushing a few locks of blue-grey hair away from his eyes. “Yes, it was.” He then walked over to he and laid a comforting arm around her shoulders. “But you performed very well, Elicia. It was your first time in battle, was it not? I’m sorry to have involved you, but we lost so many soldiers during Khyron’s assault on the Fortress of Spears that anyone who could ride a horse and use a staff became a valuable resource. If it were up to me I would have left you back in Reglay with the children, but…”

 

She shook her head. “No, that’s fine. I’m…glad I was able to help you.”

 

“Hm.” Reglay nodded, not expecting anything more, but still kept his eyes on his wife, who was still keeping hers on the cathedral.

 

“It’s a shame Bishop Monica died,” he said. “She was one of the most energetic and dedicated clergywomen I knew of. I can’t blame you for being occupied with her passing.”

 

“Yes,” replied Elicia softly, “and others…”

 

“Many people died in Thagaste today. But…” he blinked, looking back at the cathedral. “This is where I was told Tassar died.”

 

Barim looked back at his wife, and when he noticed the expression on her face he knew he’d hit home.

 

“Did you still have feelings for him?” he asked, and his tone of voice was not at all condemnatory. “I suppose I can’t blame you if you did.”

 

Elicia shook her head. “No, no…not anymore. But…I feel sorrow for him, Barim. If I hadn’t—“

 

“We all make our choices. You made your own, and if it was perhaps not the most moral…I suppose, in your circumstances, it was understandable. We all want a better life. I’ve forgiven you for it. If he couldn’t do the same…that’s between him and God.”

 

“And I suppose there are some things I must keep between myself and God as well,” said Elicia quietly and somewhat bitterly, “at least for Exedol’s sake, correct?”

 

Barim’s expression darkened slightly. “For your own sake as well, Elicia. I have treated you very kindly for all these years, perhaps moreso than I should have. I have served both you and my country well, even after I lost Exedol, closer than anyone to my heart. I have given you two children, whom I love as much. Why does it matter whether or not I called his name rather than yours as I sired them? Can you not allow me that?”

 

“I…” Elicia looked away in shame.

 

Barim sighed and shook his head. They’d had this conversation many times before, and he had no desire for it to come to shouting as it had many times before. “We all make our choices, Elicia. Tassar made his, I made mine, and you have made yours. We must all deal with their consequences as well. Those you have had to bear do not seem so terrible.”

 

Elicia said nothing more. She simply nodded.

 

To this, Barim simply held out his arm. “Come.”

 

Elicia took it, and though neither of them wore a smile on their face, the couple continued their walk under the star-studded sky in silence.

 

-X-

 

Renault stepped through the main gates of Castle Hallard, Kelitha by his side—her Pegasus had made very quick time, and within a few moments they had reached the throne room where Henken had told them the meeting would be held. The pair of guards by the door opened it without complaints—Hallard had offered it to the Great General to freely use, partially because the man had won the battle for the city (and destroyed some sort of evil relic the Rebels had procured, according to the stories) and partially because the room had been wrecked during the battle and wasn’t much good for anything else.

 

As he entered, Renault saw Braddock, Harvery, Khyron, Rosamia, Keith, Lisse, and Roberto, the other members of his little ‘autonomous company’ gathered around the chair and desk which had replaced the throne for the time being until a new one could be found. Also present was Gafgarion, who had been given command of the cavalry due to his performance at both Aquleia and Thagaste, along with several other important nobles, such as Reglay and Hallard. Curiously absent was Henken, however—and Renault had never known the man to be even a second late for any appointment.

 

Perhaps it was just as well, though—a drama was already playing out at the moment.

 

Both Renault and Kelitha were about to call out to their friends when they noticed that the sound of the door opening and then closing behind them had been the only noise in the room—and that nobody else had taken much notice. Braddock glanced at them, and then glanced back at the center of the room, where two men were standing still, one glowering at the other.

 

Roberto seemed to tower over his father, his angry eyes peering at him seemingly almost without recognition as his former friend Apolli stood beside the man, along with Rosamia. Nobody else was saying a word, though Khyron looked as if he wanted to.

 

“Y’ve grown in size, son,” said Gafgarion evenly, not lowering his gaze from his child’s, “but don’t seem like y’ve grown much any other way.”

 

Roberto clenched his fists in response.

 

“I’ve already showed you Paptimus’ letter,” Gafgarion continued, “and y’ know damn well I wouldn’t be sidin’ with my daughter’s murderers if I didn’t believe it. You know Apolli feels th’ same way. So why’re you showin’ that anger t’ Khyron and y’r allies?”

 

“That fool’s gonna be leadin’ _me_?” he spat. “He couldn’t lead a way out of his own damn castle! He got Yulia killed, pop! You think I’m gonna follow a word he says?!”

 

Khyron’s face reddened, but unexpectedly, it was Braddock who came to his defense. “Roberto, stop it,” he said sternly. “Look, I understand how you feel, but it’s been years. Besides, it’s as much my fault as it was anybody else…I was the one who sent her up there. Now I’m not holdin’ any authority over anybody but me, so can’t you at least give Khyron a break?”

 

“And y’ think I’ll listen t’ _you?_ ” Roberto turned and snarled, reaching up to grab Braddock’s collar.

 

“Hey!” yelled Renault, and Apolli cried for his friend to stop, but again, Braddock didn’t say anything, and instead looked like he’d once again just stand there to wait for Roberto’s abuse. However, once again it was Gafgarion who stood up for the Ostian he barely knew.

 

“That’s enough, boy,” he said firmly and coldly, walking to his son and placing a hand on his arm. “Let him go.”

 

“Why th’ hell should I?” retorted Roberto. “All o’ you…All o’ you’re a bunch o’ fools! You couldn’t even capture one damn town without everybody dyin’, and you expect me to think you can bring Paptimus t’ justice for what he did to Yulia? A load of garbage! Only thing spillin’ from y’r mouths!”

 

“It…it’ll be different this time,” grunted Braddock. “We…all of us are a lot stronger than we used to be. We won’t have a repeat of the tragedy at Scirocco!”

 

“We’d better not,” came a voice from the back of the room. It was quiet and cold, but the strength contained within was enough to force everyone to pause, including Roberto, and look back at the speaker.

 

The Great General strode into the room, and though he wasn’t clad in his imposing magical armor, he still cast an aura of menace that even the angry Roberto couldn’t stand against. A single glare was enough to force the angry country boy to let go of Braddock with a low growl. Henken simply nodded in response and took his place on the throne—well, the chair that had taken the place of the throne.

 

“This has been our greatest victory so far,” he began. “Thagaste is a vital strategic center. We can use this city as a base to launch further attacks on the Revolutionary north, and it also means we’ve gained a significant amount of control over the rivers, further easing our supply and transportation problems. The loss of morale among Revolutionary soldiers is another benefit. Not only that, but Bishop Monica’s death has also given us a significant political advantage. The leaders of the Eliminean Church are now convinced the Revolution may be a direct threat to them as well as their lower-ranked lackeys. As a result, they’ll throw their moral and financial support behind our cause now. This is the perfect opportunity to press our advantage.”

 

“By that, you mean relaxing, right?” Renault asked sarcastically distractedly, still looking at Roberto suspiciously.

 

This was met by a very rare thing from Henken—a slight exhalation which might have been a chuckle, which surprised Renault enough to draw his eyes away from Braddock’s assailant. “You know the answer to that.

 

“The rebels may have been pushed back, but they’re still very much in the fight. All of you, look at this.” Henken unfurled one of the scrolls on the desk in front of him, revealing it to be a map of Etruria. There was a red line separating a good portion of the northern land—about a third of the kingdom--from the rest of the country.

 

“The rebels remain in control of this much of Etruria. Though they’re running out of money and resources, most of the population in this region is still loyal to them, and it’s also likely they can draw on support from the Western Isles, for obvious reasons. They also have significant forces left in reserve. Their bribed mercenaries, Red Shoulder magicians, and recent conscripts made up the bulk of the forces arrayed against us at Aquleia and Thagaste. Now that their swift advance on the former has been defeated, foiling their hopes for a quick end to the war, and they’ve lost control of the latter, meaning they won’t be able to starve us into submission, it’s likely they’ll muster everything they have remaining into an all-out assault on two fronts.

 

“The Red Shoulders haven’t been completely destroyed, there are still many mercenaries along with Bernese remnants among their forces, and they’ve probably finished training a new batch of recruits to fill out their regular military. In addition, they’ll begin mobilizing the personal, elite men-at-arms of the nobles who also rose up against the crown, like Verelecht and Vinland.”

 

“Vinland?” asked Khyron impatiently. “Will Garl himself be leading Vinland’s men?”

 

Henken nodded. “It’s a possibility. In fact, it’s what brings me to their specific strategic plans. Watch.” He pointed a finger at the countship of Nerinheit, the dot near the tip of northern Etruria, and pointed it straight back to Thagaste. “The rebels are going to do two things, I believe. First, they’re going to send a primary force to lay siege to Thagaste and attempt to take it back. As I said, this city makes an excellent staging point for incursions into their territory, so they will attempt to neutralize it as such as soon as possible. Jerid, Hallard, Reglay, and I will stay here to coordinate the defense of this city. If we can fend off their assault and force them to retreat, we’ll have the perfect opportunity for a counterattack that will win the war.”

 

“So Jerid’s gonna be helping you?” asked Renault. “If that’s the case, why isn’t he here?”

 

Henken simply stared at him in response, an indication he thought the question didn’t need to be answered.

 

“Yeah, okay,” said Renault. “So then what do you want the rest of us to do? Help with the defense?”

 

“No,” came Henken’s reply. “The second plan the rebels will be executing lies in the east.” He pointed again to Nerinheit Countship, but this time he drew a line to the southeast, over a river and to another dot slightly above Thagaste. “Aquleia’s western side is to the sea, and its northwest is protected by a fortress. The rebels won’t bother an attempt at a direct attack that way. However, our eastern flank is relatively unsecured. For the past several weeks, a small detachment of Rebel troops have been making their way towards this flank. They’re led by a mercenary named Dougram, who seems to be a poor leader. Though the clergy hasn’t been feeding us much information in that region, his progress south has been very slow—we think he’s been having trouble maintaining control over the populace the closer to Royalist lands he gets.

 

“I think his detachment was meant as nothing more than a distraction—a way to keep loyal troops in eastern Etruria occupied to scare the lords of that region from sending any additional support to Aquleia or Thagaste. Now that the rebels have been driven back, however, a push through the east would be an effective way for them to surprise us. If they provide Dougram with reinforcements while throwing the bulk of their army at Thagaste to keep ours occupied, they’ll be able to cross over the Tiber river, straight through Caerleon, and then move _behind_ Thagaste and the western defense line, over the southern river, and position themselves for an assault on Aquleia’s southern face. Our spies have reported that Garl Vinland has begun preparations for exactly this. If their predictions are accurate, he and his elite forces will rendezvous with Dougram’s within the week.”

 

“Garl Vinland?! Marching into _my_ countship?!” sputtered Khyron. “This is an outrage, Lycian! I’m going to return at once, and you’d better provide me with troops to defend it!”

 

“Hey, wait a moment,” said Braddock, “Who’s Garl Vinland? Why’re you so concerned, Khyron?”

 

“Garl Vinland is—was—one of the most famous fighters among the Etruria nobility,” answered Barim Reglay. “He was one of the few among us who didn’t use magic—because he didn’t need to. His family is one of the oldest of Etrurian nobility, and every generation of its sons has passed down two things. First is an enchanted suit of armor which rendered magic almost totally ineffective. Second was a terrifying weapon which was forged during the Scouring.

 

“It’s called the Basilikos, and it’s a gigantic axe said to be exceeded only by the great Armads of the Berserker Durbans himself. The weapon is so heavy that ordinary men can’t even pick it up…but Garl Vinland can wield it with one hand, as if it was no more than a hatchet.

 

“The pirates of the Western Isles learned that the hard way. His father was assassinated by one of the most notorious bandit groups of Fibernia, the Scarlet Wolves. To gain revenge, Garl took his armor and his family’s axe from their places among the relics of the armory and crossed the Shield of Durbans alone. All of Etruria laughed at him, saying he was only sailing towards his death…until the stories from the Western Isles began to trickle in. Tales of a single General in silver armor walking away unscathed from a rain of Fire spells launched by the best Sage of the Scarlet Wolves. Reports of a glowing blue axe almost as large as a man reducing scores of Corsairs to bloody smears on the ground with a single sweep. Within one year the Scarlet Wolves had been annihilated…and almost every clan of bandits in Fibernia had either gone into hiding or fled to Caledonia.”

 

Reglay looked at Henken with just a bit of contempt. “Your performance in battle is impressive, Lycian. I can’t doubt that. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you might be the Red Comet himself, if he’d actually taken up stoneworking! But even you would be no match for Garl. He’s unstoppable! When I heard he’d joined the rebellion, the only thing I could think of was how fortunate we were that he’d probably be too busy keeping control of his own lands to travel and attack ours. But if this is true…” He shook his head and looked at Khyron sympathetically. “Caerleon is lost!”

 

“Not quite. This is where you come in,” said Henken, nodding to Khyron. “You’re going to lead your men to Caerleon, along with about two thousand troops led by Gafgarion, who knows the area as well as you do. Serving as support for this force, your Autonomous Company is to assist in the defense of this region and halt the enemy advance entirely, preferably by neutralizing Garl.”

 

Renault, along with Khyron and the rest of the Company, grimaced but didn’t complain—they were more than used to this sort of mission, after all. Roberto, on the other hand, wasn’t yet sold.

 

“Got your head on straight, Lycian? Who th’ hell left you in charge? This’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard!” he growled. “This Garl guy’s s’posed t’ be so tough, and you’re sendin’ these fools ‘gainst him?”

 

“You’ll be joining them,” came the even reply.

 

“LIKE HELL I WILL!” Roberto virtually exploded. “I’VE FOUGHT W’ EM BEFORE! THEY’RE USELESS, EACH ONE! THEY—“

 

“They’ve destroyed one of Bern’s secret weapons, they saved King Galahad, and one of them killed the rebel commander in charge of this city. You want your shot at revenge, Roberto?” asked Henken coldly. “You’ll never get it with anyone but the men and women in this room. Of all the soldiers the Crown as at its disposal, there aren’t any who’ve overcome the sorts of odds they have. If they’re not able to take out Garl—and Paptimus, eventually—then nobody is.

 

“You can take your chances with them, or you can die without even a chance to get even for your sister. It’s your choice.”

 

This was enough to shut up even Roberto. He closed his mouth, continuing to glare at Henken with his single eye, and then stepped back in silence, taking his place among the other members of the Autonomous Company.

 

“Any more questions?”

 

Nobody said anything.

 

“Good. Go back to your rooms and get some sleep. You leave the moment dawn breaks. Hallard and Reglay, stay here.”

 

Khyron’s troops knew a cue when they heard one, and with no further ado, they exited the way they came, Keith and Kelitha heading off one way (both of them waving a goodbye to Renault) with the other members of the Company heading another.

 

Allowing Roberto to pass him by—the angry young man passing everyone by and heading straight to his room without a word—Renault waited a moment to let Braddock walk up next to him.

 

The two men simply looked at each other, nodded, and marched off to their own room. They didn’t need to say anything to each other. They knew quite well that they’d see whatever lay in wait for them in the east.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Enilas didn’t beta this chapter originally cause I took a long time with it ;_; That said, I do hope this one raised some interesting questions…What was Reglay’s relationship with Exedol? There’s definitely more to his affair with Malonda than it seems. Keep reading to find out! ;)

 

 


	30. The Eastern Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rebels are reeling, but they're not done yet. Renault and his friends--now called the "Autonomous Company"--are sent out to Eastern Etruria, specifically, Caerleon--their commander Khyron's countship! There, the revolutionaries are planning a counterattack...

**30: The Eastern Front**

 

_-X-The Busy Black Knight-X-_

_Lady Monica is dead. The rebels have lost Thagaste._

 

Archbishop Gosterro played these two sentences over and over again in his head as he leaned over his opulent desk in his cathedral in Aquleia, reading the report which had been sent to him by Father Montero (who he would appoint very soon as Monica’s official successor). He was certain more than a few worry lines had appeared on his already-wrinkled face, framed by the beads of sweat breaking out on his brow.

 

“We had a deal,” he muttered to himself, “we had a deal! Trunicht, you—“

 

As if on cue, and just as he expected, the Archbishop blinked as a flash of light came from the space behind him, accompanied by the scent of ozone. He didn’t even turn back to look, though. Instead, he stealthily creeped one hand over to the Divine tome he had been keeping on his desk.

 

“Greetings, Your Excellency!” came Trunicht’s cheery voice. Gosterro still didn’t bother to turn around. Hesitatntly, the Black Knight continued, “I realize recent events might have…strained…our relationship, so I was hoping to—“

 

Gosterro’s response to his friendly greeting was to whip around in his chair and brandish the Light tome at the Dark magician, forcing him to take a few steps back as his pale lips parted in a gasp of surprise.

 

“Get out,” snarled Gosterro. “In recognition of your previous graciousness, I won’t smite you here and now. But I won’t warn you a second time. Get out.”

 

“Archbishop Gosterro,” Trunicht smiled, “there’s no need to be so inhospitable! I freely admit we Revolutionaries made a horrible mistake, but if we just discuss this like reasonable men, I’m sure we—AH!!”

 

The Black Knight was forced to jump backwards to avoid the beam of light which slammed down onto him from above, leaving a scorch mark on the floor.

 

“You lied to me,” the Archbishop continued. “You said the higher echelons of the Church wouldn’t be harmed. But what’s this, I hear? Lady Monica is dead?”

 

“Please, be reasonable,” purred Trunicht. “It was a mistake, I assure you. Tassar explicitly violated Brother Paptimus’ orders, and he has been punished for it with death. There’s no reason to sunder our relationship! Besides, I’m familiar with the politics of you Elimineans. You and Monica had your…differences, didn’t you? Now that she’s dead, isn’t it more convenient for you?”

 

“Don’t play me for a fool, Black Knight. Monica may have been an inconvenience, but she was still a Bishop of my Church. If you’re willing to kill her, who’s next? One of my more loyal bishops? One of my fellow Archbishops? _Me_?!”

 

“Come now, that’s just sill—“

 

“I didn’t rise to my present position because I lapped up honeyed words, Black Knight. I can see your gestures of “goodwill” as mere ploys now. You’re trying to lull me into complacency so that when you win the war, I won’t be able to do anything when you try to eliminate me!

 

“Well, I’m afraid your little plan isn’t going to work, especially since the tide seems to have turned. Even if you hadn’t murdered one of my Bishops, what reason could there possibly be to entertain your little rebellion? I side with the winners, and your side is definitely not winning. First you were defeated at Aquleia, and now you’ve lost Thagaste as well? Without the second-biggest city of Etruria in your hands, your final defeat is just a matter of time. Even your turncoat ex-Prime Minister doesn’t have enough money to keep your war effort funded forever.” A cruel smile spread across his face. “The Royalists, on the other hand, will have more than enough support. The Church will no longer be maintaining even a semblance of neutrality in this conflict. We will be giving our full support to the Crown! Priests in every village, town, and city across Elibe will denounce the Revolutionary cause! Zealous recruits will swell the King’s army! And the Church’s coffers will open themselves entirely to his cause!   


“Not only that, but we will ensure Bern never offers you the slightest assistance ever again. I know the facts behind Vyrleena’s “mutiny.” I know the King sent that secret weapon to assist in the fight against Aquleia. I even know he let that Wyvern Lord Yazan free, just to give your forces a boost! The eyes of the clergy are everywhere in that country, rebel. And now, too, is our influence. I’ve sent a missive to the bishops of Bern to come out in full condemnation of your little insurrection, and to threaten civil dissent and popular uprisings if King Arbain continues his alliance with you. Face the facts,” and at this Gosterro’s old chest swelled in triumph, “it’s over for you!”

 

Even the normally-composed Trunicht was taken aback for a moment. “Well…this is a most…unfortunate development. I’m very sorry you feel this way, Your Excellency, but—“

 

“But what? Are you going to try and stop me yourself, right here, right now? Hah! Try it! Your shadows can be dispelled by my light. And even if you were to succeed, it would only set the other seven Archbishops even further against your cause! And I’ll make sure you pay for your trouble! GUARDS!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “HELP! THERE’S AN INTRUDER! A REVOLUTIONARY SPY! HEEEELLLLPPP!!!”

 

“Damn it,” Trunicht spat quietly, “how disappointing. Very well, I’ll take no more of your time. But don’t assume we won’t meet again, Your Excellency. Farewell!”

 

With a sweep of his pitch-black cape and another flash of light, he was gone.

 

_-x-_

 

Paptimus knew this was coming, but he obviously didn’t enjoy it. When Glaesal stormed into his private chambers, interrupting the discussion he was having with Meris about her pregnancy, the turncoat Prime Minister was not at all surprised.

 

“Paptimus, haven’t you heard the news?! Thagaste has been lost!” Glaesal yelled. “What the devil is wrong with you?! First we were defeated at Aquleia, and now Thagaste! This is unacceptable! I—“

 

“Glaesal, stop it,” replied his friend. “I understand your concern, and I share it, but—“

 

“NO BUTS!” Glaesal’s voice was shrill. “Paptimus, we are losing this war! Without Thagaste, the Royalists will be able to march straight into my territory and—“

 

“You’re forgetting we still have Garl and the pirates of the Western Isles,” Paptimus interrupted again. “Just calm down, my friend. You’re frightening Meris,” and he nodded towards his lover, a hand on her belly and a wide-eyed expression on her face, “and that won’t be good for the child. Now, please, sit down.” His voice was reassuring yet forceful enough to get through to the panicky Glaesal, who followed his orders and took a seat on the sedan in front of him. Paptimus levitated over a bottle of wine towards Glaesal, but the former count knocked it out of the air with an angry swat.

 

“N-no! No! You won’t ply me with alcohol!” yelled Glaesal. He had taken a seat in front of Paptimus, placing his hands on his knees, but those hands were shaking and his eyes were wide. “Not only have we lost Thagaste, but the Supreme Church has officially granted its support for the Crown! You said you’d be able to keep Gosterro preoccupied, Paptimus! YOU SAID THIS WAR WOULD BE OVER QUICKLY!” he began to rise to his feet. “I—“

 

“Sit _down_.” Paptimus frowned slightly, and Glaesal felt a strange surge of unexpected force pushing him back to his seat. He stared up at Paptimus again, with a combination of fear and shock as well as anger.

 

“I am sorry I had to do that,” he sighed, “but it was necessary. You really need to learn how to control yourself, Glaesal. Listen to me.

 

“First off, in regards to the Church, you greatly overestimate their influence. Yes, it is a terrible inconvenience that Monica died, and yes, that the Church is now entirely against is a disadvantage—“

 

“Just a ‘disadvantage?’ Paptimus, if they pour their money into the Royalist coffers, the King will be able to continue this war for decades! And you know how much influence they have on Bern! King Arbain’s hands are tied now. The clergy will never let him send any support to us, financial or military! Your personal finances will empty soon, Paptimus, and—“

 

“We have the black market supporting us, as well as labor from the…rehabilitation camps,” replied the Dark General, causing Meris to squirm uncomfortably next to him. “Our financial straits are not that dire. In addition, Garl Vinland is mobilizing to the east. While our forces march to retake Thagaste—which they will, if I lead them—Garl will rendezvous with Dougram and strike through the east, threatening the capital via a roundabout past Thagaste, forcing the Royalists to divert their forces. Even if I fail to take Thagaste, Garl will still capture Aquleia!”

 

“I know very well his skill in combat,” said Glaesal, “but even that won’t be enough! Not when against the superior resources of the Royalists!”

 

“But it won’t be just Garl and Dougram,” grinned Paptimus. “Yazan has been demoted for his failures at Aquleia and Thagaste…and will now be serving under Garl, where his fighting strength can be put to use rather than his faulty leadership. Not only that, but Job Trunicht will be joining him, leading the Red Shoulder Brigade, of which we have managed to replenish their ranks. And he has one more trick up his sleeve, which would probably be enough to end the war on its own!”

 

“I don’t believe you,” spat Glaesal. “You told me that before, Paptimus. And look what happened!”

 

“You don’t believe in me? I’m hurt,” came a mellifluous voice from behind him. While Paptimus grinned, both Meris and Glaesal gave slight shrieks of surprise when the Black Knight emerged from the shadows behind Glaesal.

 

“AAAAAAH!” The nervous Revolutionary nearly fell over, but his excellent military training kept him on his feet as he jumped from the couch and whirled around. “Were you spying on us?! You filthy—“

 

“Easy, easy, Glaesal,” said Paptimus. “Trunicht is a friend, remember? Though really, it’s unbecoming to give a fellow Revolutionary such a shock like that!”

 

“All that dark magic you use is ‘unbecoming,’” muttered Glaesal as he sat back down, glaring at the new guest suspiciously and angrily.

 

“But it performed very well against the Mage Corps, you can’t deny that.” Trunicht’s lips turned up in a grin. “Look what it did to Exedol!”

 

The memory of his hated rival’s death was enough to satiate Glaesal somewhat, and Trunicht continued.

 

“Not only that, but it just might win the war for us. Look at the bed.” Trunicht waved a hand towards it, and when Glaesal glanced at it, he noticed someone was lying in it. Someone he never imagined seeing, clad in a raiment stranger than anything he’d ever seen.

 

It was a woman—a very attractive one. She was statuesque, with a heart-shaped face, along with long green hair—which seemed like it had started to grey, despite her apparent youth. She was not naked, and for that Glaesal was thankful. Instead, she was clad in all but her head in a strange grayish-black suit of armor. Glaesal couldn’t tell what sort of metal it was made out of, but it was curved and fluted in strange places, giving it a distinctly foreign appearance, with sharp edges everywhere that might turn the wearer’s shoulders and forearms into weapons. The most distinctive attribute, though, was the unearthly aura that hung thickly about it, very noticeable to a former magic-user like Glaesal.

 

“This woman,” said Trunicht. “is one of my…rescues, so to speak. You might recognize the name. Lady Vyrleena?”

 

“Th-the Wyvern General?! How can that be?!”

 

“I found her while escaping from the battle at Aquleia. Her wyvern had died and she’d been tossed into a canal…half-drowned, but I got to her just in time. My magic took us both back to the safety of the Revolutionary lines.

 

“When she woke up, she…was not in the best mental condition. The bond between a rider and a wyvern is strong indeed. I had to put her in this slumber you see here to…preserve her mentality, at least until she can be woken up.”

 

“What does this have to do with our war? How could she be of use, then?”

 

“I can offer her the one thing she truly wants, Glaesal. Revenge. I obviously couldn’t send her back to Bern, as they’d just execute her. And if I woke her up now…suffice it to say I would need much more preparation or else she would slip into insanity. But on the battlefield…she will have a chance to fight again, and especially face the man who murdered her companion.

 

“With this armor, of course!” Trunicht laughed. “She is wearing the Armor of the Berserk, my friend. You’ve heard of it, yes? The enchanted plate which gives the wearer the strength of an entire army?”

 

“The Demonic Armor…” gaped Glaesal in shock, “You…that’s impossible! Not only does this cursed suit of armor steal the soul of its wearer, but it also destroys the mind! You’ll turn Vyrleena into a madwoman if you keep her in it much longer! This isn’t acceptable, you scoundrel!” Glaesal got up and began marching over to help her, but was once again forced back down by Paptimus.

 

“You’re forgetting part of the legends,” he said. “This armor has existed for longer than we have written records. No-one is certain why it was made, who made it, or where it comes from. There’s no evidence that it’s truly ‘demonic.’ Many accounts mention that if the one who wears it is of strong will, they can master it and strengthen their soul rather than be consumed by it.”

 

“Those are just legends! Vyrleena can’t—“

 

“I can think of no-one with a stronger will than a Wyvern General,” chuckled Trunicht. “Rest assured, if anyone can master this armor, it is Vyrleena.”

 

“But you’re still…she can’t possibly be consenting to this!”

 

“We will see when she wakes up,” smiled Trunicht. “If she wishes not, then I will let her go, of course. But more likely than not, this is exactly what she wants. This armor will give her the power to smash the Royalist army and create the kind of world she always wanted. In addition, we win the war! It’s a benefit to both parties!”

 

“Even so, it’s such an abominable artifact—“

 

“No more abominable than what Exedol did at the Lurkmire, or what Galahad is doing with your wife,” said Paptimus. “I find it distasteful as well, my old friend, but sometimes, in order to triumph over such reprehensible foes, we must lower ourselves to their level somewhat. However, for the reasons Trunicht gave, we are not quite as terrible, yes? Dark magic is feared only by those who do not understand it. It can be used for good as easily as evil—I have proven that.  The same applies to the Armor of the Berserk. In this case, I am confident it will be used for good.”

 

Increasing his odds of victory against Galahad was something Glaesal could not resist. He settled down on the chair, still looking at Trunicht with suspicion. “Hmm…yes, yes, alright then. But this had better be as effective as the legends say! If not…”

 

“You needn’t worry,” said Paptimus, and deep sympathy was in his eyes, forcing even Glaesal to look away with a bit of guilt. “I know I have failed you, my friend, and I have failed the people of this country as well. I am so, so sorry. But with this new plan, we can finally correct our previous mistakes and achieve victory. It is better late than never, right?”

 

“I suppose I can’t argue with that. But the costs are growing higher and higher, Paptimus.”

 

“But they are worth it.”

 

“They’d better be.” Glaesal stood up, preparing to leave. “As much as it disgusts me to say it, good luck to you, Trunicht. Our future and the future of this country depends on you.

 

“If you fail, the future of this entire Revolution may be in jeopardy.”

 

The Black Knight simply smiled as Glaesal made his exit, while Paptimus frowned, ruminating on what Glaesal’s parting words may have implied. “I assume you’d like me to leave you and young Meris alone, brother Paptimus?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Of course!” He bowed to Meris. “Forgive me for surprising you, sister. I have a flair for the dramatic, that’s all.” The shadows coalesced around both him and the Wyvern General on the bed, and when they receded, both were gone, leaving Paptimus and Meris alone with each other again.

 

“I’m glad that’s over with,” exhaled Paptimus in relief. “Anyways, my dear, we were talking about how you were feeling? I—“

 

“M—Paptimus,” stammered Meris, “I…I can’t. I think Glaesal is right. It’s…we can’t treat Vyrleena like this! It’s not humane!”

 

Paptimus rolled his eyes. “Maybe, but it is rational. The benefit we gain outweighs the pain we might cause her. After all, it will bring the war to an end that much sooner. And we want our child to be born into a time of peace, not war, don’t we?”

 

“I…yes…yes, we do,” she replied. Yet as her lover smiled in satisfaction and began to stroke her hair as he always did, her hands drifted back down towards her belly, and her mind turned to something Paptimus had once said to her, over two years ago, yet which had remained fresh in her mind.

 

_The destruction of this single village will set in motion the liberation of not only many towns just like it, but all of Etruria, perhaps even the entire continent someday! Is it not a small price to pay?_

 

“Perhaps the entire continent…?” she whispered to herself?

 

“What was that, darling?”

 

“N-nothing.”

 

Yet the concerns she had about the world her child would be born into were not diminishing but growing.

 

-X-

 

“Brother Dougram! I can see them! I see Lord Vinland’s forces!”

 

This news brought a smile to Dougram’s face for the first time in weeks. After leaving Orba—with many of his weapons and supplies either vandalized or stolen—Dougram had finally managed to reach the outskirts of the city of Solgrenne, the largest settlement on the northern side of the River Tiber. Indeed, it was the largest in the region outside of Caerleon, a great large town which could almost be called a city, although it didn’t have a castle of its own. It guarded the way across the Bingham Bridge, which was the only way across the wide river. However, it was much better fortified than Orba as well as fiercely loyalist. With his present forces, Dougram could simply intimidate this town into submission—despite his attempts to negotiate with them (which Serapino had proven immensely useful in), the people refused to surrender and outrightly threatened to launch their own attacks with their sizable militia—only Serapino, after pleading with the town’s mayor (who was a devout Eliminean) had managed to secure the rights for Dougram’s men to remain outside its limits, at least, without being molested. Though he could likely lead them to victory and take the town by force, the Nabatan desperately wanted to avoid combat. It would endanger the lives of civilians, after all, and that was definitely _not_ justice.

 

Thus, he had been elated that a runner had brought him the news of Garl’s imminent arrival. Of course, he’d been much less elated that Thagaste had been lost, but since it wasn’t his battle, it wasn’t his problem—he knew that even that setback could be undone if he performed well on the eastern front. Serapino had told him about Garl’s exploits, and in addition to the reinforcements, Dougram hoped desperately it would be enough to convince the people of Solgrenne to lay down their arms without a fight.

 

“Thanks, Serapino.” The two of them were standing at the edge of his army’s camp, and he patted the mendicant on the shoulder with genuine affection in that gesture. After all, it was largely due to Serapino’s efforts they hadn’t already joined battle. Dougram had already been gaining more and more respect for Serapino—despite his foibles, he was a very capable staff officer, a diligent worker, and a perpetually enthusiastic source of cheer. His recent efforts with the mayor had cemented that respect. In his entreaty to the mayor not to respond with violence to Dougram’s incursion, Serapino had not given the most eloquent speech he had ever heard, but it was sincere. Even with his disdain for Eliminism, Dougram found his heart moved ever so slightly by Serapino’s pleas to “preserve the lives of all God’s creations” and not start a fight with the Revolutionaries. Since they worked so well on the mayor, the Swordmaster couldn’t help but appreciate what the mendicant had done for him.

 

He sort of wished Serapino had done more, though. They simply _couldn’t_ advance without capturing the town, and Dougram was at a loss as to how to get over the river without a fight. For several days he had ordered his army to wait outside the city limits, wracking his brain for any ideas while his men grew increasingly bored and irritated (the fact that they’d heard the Revolutionary government was beginning to run out of money and their pay would be reduced had not done well in dissuading them from an attempt to sack the city), and he feared he’d have a mutiny on his hands soon. Then came the news of Lord Vinland’s arrival, and all of a sudden the frustration and demoralization of his forces evaporated—now they were eagerly talking about what a beast Vinland was, and how this war would be over as soon as he got into the fight.

 

As he watched Garl and his reinforcements approach, Dougram could only hope those rumors were true.

 

Judging by the man’s appearance, they probably were. He was of above-average height, slightly over six and a half feet tall. Vinland was clad head to toe in ornate silver armor which seemed to glimmer under the afternoon sun, with many intricate, crisscrossing lines gently and carefully embossed across its surface—runes, most likely. It was not much different in shape from the kind of raiment a normal General would use save for the runes, its color and its helmet—a curious, ovoid pierce of work with a large, flaring crest over and surrounding it, making it look a bit like a squid. In his left hand was a large kite shield constructed out of the same sort of silver, but in his right was the weapon Dougram had heard so much about—Basilikos.

 

The axe was light blue, almost aquamarine. It was single-headed, with one great blade on one side of the haft and another smaller edge on the other side. At the other end of the handle was a blue gemstone the same color as the blade. It would have been an impressive weapon under any circumstances, but most impressive was its size—it was nearly as big as Garl himself. However, he rested it on his shoulder as if it were nothing at all.

 

 He stood at the head of a 3000-man contingent, largely composed of his city’s elite guard along with well-trained Rebel conscripts, mercenaries, and…from what Dougram could see under the light, Red Shoulders as well. When added to Dougram’s men, they’d total six thousand in all. Garl alone would have been enough to cheer up the Nabatan significantly, but at the head of an army like that? He was feeling as good about his prospects for victory as he’d ever been.

 

One thing was breaking his good cheer, though. Next to Vinland was a man in black armor on an equally black steed, and above him was a Wyvern Lord with poofy blond hair. Though he had held some doubt (more like hope) at first, when Vinland reached them and strode out to meet him there could be no mistaking the friends he’d brought.

 

“Lord Vinland!” exclaimed Serapino cheerfully as the man reached them, standing in front of Dougram. “It’s such an honor to meet you!” He bounded up to the General, chattering away, all of which was received with stony silence. This would have been enough to tell Dougram quite a bit about the warrior, but at the moment he was much more concerned with Garl’s companions.

 

“Long time no see,” grinned Yazan casually down at the Nabatan while Trunicht nodded condescendingly from his horse.

 

“Yazan! You scum!” Dougram snarled. “What the hell are you doing here!? And Trunicht, too!”

 

“Why are you so angry, brother? We’re here to assist you,” smirked the Black Knight. “Yazan’s not a very good leader, but he’s an excellent fighter. He’ll do well as Garl’s underling. And me? I’ve just brought a few tricks along that would absolutely ensure our victory. Paptimus has the utmost confidence in Garl, but he’s also a prudent man. No need to take unnecessary risks, right?”

 

Dougram was about to let loose with an angry retort with Garl interrupted him. “You are the commander of the rebels I was sent here to relieve, correct?”

 

The man’s voice was quite deep, and combined with his equipment and frame, even the experienced Swordmaster couldn’t help but feel a bit intimidated. He was _really_ glad this guy was on his side. “Uh, yeah,” he said, as Serapino scampered back and hid behind him, apparently as intimidated at Garl’s brusque greeting as anyone else was.

 

“Move aside. I will open Solgrenne to you.”

 

Dougram opened his mouth, but Garl didn’t even pay attention—he simply brushed past the smaller man as Yazan and Trunicht stood smirking. He passed through the camp, Yazan, Trunicht, Dougram, and Serapino following behind him, drawing surprised, almost awed stares from the people, and marched up to the town gates, behind which the guards were massing in panic upon the walls, yelling and shouting, “IT’S VINLAND! IT’S VINLAND!”

 

“I am Garl of the House of Vinland,” he boomed—his helmet apparently had a voice-enhancing enchantment built into it, as did many suits of armor intended for leaders. “The leader of this settlement shall be brought to me or I will begin an attack.”

 

“L-Lord Vinland!” exclaimed Serapino in dismay. “B-but we can’t—“

 

“Easy, Serapino,” said Dougram. “It’s just a show. The town will surrender soon. Nobody will want a fight with Garl if even half the things that are said about him are true.”

 

Dougram was right. After a minute of more shouting from behind the wall, the gates creaked open and the mayor of the town—a middle-aged man with grayish-black hair—emerged with a contingent of guards, sweat drenching his brow as he rushed up to the mighty Garl.

 

“Great Lord Vinland!” he stammered, fear plastered on his pale face, “what an honor to have you here! I—“

 

“You will allow the Rebel forces access to the Bingham Bridge. You will also allow us quarter in your city. Anything else and you will suffer the consequences.”

 

The man’s face went even paler, along with those of his guards, both the ones behind him and the ones on the wall. “Lord Vinland, this can’t be true! Your family has served the Crown for generations! You’re a hero of the Western Isles! Your wife was a devout Eliminean, for God’s sake! Why have you turned against us?”

 

“I will not ask again.”

 

“Please, Lord Vinland, I—“

 

The great warrior shifted his axe ever so slightly on his shoulder, and that was enough to send the mayor scurrying away, straight back through the half-open gate. After a few moments punctuated by panicked shouting and wails of fear from the Royalist side, the gates creaked open fully, resulting in a great cheer from the Rebel forces, who immediately began packing and streaming into the city which was now open to them.

 

“Garl, that was excellent!” exclaimed Dougram happily. The General, true to form, took no notice, simply striding past him into the city with the rest of the army. He stood there, somewhat befuddled, until Trunicht and Yazan passed him by as well.

 

“Man, I can’t believe it,” said Yazan disgruntedly from above. “It’s been a long time since I had a good fight,’specially after killing Kasha. But I guess you must be happy, right, peace-boy?”

 

“Of course! I’m not a murderous piece of filth like you!”

 

Yazan simply laughed and flew over the gate and into the city. Trunicht, who was trotting below him, laughed as well. “He shouldn’t be too disappointed. He might be seeing more action sooner than he thinks.”

 

Dougram and Serapino looked at each other, and then back at the Black Knight. “What do you mean?”

 

Trunicht simply laughed again. “You’ll see.”

 

-x-

 

Dougram had not gone to sleep particularly peacefully. The city was quite crowded as it was, and they had little room for an army of this size, but Garl Vinland’s threats were enough to force the people to acquiesce. The higher-ranked members of the Revolutionary army had been given what spare rooms and space there were, but there wasn’t much left over for the rest of the soldiers. They camped among the streets and in some cases in the houses of private citizens and other rooms they’d “requisitioned.” It wasn’t comfortable, but they’d just managed to make everything fit.

 

Lack of space wasn’t really what Dougram was worried about, though. He tossed and turned in his bed in one of the rooms of the city’s inns, Serapino snoring away in the cot across from him. His mind was occupied by dark thoughts of just how much trouble the citizenry could still cause them. All through the army’s trek up to this point, the farther south they went the less cooperative the citizenry became—he remembered quite well how they’d been beset by constant “disappearances” of weapons and other supplies whenever they camped in a loyalist town. Solgrenne seemed to be even more staunchly devoted to the Crown than Orba was, and he absolutely dreaded the sort of mischief they would likely unleash upon his forces.

 

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was how his new companions would deal with it.

 

Dougram was abruptly blasted out of his fitful slumber by a massive hue and cry arising from outside his inn’s windows—in fact, it seemed to be emanating from the town square at the center of the city. It seemed to be a great cacophony of voices, screaming and wailing in despair. They were mainly women and children, though a few men were mixed in as well. There also seemed to be the clamor of weapons being drawn.

 

“Aaaaiiiee! What, what?!” cried Serapino as he was roused as rudely as Dougram was. “What’s going on?!”

 

“I don’t know, but I know we aren’t gonna like it,” Dougram grimaced. “Let’s go!”

 

He promptly hopped out of his bed and Serapino did the same, neither of them even bothering to change out of their sleeping clothes. They rushed outside, where many others, including rebels and townsfolk alike, were heading the same way, with many more curious faces peering out of windows—or crying out in panic and despair as well. Something had apparently happened across this entire city.

 

By the time he reached the town square, he could see what it was. “Move! Out of the way!” Dougram hastily shoved through the crowd of gawkers, Serapino following in his wake, until he got a clear view of what the situation was.

 

It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Gathered in the square, which was large enough to admit most of the population (almost the entire city came out to celebrate certain festivals in this space) was several thousand people--what seemed to be every woman and child in the city. Many were clad only in their night clothes and some were naked, indicating they’d been snatched out of their beds.

 

Surrounding them was a contingent of elite Revolutionary soldiers. All the Druids and Shamans of the Red Shoulder Battalion were gathered around them, penning them in and preventing them from escaping, along with many men from Garl’s personal guard, all skilled Heroes, Generals, and Warriors. Trunicht, Yazan, and Garl stood in front of the whole scene, telling Dougram all he needed to know about who was responsible for all this.

 

“TRUNICHT! YAZAN!” he yelled at the top of his longs. “WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!”

 

This question seemed to be shared by the rest of the onlookers—the Rebel soldiers in the crowd were whispering among themselves uneasily, while the townspeople were shouting and yelling in anger, upon seeing how their mothers, sisters, daughters, and children had apparently been imprisoned by the Rebel villains.

 

The Black Knight didn’t waste any time in giving them his explanation. He waved a hand over his mouth, casting the enchantment on it, and begun.

 

“Good people of Solgrenne!” he exclaimed, the magic making his voice loud enough to be heard by every single person in the city. “As you can see, we of the Revolutionary Army have taken, you could say, something of a liberty with the fair ladies and adorable children of your beautiful city. Rest assured, no harm will come to them…at least, not if you accede to our demands.

 

“You see, friends, we are well aware of how much you don’t like us. It’s a horrible misunderstanding—we only want the best for you, after all—but it is something we’ve come to expect. However, what we can _not_ tolerate is hindrance of our advance. I know what sort of tricks your people were planning—poisoning the food and drink of our soldiers, sabotaging our supplies, all those things. What an inconvenience it would be for us!

 

“Quite naturally, we couldn’t have that. But what could we do to stop it, other than slaughtering every last person in this city—which is well within our power to do, by the way. I figured it out. We’d take some…collateral.”

 

A smirk spread across his face. “Dark magic is such a wonderful thing, you know. By combining our powers, my fellow Red Shoulders and I were able to use the shadows as an ersatz means of transportation—specifically, sneaking them into every room of the city and spiriting away every woman and child we found to this square. Of course, for those who managed to escape, or well-trained Thieves and Assassins proved quite effective in tracking them down.

 

“I will be blunt. These innocent people are now our prisoners, and will serve as a guarantee of _your_ loyalty. If anything…untoward happens to one of our soldiers…say, he gets poisoned, or his equipment is stolen, well…watch.” Trunicht raised a hand in the air and the Red Shoulder guards raised theirs towards the women. A wave of dark magic emanated from them, and within a moment all the poor girls were keeled over, clutching at their throats.

 

“Stop! STOP!!!!” A multitude of voices cried out, and almost as one the crowd surged towards the hated rebels. Dougram feared he’d be crushed in the stampede, but a single man put a stop to it.

 

Casually, Garl Vinland raised the Basilikos in the air. It glowed bright blue, and from it surged a pulse of magic energy. The air shimmered, and everyone in the vicinity found themselves stopped in their tracks, unable to move. After a moment, he finally lowered the weapon, and the crowd found itself under its own control again—but this time, it was much more hesitant to charge.

 

“You see? Any attempts at rescue are futile,” continued Trunicht. “This is really no problem, though. As long as you follow all our orders and give us no trouble, not a single hair on anyone’s head will be harmed.”

 

“You monsters!” cried one man near the front, near Dougram. “What do you want from us?!”

 

“Hmm,” said Trunicht. “That’s a good question. Aside from your cooperation, how about your assistance? There’s a good number of militiamen here, and many more who look like they can take up arms. And since the sooner this war ends—in our victory, of course—the sooner I can free these innocents and send them back to their families, how about this—every able-bodied man who has some familiarity with the arts of war can become a good member of the Revolutionary Army! There should be a couple thousand of you here. Help us take Caerleon, and we’ll let you go and return you to your families. That sounds like an effective solution to our problems!”

 

“THIS IS INSANE!” the mayor of Solgrenne marched up to Trunicht, almost frothing at the mouth. “YOU REVOLUTIONARY VERMIN THINK YOU CAN MARCH IN HERE AND—“

 

“Not think,” replied Trunicht, “ _know._ ” He again raised his hand, and again the anguished cries of choking women and children echoed throughout the city. The mayor could do nothing more than plead, “stop, stop!” along with the rest of his citizenry. When Trunicht finally lowered his hand, the townspeople could do nothing more but gaze blankly at their gasping womenfolk and children in despair, their will to resist having evaporated. The only people who seemed happy were the rebel soldiers.

 

“I know many of you consider yourselves clever,” he said, “and perhaps you may launch attempts to rescue our…insurance. I’m afraid to inform you that we’ll be moving them to a secure location some distance away from this town. There’s an abandoned citadel half a day’s march from here, yes? We will begin the transportation now. I, of course, will be watching over them, while Garl and Yazan will remain here to ensure the cooperation of the fighting men and the rest of the citizenry. Let’s go!”

 

Over the cries of the despairing people of Solgrenne, the Red Shoulders and their prisoners began their march. Another conspicuous burst of pain to the captives and another raise of Garl’s axe was enough to snuff out the last vestiges of resistance from the people, and the town gates opened, allowing the Red Shoulders and their procession of unfortunates egress.

 

“STOP! YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” cried Serapino suddenly, bursting out from behind Dougram and rushing up to Garl. The General didn’t even look down. “Y-YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, LORD VINLAND! I K-KNOW YOU ARE! YOU CAN’T LET THIS—“

 

“Enough,” said the man. Serapino was stunned into tearful silence.

 

“He’s exactly right!” thundered Dougram. “This…this is the most unjust tactic I’ve ever seen! How can you—“

 

Yazan shrugged and leveled his lance at the Nabatan. “If you don’t like it, you can leave the Revolutionary Army. No big loss. Garl?”

 

“All of you, return to your quarters,” the General boomed, his voice enchanted by his helmet. “Any violations will be reported to Trunicht, and if that happens…”

 

He didn’t need to say any more. The crowd began to disperse, utterly cowed by the influence of the man and utterly beaten into submission. Dougram and Serapino were among them.

 

“S-Sir Dougram,” Serapino whimpered to him as they walked back to the inn together amongst the equally dejected masses (most of whom were giving them incredibly dirty looks), “y-you can’t agree with this, can you?”

 

“No. No, I can’t. But…dammit, what else can I do?”

 

There was one answer in his mind. But leaving the Revolutionary Army wasn’t an option, at least not yet.

 

Soon enough, though, it would become much more attractive.

 

-X-The Royalists March to Caerleon-X-

 

“Find anything, Keith?”

 

“Nope! All clear!”

 

Kelitha smiled down at her younger sister as the two of them got off their Pegasi. It had been several days since the “Autonomous Company” had departed Thagaste and began its trek towards Caerleon (accompanying Gafgarion’s forces), but even though they weren’t fighting all of them had duties to keep them busy. Keith and Kelitha’s happened to be as scouts—they would fly ahead and around the rest of the army, keeping an eye on the terrain as well as for any nasty rebel surprises. After all, even if they were still in friendly territory there was no sense in being incautious.

 

It had been a long day of this kind of work, and the Pegasi were getting tired. Thus, the two Ilians had set them down near a small pond to allow them to get a little drink. In the meantime, the two of them sat themselves down by the shade of a nearby tree—they needed a bit of relaxation, after all.

 

“Everything’s so green in this country!” Keith exclaimed. “The grass, the trees…everything! Is it like this on the rest of Elibe, sister?”

 

Kelitha smiled gently. “In some places, yes, in other places, no…Sacae is even greener, and Bern…there’s nothing but mountains there, some as high as the peaks in Ilia! And Nabata…that place isn’t green at all. It’s a desert full of nothing but sand, and it’s as hot as our homeland is cold.”

 

Keith’s eyes widened. “That hot? Is that even possible?”

 

“Indeed it is. You might even get to see it yourself, if you become a great Pegasus Knight someday!”

 

“Yeah! Like mom!” Her eyes dimmed slightly. “And…Kasha…”

 

“Yes…yes, like both of them,” murmured Kelitha. She could have said a lot more about the latter, but didn’t want to offend Keith. It turned out she didn’t have to worry, however.

 

“Am I a bad sister, Kelitha?”

 

The older woman blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

 

“I…even though Kasha was my oldest sister…when I saw them bury her, I didn’t feel that sad…and I still don’t. I…”

 

“Keith, it’s okay,” said Kelitha soothingly. She drew her sister into a soft embrace, kissed her on her temple, and began stroking her hair lightly.

 

“K-Kelitha,” the other girl stammered, “this is—“

 

“Yes, it’s what our mother used to do, right?” She smiled. “I loved it, and I know you do too.”

 

Neither of them said anything more as they settled against each other, enjoying the other’s company for several more minutes.

 

“Kelitha,” mumbled Keith, somewhat quietly.

 

“Mm?”

 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

 

Kelitha chuckled softly. “No, Keith. You’re a great little sister, the best anyone could ask for. Kasha just couldn’t realize that, was all.”

 

“But…I…”

 

Kelitha smiled reassuringly. “Keith, you can’t be blamed for how you feel. Kasha was home so rarely and almost never saw you, so…”

 

“I…I guess.” The girl snuggled up further against her sister. “It’s just…I never really felt she was my sister. Like you, you know? And after what she said about Mother…”

 

“Yes. I understand what you’re saying, Keith.” _Better than you know,_ she thought to herself. “I…if you don’t consider her a sister, that’s fine. You don’t need to. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. She gave her life in the service of her country as a fellow Ilian…that’s all that matters. What she said about our mother doesn’t matter…and if you shed no tears for her, that doesn’t matter either.

 

“What matters is that I’m still here. And I’ll always be here. And I’ll always love you. So, Keith, fight as hard as you can, okay? Make me and Mother proud.”

 

She kissed her little sister on the temple again, and this time no words came in response. She also knew they had to get back soon, but just this once…Khyron could be kept waiting.

 

-X-

 

“So was this King Pellinore really as virtuous as this chronicler made him out to be?”

 

“Sure, when you think about who the chronicler was. Albrecht was a monk  who managed to get two girls pregnant on the same night. He’s gotta be a real expert in virtue, right?”

 

Renault grinned as Kelitha gasped and turned beet-red, raising a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. The two of them were sitting on a grassy field near the outskirts of the army’s camp, spending the afternoon together sharing the books Renault had always kept with him ever since he’d left his mother’s home over two years ago. but He would have been depressed by the memories attached to the texts, but with Kelitha next to him he found they didn’t much occupy his mind.

 

They had been doing this for several weeks, ever since they’d left Aquleia, in fact—not every day, as Renault’s training and Kelitha’s scouting duties often kept them both quite busy, but regularly enough that it had become something both of them looked forwards to quite a bit.

 

Kelitha already respected Renault’s swordplay, and she was pleased to find he had an equally sharp mind as well. And Renault found himself very pleasantly surprised by the Ilian’s intelligence, eagerness to learn, and genuine interest in his country’s history, and he already liked her (and her sister) for saving his life in battle. Thus, he was more than a little pleased to see how much she enjoyed the same sort of conversations he had with Braddock—and the jokes, too.

 

“Th-that can’t be true, can it?” stammered Kelitha, still red and with a smile on her face; she obviously had trouble believing that the author of as comprehensive a work of history as Albrecht’s _Lives of the Kings_ could have acted in such an…un-scholarly manner.

 

“Sure is,” smirked Renault. “His ‘excesses’ gave the bishops he dealt with a lot of headaches. My dad kept letters from them about the kinds of shenanigans he got into in his archives. When I read a few of ‘em…yeah, it became pretty hard to take this guy seriously.”

 

“Ah…I agree.” She looked at Renault with a perplexed expression on her face. “How could such a hypocritical man be trusted to write a history of his country, then? From the sound of it he was more interested in massaging the egos of his leaders for personal gain than telling the truth. Are there no works which would be…well, more reliable?”

 

Renault sighed. “You’re right, Kelitha, and the answer to your question is--not that I know of. That’s the bad thing about Etrurian history, I guess, at least in this country. It’s nearly impossible to find ANYTHING that’s not written by some priest or noble who only cared about sucking up to the aristocrats. This stuff is the best we can get, really.”

 

“I thought that might be the case. What about chronicles written by outside observers, then?”

 

“Huh? You mean…foreigners?”

 

“Yes. I mean, while an outsider might not be able to understand the Etrurian experience as well as a native, a history written from their perspective might be…objective in a way this is not, yes?”

 

“Huh. Maybe,” said Renault contemplatively, “I never really thought about that before. But do any exist?”

 

“Well, not exactly like Albrecht’s work, but I know for a fact that there’s a popular book back home in Ilia. It’s a collection of journal entries a famous Pegasus Knight named Keaira wrote about a hundred years ago. She was one of the most famous mercenaries who ever lived in our country, fighting many battles and achieving many victories all over Elibe. One chapter deals extensively with Etruria and its history. It wasn’t entirely, er, positive, but I think I learned more from that than I did from Albrecht’s work.”

 

Renault laughed. “Really? That sounds like a good recommendation, then. I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on it sometime.”

 

She grinned at him. “Maybe I can help you with that after this war is over. I didn’t bring it with me, but I have a copy back home in Ilia. Perhaps I’ll fetch it for you, if you’re still interested by then.”

 

“Yeah. Or a library around here probably has it,” said Renault somewhat thoughtlessly. “If it’s as famous as you say, some Sage somewhere in this country might have a copy.”

 

“Er, well, yes,” Kelitha responded, and Renault noticed she seemed just a tad bit hurt. He wasn’t sure why, but he figured he needed to rescue himself anyways—he didn’t want to offend her, after all. Thus, he attempted to change the subject.

 

“You know, I’m really impressed, Kelitha,” he smiled. “The only other person I’ve met who seems to be as well-read as you is Braddock.  It’s nice to have somebody else around I can talk to about all this stuff, you know? How’d you learn all this?”

 

The smile on Kelitha’s face returned—it seemed this was something she enjoyed talking about. “I’ve always been more interested in books than blades. Ever since I was a girl, whenever…well, whenever I could get away from Kasha, I’d curl up by the fire with any book I could get my hands on—my mother’s training manuals, most of the time, but one of my friends managed to get his hands on a whole slew of magical texts and histories from a traveling salesman, and lent them to me whenever he could. Those were my most steadfast companions in those days…at least until I came of age to begin my training as a Pegasus Knight.”

 

“Really? I guess that explains it, then. You really do have a good eye for books…uh, I mean, I think so, at least. I think you would’ve made a great Sage.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that, Renault.” She looked at him with genuine appreciation in her eyes. “Honestly, that’s what I always wanted to be…magic’s so amazing to me. Have you seen what Rosamia can do with water? I appreciate her usefulness in battle, of course, but…” She sighed. “I’m not Kasha. I don’t have any love for war. Spending my life reading books and creating beautiful things with spells like Rosamia can with water…I’d give anything to do that instead of flying all across Elibe shedding blood. But I guess it’s too late now…”

 

“Huh? Why?” Renault was somewhat confused. “I’m sure you’ve got the talent for it, if you’ve already more well-read than most of the mercenaries I’ve met. So then why’re you a Pegasus Knight, then? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad as hell you’re on my side, but if this isn’t what you wanna do…”

 

Kelitha blinked. “Renault, it wasn’t as if I had a choice.”

 

“Huh? You mean your mom wanted you to follow in her footsteps or something?” he shook his head sympathetically. “Ugh, horrible…I know the feeling. My mom wanted me to be a bishop too, and I—“

 

“Well, it’s not that, Renault. My mother wasn’t exactly pleased I became a Pegasus Knight either— _she_ never really wanted to be one. But in Ilia, _nobody_ has a choice. Our country is almost totally reliant on the income Pegasi bring. Almost every young girl is drafted into the Fleet. That’s what happened to me and my sister…”

 

“Are you serious?” Renault sputtered incredulously. “What kind of country is Ilia supposed to be? How can they just force people to become mercenaries?”

 

“Well, aren’t you one to talk? You’re a mercenary too, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah, but I chose to be one. You were forced into it, and as far as I can tell it’s a shame.” Renault was growing somewhat indignant now. “You probably could’ve been a great scholar or leader or something, like Braddock would’ve been if…uh, I mean, just like Braddock might be,” he stammered, not wanting to give away too much of his friend’s past. “Instead, you’re out here risking your life for another country’s stupid civil war. How does that make any sense?”

 

“I’m an Ilian. It’s what we have to do. Our country needs us to shed our blood or else our citizens will starve. What alternative is there?”

 

“Not living in that frozen hellhole, for one. Seriously, what’s wrong with you Ilians? How stupid do you have to be to keep plugging on in a land that doesn’t have anything but ice and snow? What kind of ridiculous government would force girls like you to fight and die just so the civilians can waste their own lives in a snowy wasteland? Etrurians would never be that foolish. Hell, even the barbarians in Sacae have a better deal than you!”

 

“Stupid? It’s our homeland!” Kelitha replied, outraged. “We can’t just abandon it!”

 

“Why not? Seems like anything would be better than life there. You people are fools if you’re sentimentally attached to it or something. Can’t you settle somewhere else? Sacae’s got a lot of space, and even the Western Isles aren’t nearly as bad.”

 

Renault realized he was being cruel—saying she was offended would be an understatement—but at this point, he didn’t care. Kelitha looked like she was about to offer a blistering retort, but she paused for a moment, blinked at him, and then, with anger still glimmering in her eyes, tried a different tack.

 

“Renault, for someone who thinks Etrurians are so much smarter than everybody else, what you’ve just suggested is downright stupid. Do you honestly believe an entire nation can just…move, just like that, without any problems? Settle in the Western Isles? Do you think the pirates and warrior clans will welcome us with open arms? Move to Sacae? Do you think the tribes will just give us some land we can call our own? Not to mention the sheer logistical difficulty of uprooting nearly a million people and sending them to countries most have never even seen!”

 

“I…okay, okay, you’re right,” said Renault, forced to concede a little bit. “Still, if life in Ilia is so bad, there has to be something you can do to escape its clutches!”

 

“Like what? Tell me, Renault. If you can find a solution to the problems which have plagued my people since the Scouring, you’d be the greatest hero in Elibe! So if it’s so easy, and we’re so stupid, why don’t you tell us what we should do?”

 

“I…well…okay, you can’t move, but…” Renault sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking away from his friend. “Well…I mean, there has to be a better way than forcing a girl like you to fight! If I could choose my own path in life, why couldn’t you?”

 

“Not all of us are so lucky, Renault,” she said coldly. “And that’s what it boils down to. Luck. Not intelligence, not virtue, not whatever you think it is. That’s the difference between you Etrurians and Ilians like me. We were blessed with the same intellect and ability you were. We just didn’t share the same good fortune.”

 

“All right, all right, you win!” said Renault, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, Kelitha, I really am. I just—“

 

“Are you truly?” she said skeptically. “Or are you just saying that?”

 

Renault recognized the expression in her eyes and the hardness of her voice. “I said I’m sorry, and I meant it! Look, don’t get all offended and stomp off, okay? You’re my friend, and I really do like you. So first off, I’m sorry I insulted your country. Damn, I’d feel pretty rotten if I pissed off Braddock like this, so I’m definitely not happy I got on your bad side.

 

“Secondly, you’ve made your point. I really wasn’t thinking through anything I said, I guess. So I’ll freely admit you Ilians might be a lot smarter than I first gave you credit for.” He cracked a smile. “I mean, that has to be the truth if they’ve got you in their ranks, right?”

 

Even the angry Kelitha couldn’t help but grin a bit at this, but she wasn’t about to let Renault off the hook so easily. “Well, I just want you to learn your lesson,” she said. “It’s not for me to question you about what you believe, but you should at least think before writing off the rest of Elibe so quickly. It’s not as if you Etrurians are so much better than everyone else, after all.”

 

“I got it, I got it. Look, don’t tell me you’re still mad…here, lemme make it up to you.” He reached down, grabbed Albrecht’s book, and held it out to Kelitha. “You wanna keep this?”

 

“What? Renault, that’s your father’s book! I can’t…”

 

“It’s not so important. I mean, I still have his other books, and keepin’ your friendship matters more to me anyways. So c’mon, can’t you accept this peace offering? It has to outweigh all the prejudiced crap I said earlier, right?”

 

She pondered his offering for a moment, then closed her eyes haughtily and turned away. “Nope. Not good enough! It’s not what I was looking for, Renault!”

 

“But it’s my father’s book! You gotta be—“

 

“I don’t need your book, Renault.” She turned back to him, grinning. “You can keep it. Instead, I want something much more valuable.”

 

“H-huh?” Renault dreaded finding out what this could be.

 

“I want a promise from you, Renault.”

 

“Eh?!” He nearly fell over. “A promise? What could you possibly be looking for?!”

 

“I want you to promise me this, Renault. No matter what happens, from this point forward, I never want to hear you belittle another person’s nation again. Not an Ilian’s, not a Lycian’s, and not even a Sacaen’s. If you do that, I’ll be more than happy to consider you a friend.”

 

“What? Even the Sacaens?” Renault replied, aghast. “C’mon, that’s a little too much, right?”

 

“Nope,” said Kelitha, closing her eyes and folding her hands across her chest. “Even the Sacaens, Renault. No more talk about ‘barbarians’ or ‘savages!’ Otherwise…”

 

“Alright, alright, you’ve made your point,” he laughed. “Even a Mercenary Lord like me can’t win against you. I fully recognize the error of my ways, Kelitha.” He stood up and bowed deeply. “I promise, from this day forward, to never speak an ill word about another resident of Elibe again..at least, not based on anything but their nationality. Do you forgive me?”

 

“Uh, well, there’s no need to bow…”

 

“Hah, hah! It’s the sort of thing Braddock would do.” He looked at her sheepishly. “Whenever I find myself in situations like this, more often than not that Ostian’s better than I’d be at getting out of ‘em.”

 

At this, Kelitha couldn’t keep herself from breaking out into a full-fledged laugh, which she shared with Renault. “I certainly can’t argue with that.” She got to her feet and provided him a bow of her own. “Apology happily accepted, Sir Renault.”

 

“’Sir?’ Looks like your little sister’s rubbin’ off on you, girl! Hey, that reminds me,” he blinked curiously, “Where is she, anyways?”

 

“Over there, I think.” She pointed to the east, and Renault could make a man and girl’s laughing voices wafting over to him from that direction. He peered into the distance, and he could make out…Braddock and Keith, sparring together. The Ostian wasn’t wearing armor, but he did have his trusty Wolf Beil, and he was talking some slow swings at the girl, giving her a few pointers on how to obviate some of the advantages his weapon had over hers.

 

“Hey, looks like they’re getting some training in.” He grinned at Kelitha. “Wanna join ‘em?”

 

“Sure!”

 

With that, the two friends got up to join their other ones, their previous disagreements all but forgotten.

 

-X-

 

“Er…um…Lisse…I, ah, I was wonderin’…”

 

Lisse blinked and turned away from what she was doing (organizing some of the Company’s spare equipment) to look at her caller. It was Apolli, and that didn’t displease her a bit. Caerleon was not far from Thagaste, and after about a week of travel they were just a few days from their destination. Over that span of time, Apolli was the one who kept her the most company. Renault was always too busy training (and spending time with those Pegasus Knights, which couldn’t help but make her more than a bit jealous) and everyone else was occupied with their own duties. However, since Apolli was such a skilled and enthusiastic cook, they shared responsibility for preparing food for the rest of their comrades, and the young Sniper had never been even the least shy about imparting his knowledge to the innkeeper. Though she wouldn’t quite admit it, Lisse acknowledged that her culinary skills likely dwarfed what they had been back at the Ruby Tortoise thanks to his patient teaching, and she only hoped it would continue.

 

She could see his expression clearly in the lingering glow of the sun as it passed beneath the horizon, and he seemed to have a favor for her. “What is it?” she asked, quite happy to repay his kindness.

 

“Uh…could y’ follow me for a bit? I…um, I wanna show you somethin’.”

 

“Um…okay.” With only a bit of hesitation, she got up and followed Apolli—her tent had previously been set up near the center of the army’s camp, and Apolli was leading her to its outskirts. She began to wonder why—in fact, when she thought about it she realized she hadn’t seen the young man all day. What had he been doing? However, she noticed a column of smoke rising from the ground in the direction he was walking, and when they drew closer she realized what it was.

 

“Apolli, why?” she asked, perplexed. “It’s not mealtime yet!”

 

It was a pheasant roasting over the fire, and from the look and smell it had been freshly killed and expertly prepared—Lisse couldn’t help her mouth watering a bit.

 

“Uh, well, h-heh,” he stammered, “I thought I needed some, uh, target practice, so I went out and shot up what I could find. Figured it’d be a waste to just leave ‘em there to rot, right? So I thought I’d sharpen my cookin’ skills too. Couldn’t eat all this m’self, though, so I thought I’d…”

 

“A-Apolli, I…I don’t know what to say,” she stammered. “I’m sorry for the trouble…I hope I didn’t inconvenience you or anything? I mean, all this just for me?”

 

“N-no! No trouble at all, Lisse!” He coughed nervously. “Just thought I…uh, well, y’know. I mean, it’s not like I’m hungry now, ‘cause it’s not dinnertime yet. If y’re not either, I understand, so—“

 

“Er…um…” Lisse tried, vainly, to hide her embarrassment as her stomach grumbled. “I…really wouldn’t mind…”

 

This brought a wide smile to Apolli’s face. “Then siddown an’ enjoy, if y’ wanna.”

 

Cautiously, almost apprehensively, she watched Apolli slice off a piece of meat, and with equal trepidation she hesitantly accepted the succulent piece he held out to her. Her mouth watered even more unapologetically, and as unladylike as it was, she couldn’t keep herself from tearing into it, Apolli watching with both amusement and pleasure as she scarfed down her meal. She quickly finished it, licking the juices off her hands, and blinked in surprise when Apolli offered her another piece. Thinking nothing of it, she happily accepted and dove into this one as well.

 

So busy was she that she didn’t notice what her friend was looking at while he smiled at her evident pleasure in eating. If she’d been a bit more perceptive, she would have detected Apolli’s eyes falling on her frail, skinny arms…and realized that he had a very good idea of how impoverished she’d been back in Thagaste. His hopes of making her just a bit healthier, though, would apparently be well-realized with this.

 

Perhaps she wouldn’t have accepted his charity if she’d recognized this, but at the moment, it didn’t matter in the least. It wasn’t until a third, fourth, and fifth chunk of meat had been consumed that she began to slow down.

 

“You really like it, huh?” Apolli smiled.

 

“Y-yes! Yes, I love it! This is wonderful!”

 

“Heh. I can teach you how t’ cook meat like this, if y’ want…”

 

“Really?!” Lisse’s eyes brightened. “That’d be wonderful! Thank you so much! I…” Her eyes fell, downcast. “Well…not that it’d do much good. Meat’s too expensive for me to serve regularly, and now that my inn’s been destroyed…”

 

She looked as if she was going to cry again, so Apolli made an attempt to comfort her as best he could. “H…hey,” he stammered, tentatively reaching out to pat her shoulder. “It…it can’t be that bad. Once this war’s over, Khyron’ll give everybody a lotta money, right? He’ll have somethin’ for ya, I’m sure! You’ll be able t’ rebuild the Ruby Tortoise good as new. And when y’ do, I’ll come by every day t’ visit.”

 

This seemed to cheer her up at least a little bit. “Really?”

 

“Sure! An’ Renault, n’ Braddock, n’ everybody…we’ll come by to help too, see? It’ll be even better’n before! You’ll be able to have meat on the menu every day!” And a bit more quietly, he added, “and f’r y’rself, too…”

 

“You…you really think so?” She grabbed his hands in hers. “I…thank you, Apolli! I’ll do my best! When we beat the rebels we’ll all go back to Thagaste together! We—“

 

Apolli and Lisse’s small, happy moment, however, was interrupted by a large shadow looming over them from behind. “The hell’re you doin’?” grunted a sullen, guttural voice.

 

Lisse let out a small yelp of surprise and let go of Apolli’s hands, turning behind to look at who had spoken. It was a tall, well-muscled man with orange hair and a scraggly orange beard. One of his eyes was covered by a black patch, giving his entire face an extremely threatening cast as he leered down at them. She’d never seen him before, and had no idea why he was so angry. Apolli, on the other hand, had a better idea.

 

“R-Roberto! We were just—“

 

“Ain’t ya got anythin’ better to do?” the man growled. “Dinnertime ain’t for a while. But here you are.cookin’ some flank of meat…all for your lil’ friend over there.” He spat on the ground near Lisse. “Don’t gotta maintain y’r weapons? Can’t practice y’r marksmanship? If y’ got ‘nuff free time to be a personal chef to some other girl, methinks y’ got too much free time, period. Why th’ hell’re you even botherin’ with her anyways? Forgot ‘bout Yulia so soon?”

 

“Roberto, you…” Apolli was clearly outraged. “You’re spewin’ garbage, Roberto! It’s nothin’ like that at all!”

 

“Hah. That’s rich, comin’ from you. I bet—“

 

“No, I think he’s right, Roberto,” came a stern voice from behind. All three turned to look at who had spoken. It was an older man shorter than Roberto who shared his orange hair, except his was beginning to grey. She definitely remembered him—he was one of her guests during the night her home had burned down. His name was Gafgarion, She thought he was related to Apolli in some way, but when she looked at him the resemblance to Roberto was much more clear.

 

“Cut it out,” he continued. “Y’ know that’s bull.”

 

“What the hell d’you know, pop?” Roberto retorted. “Y’ weren’t there when she died! Y’ don’t know what Apolli did!”

 

“I know enough, boy, and I know y’re still actin’ like a downright fool.” He sighed. “Still, I told you this more’n a few times before, and y’ didn’t listen. Not gonna happen now, right?” He gestured contemptuously to a small copse of trees some distance away. “Y’re talkin’ bout free time, aren’t ya? If y’ve got enough to hassle Apolli, y’ve got enough to get back to work choppin’ wood. Y’ love that, right? ‘S what you’ve been doin’ every chance you get, anyways.”

 

Gafgarion’s sarcasm seemed to make the Fighter even angrier than he was before. Spinning away from the ‘couple,’ he marched on over to the Cavalier, looming over him with anger burning from his one good eye and a scowl on his face. The older man didn’t back down a bit, though. He met Roberto’s angry glare with a steely gaze of his own, staring straight into the taller man’s eyes. And after a moment of this, it seemed he really was the bigger combatant. With an angry growl Roberto turned back to Apolli, hurled another gob of spit in his direction, and stalked off.

 

“I…what…” stammered Lisse, still entirely confused about what had just happened.

 

Gafgarion smiled down kindly—but also sadly—at the girl. “Sorry about that, lass. It’s just…” He looked at Apolli. “Mind if I sit down with ya?”

 

“Not at all, pop. Hell, help y’rself to some o’ this meat, if y’ want…”

 

Gafgarion chuckled gratefully as he took a seat and a chunk of the venison. “Thanks, lad. And I’m sorry t’ you, too…”

 

“N-nah. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It’s just how…Roberto is, that’s all…”

 

“Er…um…” Lisse mumbled, “pardon me, but…who was that? Why was he angry at me? Did I do something wrong?”

 

“Not at all, Lisse. It’s…” Gafgarion sighed and shook his head. “That’s m’ son, Roberto.”

 

“Uh…your son?”

 

“Ayuh. He had a sister named Yulia…apple o’ my eye, she was.” He looked at Apolli and gave the youth a path on the shoulder, for he was looking down at the ground now, eyes full of grief. “Apple o’ his, too. She was his fiancée…

 

“But…she’s gone now.” His expression hardened. “At Scirocco…Paptimus poisoned th’ whole town just f’r his own wretched schemes. And m’ daughter…Roberto’s sister…Apolli’s wife-t’-be…she got caught up in it. She…”

 

“By the saint,” Lisse murmured, “Gafgarion…Apolli…I’m so sorry.”

 

“W-wasn’t y’r fault, Lisse,” Apolli replied. “’S Paptimus. All Paptimus…”

 

“Roberto hasn’t managed to get that through ‘is head, though. He’s still…” Gafgarion sighed. “I dunno what he’s thinkin’. Seems like he hates everybody when the only thing he SHOULD be hatin’ is the rebels.”

 

“I…uh…” Lisse looked down, not quite knowing what to say. Gafgarion just gave her the same sad smile in response.

 

“Well, like I said, not a thing for y’ to worry about, dear. Y’ can’t be held responsible for our family troubles, after all. Anyways,” and his expression brightened, “this meat’s damn good, lad. Glad t’ see y’ haven’t lost y’r touch!”

 

“D-definitely!” Lisse piped up as Apolli blushed slightly. “Um…I’m sure you’re welcome to have more if you want. Right, Apolli?”

 

The boy nodded, and the older man was more than happy to accept his offer. Though Lisse wasn’t quite so hungry anymore, she found she still had room for another piece. The food _was_ delicious, after all. And even better than that was the camaraderie she felt with both Apolli and his would-be father-in-law.

 

It wasn’t quite enough to make her forget about her problems—and not enough to take theirs off their minds either—but for a brief time, at least, those problems didn’t seem quite so pressing.

 

-X-

 

They were finally here.

 

Renault would have been somewhat disappointed, but truth be told he hadn’t been expecting much. Caerleon wasn’t exactly a small, economically marginal region like many of the northern Countships were, but it definitely wasn’t as important as Thagaste, much less Aquleia.

 

The city itself was surrounded by a good stone wall about as large as Thagaste’s, and when the army entered Renault noticed that the buildings were similar as well, but there were two differences. First off, there weren’t as many buildings, and while the city was obviously quite busy it wasn’t as active as Thagaste. Secondly, the skyline was conspicuously empty—this Countship apparently held no buildings anywhere near as grand as the great Zodian’s Rest or some of the other opulent noble’s residences of Thagaste. The largest structure in the place was Castle Caerleon itself, their destination. Standing at the center of the city, it was about the same size and general shape as Hallard’s castle.

 

“Guess Khyron and Exedol didn’t have too much to feel jealous about,” mumbled Renault to himself. He and Braddock were standing close to Khyron as they marched at the head of the army’s formation, so it was only by good fortune that the Mage General didn’t hear his little jibe—he was far too focused on getting back home. After several more minutes of marching punctuated by the curious stares of the citizenry at the decently-sized force trudging through their streets, they had reached the front gates of the castle.

 

“All of you soldiers,” Khyron announced, using magic to enhance his voice, “You have permission to quarter within my castle as well as empty homes and certain citizens’ residences which have been set aside for you. Gafgarion and I, however, will meet with the steward to ascertain our strategic position and plan our next move. For now, get as much rest as you can!”

 

This was an order the army could gratefully follow, and the columns of men began to split off and head for their lodgings, the cavalry setting off for the stables. Renault and the rest of the Autonomous Company moved off to follow, but were stopped cold by Khyron.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?!” he exclaimed. “You’re going to attend this strategy meeting as well! No slacking off for any of you!”

 

With that, along with a haughty flourish of his purple cape, Khyron spun and strode straight towards the castle gates, which had been raised wide open for him. And with nothing more than a few rolled eyes and furtive glances between them, Renault and his comrades followed.

 

-x-

 

Within a very short time the troop found themselves entering a decently-sized room on the second floor of the castle. It wasn’t exactly what Renault was expecting—he’d anticipated they’d get sent over to the throne room for Khyron to take a seat—and it wasn’t quite like Henken’s personal chambers back in Aquleia either. Instead, it was a great deal more reminiscent of his mother’s library, though the castle’s actual library was located elsewhere, on the first floor.

 

A roughly circular room with a desk and candelabra at its center, which was surrounded by two curved bookshelves at the far ends of the room. The main difference between this place and the library in the cathedral was the subject of the books—primarily texts on the translation of High Imperial and literary works of a secular nature which dated before the Scouring, from what Renault could make out—and several pieces of fine art and masterful sculpture which adorned the walls, such as a brilliant tapestry which hung over the door they were entering. Of course, another difference was that his mother didn’t occupy this room—rather, there was a harried, worried-looking middle-aged man with grayish violet hair sitting at the desk, poring over a series of worrisome reports and missives before noting his new guests who had just dropped in.

 

“This was Exedol’s personal sanctuary,” Rosamia whispered to Renault and Braddock as the man hastily jumped up to greet them. “It’s very secure and secluded…difficult to spy upon with methods like Paptimus’. I imagine this is why Khyron wanted to have our meeting here.”

 

She would have said more, but the room’s occupant interjected. “L-Lord Gafgarion! I’m so glad to see you again!” he stammered as he bounded towards his guests. “It’s been so difficult without you, m’lord! I’ve managed to keep control of things, but especially with news of this army invading, I—“

 

“Easy now, Landez,” smiled Gafgarion gently. “I looked ‘round the town while we were passin’. Y’ve done a fine job as steward in my absence. Couldn’tve asked f’r better. Don’t worry about a thing.”

 

The substitute steward—Landez—smiled broadly and in relief at this, but his face paled a bit when Khyron loudly and conspicuously cleared his throat. “Ah-ah-of course! And you as well, Lord Khyron,” Landez exclaimed, “it’s a blessing to see you back in your city safe and sound! And with such a great army, to boot! I’m, uh, feeling safer already!”

 

True to form, Khyron didn’t pick up on his sarcasm. “Yes, I presume so,” he muttered. “My ‘Autonomous Company,’ the men and women you see here, along with Gafgarion’s cavaliers and supporting forces have been sent here to foil whatever plans the rebels have for this region. I expect you’ve been keeping an eye on them, correct? Tell us what the situation is and what you know of the rebel plans.”

 

Landez gulped. “Er, y-yes, Lord Khyron. Uh…may I sit down? All the papers I have—“

 

Khyron nodded, and the steward hastily made his way back to his seat as the members of the Autonomous Company arranged themselves in a rough semi-circle around the desk, Khyron at the center.

 

“It…ah, my lord, I have to be honest. Things are…worrisome. Very worrisome.” Beads of sweat were distinctly trailing down the man’s brow. “Lord Khyron, please forgive my intrusiveness, but how many troops have you brought with you?”

 

Khyron’s eyes narrowed. “Gafgarion’s forces number just over two thousand, and with Caerleon’s garrison we should be three thousand. I imagine we should be getting reinforcements from other loyal settlements, such as Solgrenne. Is there a problem?”

Landez gulped. “Er, yes, m’lord, I’m afraid so. You’ve heard of Garl Vinland and—“

 

“Yes, yes, I know he’s here,” replied Khyron irritatedly. “My Autonomous Company was explicitly dispatched to deal with him. I don’t care how strong he is, if we took down Barbarossa we can defeat him too. Now, how many men does he have with him? Six thousand? They outnumber us, but we have the advantage of being in friendly territory and on familiar terrain. Again, with loyalist reinforcements in the area, it shouldn’t be difficult at all to deal with that rabble.”

 

“Uh…that’s the problem, m’lord. Those reinforcements, they…uh…they’re with the enemy now.”

 

Renault blinked, confused, and his companions seemed to have the same reaction. The gravity of what Landez had just said hadn’t really sunk in yet.

 

After a moment of silence, Khyron sputtered, “What the devil are you talking about? Do you mean Vinland’s already fully pacified every settlement on his path here? Didn’t they offer any resistance? Even he couldn’t have—“

 

“N-no, my lord. I…uh…even I’m unsure of what happened, exactly. The rebel army marched to Solgrenne, on the other side of the Bingham Bridge. With Vinland at its head, the mayor of that city knew he didn’t have a chance of victory…he surrendered without a fight and allowed Vinland’s forces entry.”

 

“That spineless weakling! Has he no honor? No loyalty? My brother sacrificed his life for the King! Surely these cowards in Solgrenne can do the same!”

 

“Hey, they’re just commoners,” drawled Braddock sarcastically. “They can’t be expected to be as strong and brave as you guys, right?”

 

As usual, Khyron missed the sarcasm. “Even a commoner can resist the enemies of his King, no matter how weak he may be. I—“

 

“Th…that’s not it, Lord Khyron,” said Landez. “The residents of Solgrenne didn’t just surrender. They’ve been drafted into the Revolutionary army! The entire militia, along with most of the able-bodied males of that city, have added another two thousand men to Vinland’s force!”

 

After a brief moment to digest this information, the occupants of the room burst out into a frenzied clamor.

 

“They’ve turned against us?! Not only are they cowards, they’re TRAITORS as well? THOSE WORTHLESS—“

 

“D-dammit! I-I don’t wanna fight ‘gainst my own guys!”

 

“God dammit. Does crap like this always have to happen to us?”

 

“Enough. Enough!” Gafgarion raised his voice to quiet everyone else’s babble. “Landez, d’ya know why they’ve joined up with th’ Rebels? I never spent much time in Solgrenne, but I knew they were as loyal to the King as Caerleon is. I c’n understand why they’d surrender, but actually joinin’ the Rebels?”

 

Landez hung his head down in shame. “I…I don’t know why, Lord Gafgarion. None of our spies have managed to infiltrate the city. I’ve heard some strange rumors about hostages, but…nothing concrete.”

 

“DAMNATION!” Khyron continued to fume. “THOSE WORTHLESS VERMIN! I’LL—“

 

“Lord Khyron, calm down,” said Gafgarion evenly. “Y’r anger’s not gonna solve anythin’.”

 

“WHAT ELSE DO YOU EXPECT ME TO BE?!”

 

“I ain’t happy ‘bout this either. But if y’ just cool off and lemme examine the situation we’re in, I may be able t’ find a way out of it. I’ve served y’ well in the past, haven’t I, milord? Lemme do so again.”

 

“FINE!” Khyron took a deep breath. “Fine. I acknowledge how…useful you’ve been to me. So prove your worth once again.”

 

“Thanks, m’lord,” said Gafgarion wearily, but sincerely. “Now, Landez, c’d I see a map?”

 

“O-of course!” The substitute steward darted over to the desk, rifled through some of the paper and parchment, and unfurled a large piece of the latter which depicted roughly the Caerleon region. He moved out of the way as Gafgarion moved up to the table, with the rest of his friends gathered around.

 

He pointed to a large blue dot on the eastern side of what Renault recognized as Etruria’s boundaries, just northeast of another blue dot situated at the intersection of two rivers Renault knew was Thagaste. “This is Caerleon,” said Gafgarion. He moved his finger north, at a small green dot in front of the city. “There’s some pretty thick woods here. I think we may be able to use those if we really have to.” His finger continued to move north, over a line Renault knew represented the Tiber river. Behind that line was a blue dot.

 

“This here’s the city of Solgrenne, right? It guards the entryway to the Bingham Bridge, which’s one of the largest crossings in the region…in the country, really. That bridge’s big ‘nough to admit an army through, and it’s right up close to Caerleon.”

 

“I-indeed,” stammered Landez. “The rebels will certainly be crossing over it and heading straight to assault this city!”

 

Gafgarion nodded. “Yep. And I don’t think we should let ‘em do that.”

 

“Exactly!” yelled Khyron. “We’ll take the fight to THEM! We’ll march straight up to the gates of Solgrenne and exterminate both the rebels and their turncoat allies! Paptimus! Tassar! Renault and Braddock! And Roberto, too! I’m SICK of traitors! Let’s slaughter them all!”

 

This elicited only a dismissive grunt from Roberto and a roll of the eyes and a smirk passed between the Ostian and the Mercenary Lord, but Gafgarion turned the discussion to another direction before Khyron could notice. “Uh…that wasn’t exactly what I was thinkin’ of, m’lord.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“An assault on Solgrenne’d be suicidal when we’re outnumbered n’ outmatched to this extent! M’lord, like I said, I understand how I feel, but I ain’t throwin’ away th’ lives of my men!”

 

“You’re a coward too?! Why did Henken even give those men to you, then? Is every commoner in this country a mewling wretch?!”

 

At this, Roberto sneered, and Apolli looked as if he was going to yell something, but a firm hand on his arm from Rosamia stopped him—Gafgarion was more than capable of taking care of himself.

 

“M’lord,” he replied evenly, “the Great General gave them t’ me to command ‘cause he knew I wouldn’t waste ‘em. I’m not sayin’ we should just roll over f’r those rebels, or the loyalist troops they’ve got with em. But if we use our heads instead o’ just bashin’ em against a wall, he’ll score an even greater victory for our cause.”

 

“Oh, so I take it you have some sort of plan, yes? Well, don’t keep me waiting, out with it!”

 

Gafgarion took a deep breath. “Like I said, that bridge’s the closest way to Caerleon. If it wasn’t there…well, we’d have a lot more time t’ prepare, for one thing.”

 

“What do you mean ‘if it wasn’t there?’”

 

“Dammit, Khyron,” groaned Braddock, “don’t you get it? He wants us to destroy the bridge! Right?” When he looked to Gafgarion for confirmation, a slow nod was just what he was looking for.

 

This did not please the Mage General. “Destroy the bridge? THAT’S your plan?! Gafgarion, you senile, cowardly old man! What’s wrong with you?! I—“

 

“I may not be th’ sharpest sword on the rack,” the former mayor admitted, “but it’s the best I c’d come up with, and—with all due respect, m’lord—I doubt y’ could do better.

 

“This sort o’ sabotage operation is exactly the sort of thing a small, elite group like yours’s best at. Why else would Henken’ve sent you here? Secondly, as Landez said, we don’t know why th’ people o’ Solgrenne have switched sides. Maybe they’re not traitors. Maybe they’re bein’ forced into it or somethin’. I’m not gonna slaughter thousands o’ my countrymen if I can help it. If we destroy that bridge, they rebels’re gonna have to spend a while figuring out another way to get across the river, and that’ll give us enough time to figure out just what actually happened in Solgrenne and whether or not we can get those folks back on our side!”

 

“What’s the point? They turned against the King! That’s all that matters!”

 

“T-that’s not necessarily so, Lord Khyron,” exclaimed Rosamia. “Maybe they’re bewitched! You know all about the fell magic our enemies employ. Perhaps they’ve placed the citizenry of Solgrenne under a spell of some sort? In that case, the people can’t be blamed for their traitorous actions. If we delay the incoming army, that might give us enough time to figure out who’s controlling them and how to free them from their eldritch bondage. The people of that city have been loyal for generations, after all! I’m sure they didn’t turn on us of their own will! Think of what a hero you’d be if you broke their enchantment?”

 

She had not the slightest evidence of this, of course, but Khyron was convinced of it anyways thanks to his hatred of dark magic. “Hmm…yes, yes, you have a point, girl. Very perceptive! Perhaps my lessons are finally paying off. Chaining the minds of an entire city is exactly what Paptimus would do, after all…fine. But even so…” He glared at Gafgarion suspiciously. “ _We_ need that bridge as well. It’s the King’s property! How will we move our own forces for a counterattack across the river without it?”

 

 _We won’t,_ thought Renault, but of course, that wasn’t what Khyron wanted to hear. Instead, Gafgarion responded wearily, “Yes, m’lord. However, we might not be launchin’ our counterattack immediately. We might need to return to Thagaste to relieve the Great General…I-I mean, he’ll be havin’ a lot of trouble without you, right? So we’ll head back down to Thagaste after stopping Vinland, liberating Solgrenne, and sending his forces packin’ all th’ way back to Nerinheit. By the time we come back up here the bridge’ll be repaired!”

 

Khyron seemed to accept this. After a short pause in which he scratched the black stubble of his chin thoughtfully, he finally nodded at Gafgarion. “Very well. I’ll accept your plan for now, commoner. It’s merely a stopgap measure, isn’t it? What else would better prove my worth to the King than freeing the citizens of Solgrenne? A bridge is a small price to pay, then.”

 

“Hey, wait a second,” said Braddock. “Maybe we might be able to get a better price for it. Gafgarion, Vinland’s leading the forces heading towards us. That means he’s gonna be crossing the bridge with ‘em, right?”

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

“So I got an idea. Why don’t we try destroying the bridge _while_ Vinland’s crossing it? They say he’s even tougher than Char, and I knew—uh, I mean, if the stories about Char are true, he’d be nearly unstoppable. We don’t stand a chance of beating him in a one-on-one fight.

 

“But if he’s an armored General, I don’t think even he can swim. So if that bridge goes down when he’s on top of it…we might kill the Rebel leader AND halt their advance. It’ll stop ‘em cold!”

 

“Now that’s an idea!” exclaimed Renault happily, and from the expressions on his companions’ faces, they felt the same way. Except one of them, of course.

 

“Such dishonorable tactics!” sputtered Khyron, outraged. “Why should we lower ourselves to that level?! No matter how strong the traitor Vinland may be, we are still far stronger! We will defeat him on the battlefield, openly and fairly, without need for subterfuge! Or do you doubt our abilities that much, even after everything we’ve accomplished?”

 

“Don’t get cocky, Khyron,” retorted Braddock. “That’s one thing I’ve learned from my years as a mercenary. If you get overconfident and start underestimating your opponents, you’ll let your guard down and end up dead real fast. Judging from all the things I’ve heard about this guy’s magic axe and armor, he might be even tougher than that overgrown Wyvern and the ghosts back in Lycia. Even if he’s not that dangerous, why not take him down the easy way instead of the hard way?”

 

“Braddock’s right,” said Renault, nodding and grinning at his friend. “There’s absolutely no reason to take more risks than we have to. If we pull this off, we’ll neutralize Vinland AND delay the rebel forces. Win-win.”

 

“This is a pretty risky plan itself, though,” said Gafgarion. “Destroyin’ a big bridge like Bingham ain’t an easy task, and tryin’ t’ do so when the enemy’s marchin right down on you’s even less easy. You really think you’re up to it?”

 

“We got a few tricks up our sleeves,” replied Braddock. “Me ‘n Renault are probably strong enough to rip up that bridge’s moorings if Khyron’s magic softens ‘em up. We’ll be able to catch ‘em by surprise, too, because a whole army won’t expect to be ambushed by just a dozen people—we caught the Bernites in Lycia flat-footed, we can do the same for these guys too. If we’re quick, and if Vinland’s marching at the army’s head, we’ll be able to send him downstream before he even realizes what happened.”

 

 “Hmm…well, if it were anybody else, I wouldn’t believe ‘em. But I saw what you pulled off back at Thagaste. If anybody’s capable of doin’ this, it’s your Autonomous Company. Still, remember this: demolishin’ Bingham is the most important thing. If y’ gotta choose between sendin’ Garl down the river and wrecking that bridge, choose the bridge.”

 

The members of the Autonomous Company nodded in agreement—except for Khyron. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here! I still haven’t—“  


“Look, you already agreed to demolish the bridge,” growled Braddock impatiently. “If Vinland just happens to be on it when it goes down, why should you care? Forget about your ‘honor’ for a second and let’s concentrate on killing rebels, huh?”

 

The Mage General’s face twitched. “You impertinent…fine. Fine.” He looked as if he was going to insult Braddock, but instead, he turned to…Harvery, of all people, who just blinked as the Sage’s eye turned towards him. “Well, if the Ostian says we shouldn’t take any unnecessary risks, I suppose the least we could do is take a degree of extra insurance, yes?”

 

“Huh?” Renault and Braddock looked at each other, and when they turned to their companions, none of them had any idea of what Khyron was talking about.

 

“The items, Assasssin!” Khyron raised his voice again. “I know you made off with some ill-gotten gains from our assault on Castle Hallard. I was willing to overlook it, since it was Rebel property you stole—wasn’t it?—but now it’s time for your ‘gifts’ to make themselves useful. Out with them!”

 

“Y-yeah! Oh, yeah! I didn’t forget, Lord Khyron! Honest!” The spy chuckled nervously. “I, uh…okay. Rosamia, could you step forwards?”

 

“Huh? Er, um, very well…” The Mage, still confused, walked over to the Assassin as the rest of the room watched.

 

“Hold out your hand.”

 

Without thinking, she did so. “What’s the meaning of—“

 

She didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence. In a single fluid movement the Assassin grabbed her hand with his left, and with his right reached into his pocket, removed something, and deftly slipped it onto her finger.

 

She didn’t even have time to yelp before she disappeared in a flash of bright yellow light.

 

Landez was shaking like a leaf, too shocked and frightened to say or do anything, and Gafgarion was just standing there, his mouth hanging agape. The gathered mercenaries also just stood there for a moment longer, too shocked to do anything. Then they all finally burst out into an angry cacophony of accusations. “HARVERY, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!”

 

They got their answer a moment later when the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, and a huge bolt of yellow light slammed down _through_ the ceiling onto the area Rosamia had been standing. The members of the Company closed their eyes, and when they opened them their comrade had returned. She was kneeling on the floor, gasping for breath, but she didn’t seem to be in pain. Much the opposite, in fact. As Braddock rushed over to help her to her feet, she seemed…different, somehow. Perhaps a bit taller, but more importantly, there seemed to be a strong aura of magic power surrounding her which seemed almost as potent as Khyron’s.

 

“Harvery, did you—“ Rosamia asked apprehensively, and the Assassin smiled and nodded in response.

 

“Yep. I managed to, ah, “acquire” a Guiding Ring back in Thagaste. You’re a bona-fide Sage now, Rosamia! How’re you feeling? Great, I bet?”

 

“Y…yes,” she replied. “I…it’s amazing…I’ve never—“

 

“Heh heh, now you know how it feels.” Braddock grinned down at her, still keeping a hand on her shoulder to steady her, and then grinned at Renault. “These magic artifacts have some amazing power in ‘em. Me and Renault felt like new men when Henken used those Seals on us. I guess that ring does it for you magic users, huh?”

 

“Indeed,” said Khyron impatiently, “and she’s not the only one who could use a boost. Where’s the next item, thief?”

 

“I-I got it.” Reaching into the folds of his cape, Harvery produced his next mystical artifact plundered from Hallard’s storerooms. It was a whip—not so different from the sort of implement Renault heard was common in dungeons as an instrument of torture. However, this whip’s handle was made of gold and it had a red gem inset into it, and the whip itself was bluish-turquoise and gave off waves of magical energy—it was clearly no mere tool of sadism.

 

Kelitha’s eyes went wide when she saw it. “You know what this is, right?” Harvery smiled. “Take it, girl. Add its power to your own!”

 

“I…” the Ilian looked around with hesitation. “I’m not…”

 

“C’mon, Kelitha, do it!” Renault cheered her on. “I can’t think of anybody else who’s suited for it, right?”

 

“Hey!” Keith chimed.

 

“Hah, hah! Easy now, girl. You’ll be able to use an item like that too, someday. I absolutely guarantee it. But for now, let your sister have the glory, eh?”

 

“Renault…thank you.” Kelitha bowed at him, slightly and demurely—his little exchange and encouragement were just what she needed. No longer hesitating, she marched straight up to Harvery and took the whip out of his hands. Raising her hands above her head, she yelled, in a strong voice that surprised everyone, including Renault, “I ACCEPT YOUR POWER!”

 

Just as before, there was a flash of light, a disappearance, and then a reappearance with another bright bolt of yellow energy. But instead of an ordinary Pegasus Knight standing before them, everyone in the room was treated to a Falcoknight swaying unsteadily on her feet before Renault rushed up to catch her.

 

“I…Renault,” she muttered, eyes fluttering, “I can’t believe it. This is…”

 

“Uh-huh,” he said apathetically, “we know. We’re used to it by now. Still, hon, you’re gonna be amazing in battle after this!” He couldn’t hide the excitement from his voice. “Oh man, sparring’s gonna be so much fun. Now I can really teach you some tricks!”

 

Continuing to chatter away excitedly about swordplay and fighting techniques, Renault led his friend back to where Rosamia and the rest of them were standing, allowing Harvery enough room to finish the impromptu ceremony.

 

“Alright, I got one more present for ya.” He reached again into the folds of his robes, and produced…it wasn’t easy to tell, actually. It was a red-and-gold…emblem, or seal, of some sort. It seemed decorative—there was some sort of golden symbol or embossment set within the seal’s red field, but Renault couldn’t make out what exactly it was supposed to represent.

 

“It’s a Hero’s Crest!” Harvery exclaimed. “Just what a Myrmidon or Mercenary needs…or a Fighter.” He looked at Roberto expectantly.

 

The man didn’t move. He simply stared at the object, anger in his eyes and a sneer on his face.

 

“R…Roberto, please,” whispered Apolli, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good—an assumption validated by Roberto’s lack of reaction.

 

The mercenary’s father, however, won him over. “Cut th’ crap, Roberto,” he said sternly. “Y’ve seen what these Seals can do for you. Wanna avenge Yulia? Then take Harvery’s offer. ‘Course, if y’ just wanna get killed the moment y’ meet Paptimus…”

 

That was sufficient. “I’ll kill ‘im,” Roberto growled quietly. “Rip ‘im to pieces. He killed Yulia. He’s dead.” Faster than anyone would expect from someone of his size and frame, he stomped up to Harvery and snatched the Crest from his hands. Raising it above his head with a wild, guttural scream, the Fighter disappeared in another burst of light, and then re-materialized in the same location in an equally flashy display. He was breathing heavily, but unlike Rosamia and Kelitha, he didn’t seem winded at all. Instead, he stood even taller than he had before, the muscles all over his body having expanded and strengthened considerably—indeed, his formerly-loose clothes seemed to be straining against his flesh now. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling the raw power within them—power comparable to Braddock’s. Roberto stared down balefully at his comrades, the angry glint in his single good eye making his already-intimidating countenance even more daunting.

 

Such was the strength of a Warrior.

 

“No matter how strong Vinland is, he’ll never be able to stand up to us now,” gloated Khyron, and against their better judgement, no-one in the room could disagree with them after what they’d just seen. “Now, Landez, have your scouts given us any reports on the movement of Vinland’s army?”

 

“Er…um…” the substitute steward was still a bit shell-shocked from what he’d seen.

 

“Well?!”

 

“Ah! I-uh, I believe Vinland will be crossing the bridge three days after tomorrow!”

 

“Fine. We’ll leave early tomorrow morning after a decent sleep tonight. In that time, Landez, I want you to prepare new equipment for Rosamia, Kelitha, and Roberto. Everyone else, the staff will lead to your rooms in this castle. Get as much rest as you can. That’s an order!”

 

The members of the Company, along with Landez and Gafgarion, were more than happy to follow it.

 

“Never ends for us, does it?” said Renault to Braddock as they emerged from the strategy room side-by-side, just in time to be accosted by a pair of servants who were prepared to show them and their friends the way to their accommodations.

 

“Yeah,” came the response, “but that’s just how it is, right?”

 

Renault simply nodded. And as the two of them and their companions made their way up to the third floor and to the (fairly well-furnished) guest rooms, none of them uttered a word of complaint.

 

By this point, all of them fully expected to be in this war for quite the long haul.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Thanks to Enilas for betaing <3 Also, “Keaira” is a reference to one of my favorite reviewers <3


	31. The Battle of Bingham Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order to stop the Rebel advance on Caerleon, the Autonomous Company attempts to destroy the Bingham Bridge, the only crossing over the river that leads into the interior. They succeed, but at a price--Renault and his friend, the Pegasus Knight Keith, get trapped behind enemy lines!

 

**Chapter 31: The Battle of Bingham Bridge**

 

“Serapino! Where are you?”

 

Dougram said this as he walked into his personal ‘office’—what could more accurately be described as the room he and Serapino shared in one of Solgrenne’s inns. It was obviously somewhat cramped, but at least the room had a pair of desks in it, which meant it was enough for both of their purposes. Vinland, of course, got cushy lodgings in the mayor’s own home itself, and while Dougram could understand that, what he couldn’t comprehend was why those villains, Trunicht and Yazan, had got similarly favorable hospitality while he and Serapino were cooped up in here.

 

Truth be told, however, at the moment that was absolutely the least of his concerns. He hadn’t been able to get much sleep for several days—he was far too indignant over the horrible treatment the people of the city were receiving at the hands of his allies as well as what seemed to be his utter impotency to do anything about it. Though his assignment was to ensure a small detachment of Revolutionary troops kept control of the populace while the main force marched (which wouldn’t be a problem, so long as the women and children of the city were held hostage), his hands were tied by his orders. Even if they weren’t, there was little he could do to aid the young men dragooned into the Revolutionary army, since he obviously couldn’t travel to the fortress their relatives were being held in and launch a rescue himself.

 

Thus, most of his time was spent worrying, fretting, and wallowing in his frustration as the bulk of the Rebel army prepared to move out. He was certain his blond hair would begin to gray every soon. However, that didn’t mean worrying was the only thing he did. His work ethic and sense of duty meant that he had to keep himself busy, even if the fact that the populace was mostly subdued thanks to the hostages meant he didn’t really have much to do as their controller. This was why he was looking for Serapino at the moment. He wanted to talk with his ersatz ‘staff officer’ about their supplies. If they were the subject of any sabotage or theft, Serapino would know about it…which was why he had to make sure Serapino kept his mouth shut about it, lest Trunicht make good on his threats.

 

Unfortunately, Dougram found, to his irritation, Serapino wasn’t in at the moment. _Probably visiting the privy_ , he thought. While he waited for the mendicant to come back, Dougram’s eyes were drawn to his companion’s desk. There were a couple of pieces of paper on top of it. Thinking they were simply reports or checklists, Dougram sauntered over to give them a look. As he held them in his hands to look at them, however, his eyes widened.

 

On the paper was handwriting that was clearly Serapino’s. But it was not some bureaucratic miscellena but rather…a poem. Or what seemed to be the beginnings of one, at least. Those several lines had been crossed out and replaced, Dougram could make out the work itself.

 

_Steel-clad Knights, brave and bold,_

_Sages wielding tomes of fire and cold,_

_Worthier allies one could ne’er find,_

_But ‘gainst one foe even they’re in a bind:_

_The King’s taxes, for heroism can’t be sold!_

 

For the first time in quite a long time, Dougram found himself smiling, and genuinely at that. It was a small one borne from a small chuckle, but it was real, nonetheless.

 

“Sir—Br—Dougram!” came a voice from behind him. “Were you calling me? I was just taking a bath, I’m sorry for the wait!”

 

“Oh, Serapino! Yeah, I was,” said Dougram, still smiling as he turned around. “Hey, is this yours? I—“

 

“EEEEEEE!” Serapino shrieked out loud when he saw what the Nabatan was holding. Rushing forwards—faster than Dougram thought he could—he snatched it out of the man’s hands and twirled away, trying to conceal it from view and clutching it protectively to his chest. “M-my p—I mean—I—you didn’t look at it, did you? It wasn’t meant for—“

 

Dougram had no idea why he was so agitated. “Look, I—“

 

“Argh!” Much to Dougram’s surprise, Serapino seemed to be sniffling a bit now. “I’m sorry! I-I shouldn’t have left it out in the first place!” He crumpled up the paper before Dougram could stop him and tossed it away to a corner of the room. “I won’t waste any more time on it, I promise!”

 

Dougram was frankly flabbergasted at this response. “Serapino, what’re you talking about? Don’t be like this.” As the sniffling mendicant looked at him in surprise, he walked over and picked up the crumpled paper, smoothed it out, and walked back over. “This wasn’t bad at all. I’m sorry if it seemed like I was prying; I didn’t know what it was when I picked it up. Uh…was I wrong to look at it?”

 

“I…it’s private!” Serapino stammered. “I…I don’t want anybody else to know I write it. So don’t tell anyone, okay?” He gave Dougram the most pleading look the latter imagined was possible. “P-please, Sir Dougram! If anybody finds out, I…I…”

 

Dougram nodded. “Well, okay, if that’s what you want, but I don’t really see why. Like I said, this isn’t bad at all.”

 

“R…really?”

 

“Yeah!” He grinned. “I actually laughed out loud when I read it. I never took you for a poet, Serapino!”

 

“THAT’S WHY I WANTED TO KEEP IT TO MYSELF!” Serapino burst out, and this was enough to stun Dougram into silence momentarily.

 

“I…everyone thinks I’m stupid!” the mendicant continued. “I…I can’t speak well. And I’m clumsy, too…and I’m no good with maps, and I get lost easily, and…and it seems like everything I do in this world goes wrong!”

 

“I…” Dougram really didn’t know what to say. He’d never even realized there was this aspect to Serapino’s personality before.

 

“B-but when I write,” and at this, his voice sounded more…excited? Happy? Dougram couldn’t tell. “It…it’s like I’m a whole new person! It’s like I’m living in a _different_ world! Words are my arms and legs and eyes, and they do everything I want, no matter what! I’m not weak, or stupid, or…or…”

 

“I…look.” Dougram walked over and patted Serapino—his friend, he now realized—on the shoulder. “Look, you’re not stupid, and if I ever gave you that impression, well, I’m sorry. Don’t crush yourself like this, alright? This is actually some good writing. In fact, I’d like to see more of it, actually.”

 

Serapino’s sniffling ceased, replaced with something that didn’t seem too far off from wonder and happiness—as if he was alternately incredibly pleased with and uncomprehending of what the man had said.

 

“R-really?”

 

Dougram laughed again. “Yeah, really. I mean, we’ve both been stressed out recently, thanks to Trunicht and Yazan. But reading your little limerick…it took my mind off that garbage for the first time in weeks. You know, I like poetry, in fact. Archs—I mean, our town elder loved classical poetry from the time of the Scouring. Sometimes he’d have readings every month, and me and my parents attended those religiously. If you want, well,” Dougram blushed a bit, “I could teach you some of it. The meter and rhyming’s a little different back where I’m from, but you might like it. I mean…”

 

“R-really?!” Serapino clapped his hands together and gazed at the Nabatan with undisguised delight. “Sir Dougram, that’s the best thing ever! I love learning about the cultures of other lands! Thank you, thank you, thank you! O-oh, you’re wonderful, Sir Dougram! I—“

 

“Remember what I said about calling me ‘sir,’” Dougram grumbled, but good-naturedly. “It’ll have to wait, though, I have some questions for you. But I promise, on my honor as a man of Nabata, I’ll teach you a bit about the verse of my homeland later tonight.”

 

Serapino’s good cheer dimmed slightly, but it didn’t disappear. “O-okay, S—Dougram! What was it you wanted to ask?”

 

“Well, first off, has there been any sabotage or sapping of our supplies or anything like that?”

 

“N-not that I’ve found. The townspeople seem, umm…cooperative. I guess—“

 

“Yeah, I know why.” Dougram sighed in relief—though he’d gained newfound respect for the mendicant’s mental prowess, he still doubted the man had enough guile to lie if he was asked. “Well, I’m glad to hear that—means Trunicht won’t have an excuse to try anything with the hostages. Now, I just have a few more questions…”

 

Their discussion continued for some time longer—and it was somewhat reassuring too, as Dougram found that so far their occupation hadn’t run into any severe problems, at least. Thus, when it ended, he was in a perfect mood to fulfill his promise, and the rest of the night was occupied with a good-natured lesson in Nabatan poetry, which Serapino took to with an aplomb that very pleasantly surprised his friend.

 

And though it wouldn’t really occur to him for some time, Dougram really did consider Serapino a friend.

 

_-X-Battle of Bingham Bridge-X-_

 

When standing beside four people on a bridge against an army of several thousand led by one of the strongest fighters on the continent, it was only natural to be more than a little frightened and intimidated. After everything he’d been through, however, Renault found his emotions tended more towards impatience rather than fear. This was just another challenge on his road with Braddock, and he just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

 

They were on the great Bingham Bridge, having arrived there much earlier, before dawn (it was now early afternoon). It was nowhere near as beautiful as the Holy Royal Road which lead to the back entrance of Aquleia’s palace, though it was a good deal bigger. Constructed out of plain old stone rather than whatever opalescent material had comprised the Road, it was wide enough to admit several columns of armed men and horses easily, and long enough to span all of the river’s width easily as well, though Renault wasn’t sure exactly what its dimensions were, not that it mattered. There was nothing particularly special about the bridge in terms of appearance, either—it was a classic, functional arch design, with ten of them supporting the bridge itself over fifty feet above the quiet river—the only concession to aesthetics its builders had apparently made were chiseling out a ring of gargoyles at around the middle of each pillar, which was very common in secular Etrurian architecture as well as ecclesiastical buildings due to a belief that the statues warded off bad luck. Although Renault had heard of great bridges in other countries which had openings and buildings constructed near them or even within them, the Bingham was not one of those; there was not enough trade in this region to justify anything beyond a crossing for travelers. For that purpose, it was constructed well enough, but the arches which held it up could almost certainly be destroyed by some well-placed explosive spells, such as Elfire. This was what Renault was counting on.

 

He, Braddock, Roberto, and Harvery stood next to each other in a line, while Apolli stood right behind them, ready to provide ranged support. Though they were up against an entire army, the enemy couldn’t bring all of their numerical superiority to bear on a bridge, meaning they had at least a bit of hope. Lisse was kept back on the other side, watching over their supplies far to their side of the bridge in safety.

 

She wasn’t their trump card, though. No, that was Khyron, Rosamia, Keith, and Kelitha. The two Ilians were hovering under the portion of the bridge their friends were standing on, out of sight of the approaching army, which had just begun to cross. Seated behind Kelitha was Rosamia; behind Keith, Khyron. The moment Garl, at the head of the enemy columns, drew close enough, while Renault and company distracted him the two Sages would use their magic to blow apart the arch holding up that section of the bridge, sending him and his men to a watery grave.

 

Of course, Renault wasn’t expecting to have an easy time of that, and his suspicions were confirmed even before the battle started. Even from this distance, the approaching rebel army was easy to make out, including the flying forms over them Renault surmised were Bernite survivors of the Battle of Aquleia, sable-armored men on horseback he knew were Black Knights, and the man at their head he assumed to be Garl Vinland. With a suit of silver armor that gleamed in the sun along with an axe which seemed to be almost as large as he was, he wasn’t exactly easy to miss.

 

Nor was it difficult to tell what he was planning—for as he and his army stepped onto the bridge, it became apparent he’d noticed Renault’s welcoming committee. He raised the gigantic Basilikos in the air, a signal for his forces to stop their march. They were confused, but they obeyed their commander’s orders without hesitation. After stopping to say a few words to the Black Knight next to him—Trunicht, Renault wagered—Vinland began to march forwards once again—but this time, alone.

 

“Damn, he’s smart,” whispered Braddock to his friend. “He not only knows we’re up to something, he also knows it’s got to do with the bridge. That’s why he’s keeping his forces off it.”

 

“Doesn’t matter too much,” replied the Mercenary Lord. “Even if he’s the only one who gets sent down to the river, that’ll be enough to completely throw off the rebels’ plans!”

 

“W…want me to take th’ first shot?” stammered Apolli. “When he gets close, I—“

 

“Nah, save your arrows, kid,” replied Harvery. “You won’t be able to get through his armor. Me, on the other hand…” He sighed and held up his knives. “In case we can’t destroy the bridge, I’ll probably be able to make short work of him. That’s what I was trained to do, anyways…”

 

They wouldn’t have any more time to for talking. Though he didn’t seem to be as inhumanly fast as Char, Vinland wasn’t slow either, and faster than his enemies expected he was striding up to them, Basilikos slung over his shoulder casually, looking more than prepared for a fight.

 

He didn’t waste any time, either. As he did marched forwards, he raised the Basilikos in the air. It started to glow, and Renault felt a surge of magical energy.

 

“Damn,” yelled Braddock, “brace yourselves!”

 

He barely had time to heed his friend’s advice. Renault ducked and held his arms over his face defensively while Braddock did the same, crouching and raising his shield. Harvery, Apolli, and Roberto knelt as well, and all of them were thankful for that.

 

The air around the axe shimmered, and from it burst a great gale of air that would have blown Renault and his friends clear off the bridge if they hadn’t prepared for it. As it was, all of them were forced back several feet, Renault gritting his teeth and jabbing his dagger into the stone below him to steady himself.

 

“D-dammit,” said Apolli, clearly shaken (he hadn’t been able to maintain his footing), “what happened? He wasn’t even close to us!”

 

“That’s one hell of an axe,” growled Braddock. “That magic won’t let us get anywhere near him! How’re we supposed to fight like that?”

 

“Good thing we don’t have to,” said Renault under his breath. “Wait, just let him come a little closer, then call for Khyron and Rosamia to blast the arches.”

 

Those two were still hovering patiently upon the backs of the Ilian steeds, and just as planned Vinland hadn’t discovered them yet. “I don’t know what you people are planning,” said the General coldly as he took another step towards them, “but it has cost you your lives.” He raised both his axe and shield and broke into a run, silver armor clanking as he charged towards the five members of the Company. Apolli sent off an arrow, then another, but both simply bounced off the General’s shield and plate. They knew that once he reached them, they were as good as dead. Fortunately, though, that wasn’t the plan.

 

“Dammit! NOW!” screamed Braddock at the top of his lungs. “KHYRON! ROSAMIA! _NOW!!”_

The moment they heard their friend’s cry, the two Ilians spurred their Pegasis, which quickly flashed out from under the bridge. At the same moment, with a perfectly synchronized sweep of their arms, Khyron and Rosamia each summoned a pair of fireballs which briefly spun around the Pegasi before coalescing in the air next to the bridge abutments Vinland was near. The two orbs then slammed into the stone, blowing it apart in a pair of terrific explosions.

 

“What the—“ Vinland gasped as the section of the bridge beneath him shifted and began to give way. His opponents, however, who had been blown back to the safety of the arch behind them thanks to his attack, smiled in satisfaction as the two Sages continued their assault on the bridge’s foundation. The Pegasi moved swiftly and the magicians launched their spells just as fast—not even another moment had passed before the two Ilians had soared past the next abutments and the Sages launched another pair of Elfire spells. The resulting explosions demolished the last pieces of support for the middle section of the Bingham Bridge, and the rumbling of the stone turned into a cacophonous roar as it crumbled away—taking Garl Vinland with it.

 

“YES! WE DID IT!” shouted Braddock elatedly. Renault let out a loud whoop and thrust his weapons into the air in triumph, while Harvery and Apolli both let out great sighs of relief. Roberto simply grunted in satisfaction while Keith and Kelitha alighted behind them, Khyron and Rosamia preparing to get off and congratulate them on a job well done.

 

Of course, their good feelings lasted only for a moment. When they heard a loud BOOM and the rebel army in front of them letting out cries of amazement rather than despair, the Autonomous Company realized their plan hadn’t worked quite as well as they’d hoped.

 

As Vinland fell, he didn’t even let out a single cry of frustration. Instead, with a strong grip on his mighty axe, he twisted in the air and slashed it down at the river he was falling towards. Gusts of air swirled around him and then surged downwards with a thunderous sonic boom—the Basilkos had summoned a shockwave! When the blast hit the water below it created a huge explosion which left a small whirlpool swirling around in the river’s depths, but more importantly, the recoil from the blast propelled Vinland into the air…and towards a safe landing. Towards the Autonomous Company.

 

“Oh well,” grunted Renault in resignation as the silver-clad General crashed down in front of him, “I guess we’ll have to do the job ourselves.”

 

Khyron and Rosamia, for their part, hadn’t allowed themselves to be taken by surprise either. “What are you waiting for,” the nobleman shouted, “Kill him!” As Vinland got to his feet with the cheers of the Rebel army echoing behind him, Khyron and Rosamia, having dismounted from the Pegasi, raised their hands in the air and sent yet another pair of Elfire spells at Vinland.

 

When the columns of fire surrounding him disappeared, however, it would have been an understatement to say they were in for a nasty shock. Garl stood tall before them, seemingly unscathed.

 

“Spells won’t do any good!” wailed Harvery, readying his daggers. “His Dark Silver armor can resist virtually any type of magic!”

 

To make things worse, the Company heard the flap of leathery wings coming from above them. “Been a long time, guys!” called Yazan as he lead his Wyvern Knight auxiliaries to assist his commander. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this!”

 

“Dammit, keep those freaks off us,” yelled Braddock. Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli immediately started launching spells and arrows to distract the fliers, while Keith and Kelitha themselves rose to engage the enemy in hand to hand combat. “The rest of us’ll take care of Vinland!”

 

“Easier said than done!” retorted the General. Once again, he raised the Basilikos, gusts of air swirling around him as he prepared to launch another shockwave. Braddock wouldn’t let him. The Warlord pumped his legs and jumped straight at him, Wolf Beil leading the way. However, he wasn’t aiming at the General himself. Instead, his axe came down just in front of the man’s body with as much strength as the Ostian could muster—surprising Vinland as it cut through the mini-gales, which were its true target.

 

This dispelled the magic and left him wide open for another attack, which Renault, Roberto, and Harvery were more than happy to provide. The Warrior rushed past his friends and chopped down with his Iron Axe, a strong but uncontrolled charge which the off-balance Vinland was able to block just in time by raising his shield. Regaining his composure, he raised his right arm for another swing of Basilikos, but found his attempt thwarted by the chain that suddenly wrapped around his wrist.

 

“HARVERY! I CAN’T HOLD HIM FOR LONG! DO IT _NOW!_ ” screamed Renault, and the Assassin was more than pleased to do his part of the plan. While the Sages and the Ilians kept the Bernites distracted, and while Renault, Braddock, and Roberto had kept Vinland occupied, Harvery had been preparing his daggers for a fatal strike on Vinland. The air around the rebel seemed to darken as Harvery leapt towards him, faster than the eye could see.

 

Unfortunately, Garl wouldn’t be laid low by any sneaky blade, no matter how skilled. He was a master of armored combat, after all. With a grunt, he ducked and shifted downwards, keeping his vital or vulnerable areas, like his neck, underarms, and legs away from Harvery’s trajectory.  The flurry of strikes he launched fell only on plate and chain mail.

 

“Damn!” yelled Harvery in frustration as he landed behind Vinland. However, he had at least succeeded in preventing the man from regaining his balance.

 

“Annoying,” grunted the General quietly as he stumbled back. He jerked his right arm backwards, forcing Renault, whose dagger-chain was wrapped around it, to stumble forwards, blocking Braddock and Roberto from launching another charge. However, the cunning Mercenary Lord found an opportunity in this.

 

“Raaaaaahhhh!” To Vinland’s surprise, Renault didn’t stop or retreat but instead continued to rush forwards, aided by the General’s pulling. Vinland had been pushed back right by the newly-created gap in the Bingham Bridge, and when he realized what Renault was attempting to do it was too late.

 

With a great CRUNCH of clashing metal Renault slammed into Vinland and sent both of them tumbling straight down into the great river.

 

Of course, as usual, he hadn’t intended this to be a suicide attack. “Damn, this dagger comes in handy,” he grinned as he extricated the chain from around Vinland’s wrist and then separated himself from the man with a strong kick. This sent him flying towards the closest stone abutment holding up the bridge that Khyron hadn’t destroyed, and with another swing of his arm Renault sent his chaindagger flying towards one of the gargoyles on it. The chain wrapped around it and although the stone cracked, it didn’t crumble, allowing Renault to swing towards the pillar and get a good grip on the stone. It was the exact same trick he’d played on Tassar, and it seemed to be working just as well against Vinland.

 

Well, almost.

 

“Sorry!” yelled Renault when he noticed Vinland attempting to rescue himself with another well-aimed shockwave from the Basilikos. In a lightning-fast movement, while clinging to the pillar he sheathed his Steel Sword, unlimbered his Runesword, and leveled it at Vinland. Six orbs of darkness flashed out from the falling General and returned back to Renault. As he expected, they didn’t bring even a trace of life force with them, but he didn’t care about that—the important thing was that the dark magic had disrupted the enchantment of Basilikos a second time, foiling Vinland’s attempt to rescue himself.

 

Lamentably, someone else would rise to the task. Renault’s eyes widened in fury and frustration as a ball of bright white light enveloped Vinland and brought him soaring up to the sky the moment before he splashed into the river. The ball of light then descended from the clouds and landed safely on the Rebel’s side of the bridge.

 

“Cunning, Brother Renault, very cunning!” called a magically-enhanced voice he recognized as…Trunicht’s. The Black Knight must have saved his commander with a Rescue staff! “Not quite cunning enough, though. You’ve inconvenienced us. Nothing more!”

 

“Dammit,” he relled, frustrated and incensed at the meddling dark magician. He knew he couldn’t do anything about it from where he was, though. “HEY! KEITH!” he screamed, noticing the Ilian was the closest (she had just dispatched a Wyvern Knight who had been distracted by the falling pair of warriors), “HELP ME OUT!”

 

“Coming!” she yelled, bringing her steed down near Renault and allowing him to unwrap his dagger from the pillar and hop on its back. The moment he did so, however, she spurred her mount forwards, surprising him and almost causing him to fall off. He would have shouted at her angrily to ask what her problem was, but the WHOOSH of a Javelin passing by his head was enough to answer that question.

 

“Hey, where the hell’re you going, girl?” yelled Yazan as he dove towards them. “Your sister asked me to take you out, and I’m sure not gonna deny a dying lady’s last wish. ‘Specially when I was the one who killed her!”

 

“Keith! Just ignore him,” whispered Renault, clinging to her mount’s back as she zipped past the destroyed section of the bridge and veered back towards her friends, who were still dealing with the Bernites. “He’s trying to make you angry, and if you let your anger get the better of you, you’ve already lost. Use your anger, don’t let it use you. You’re not strong enough to fight him directly right now. Get back to the bridge, drop me off, and then we can all gang up on Yazan!”

 

“I…alright, I understand!” If she had been closer to Kasha, the Wyvern Lord’s attempts to goad her might have been successful, but as she was, she could more than easily realize the wisdom of Renault’s advice. However, she wouldn’t find it easy to follow. As a series of pulsating, purple-limned orbs appeared in the sky right in front of her and on the other side of the river, she could only yelp in dismay and veer away—the dark magicians that Trunicht commanded didn’t intend on letting their foes regroup. They could still harass the Autonomous Company with their long-ranged spells, after all.

 

This was precisely what Yazan intended. “KILL THE GIRL!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘SHE’S AN EASY TARGET!”

 

“NO!” yelled Kelitha, spurring her own Pegasus forwards, but she was forced to slow it and turn away by another barrage of spells from the Rebels on the other side of the bridge. Her comrades, who couldn’t fly, of course, could only watch in horror as Yazan and his Bernite friends broke off their attack on the rest of the team and concentrated on its most vulnerable members.

 

“Dammit! They’re separating us!” shouted Renault. “Get to our side of the river, at least!”

 

She attempted to do so, but yet another series of Eclipse spells from the rebels barred her way. Making matters worse, her Pegasus couldn’t maneuver as well as it normally could due to Renault’s extra weight, which meant Yazan and the Wyvern Knights were catching up as well.

 

Renault, for his part, wouldn’t just sit idly by and let them have their way.  “Damn flies,” he growled as one Bernite drew close. There were six currently pursuing them—four were keeping a small distance away from Keith, not pressing an attack but constraining her movements and keeping her from getting to the other side of the river, while Yazan and a companion moved in for the kill. Renault, however, leveled his Runesword at the approaching flier and sent him and his mount spiraling away in pain as six black orbs carried away their life force. Yazan, however, was not dissuaded.

 

“Nice trick,” gloated Yazan, “but it’s not enough!”Much to Keith and Renault’s surprise and dismay, he swiftly kicked Hambrabi and spurred the beast to deliver a sudden burst of speed. Keith wasn’t expecting the ungainly wyvern to be that agile, but the fact that he had some surprises of his own was one of the things which had kept him and his master alive for so long. He dove with Yazan’s Javelin leading the way, and to Keith’s credit, she directed her mount to the side just in time to keep his weapon from skewering her passenger.

 

Unfortunately, she hadn’t managed to dodge the attack completely. “NO!” Keith yelled as a bright bloom of blood erupted in the middle of her mount’s right wing. The Javelin had passed straight through it, leaving a ragged hole amidst the snow-white plumage.

 

“Don’t panic, just get us down safely!” yelled Renault, the terror in his voice belying his own orders as they suddenly began to descend rapidly.

 

“Think I’ll let you?!” yelled Yazan as he prepared another Javelin. However, his next attack would be thwarted as he shut his eyes, grunted in pain, and veered away when six black orbs burst out from his chest and returned to the Mercenary Lord’s golden Runesword.

 

 _Damn, this thing really comes in handy_ , thought Renault to himself. The next thing that passed through his mind was, _Wow, she’s good_. Despite the grievous wound, her bond with her mount was so strong and her discipline so tight that she hadn’t lost control. Keeping her legs tightly pressed to the beast’s sides, she’d convinced him to keep his left wing and what was left of his right spread out as far as possible, so that he didn’t fall straight down but instead glided, albeit clumsily, which, combined with his speed, brought him down safely to land instead of to a watery grave.

 

There was one problem, though. They were on the wrong side of the river.

 

“Dammit, Keith!” yelled Renault in frustration as the Pegasus landed on the grass, clearly in pain but still on its feet…well, hooves. “What the hell were you thinking?! This is _Rebel_ territory!”

 

“I didn’t have a choice!” she yelled in frustration. “The Wyvern Knights were penning me in! This was the only way out!”

 

Renault had to admit she was correct—Yazan’s underlings had done their job well; even if they couldn’t catch up to her they had positioned themselves so she couldn’t make a break back to her friends. This really had been the best she could do under the circumstances.

 

Of course, understanding that didn’t help their situation any. The Wyvern Knights were closing in, sensing their prey was ripe for the picking. Renault and Keith had been chased far enough that the Bingham Bridge was now far in the distance—they could only hope their friends were safe, and at this point could only imagine the expressions of horror on their faces. Even from this distance they could make out the Rebel army, though, and the fact that it seemed to have stopped told them they’d at least succeeded partially in their mission, if not entirely. Unfortunately, the entire force seemed to be mulling over what to do, and from the way it seemed to be turning Renault had a feeling they’d be starting a chase very soon.

 

“They say Pegasi are the swiftest creatures in the air,” he muttered to Kelitha. “How fast are they on the ground?!”

 

“Guess we’ll find out,” she replied. She pulled on her mount’s reigns to turn him away from both the Bingham Bridge and the approaching Yazan, who’d recovered from Renault’s dark magic attack and was bearing down on them once again. Renault again attempted to hit him with another blast from the Runesword, but he was wise to it this time—Hambrabi slowed down for a moment and the six orbs passed harmlessly through the air in front of him. The Wyvern Lord eagerly hurled another Javelin at his quarry, but luck was with the two loyalists—it was not the most accurate throw; in desperation Renault leaned back and thrust out his arm, and he managed to bat away the projectile with the back of his large gauntlet, keeping it from scoring another hit on the already-wounded Pegasus.

 

“Whoah!” he yelled, almost falling off. By this point, Keith’s mount had been so spooked that it was able to provide his riders with one last, crazed, desperate rush. Holding his wounded right wing close to his side, the beast suddenly galloped forwards with a sudden, manic burst of speed, almost sending Renault tumbling off. He held on, though, and with a true mercenary’s composure the moment he regained his balance he turned and whipped his left hand out behind him, sending his chaindagger flying…

 

Right into Yazan’s left arm. The Wyvern Lord had attempted to match the Pegasus’ charge with one of his own, keeping Hambrabi flying very close to the ground at his maximum speed (by this point they’d outpaced the slower, less skilled Wyvern Knights). This, however, brought him right in range of Renault’s useful little gadget. Yazan could do nothing but swear as Renault locked the chain’s mechanism and pulled the dagger straight out of the Bernite’s arm and back to him before he had a chance to grab it. He was left with no other choice but to spit into the wind and veer away, nursing his wound and await his next shot at revenge.

 

Renault and Keith barely noticed, though. Even when freed from Yazan’s pursuit, she didn’t slow down at all—quite the contrary, Instead, she sped up.

 

“Where the hell are we going?” Renault gasped—he had to raise his voice to be heard above the wind blowing past his armored face.

 

“I…I remember looking at the map of this place back in Castle Caerleon! There’s a small forest to the north of here, right? We can hide out there, heal our wounds, and…and wait!”

 

“Wait? The hell do you mean, wait? Wait for what?!”

 

“I DON’T KNOW!”

 

Those were the last words that passed between them as Keitha’s Pegasus continued to run. It wasn’t long before he began to slow down—the wound on his wing was obviously taxing his stamina. They weren’t far from their destination, though; the small forest—more like a copse, really—fairly close by.

 

Under other circumstances, Renault probably would have responded to Keith’s “plan,” such as it was, with a frank and blistering indictment of her incompetency. Right now, though, he just couldn’t bring himself to do that. As the Pegasus lurched under the brown-and-grey branches of the small trees, he had to admit he had very little room to talk.

 

If there was a way out of this situation, Renault didn’t know it either.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

This chapter wasn’t originally beta’d by Enilas since it came out pretty late :(

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	32. Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Keith must survive pursuit from the rebel forces long enough for their friends to rescue them.

 

32: Tension

 

“How long until he can fly again?”

 

“Um…” Keith looked nervously at her mount’s wounded wing. The animal was apparently quite sturdy; he was definitely in considerable pain, evidenced by how he held the wing out from his body rather than keeping it folded like the other one, but you wouldn’t know it from his behavior—just as usual, he stayed close to his mistress, almost as if he intended to guard her despite his condition. “The wound’s not crippling, but I don’t think he’ll be back in action for at least a few days. I-if we had a staff—“

 

“Yeah, well, we don’t have a staff, and even if we did, neither of us could use it,” growled Renault in response. “DAMMIT!” He slammed a mailed fist into a nearby tree in frustration. It had been several hours since he and Keith had been driven into this small copse by Yazan. They’d managed to elude him, and the rebels had seemed much more concerned with regrouping than chasing two mercenaries. This had given them enough time to tend to her mount’s wounds somewhat, although it had been a very slapdash job (a spare piece of cloth wrapped around the wing to cover up the hole in it). Still, they knew they were deep in enemy territory. It would only be a matter of time before their rebel foes came calling.

 

“S-Sir Renault, Marius can still walk!” Keith piped up, still trying to remain optimistic. “Maybe we can find someplace else to stay, or even cross the river back to our friends! There’s gotta be another bridge around here somewhere, right?”

 

“No, there isn’t. Didn’t you read the maps of this area? The Bingham was the only crossing for miles. If we could fly, it wouldn’t be a problem, but…”

 

“Then maybe moving to a safer or more defensible—“

 

“No point. Just open fields around here, for the most part. If we’re gonna be chased by the rebels, at least the trees in this copse will give us some cover. We can’t head to Solgrenne or any of the other nearby settlements, they’re under rebel control. Maybe if we were lucky we’d find some abandoned farmstead or something, but I don’t think there are any around here.”

 

“So…so what do we do?”

 

Renault sighed. “We wait. At least for now. I’m not so bad off, but your flappin’ horse is near exhaustion. Give him some rest so he doesn’t keel over when we really need him.”

 

“And if the enemy comes?”

 

“Well, we’ll just have to fight ‘em off, won’t we? You and me.” He glared at the girl. “Were you expecting something different? You’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.”

 

Renault expected her to protest, to get angry, but when she didn’t—when she only lowered her head in shame—he felt his anger and frustration giving way to a bit of his own shame and embarrassment, much to his chagrin.

 

“I…I understand,” she said quietly. “I failed…because of my weakness, and my lack of skill. My mother…my mother would be ashamed.” He thought she was going to cry, but he ended up disappointed. “I’ll do better, though, I swear!” she almost shouted, looking back up at him with wide eyes. “Sir Renault, I swear, no matter what happens, I’ll get you out of here alive! Even if I have to die myself! Marius’ wing will heal soon. Until it does, I’ll defend you with my life! I’ll make up for my failure, and I’ll undo the dishonor to Ilia and my mother’s memory! I won’t let any of them near you, Renault! I promise!”

 

To say he was touched by this display of loyalty would have been (sort of) an understatement. “Dammit,” he muttered to himself, blushing slightly under his helmet. “Keith, that’s enough of that, alright? Stop stabbing yourself with your own blade.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Never mind. Look, what I said was wrong, okay? I was angry, and didn’t think about what I meant. Real stupid…a mercenary should have control of his weapons at all times, including his words.

 

“You…you did fine, Keith. Hell, considering who we were up against, you did great. Given your level of experience, especially with your mount saddled with my extra weight, we should’ve both died. But even though we’re stuck here, we didn’t. So…look, ignore what I said. For somebody like you, that was some damn good flying against someone like Yazan. If your mom saw you, she would’ve been pretty pleased, and I bet your sister was too.”

 

Keith’s eyes seemed to grow even wider, her previous despair being wiped off her face. “S-Sir Renault…do you really mean that?”

 

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Now, don’t make me repeat myself. And I told you, stop calling me ‘sir!’ Let’s just get ourselves rested and ready for whatever might come our way. We can figure out how to get the hell out of here later.”

 

She stood there looking at him for a few more moments until he growled, with more irritation this time, “I’m serious! Take a look around this place to familiarize yourself with the terrain, in case we have to make our stand here. And tell your horse to get some sleep, too. We need that wound to heal as quickly as possible.”

 

She did as he asked. Within a few moments the Pegasus was snoozing peacefully away under the shade, and Keith and Renault spent the next couple of hours exploring the little copse they were in. As they expected, they didn’t find much of use—there were no caves nearby which might have served as defensible holdouts, no hidden sinkholes or similar obstacles which might be used to trap unwary adversaries, and so on. Keith actually did manage to find an ancient Iron Sword buried in the ground underneath one of the larger trees, but it was too rusted and worn-down to be of any use. The only advantage they found after all their searching was that the many trees provided a fair deal of cover—their foes would find their weapons constantly being caught in the branches or blocked by the larger trunks.

 

At this point, the sun had begun to fall over the horizon, and Renault noticed his companion had begun to yawn more and more. That made sense—she’d worked as hard as her Pegasus today, and she deserved a little rest as well.

 

“Alright, I think we’ve found as much as we’re ever going to,” he said. “Keith, you need to take a break.”

 

She started to protest, but Renault cut her off. “Just do as I ask. You won’t be able to keep me alive if you’re exhausted, right?” That came off a bit more harshly than he intended, but as he said it he removed his helmet so his friend could see the smile on his face. She returned that smile, and together, the two of them took a seat near the big tree her Pegasus was sleeping under. Renault rummaged through the sack still attached to the sleeping Pegasus and took out some supplies—a couple of their trusty hardtack rations. Didn’t taste good, but kept their bellies full and their energy up, at least. He held out one to Keith, and after she took it, both of them promptly chowed down.

 

It didn’t take them long to finish the rations, and by that time the sun had almost disappeared completely. Not coincidentally, Renault noticed that Keith’s eyes were drooping.

 

“Get some sleep, Keith. You need it.”

 

“B-but what if the enemy attacks?”

 

“I’ll keep an eye out for ‘em. If they come, I’ll wake you up. If they don’t…well, I’ll wake you up when I’m gettin’ tired, and then you can take watch. Can you do that?”

 

“Definitely!”

 

“Good. Now _sleep_!”

 

Keith promptly shut her eyes and leaned back against the tree. Renault watched her for a few minutes, sighing himself.

 

“Braddock…wonder how you’re doing,” he mumbled quietly under his breath. “Hell, maybe you’ll end up rescuing us out here, somehow.” He chuckled to himself. However, what he didn’t expect was his companion’s breath to stutter a bit—she’d laughed too.

 

“You’re not asleep, kid,” he growled.

 

Keith started. “H-how could you tell?”

 

“I heard that. Now come on, I’m serious. You don’t want to engage the enemy when you’re half-asleep. A good mercenary gets his rest when and where he can, and this looks like the best opportunity you’ll have in a while.”

 

“I…okay, I’ll try my best.”

 

Renault sighed again. “Ugh, what a pain. Come here for a moment.”

 

“H-huh?!”

 

Before she knew it, Renault had removed his gauntlets and sidled up to her. And before she could react, she suddenly felt a callused but warm and comforting hand running through her hair, gently stroking her head. She thought it was her sister for a second, before she realized it was Renault. But she couldn’t complain, though—it felt almost as good as when her sister had done it.

 

“R-Renault! What are you—“

 

“I saw your sister doin’ this to you once. Don’t you like it? I remember you falling clean asleep after a couple of minutes of this.”

 

“Y…yes…it’s what our mother used to do.”

 

“Heh.” Renault grinned softly. “My mom used to do something similar to put me to sleep when I was younger.” The grin disappeared. “Not that it matters anymore…”

 

Keith opened her mouth to say something, and then thought better of it.

 

“Well, whatever. Just work on getting to sleep, kid.”

 

Keith was more than happy to take that advice. She nodded and leaned back against the tree again—and a bit closer to Renault, too, almost snuggling up to him. And this time, her breath steadied and her muscles relaxed. Within a few minutes, thanks to Renault’s deft hand, she was well and truly asleep.

 

“God damn it,” Renault grumbled as he gave her head one last affectionate pat, “they don’t pay me enough for this.”

 

As he sighed and gazed up at the stars within the night sky above, however, he knew he wasn’t being entirely serious.

 

-X-

 

“What the hell are we waiting for?! Let’s go!”

 

Braddock yelled this just a few moments after the battle seemed to have been finished. The rebel forces were still milling about behind the destroyed bridge, still trying to figure out what had just happened and how they could cross the river. Things seemed to have gone in their favor—the rebels were well and truly stumped, and even though Vinland hadn’t perished, Khyron’s team had accomplished their goal of stopping the enemy advance.

 

It had come at a price, however. Renault and Keith were now behind enemy lines. Braddock and the rest of his team had watched in horror as Keith’s Pegasus plummeted down to the other side of the river, and as Yazan and his Wyvern Knights chased them off into the distance.

 

“We gotta help ‘em!” Braddock continued, anger and fear very evident in his wild voice. “Come on! Khyron, Warp me over there or something! Or Kelitha! Lend me your Pegasus, huh? Let me—“

 

“Enough!” yelled Khyron in response. “I forbid it!”

 

“You god damn coward! What, you’re willing to throw our lives away for the sake of some fool, incompetent King, but when one of your own men needs it your spine just disappears?!”

 

“Amusing, Ostian. Very amusing,” Khyron hissed in response as the rest of their team could only watch in dismay. “Weren’t you the one who’s always criticizing _me_ for my lack of battle tactics? But just look at the other side of the river! The entire Rebel Army is still there, just waiting for us! And you want us to launch some half-brained rescue effort just for _Renault_? You seem to have forgotten your own lessons!”

 

“Renault’s my friend! I know you wouldn’t be able to understand that, you popinjay, but—“

 

“I don’t understand it either. Let ‘em die,” Roberto grunted. “None of my problem.”

 

Braddock turned towards the Warrior and clenched his fists, seemingly angry enough to start a fight, but he was stopped by his old acquaintance, Harvery.

 

“Ma—I mean, Braddock, cut it out!” cried the Assassin desperately. “Khyron’s right! There’s nothing you can do! If you just run after Renault with some half-cocked plan, you’re gonna end up dead. And then who’s gonna help him?!”

 

“I…I agree,” said Kelitha, stepping forward. “My sister…she knows the risks all mercenaries agree to take, and so does your friend, Braddock. As an Ilian, my loyalty to my employer is absolute. If it is Khyron’s will, I…I will obey.”

 

“You too, Kelitha?!” Braddock spat incredulously. “But she’s your _sister!_ You’re not just gonna abandon her? Are you?”

 

“I…” Kelitha looked down at the ground, and Braddock could tell her previous sentiments weren’t entirely sincere.

 

However, it was Apolli’s voice which finally calmed—to an extent—the raging Warlord. “B-Braddock, Renault’s…Renault’s m’ friend too. But…so’re you! And we’re all relyin’ on each other! If you go off against th’ rebels on th’ other side o’ this river and get y’self killed, it’s not just Renault n’ Keith who’re gonna be hurt. The rest of us’ll have to figure out how t’ go on without you, and Paptimus’ forces’ll be all the stronger for it! Is that what you want?”

 

Braddock couldn’t respond to this. He looked at Apolli, back to Roberto, back to Kelitha, and back to Khyron, but in the end, all he could do was shut up and hang his head.

 

“That settles it,” said Khyron. “We can figure out what to do later. For now, though, let’s make our exit! We don’t know if those Wyvern Knights will be coming back, or if our enemies will warp over forces to take their revenge, or some similar scheme! We’ll fall back for now!”

 

That was probably the first time Khyron had ever said “fall back” sincerely. As his friends began their hasty retreat from their position, aiming to get as far away from the angry Rebels on the other side of the river as possible, Braddock fell sullenly into line behind them. In other circumstances, the Ostian would have been elated to see his commanding officer finally evincing some knowledge of battle tactics.

 

For now, though, the only thing he was left with was the bitter knowledge that he was abandoning his best friend.

 

-x-

_The use of a staff differs somewhat, but not entirely, from the use of a tome. Aside from the fact that most tomes are directly offensive in nature while few staves are, magical energy must be channeled differently, though activated the same way—with the use of an incantation. It is important to consider…_

“Oh…uh…Rosamia?”

 

“Hm?” The woman looked up from her scroll, a somewhat annoyed expression on her face, but it softened a bit when she saw who it was. It was her friend Kelitha.

 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” she said, drawing back a bit. “Did I disturb you?”

 

Rosamia smiled. “Well, yes, a little bit, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. What is it?”

 

“Now I feel really embarrassed. I’m so sorry for disturbing you, Dame Rosamia—“

 

“It’s nothing. What would you like from me?”

 

“Well, I was just wondering…” Kelitha blushed a little. “Was that a magic scroll you’re reading?”

 

Rosamia nodded. “Indeed. Very perceptive!” She patted the ground next to her, inviting Kelitha to sit, which she did.

 

They had been marching back south at a leisurely—though not slow—pace for most of the day, and had stopped early to make camp. Within a few minutes after their departure, it became apparent that the rebels were well and truly stumped and had given up pursuing them in lieu of figuring out some way to either repair the bridge or go around it. Thus, Khyron apparently didn’t think they had to make any great haste and ordered them to camp fairly early. While her comrades were busy setting up camp, she had been occupying herself with this reading for some time.

 

“This is a treatise on the construction and use of magic staves,” said Rosamia. “Master Khyron gave it to me some time ago, but I hadn’t found a chance to look at it till now. Since I’ve recently gained the ability to use them, it seemed a good idea to take the opportunity.” She sighed. “Not that it’ll do much good at this point, though. My skills still aren’t honed enough to use anything more than the lowest Heal staves. Kelitha…I’m sorry. Perhaps if I wasn’t such a novice, I could have used something like a Physic staff to heal your sister’s mount.”

 

“Please, Rosamia, don’t blame yourself. Besides, we don’t even have a Physic staff with us. There’s no reason for you to feel responsible under any circumstances.”

 

“Ah…thank you.” Rosamia smiled a bit. “Who knows, though. Perhaps we should have given a staff like that to you!”

 

Kelitha blinked and blushed. “D-Dame Rosamia, don’t joke like that! I don’t know the first thing about magic!”

 

“Ah, but you’d like to, wouldn’t you? Ever since my little show with the water in the bath back when we were at Aquleia, you’ve had an interest in my art, haven’t you?”

 

She nodded. “I’d much prefer to be a magician than a Pegasus Knight. It’d be so much nicer to create beautiful things like you did instead of…well, you know. I really envy you, Rosamia. Your abilities are truly amazing!”

 

“Heh. Not so amazing,” she said sadly. “After all, I have to fight like you do, yes?”

 

This dimmed Kelitha’s good mood somewhat. “Well…yes. I suppose that’s true. But for now, the battle’s over…there’s nothing we can do…nothing we can do for Keith, I suppose.” She clenched and unclenched her hands. Suddenly, she asked, “Ah, Dame Rosamia! Would you be able to put on another little show? Perhaps our friends would appreciate it. With that magic…”

 

“Ahh…I’m very flattered, Keitha, but I can’t, not here. I’d need some water, and we’re no longer close to the river, so…”

 

“Oh…I see. It was silly of me to ask. Forgive me…”

 

“No, it’s alright. I understand why you would ask. You…you’re worried about your sister, aren’t you? But there’s nothing you can do for her, so you want something to take your mind off the situation.”

 

Kelitha was struck by what seemed to be a strangely astute admission, and wasn’t sure of how to react. “Well…you’ve found me out. I am. I suppose it was obvious? I’m sorry…I need to work on my discipline.”

 

Rosamia laughed, trying to be comforting. “No, not at all. I understand how you feel. You Ilians are human too, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t take about this too much, though…I was an only child. No sisters. I…I suppose I envy you, to be honest. You and Keith seem so close. I never had anything like that growing up.”

 

“Yes, we were…well, are. Though Kasha…” She and Rosamia didn’t say much more after that for a moment, both looking at the ground. “Well, it doesn’t matter, since she’s gone now…”

 

“I…well, I’m sure the same won’t happen to your other sister,” said Rosamia. “We’ll…well, she’s with Renault. The two of them will find a way back to us somehow.”

 

Kelitha didn’t say anything after that, and she didn’t really need to. The two women simply sat side by side, looking at the sky above them, and wondering how their two departed comrades were doing…and what that meant for them.

 

 

 

-x-

 

Lisse was not exactly a pious woman, but she was more religious than Renault. And at this point in her life, she honestly couldn’t think of anything but her faith to turn to at the moment—despite the fact that the subject of her prayers would have laughed at her if he knew what she was doing.

 

“B-Blessed Saint,” she murmured to herself as she knelt alone in her little Transporter’s tent. “Please…please look over Renault, wherever he may be. Please bring him back to me safely. Please keep him safe. Please…”

 

She sniffled a bit, interrupting her prayer. Her day had not been going well at all. Renault and his friends had left her behind several hours ago to destroy the Bingham Bridge. The team had returned just recently, apparently having succeeded in their mission…but without Renault (and one of those Pegasus Sisters, whom Lisse didn’t know very well). She’d begged and pleaded with them to tell her what had happened, and Apolli had given her the truth—somehow, Renault had ended up on the Pegasus Knight’s mount while his wing was damaged, sending him to the other side of the river. Apparently, Apolli had seen him escape (Pegasi were almost as fast on the ground as they were in the air), but while the mass of the Rebel army was too confused and busy regrouping to go after them, several Wyvern Knights had given chase. Though he had assured her they were still alive…

 

So preoccupied was Lisse with her worries that she didn’t notice she had a guest…at least not until she felt a hand on her shoulder. “A-ah?!” She jumped and whirled around, just in time to see a familiar face who seemed almost as surprised as she was.

 

“I-I’m sorry!” stammered Apolli, wheeling back. “I-uh—“

 

“Oh, Apolli, it’s just you,” Lisse said. “I’m sorry…you surprised me, that’s all. Um…what is it?”

 

“Uh…” Apolli scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Well, we were havin’ dinner a little while ago and you didn’t show. I was…uh, a lil’ worried about you. I mean, I cooked some stuff an—“

 

Lisse blinked, then recognition dawned on her. “Oh…oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for your cooking to go to waste!”

 

Apolli smiled. “No big deal. There’s still some left. Wanna join me?”

 

Without hesitation, the girl followed her friend out of the tent and back outside. It was getting darker out—just in time for dinner, and as her stomach growled she realized she really was hungry. Apolli led her to the embers of a dying fire, around which the other members of the Company had enjoyed their meal some time earlier. Over it was a large black cauldron, and grabbing a pair of bowls, out of that cauldron he ladled into them the remnants of the rabbit stew he had cooked earlier. He wasn’t too hungry, having eaten earlier, so he gave Lisse a much bigger portion than he gave himself. She didn’t notice or care, and he watched in satisfaction as she hungrily scarfed down what he had offered.

 

“Easy now,” he said softly. “Don’t go too fast, y’hear? Not good for ya. An’ not ladylike, either!”

 

He hadn’t quite intended her to hear that last bit, but she did so anyways. “N-not ladylike?” She stared at him with a somewhat wounded expression.

 

“A-ah! F’rget I said that. I’m jus’ a Northern fool anyways, what do I know?” He laughed, a bit harder than he should have. “Just sayin’ it can be dangerous to eat so quickly. Somethin’ goes down the wrong way, or a piece o’ meat gets stuck in your throat…well, I sure don’t want that to happen. You’re a friend, after all. Gotta look out for m’ friends.” _Like they don’t look out for me_ , he thought to himself, Roberto on his mind.

 

Fortunately, his other friend was more than pleased by this. “Oh, I see! Th…thank you, Apolli. You’re right…you were just looking out for me. I’m glad…” Her eyes drifted. “It’s the sort of thing Renault would do…”

 

 _Fr’m what I’ve seen o’ that guy, I’m not sure that’s true,_ thought Apolli, but once again he was smart enough to keep that to himself. “Guess you’re really worried about Renault, huh?”

 

“Of course I am!” she sniffled. “He…he’s my best friend! He-he’s my _only_ friend! And he’s trapped on the other side of that river! I…I don’t know what I’m going to do if something happens to him, or…”

 

“Heh, heh,” Apolli smiled comfortingly at her. “Don’t worry about it, Lisse. I’ve fought b’side the guy more than a few times. There’s nobody I’ve seen who c’n get out of a pinch like he can. He’ll find a way back t’ you, don’t you worry!”

 

She sniffled once more, but looked happier now. “Th-thank you, Apolli. I’ll take your word for it. You’re so lucky…you’ve been with Renault all this time, but every time I see him it’s as if he leaves me right afterwards…”

 

“Uhh…yeah. “Th…that’s the kinda guy he is, I…I guess. So, umm…” He paused for a moment, pondering how good of an idea this line of conversation would be, and then asked, “So, uh, Lisse…how’d ya meet the guy in the first place? Seems like, uh, you really care about ‘im…”

 

Lisse smiled, the memories of better days cheering her up a little. “Oh…it was a few years ago, back in Thagaste. My…my parents had died, and I was taking care of the Ruby Tortoise all by myself. But then he came by…I…I wasn’t sure why, actually. He still lived with his mother, but they were having problems or something, so he always went out to eat instead of eating with her. I guess he liked my inn because it was so nice and quiet…no fights or anything.

 

“He…he was the first person who really _talked_ to me, you know? He knew so many things…he had so many books and Bishop Sergion, his father, told him so many things…at least while he was alive. He seemed like the smartest man in the world…at least to me. But then you and your mercenaries came along, and…”

 

“I…I’m sorry,” said Apolli, and he was being more than sincere—tears were rimming around his eyes. “Lisse…Miss Lisse, y...y’ gotta believe me. I never thought any of this would happen. Not in a million years! If I’d known all this woulda started when my Yulia got signed up on to that mission, I woulda taken her home right then and there! So…so much went wrong just ‘cause of Scirocco, I…I…”

 

“No, no, I know you didn’t mean to say you were responsible, Apolli! I know you couldn’t have expected what happened at Scirocco. Renault couldn’t either. Nobody could! It’s all that Paptimus’ fault, right? If it wasn’t for him, we’d all be happy, and Renault would never have become a mercenary. Right? Right?”

 

“Yup, you got it. And my Yulia would still be alive, too…”

 

At this, Lisse grew quiet, and then decided it was her turn to take the conversation in a somewhat dangerous direction. “Apolli…you’ve mentioned Yulia before. I mean…you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but…I…what happened to her, back at Scirocco? I remember meeting Roberto back when your group first met up with Renault, and he…he really liked you. But the last time I talked to him, he was so angry at you. Yulia was…was his sister? Your fiancée? At least that’s what Sir Gafgarion told me…”

 

Apolli sighed. “Yep. He wasn’t.” He was silent for a moment, looking at the ground, and then looked back to Yulia, apparently having decided it would be good to talk to her.

 

“Pops got it right. Roberto was my best friend…and Yulia was his sister. My fiancée. Nothin’ else in the world I wanted than t’ live out my life with the two of ‘em…

 

“But then came Scirocco. The Pegasus Knights, the poison…Gafgarion told you all about ‘em, I know. But _how_ she died…that…that’s what always gets me.” Apolli’s eyes had started to water. “See…it was the day Scirocco died. Me, Roberto, Renault, n’ the rest of us barged straight into th’ town, expectin’ to see the Pegasus Knights and th’ guards all over us…but nobody was there. And the moment we saw the first corpses lyin’ around everywhere, we knew somethin’ was up.

 

“So Tassar, he…he split us up into groups and ordered us to take a look ‘round town. Me, Roberto, Yulia, and Braddock were in one group, n’ we got sent t’ the mayor’s house…didn’t find nothin’ on the first floor ‘cept his diary. But on the second…” Apolli’s eyes had gone blank—even though he was actually able to talk about the incident (an improvement for him), the expression on his face was enough to tell he was still affected by it.

 

“We got into th’ mayor’s bedroom. He was face-down, covered in all the blood n’ crud he’d been vomiting out. On the floor next to ‘im was his son…but he wasn’t dead. He…he wasn’t dead! Yulia…she just wanted to help ‘im. She just wanted to help ev’rybody! She rushed over to ‘im and used her staff to bring ‘im back from the brink, but…but…he…he was crazy. I dunno why. The moment he got up he got a hand ‘round her neck an’ held a dagger to it. I tried to save ‘er, but I didn’t think t’ put an arrow in his head. Rushed up to ‘im, and he batted me away like I was nothin’. Then he said somethin’ bout the king, and…an with ‘is knife, he…” Apolli looked down at the ground miserably.

 

“We never brought ‘er back home. We burned her in the ruins o’ that dead town…with all th’ other townspeople. It…it was either that…or let her rot.”

 

He fell silent.

 

“Oh…oh, Apolli, I…I’m so sorry…” Now Lisse seemed to share the wetness around his eyes.

 

“It’s a funny thing, ain’t it? Real funny,” Apolli said bitterly, as if he hadn’t heard what Lisse said—he was still lost in his own thoughts. “No matter how small y’r dreams are, they always get broken anyways. I just wanted t’ live with Yulia n’ Roberto, an’ look how that turned out. You jus’ wanted to live quietly with Renault in y’r own inn, an’ look what happened. Makes me wonder if there’s even a God ‘r not…” He blinked, and then shook his head. “Aw, I’m jus’ bein’ stupid again. Yulia’d be mad at me if she heard me sayin’ stuff like that. Hah!” He looked back at Lisse, and he was smiling this time. “Still…I guess I’m sorry f’r makin’ a lady like you listen t’ that bad ol’ story. But…I dunno. I’m…I’m happy I was able t’ tell it t’ you, at least.”

 

“Er…ah! Thank you,” she said, sitting up and wiping her eyes. “I…I’m happy I was able to listen, at least.”

 

“Mm. Oh, uh, that reminds me…Lisse…how’d ya like the stew?”

 

“O-oh! That? It was wonderful! You’re a great chef, Apolli!”

 

“Heh…yeah. Yulia wasn’t. I wanted to teach her sometime, but…heh. I think you’ve picked up a few things ‘bout cooking from me, right?”

 

“Well, yes, I have. I, um, I’m really grateful for what you’ve taught me, and I think I’m a lot better! Thanks to you, Apolli!”

 

“No need. It…it woulda made Yulia happy.”

 

And with that, they fell into silence, gazing at the same sky their comrades were. Yet the thoughts that occupied Lisse’s mind were somewhat different. She had said earlier that Renault was like her only friend. Now, though, sitting near Apolli like this, she wasn’t so sure.

 

 

-x-

 

“Keith. _Keith!_ Wake up!”

 

“H-huh?!”

 

“Someone’s coming! Get ready!”

 

It was still quite dark—Keith apparently hadn’t managed to get more than a few hours of rest. However, her reflexes were still sharp. She reached out and grabbed her spear (“never sleep with your weapon outside of easy reach,” Renault had told her), then darted quietly behind the tree she had been sleeping in front of, where her Pegasus had already arrived, anticipating the arrival of a few uninvited guests. Renault, for his part, had already put on his equipment and darted behind the big tree, surprisingly quietly for a man in armor. Very fortunately indeed, as it seemed whoever was coming for them hadn’t yet noticed them.

 

But whoever it was, he would soon. Kelitha couldn’t see too well in the dark, peering out from behind her cover, but she could make out the shape of a man on horseback, and also hear him muttering to himself. From the sound of his voice, he seemed to be quite young, not at all much older than she was.

 

“To hell with this…how’m I supposed to find ‘em like this?! So damn dark I can’t even see an inch in front o’ my face! Least not with this damn helmet on. How do soldiers wear these things?”

 

Renault grinned. “Wonderful. This guy sounds like a total amateur! Guess they don’t wanna risk their best trained troops. Alright, let’s—“

 

“Wait, Renault!” said Keith. “I…I don’t think we should kill him.”

 

“What the hell? Don’t tell me you’re getting soft, kid. Mercenaries kill people. It’s what we do. Now—“

 

“B-but listen to him! I’m not sure he’s with the rebels!”

 

“Eh?” Renault turned his attention back to the hapless Cavalier, who had stopped his horse just in front of the tree but hadn’t noticed them yet.

 

“Hate this so much! Why’d they take my mother? She never did anything to ‘em! God damn Rebel scum. If only I…”

 

“Huh…you may be right,” said Renault. “Still, what do we do? He’s still following their orders. We can’t let him find us.”

 

“Renault, let’s capture him!”

 

“Why?”

 

“He’s probably someone from Solgrenne who was forced into fighting for the rebels. Remember what they told us back at Caerleon? If we can capture this guy instead of killing him, we can figure out why Solgrenne joined up with the rebels instead of fighting them!”

 

“Hmm…yeah. Yeah, you may be right, Keith. That’s actually a damn good idea!” Renault’s visor glowed green for a moment to indicate his approval. “Alright, you think you can knock that guy off his horse?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“Then let’s do it!”

 

As quickly as he could, Renault darted out from behind the tree to the left, and Keith took the right, her spear at the ready. The man heard Renault’s armor clank and turned his head to that direction. “Huh?” he started, but didn’t have time to finish the thought.

 

It was ended by the firm THUMP of the butt of Keith’s Iron Lance bashing him in the back of the head—Renault had distracted him, so the Ilian had been able to rush up and sneak to his side unnoticed.

 

With crossed eyes, the Cavalier lurched and fell straight from his horse into the arms of Renault below him. The beast didn’t even notice. It just whinnied curiously, shook its head, and continued to stand there wondering what was going on.

 

Immediately Renault slapped a gauntleted hand over the terrified young man’s mouth and dragged him behind the tree, Keith following him. With his other hand he held his chain-dagger to the man’s throat, and after a few more moments of struggling he became very still, realizing the predicament he was in.

 

“In one moment I’m gonna take my hand off your mouth. You make the slightest noise and I’ll slit your throat. Understand?”

 

The youth flailed for a moment, then nodded desperately. Slowly, Renault did as he promised, still holding the dagger at his throat. When the boy did nothing but take a deep, ragged breath, Renault relaxed his grip on the dagger—just slightly.

 

“W…who are you people?” said the lad, before Renault brought the dagger close again, a terrifying reminder for him to keep his voice down. “S-sorry!” he whispered, much more quietly this time.

 

“We’re with the Rebels. We got stuck back here after destroying the Bingham Bridge. You’re not with them, are you?”

 

“You’re not Rebels?!” the Cavalier yelped in happiness, but another jerk of the dagger quieted him again. “Oh, oh, thank God! Maybe you can help us! Please—“

 

“I was right!” Keith smiled quietly in satisfaction and looked at Renault, who nodded to show his approval. “Okay, Mr. Cavalier, lemme guess, you’re somebody from Solgrenne, right?”

 

“Y-yeah, I am!”

 

“So then why’re you helping these rebels, huh? I thought you guys were loyal!”

 

“We are! G-God help me, I swear on my pa’s grave, we are! I’m not here ‘cause I wanna be!”

 

“So then why the hell _are_ you here?” Renault growled.

 

“It…it’s that damn Black Knight! Trunicht or whoever he is! And that Vinland, too! See, the moment Garl Vinland showed up on our door, we just surrendered…we knew we couldn’t beat him in a fair fight. But that didn’t mean we were gonna go out of our way to help the rebels!

 

“That is, until…until that night. The night he entered our town, Trunicht and his black magicians…they used that magic of theirs to…to…I don’t know. Every woman and child in Solgrenne was spirited away somehow to the square, and he threatened to have his Druids and Black Knights kill ‘em all! My mother was one of ‘em…there was nothin’ we could do. He’s keepin’ em all hostage in an abandoned citadel about a mile northeast of our town. It used to be a labor camp for prisoners ‘till King Galahad’s grandfather closed it down ‘bout a hundred years ago. Guess the rebels’ve found new use for it…”

 

“YES!” growled Renault in exultation. “Thanks, kid, that’s exactly what we’re lookin’ for!” He let the surprised youth go, who stumbled back and looked at him with a surprised expression on his face.  “The only reason you Solgrenne people are helping the rebels is that they’re holding your women hostage, right?”

 

“Y-yeah!”

 

“Well, guess we’ll just have to rescue ‘em, then.”

 

“Renault!” exclaimed Keith. “Are you serious?”

 

“Yeah. I’m no hero, but if we break those girls out the people of Solgrenne will be on our side again, and that might just be enough of an advantage to push these rebels outta here. A mercenary takes an opportunity when he sees it, and this is a hell of an opportunity!”

 

The young Cavalier’s eyes lit up. “You-you mean it? THANK GOD! SOLGRENNE IS SAVED! WE—“

 

“Shut _up_ , you idiot!” hissed Renault, but it was too late.

 

“What the hell was that?” came another voice from the other side of the tree, along with the clomp of hooves. “Did you find something, you stupid rube? About time you—“ Another shadowy shape on horseback appeared from behind the great trunk, the armor the horseman was wearing enough to give him away as a Black Rider even in the darkness. And from the way he stopped and gasped as he came across them, it seemed it wasn’t too dark for him to fail to make them out as well.

 

“Damn!” Renault hissed again, shoving the dumb Cavalier away roughly. In the same movement he flicked out his left hand and sent the chaindagger flying straight into the Black Rider’s neck. It killed him…but not instantly. Just before he toppled off his horse with a pained gurgle, the main raised a hand in the air. It glowed purple, and in the sky above him a similarly-colored sigil flickered into existence, and then back out.

 

“Ah…AHHHHHH!” The youth, upon seeing it, burst away from Renault and Keith before they had time to react, returning to his horse, jumping on its back, and spurring it away as quickly as he possibly could. The reason he did became apparent in a moment—from just outside the small copse the sound of dozens of clomping hooves could be heard converging in on it—the first of many.”

 

“Aw, hell,” groaned Renault. Keith didn’t even need to ask why. She ran over and jumped onto her Pegasus’ back too, readying her lance as Renault readied his own weapons.

 

Neither of them had really expected tonight to be particularly uneventful, and their suspicions were just about to be proved very right.

 

-x-

 

Most of the Company were not light sleepers—since your foes were rarely courteous enough to wait until you woke up to attack, waking up easily was something of an advantage. Rosamia was a lighter sleeper than most, however. So the moment the soft clanking of metal reached her eyes, it was only a moment until she furrowed her brow, and another moment until she opened her eyes. In the dark of night, it was hard for her to see anything, but she could make out a large, armored shape making its way past her—trying to be stealthy, and succeeding admirably well, all things together. If he hadn’t passed by her his plan might have been perfect.

 

“Braddock?” She said suspiciously, sitting up. “Where are you going?”

 

“Damn! Rosamia?” The Warlord turned sheepishly towards her. “Uh, I—“

 

“Honestly, now.” She stood up. “What were you thinking, trying to sneak off like that in all that armor? Did you really think no-one would notice?”

 

“Heh. Well, I know Khyron’s a heavy sleeper. But I guess I didn’t take you into account. Ruined my plan, eh?”

 

She raised an eyebrow—an expression she knew he couldn’t see in this dark night, but she did anyways. “Well, that depends. Where are you going?”

 

“What, don’t tell me you think I’m deserting?”

 

She stared at him for a long moment, and Braddock was actually worried she would answer in the affirmative—and thus, was immensely relieved when she sighed and said no. “Braddock, back when we were working with Tassar, I would have said no, because I trusted you. After you betrayed us? I would have said yes, because you were a traitor. Same for when you returned to our cause. But now?” She shook her head. “I’m still not entirely sure of what sort of man you are, Braddock, but after everything we’ve been through together, I can’t possibly think you’d abandon us now.”

 

“Hah! It’s just like you say, Rosamia. You are a smart one!”

 

“Thank you. You do realize I’m smart enough not to let that pass for an explanation, though. Right?”

 

“Aw, well, you got me there. Well, it’s simple. I’m gonna head back across the river and look for Renault!”

 

Rosamia’s jaw dropped. “ _How_?! You’re going to swim across the Tiber in all that armor?”

 

“Of course not! I’m gonna get Kelitha to ferry me over. I saw how she looked earlier…she may talk a lot about “Ilian loyalty,” but I know she loves her sister too much to just let her die. She’ll join me, no problem!” He looked down at Rosamia. “Well, maybe with your help she will. I mean, I know you’re her friend. Won’t you help me to convince her?”

 

Rosamia stayed silent for a moment.

 

“Rosamia, please…”

 

“Alright. Alright, fine.” But there was something strange in her voice—Braddock recognized it as…frustration? “But…dammit, Braddock, before I do, I want you to explain something to me!”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Braddock…Braddock, I…I just can’t understand you! How can a traitor be…I thought you were honorable when I first met you. When you betrayed us, I thought you were just another honorless freebooter. But this…this loyalty. I’ve never seen anybody as devoted to each other as you and Renault are. Nobody’s ever felt this way about me,” and this was said with more than a hint of bitterness. “Braddock, what _are_ you?” She turned away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I just…I don’t know how I should feel. I can’t figure it out! I can’t figure _you_ out!”

 

“Heh. Is this what it’s about?” Just as his friend often did, Braddock’s visor glowed to display his approval. “Alright, Rosamia. I guess it’s time for me to lay my soul bare. If you’re expecting some kind of epic, earth-shattering revelation, though…well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got my secrets, but this isn’t one of them.

 

“You wanna know the truth about me, Rosamia? Here it is. See, I don’t care about causes, I care about _people._ I don’t give a damn which side he’s on, I woulda gone after Paptimus even if he hadn’t betrayed you, and even if it meant going against the King. The fact that I only found out who he was after I joined the rebels meant I betrayed them to go back to your side. It doesn’t matter to me so long as I get a shot at him.

 

“By the same token, I’m not loyal to any cause, I’m loyal to my friends. And Renault’s my friend. I don’t care if Khyron orders me to just abandon him; I wouldn’t even care if the King himself ordered it! He’s stood by me for years. He’s saved my life more than once. I’ve lost count of how many battles we’ve fought together. And without even a second thought, he turned his back on the Rebel cause he believed in and sprung me out of Paptimus’ prison…all because he’s my friend.

 

“So I’m getting him back, Rosamia. No matter what!”

 

That was all he could say. He stood there for a few more moments, looming over Rosamia and breathing heavily—it was the most emotional speech he’d given in quite some time. He was rewarded, however, when Rosamia quietly walked up to him and placed a hand on his armored chest.

 

“I understand, Braddock. I…now I know what sort of man you are. I won’t question you ever again. Now let’s go to Kelitha.”

 

“R…Rosamia. Th…”

 

She didn’t even bother to respond. She just took him by the hand and led him carefully to where Kelitha was supposed to be sleeping nearby. The moon offered at least a bit of light, so they arrived at her tent without falling, but when they drew close, they realized something was wrong.

 

“Hey…hey!” said Braddock, cautiously opening the flap. “She’s not here!”

 

“Yes I am,” came a voice from behind them, and they turned to see the Ilian advancing towards them—clad in her full Falcoknight’s raiment, leading her barded Pegasus behind her.

 

“Kelitha.—you—“

 

“I thought you’d try something like this,” she sighed, “and…well, I care about my sister as much as you do your friend. They’re both valuable members of our team, aren’t they? We’d be much weaker without them. If we rescue them, I’ll be aiding Lord Khyron…that would maintain my oath to Ilia, wouldn’t it? So I thought…”

 

“Yeah! You’re exactly right,” said Braddock appreciatively. “Heh, I’m sorry, Rosamia. I guess I didn’t need your help at all!”

 

“Quite all right,” she said. “Now, hurry, Braddock! Go! Who knows what’s happening to Renault and Keith right now! You’ll need all the time you can get!”

 

“No, you won’t,” said yet _another_ voice from behind them. Rosamia, Braddock, and Kelitha turned around to see, to their _extreme_ surprise, Khyron, fully dressed for battle and carrying his Elfire tome and Warp staff.

 

“Khyron. Should’ve expected you’d show up now,” Braddock sneered. “What the hell do you think you’re gonna do? Try and stop me? I don’t think so.” He unlimbered his axe and shield. “I never liked you, Khyron, but I don’t hate you as much as I hate Paptimus. If you’re gonna keep me from getting my friend back, though…well, I don’t care if it makes us traitors _again_. We’ll fight against the rebels with just the two of us, then. But I’m not leaving him to die…even if I have to go through you!”

 

Much to his surprise, though, the Sage simply rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, you foolish Ostian. I’d blast you away for treason right now…if I thought you were actually being serious instead of just stupid. But just stop with the theatrics for a moment, would you?”

 

“What? Khyron, what the hell are you talking about?!”

 

“How the devil do you intend to rescue them, hmm? Kelitha can’t possibly carry all of you on her Pegasus’ back.”

 

“Yeah, well, at least we’d be giving them support!” Braddock countered. “We’ll figure out a way. It’s better than nothing!”

 

“Your loyalty is admirable. Unfortunately, your intelligence is not. It would be much easier to simply have someone who could use magic find them and then Warp them back here.”

 

“Well, yeah, it would be.” Braddock paused, staring at the soft blue light of the Warp staff held in Khyron’s hand, as he suddenly began to grow suspicious. “Wait…Khyron…you can’t possibly be—“

 

The Sage sighed. “Yes, I am. You and Rosamia will remain here. Kelitha will take _me_ across the river to search for your friends.”

 

A long silence reigned between the four of them—Rosamia, Braddock, and Kelitha could not possibly believe what they had just heard.

 

“M-master, are you serious? The risks—“

 

“Khyron, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard you say! _You_ risking your life for somebody besides the King?” Braddock blurted incredulously. “You always call us ‘worthless freebooters.’ Why are you—“

 

“ _BECAUSE THEY’RE **MY** WORTHLESS FREEBOOTERS!”_ Khyron shouted, and this was enough to wake up everyone else in the camp.

 

“I have nothing,” he continued, his voice a low growl, “ _Nothing!_ My position as Mage General was taken from me, and that damned Lycian has made me a laughingstock…a lackey! _His_ lackey! This Autonomous Company is the _only_ thing I have any control over now. The _ONLY_ thing!

 

“And I’ll be damned if I let anything— _anything_ —threaten that. Renault and Keith are _my_ soldiers now. Therefore, they _will not_ die until _I_ tell them to die! This Company still needs them. _I_ still need them. At this point, with a group of less than a dozen people, I cannot afford to lose two _if_ I can do something about it. So I am not simply going to sit back and allow them to be slaughtered by that rebel scum. I am going to do what I can to rescue them. Is that clear?”

 

“I…well, you can’t blame me for being suspicious. This is pretty hard to believe, Khyron.”

 

“Believe what you want. All that matters is that I am going. And _you_ are staying here!” Braddock started to protest, but Khyron cut him off. “You won’t be anything more than a burden, no matter how much you want to save your friend! Not even the two of you could stand against all the rebels on the other side of this river. What Renault and Keith need is to return to safety as soon as possible, and my Warp staff is the best way of doing that! There is nothing you could do for them that I could not do better. Now, are you going to keep jabbering at me, or will you allow me to rescue my mercenaries?!”

 

Braddock seemed as if he was about to say something angry, but then thought better of it. Instead, just bowed, stepped aside, and gestured to Kelitha. “Alright then, “my lord.” Go right ahead. But I swear, if you don’t bring Renault back with you…”

 

“As I said, enough with your jabbering, Ostian.” Khyron unceremoniously took a seat behind Kelitha (who had mounted the beast almost as soon as he started talking. “Now, hurry and take flight. Braddock doesn’t have to worry about the time, but _I_ do.”

 

“Yes, Lord Khyron.” With a flap of white wings, the Falcoknight lifted off, taking the former Mage General with her. Braddock and Rosamia—along with their recently-woken companions—could only gaze up into the night sky and hope for the best.

 

-X-

 

“Shit! No way we can keep this up!”

 

It had been about an hour since their stupid Cavalier prisoner had escaped and his unfortunate Black Rider companion had alerted the rest of the rebel forces of their presence in this area. You could tell both by the lightening sky (it would be morning soon) as well as the corpses strewn all throughout the area.

 

Renault was about to add one more to that number. Another Black Rider bore down on him, holding a Flux tome in one hand and his other towards Renault, attempting to launch a spell at him, just like the half-dozen of his comrades who had already tried and failed. Renault dealt with him just as easily. He hopped forwards, avoiding the field of the Flux spell which appeared on the ground, and then to the side, just in time to keep from being trampled under the galloping hooves of the Rider’s horse. As he did so, he spun, allowing the arc of his Iron Sword to pass straight through the beast’s right hind leg, the strength behind the slash cutting through bone as easily as flesh. The animal crashed to the ground with a cry of pain, sending its rider with it—and allowing Renault to jump right up to him and end his life with a stab of his dagger.

 

Nearby, Keith was doing almost as well. Though she couldn’t take to the air, her mount could still gallop and jump quite well, leading Renault to think she wouldn’t have made a bad Cavalier either. Almost as if she was a knight in a jousting tournament, she charged at one of the Riders, and just as the man turned to meet her, her lance buried itself into his chest and took him off his mount.

 

“Damn!” She didn’t have time to enjoy her victory. A purple sigil appeared below her, and her lance was stuck in the man’s chest—so she simply let it go and spurred her mount to jump away just in time to avoid the ball of darkness which congealed in the air where her head had been.

 

Renault and Keith kept on killing, but their enemies just kept on coming. Renault was barely winded, but a sheen of sweat was already beginning to form on Keith’s face, and her breathing was becoming slightly labored. Worse, they both knew that the Riders they were facing were only an advance force of scouts—stronger foes, like Black Knights and Paladins, would be arriving quite soon.

 

Or not—perhaps they already had. “Agh!” Renault ducked and darted to the side as a lattice of purple flames blinked into existence and seared their way through the tree behind him. The wood rotted rather than burned, but the effect was the same—with another angry grunt Renault dodged yet again to avoid being crushed by the falling trunk. He whirled and tossed his dagger at what he thought was the source of the spell, but was rewarded with only a loud CLANG as it bounced off the Black Knight’s visor. Worse, he wasn’t the only one. Renault and Keith retreated back to the fallen tree which had served as their impromptu bed just a few hours ago as Rebel reinforcements seemed to materialize out of the shadows around them. Black Knights and Druids marched out of the darkness, forming a circle around them and holding their tomes in the air, preparing to strike.

 

“Can’t believe this is how it ends,” Renault spat. He readied his weapons, preparing for one last charge…until his world was enveloped in fire.

 

“What the hell?!” At first, he thought the enemy had brought Sages along with them as well, but when he heard the screams he realized they were coming from the Black Knights—two of them had fallen off their horses and were rolling on the ground, enveloped by eldritch fire. “WHO THE—“ another shouted, but was cut off by a huge fireball slamming into him from above, reducing him to a cloud of smoking debris.

 

All this would have been surprising enough to Renault and Keith, but it was nothing compared to what they felt when they saw who their rescuer was.

 

A familiar black-haired noble was screaming epithets at the rebels as he soared downwards behind a familiar green-haired Ilian, who landed right next to Keith.

 

“K…Khyron?!” Renault gaped in utter astonishment.

 

“I’m here to rescue you, lackwit!” Khyron screamed as he launched another fireball, sending the Rebels behind them scattering. “Get on Keith’s Pegasus! _Now!_ ”

 

Renault knew full well that the rebels would cease panicking from Khyron’s surprise assault and regroup within a few moments. Thus, he didn’t question the details of his salvation one bit. Instead, without another word he clambered onto Keith’s mount, while the girl was still looking around in confusion, having no idea of what was going on.

 

She’d learn soon enough, though.  They’d both find out had happened soon enough—for they found themselves surrounded by a sphere of white light taking them away from the battle and back to safety.

 

 

-X-

 

Braddock sat near the remains of his Company’s fire forlornly, his comrades keeping him company. Rosamia and Harvery were next to him and Apolli and Lisse were across from him—Roberto had promptly gone right back to sleep after he saw Khyron depart. It had been about two hours since they’d left, and the sun was beginning to rise. Aside from the fact that Renault wasn’t here yet, Braddock also had to admit he was beginning to feel a bit worried for Khyron. As far as he was concerned, even a dandy like him deserved respect if he was willing to help rescue Renault.

 

A sudden burst of bright white light took him away from worries. “AAAAH! THE HELL?!” He swiftly moved to cover Rosamia, expecting an enemy attack, but when he raised his head to see who had warped in…

 

“Renault? RENAULT!!”

 

As fast as he could the Warlord extricated himself from the surprised Rosamia and rushed up to meet his friends. The Mercenary Lord, the Ilian, and the Pegasus all seemed to be very disoriented—Braddock could hear Renault mumbling, “hey, what the—“ before he turned his head and noticed them.

 

“BRADDOCK!” Renault shouted, and without hesitation jumped down from the Pegasus’ back to meet his friend.

 

“Hah-ha! You had me worried, man!” the Ostian yelled as he embraced the other mercenary. “Guess I shouldn’t have been, huh? Not even gettin’ stuck behind enemy lines would be enough to take you down!”

 

“Oh, yeah, you got that right. I had to admit I was gettin’ a little worried myself, though. Without you by my side I wasn’t sure how we woulda gotten outta there!” He looked at Braddock mischievously. “I gotta admit I was a little disappointed, though. I was expectin’ you to bail me out, but instead I got Khyron! What gives, man?”

 

Braddock blushed and was about to apologize before Rosamia spoke up for him. “He _would_ have gone to rescue you if Khyron hadn’t stopped him. He woke me up in the middle of the night to see if I could convince Kelitha to ferry him across the river. Not that she needed the convincing, but right before we were going to leave Khyron interrupted us. He ordered us to stay…because _he_ wanted to go and rescue his men. What, with his Warp staff and all…”

 

“Whoah, really?” Renault looked at Braddock quizzically. “I never would’ve thought…”

 

“Yeah, me neither. Maybe Khyron really isn’t that bad?”

 

As if on cue, everyone in the vicinity had to shield their eyes as another burst of bright light lit up the area around them. When they looked back up, they saw the last two members of their team in front of them. Khyron looked fine, albeit seeming quite tired and wound up, but Kelitha was looking very pale—Renault noted with concern that it seemed like the dark magic of the Black Knights had taken its toll on her.

 

“Rosamia,” he snapped as he got off the Pegasus, breathing heavily, “heal Kelitha. One of their spells hit its mark just before I Warped us back here.” As Rosamia hurriedly did so, unlimbering her Heal staff, the Sage, without even waiting for greetings or for anyone else to say anything for that matter, turned to Renault and Keith.

 

“You’re damn lucky we found you when we did, mercenary,” growled Khyron. “If Kelitha hadn’t pushed her Pegasus as hard as she did, we would have been too late! And you!” He turned disapprovingly towards Keith. “The only reason we even had to go through all this trouble in the first place was that _you_ managed to get yourself shot down! I—“

 

Braddock and Kelitha were about to open their mouths to lambaste Khyron, but it was Renault who came to the younger Ilian’s rescue. “Lay the hell off, Khyron. Look, I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting you to come save us, and I guess I do owe you one—I pay back my debts, even if I owe them to a guy like you. But all things considered, I think _you_ owe Keith something. If we hadn’t ended up in enemy territory, we wouldn’t have been able to find out why the guys from Solgrenne are helping the rebels! So I think Keith deserves a medal, not a reprimand!”

 

“What?! What the devil are you talking about? Explain!”

 

“After we got trapped on the other side of the river, I managed to wound Yazan and fend off the Wyvern Knights’ pursuit. We managed to get ourselves to this little copse of trees after a few minutes of riding and decided to hole up there. The first rebels who came for us were scouts, apparently dragooned from Solgrenne. Keith knocked one of ‘em out and we managed to interrogate him before he could get away. Essentially, Trunicht took the female population of the town hostage. He and his dark mages spirited ‘em away to an abandoned citadel northeast of town. We break those girls out, we get the townies back on our side!”

 

“Oh? How do you know he was telling the truth?” Khyron sneered. “I’ve been taken in far too many times to allow it to happen again. Maybe you’ve not learned your lessons, but I have! I’m not going to believe the word of some rebel based on no proof at all!”

 

Renault blinked. “Uh…aw, damn. Yeah, you’re right about that…”

 

“It would make sense, though, my lord,” said Rosamia. “It’s something Trunicht would do, and it explains why the loyal people of Solgrenne have turned against us. What other explanation could there be?”

 

“We’re not sure of that,” Khyron snapped back. “For all we know, that “townie,” as you curs might put it, fed us false information to lead us into a trap!”

 

“Well, I can be the judge of that,” said Harvery. “I’m a spy, remember? You get me close to that citadel or wherever, I’ll get inside and tell you what’s going on. Sound good?”

 

Khyron still seemed suspicious. “Maybe. We still have to return to Gafgarion and report. We’ll see what he thinks.”

 

“Well, alright then, let’s go!” said Braddock. “Trap or not, we need orders now that we’ve destroyed the bridge. Let’s not waste any more time!”

 

On this, the Warlord and the Sage were in complete agreement. “Rosamia, see what you can do for the wing of Keith’s Pegasus. Somebody wake up Roberto. The rest of you, pack up and let’s get moving. I want to be back at Caerleon the day after tomorrow at latest!”

 

And with that, the Autonomous Company, together and complete once again, set off back towards their base of operations. Despite Khyron’s suspicions, this was the best all of them had been feeling for some time. Aside from Renault and Braddock, and Keith and Kelitha, who were keeping together and chatting excitedly, incredibly happy to be together again, the rest of them were pleased to have finally gained some idea of what the Rebel plans in this area were and how to foil them. Despite having no more evidence than the word of a captured soldier, they were already thinking of rescuing the trapped women in the prison citadel and regaining the loyalty of the people of Solgrenne. They _wanted_ to believe that the interrogated soldier had spoken true, after all. After all this fighting, it was a sign they could actually make some genuine progress against the rebels—and they knew Gafgarion would agree when they reached him.

 

They would soon find, however, that wanting to believe in something did not make it true.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

I did manage to get this chapter out on time originally, but again, not soon enough for my friend Enilas to beta for me. I thank him for his patience.


	33. Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While trapped behind enemy lines, Renault and Keith heard of hostages being held by the Rebel forces. They are then rescued by Khyron and company, who then orders them to launch a rescue operation! Unfortunately, as usual, it doesn't go according to plan...

 

33: Tragedy

 

“Vyrleena…Vyrleena…”

 

The sound of a man’s voice calling her name made the woman suspect that she was in a dream. Of course, in her state, she wouldn’t really be able to tell. She hadn’t the slightest idea of where she was…and she wasn’t entirely sure _who_ she was. It felt as if she was waking from a long, fitful sleep. Small fragments of memories seemed to flit back and forth throughout her mind. Her fatherland—Bern. The great weapon called Barbarossa…the bandits who had destroyed it…meeting them again in Aquleia…being defeated, swept away by the currents of a canal. Why? Why had she lost? It was—

 

_Minerva_

 

The man was clinging on to her back legs, and with a sweep of his blade cut her jaw in two--

 

_Minerva_

She wasn’t moving, a pool of blood forming around her mangled, scaly head as she lay on top of the roof—

 

_Minerva_

 

The teal-haired man was laughing, not caring that he’d killed her Wyvern, her best friend, her partner—

 

“MINERVA!” she screamed, bolting upright in her bed. “MINERVA! MINERV—“

 

Her heart was racing, and she couldn’t catch her breath, but still she felt herself forced down by some sort of invisible energy. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, she couldn’t even tell where she was—all was darkness, except for the strange shapes around her—but she didn’t care. She continued to scream out the name of her Wyvern, her dead Wyvern, her dead friend, even as a voice—the same one which had been calling her name, and which she vaguely recognized as familiar somehow—telling her to calm, calm, please be calm, rest—but it didn’t matter, she screamed and screamed until, with a hint of impatience, the voice spoke a word of power and she felt herself drift back into oblivion.

 

How long was it, then, till she woke up again? A few minutes? A few hours? She wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter. She had dreamed much in that span of time, and those dreams…she had come to accept what they portrayed. All of it.

 

She slowly opened her eyes, and to her relief she was not greeted by harsh light but a small, dark room which seemed to be lit only by a single candle. Vyrleena groggily turned her head to the left to see it was standing on a small wooden table from which it illuminated the nondescript single bed she was lying on—not at all luxurious; much worse than her accommodations back in Bern (recollections of which faded in and out of her consciousness as remnants of the dream-fragments she was waking from) but not at all unsatisfactory either. However, the faint light of the single candle was not enough to tell her anything more than that.

 

“Minerva…not here…” Her voice came from a dry throat and still dripped with despair, but after all those dreams, the reality of her friend’s death no longer paralyzed her entirely. “Aquleia? This isn’t…where am I?”

 

She was answered with a light chuckle from a mellifluous voice, that same vaguely familiar voice she had heard when she first awoke to a nightmare.

 

“Finally! You seem to have recovered, at least to an extent,” he said. “But first things first. Do you recognize me, Sister Vyrleena?”

 

She raised her head and peered into the darkness, and accompanied by the shuffling of loose clothing a pale-skinned man with wan lips, cold, sinister blue eyes and short lavender hair stepped closer to the candle, allowing her to see him. She drew back at first—she didn’t recognize him at all! But her eyes fell to the lower portion of his face, and she distinctly remembered seeing those same wan lips just barely visible below the raised visor of a pitch-black helmet, part of a peculiar set of armor which she had seen someone wearing around Paptimus a few times before…

 

“T…Trunicht,” she said, and in her emotional state she could not mask the distrust and distaste in her voice. “Job Trunicht. You were Paptimus’—“

 

“His comrade and fellow fighter in our glorious Revolutionary struggle. I’m glad to see you remember that, Vyrleena. Rest assured, it is still true…along with one more thing, of course. I am also the man who saved your life.”

 

She didn’t respond to this, only tensing her body and narrowing her eyes at him as he continued.

 

“Ah, forgive my rudeness. I haven’t told you where—or when—you are! Lady Vyrleena, you are currently resting in my personal quarters within the town of Solgrenne, in northern Etruria, just above the great—well, formerly great—Bingham Bridge, in fact. You should know it from the maps of this country you’ve studied. It is currently the Twentieth Wyvern of the year 703 A.S. You have—“

 

Her eyes widened and she bolted upright. “Aquleia…Minerva…it was…how long have I been here? TRUNICHT! MINERVA! WHAT DID YOU—“

 

“Apparently your recovery was not as speedy as I’d hoped,” grumbled the Black Knight as he held out a hand and forced the panicked woman back down onto the bed with the power of his dark magic. “Lady Vyrleena, I’m terribly sorry for waking you under these circumstances, but I haven’t much time,” he tried to reassure her as she continued to thrash. “I am well aware of the shock your wyvern’s death has placed upon your mind. But you _must_ calm yourself down! You are a warrior of Bern, and you were Paptimus’ trusted ally in our glorious struggle! Please, collect yourself!”

 

Her thrashing slowed and her breath eased, and after a few moments Trunicht figured she was calm enough to allow him to lower his hand and withdraw the dark forces he commanded.

 

“Tell me what happened,” she said flatly, staring at him with the coldest expression she could muster. “ _Everything_.”

 

“You remember your defeat in Aquleia, don’t you?”

 

“Y…yes. Minerva….Minerva….”

 

“Yes, your poor companion was killed and I fear the rest of us fared little better. That General of theirs was a terrifying opponent, and fended off the sneak attack of my Red Shoulders by setting the entire harbor aflame!

 

“I barely managed to escape with my life, and many of my Red Shoulders were not so lucky. Yet it seems that fortune did smile upon me that day, sister. Away from my burning boat, I Warped to safety into the city itself. The battle was raging all around me, but I kept to the shadows and evaded detection from any of the King’s men. I knew I’d have to leave very soon, though. However, as it happened I had emerged from the Warp near one of the city’s many canals. Imagine my surprise, then, when I saw what seemed at first glance to be a waterlogged cadaver floating across the water! I had assumed it was merely another corpse, but the green hair and ornate spear it still gripped with one hand told me otherwise.

 

“Without wasting a moment, I fished your unconscious body out of the water just as a troop of Royalist soldiers happened upon us. I Warped away once again and this time, to safety, where I could at last pause and treat your wounds…your physical ones, at least. However, just by looking at you, I knew something must have happened to your mount, else she would have rescued you. I am well aware of the shock which a wyvern rider feels at losing their partner, and so I realized that your mind may have been broken under the circumstances. So I put you under a deep sleep for many months, waiting for you to recover and accept the reality of your partner’s death. I later heard the story of your fall and Minerva’s death, of how a teal-haired man was seen hanging from your wyvern as it descended, and knew you needed much time to rest. In that time, I carried you with me back to the Revolutionary army…you have been my most constant companion for some time, sister, and have traveled across the breadth of this land with me. It was not a poor decision, as you can see by the fact that you reacted in such a panicked manner even after all the sleep you’ve had. But it seems my judgment has been vindicated…you seem to have regained your faculties.

 

“Lady Vyrleena, now that you know the full story, are you ready to rejoin us and fight for the cause you believe in? Brother Paptimus’ cause?”

 

The former Wyvern General was not yet convinced. “Not yet. My men,” she asked. “Do they know I’m still alive?”

 

“Well, there aren’t many of them left,” said Trunicht. “Our defeat was…severe. However, no-one else knows that you still live. In your condition, as you were, it might have been…inadvisable, to reveal you. Look at how you reacted to me initially! You were even worse before I put you to sleep. If the soldiers had seen that it would have demoralized them even further, providing more trouble to our war effort.”

 

“Is that so?” she asked, still suspicious. “Paptimus told me you always seemed to have an answer for everything. So tell me, then. Just how ‘troubled’ is our war effort?”

 

Trunicht sighed. “Alas, very troubled indeed. The Royalists have retaken Thagaste, and are sending a small force—which includes the man who killed your partner, I might add—to this northeastern part of Etruria to fend off our counterattack, and they have succeeded very well in slowing us down.” At this, however, he smiled. “But all is not lost, sister. We can push them back, and fulfill the dreams of Brother Paptimus and the Revolution. And you can play a part in that, as well!”

 

Her eyes widened again, this time in shock. “We’ve lost Thagaste? Trunicht, we’ve lost the war! How can you expect to continue fighting when we’ve been pushed back that far?!”

 

“All is not lost yet, sister. Vinland has mobilized and his force will be marching south after they’ve forded the river and passed the destroyed Bingham Bridge. He is a warrior easily the equal of that Red Comet the King has apparently managed to employ. Paptimus, on the other hand, is leading another force straight to Thagaste. With Vinland’s army flanking it and Paptimus striking at it directly, Thagaste will surely fall, and then we will march to Aquleia and redeem ourselves for our previous defeat there!”

 

“Aquleia…Minerva…” Vyrleena whispered sadly.

 

“Yes, don’t you see? You’ll be able to avenge your companion’s death, good sister! What else could you want?”

 

“Minerva…” She blinked, and hatred burned in her eyes once again, but this time it wasn’t directed at Trunicht. “I remember who killed her…that teal-haired scum I met back in Lycia! I want him, Trunicht. _Him_. Where—“

 

“Ah, that’s the nice thing about my plan,” Trunicht grinned slyly. “You see, Vinland and I have some…valuable…artifacts, shall we say, that we are guarding in an abandoned fortress a few miles away from Solgrenne. The royalists, however, have gotten word of it, and they are sending a special team to liberate these…treasures…we are storing in the citadel. Your teal-haired nemesis—his name is Renault--is part of that team, and justifiably so—he and his friends have gotten much stronger since you fought them at Aquleia.

 

“What they don’t realize, however, is that I very much meant for that information to fall into their hands. And that they are walking straight into a trap. By now they should have found out that the citadel is lightly defended, and knowing their leader, Khyron, they’ll charge in foolhardily. But they won’t escape alive.” His grin grew wider as he looked down at Vyrleena. “Because you, brave warrior of Bern, will be waiting for them!”

 

Vyrleena blinked. “Me?” Eagerness at the thought of facing Renault once again briefly flitted across her face, but only a for a moment; after which it was replaced once again by despair. “But Minerva…my Minerva is dead. My wings have been clipped. What…what can I do?”

 

“Well, you still have your spear,” Trunicht smiled, reaching into the shadows and somehow producing from their inky black depths her personal weapon, one of the most powerful treasures on the face of Elibe—the Royal Spear, Rex Hasta.

 

Yet even that was not enough to revive her flagging spirits. “Even…even with that spear, I still lost to…Renault? Renault, yes. I failed Paptimus, I failed our cause, I failed my country, and I failed my partner…I failed Minerva. Give that spear to someone worthier than I. I gave up the title of Wyvern General, and I was never worthy of it in the first place.”

 

“Giving up do easily?” Trunicht sneered. “The soul of your wyvern is surely crying in despair at your refusal to avenge her death.”

 

“What can I do?!” Vyrleena retorted. “I already lost to them once! Do you want me to repeat my shame? If they truly are stronger, as you say, then how could I, weak as I am now, possibly hope to defeat them? How could I prevail when half of me has been torn away?!”

 

“Because, brave warrior, the Rex Hasta is not the only present I have for you,” said the Black Knight, laughing gaily. “Vyrleena, I suppose I must have kept you sleeping for too long! You’re so very lacking in awareness. Haven’t you even noticed what you’re wearing? Haven’t you wondered why you felt metal against your skin rather than nightclothes or bedsheets? Look!”

 

With a sweep of his hand an invisible force snatched away the blanket covering Vyrleena’s body, and the woman inadvertently gasped…but she found no need to cover herself, because she wasn’t naked. Quite the opposite, actually.

 

She had no idea how he had done it, but Trunicht had apparently managed to dress her in a suit of armor—the strangest she had ever seen. Greyish-black in color, it was curved and fluted in strange places and made out of a bizarre material which felt cold and _slimy_ against her skin rather than hard and metallic. As a Wyvern Lord, she could appreciate the sharp edges all over it which turned almost her entire body into a weapon, but she was much less happy about the sinister aura which hung thickly about it, so powerful as she wore it that it seemed almost impossible to breath. She had no idea how she hadn’t noticed—then, as she looked at Trunicht’s grin, she realized the dark magician must have been suppressing the cursed armor’s enchantment with his own magic just so he could spring this surprise on her.

 

And it was an extremely nasty surprise indeed, for as a Wyvern General of Bern, she had heard many tales about this eldritch artifact. “T-TRUNICHT!” she gasped, flailing around on the bed, desperately trying to get away from him as it seemed she would be suffocated by the armor’s evil. “You…what have you done!? This is the Armor of the Berserk!”

 

“Exactly, sister! And it’s just what you need as well. With this armor, you’ll be able to slaughter Renault and his friends as if they were nothing!”

 

“You-you fool!” she coughed. “This armor is an abomination! A blasphemy! The culmination of the most reprehensible, forbidden dark magics anyone on Elibe has ever wielded!”

 

“Come now, using a word like ‘blasphemy?’ Paptimus would be disappointed. And besides, he uses Dark magic too, does he not? Surely this can’t be that much worse!”

 

“Trunicht, d-don’t act stupid! You know this armor is beyond anything Paptimus is capable of! Y-you’re insane! You’ve _killed_ me! This armor may grant power, yes, but at the cost of the wearer’s life! I won’t be able to wear this for more than ten minutes before it devours my soul the way a wolf devours flesh!”

 

“But you need it to avenge your partner, Vyrleena. She gave up her life for you. Aren’t you willing to do the same? Is even your soul too high a price to pay for avenging her death?”

 

“N-no! NO!” The woman yelled, falling off the bed. As she got up, she tried her best to back away from the Black Knight, but he grinned evilly, and jolts of agony shot through her body as the armor itself seemed to take control of it. “T-Trunicht, Minerva wouldn’t want this! Never! She was born in Bern, just like me! A-and she’d never want me to stoop down to the use of such an unholy artifact for her sake! I may be a failure, but I won’t sully the name of my country! No native of Bern could ever make use of such a vile relic for any reason, even revenge!”

 

“You never said any of this when you and the sages of Bern were torturing Barbarossa,” said Trunicht, still amused. “Still, there’s little reason for you to carry on like this, Vyrleena. I’m a bit disappointed, to be honest, but not really surprised. For you see, good sister of the Revolution, you simply don’t have a choice in the matter.”

 

“No!” Vyrleena started, but she could say no more. She stood up ramrod-straight as further jolts of pure agony coursed through her body, the Armor of the Berserk cutting off any hope of further resistance almost as if it had a malicious will of its own. The paralyzed Bernite could only watch in horror as Trunicht strode towards her, carrying what she recognized was the final piece of the suit—the helmet. It seemed to _shift_ in his hand—at first, she thought it was in the shape of a grey-black skull, but as she watched helplessly, the top of the head seemed to lengthen into a spiked crest, and the front extended, forming a muzzle of sorts—almost like that of a Wyvern. Almost like that of _Minerva_.

 

“Your sacrifice will be remembered, Vyrleena,” he said as he stood in front of her paralyzed form. “The bards of the Revolution will sing your praises after we’ve won this war. We couldn’t have done it without you, after all. The power of your armor will destroy this special team Renault thinks he’s a part of, and will then lay waste to the King’s armies!”

 

With that, he held the devilish helmet aloft for a moment, and then placed it directly on Vyrleena’s head.

 

The piercing scream emanating from Trunicht’s quarters could be heard from across the entire city. Of course, no-one—not even Dougram or Serapino—questioned him about it. They knew better.

 

But soon enough, they’d find out what it heralded for their cause, their enemies, and indeed, the future of Etruria.

 

-x-

 

“Hey, what was that?”

 

“Huh? You heard it too, Braddock?”

 

Renault said this to his friend as the two of them lay on their backs on a grassy hill beneath the clear night sky of northern Etruria. Even though he’d seen it many times before in his travels, and even though his tastes tended more towards the architectural rather than the natural, Renault could never shake his appreciation of the beauty above him. The stars surrounding the bright white glowing moon seemed like a set of glittering gemstones arranged in unfathomable designs around a perfect opal, the ornaments of a mourning garment of the deepest blue-black. It had been those designs Braddock was talking to him about—at least until they head that strange noise, a high, piercing wail that seemed to come from infinitely far in the distance, so subdued that they barely heard it, and yet _felt_ it within the recesses of their minds.

 

Perhaps, though, it was a trick. “What could it’ve been?” asked Renault, sitting up. “You think we’re—“

 

“Wait,” said Braddock, keeping very still and motioning for his friend to do the same. Several moments passed, and after nothing happened, both men relaxed. “Guess it must’ve been in our heads or something. Or a bird or something like that? Hah…guess we’re gettin’ paranoid, huh?”

 

“Well, in a war like this, that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” grinned Renault as he settled back down on the grass. “I mean, you always told me that the moment a mercenary ends up careless or overconfident is the moment he ends up dead, right?”

 

“True enough, bud.”

 

“Still, I guess we shouldn’t have anything to worry about for now. We’re still a day or so away from that citadel where Solgrenne’s girls are locked up or something, and they’re not expecting us. Even this deep in enemy territory we should be pretty safe.”

 

Renault was more or less correct. Several days earlier, under the cover of a black night much like this, Keith and Kelitha had ferried the rest of them over the destroyed Bingham Bridge. The rebel army hadn’t even posted guards over it, apparently supremely confident that the royalists wouldn’t even bother attempting to ford the river or cross it with their inferior numbers. By the same token, they weren’t doing a very good job of patrolling the region either—it seemed the mass of their forces was kept in Solgrenne, keeping the residents of that city under tight control while leaving the countryside comparatively ignored. Thus, the “Autonomous Company” had been able to make their trek across rebel territory fairly easily, while, of course, still maintaining some precautions, such as forbidding Kelitha and Keith to fly high and camping out where they could in forests and other secluded areas, out of the open. When they had neared their destination, the once-abandoned citadel that Vinland had apparently turned into a prison, Khyron had ordered them to stop their advance and wait for some time. He wanted Harvery to go ahead and scout out the citadel beforehand, and while he did so the rest of his companions were left with nothing but free time as they waited for his return. Once again, the outside of the citadel and the surrounding area seemed very lightly guarded, as the rebels weren’t expecting an incursion like this, which explained why Renault and Braddock found themselves with enough free time for amateur astronomy. They weren’t worried about any ambushes by this point either, which was why they weren’t wearing their armor (though of course, they both had their sword and axe with them—no point in being _too_ careless).

 

“So go on with what you were saying,” continued Renault. “What was all that about those…stars, or constawhats you mentioned?”

 

Braddock chuckled, settling back beside his friend. “Constellations, Renault. We never had any big observatories back in Lycia like you Etrurians have in Aquleia, but a lot of the common people still like lookin’ at em anyways. See, look at that one over there,” he said, pointing at a group of six stars that seemed to be clustered in a rough circle, with one bright star seemingly larger than the others at the precise center of the formation. “We call that Roland’s Shield,” Braddock said. “One of my old buddies from the fighting pit told me a lot of stories about that. There’s a legend in Ostia that says a long time ago, right after the Scouring, Roland raised his Durandal above his head and restored the burnt, destroyed ground back to life. But they say the Divine Weapons had wills of their own, and Durandal wanted something from Roland in return. So the ‘little knight’ gave up his shield, and the gods—or God, depending on who you ask—placed it into the sky, as an eternal testament to his heroism.”

 

“He died of old age anyways, didn’t he? Kind of a waste if you ask me.”

 

“Hah, hah, I knew you’d say that, Renault. I—hey, look at _that!_ ”

 

“Hm?” Renault’s eyes shifted to where his friend was now pointing, and he noticed another bright spot of light, but one that seemed to be moving this time, streaking across the sky above Roland’s Shield with a white trail behind it. “A shooting star?”

 

“Yep,” said Braddock. “There are a lot of stories about those, too. I remember one time a priest—might’ve been Volker, I dunno—telling me that every falling star is the soul of a dead person being led to God’s country.”

 

“Hah! Another stupid superstition,” said Renault contemptuously. “Turning into a star when you’re dead? Amazin’ so many people believe that.”

 

“I…Renault…” said Braddock hesitantly, somewhat to Renault’s surprise. He’d expected his friend to agree with him wholeheartedly.

 

“Huh? What’s up, Braddock?”

 

“I…ah, it’s probably just me. Forget about it, Renault.”

 

“Well, okay, but are you sure? I mean, you know you can tell me anything, man.”

 

“Uh…well…this probably is gonna sound really weird coming from me, but Renault, did you ever think you’ve given religion too little credit?”

 

Renault was practically bowled over by this admission. “Braddock, I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you! We’ve been together for years and we’ve always agreed that there wasn’t any point in believing in God. None at all! And now you’re chewing me out like my mom did? Have you gone crazy?”

 

The Ostian chuckled. “I can see why you’d think that. But the truth is…I…well, look. Can I talk to you about something? It’s about…back in Ostia…my past, I mean.”

 

Renault nodded. “As always, man. I really wanna know what’s up with you, and I’ll never tell a soul, anyways.” He looked around cautiously. They were a fair distance from where their teammates set up camp, and none of them seemed to be around. “Looks like it’ll stay between us as well.”

 

The Warlord nodded gratefully, got himself comfortable, and began his tale.

 

“For a long time, ever since the Civil War back home, ever since Pamela died…her death was the defining moment of my life. Everything I believed was shaped by that. I thought Volker killed her…so I blamed the nobility he was born from and the priesthood he was a part of. My hatred of the aristocracy and my disdain for religion…everything stemmed from that.

 

“I lived that way for over seven years. Everything I did, everything I believed, it all revolved around what I thought was Volker’s murder of my beloved Pamela. I joined Paptimus’s rebellion because it represented everything I did believe in. He fought against the nobility, he fought against religion…Paptimus was like an idol for me. I finally found a cause I could join without any reservations.

 

“But then I found out the real Paptimus…I overheard him talking about how he killed my Pamela. And it changed my life, Renault. Literally turned my world upside-down. For all these years I thought the love of my life had been murdered by a nobleman and a clergyman. But in a single night, I discovered that it was the man I looked up to, the man I saw as an embodiment of my ideals, who’d taken her away from me…all for the sake of his “greater good.”

 

“And he really _was_ my ideal, Renault. He was a nonbeliever, like me, and he hated the nobility, like I did.  But he’s also the foulest scum to ever walk the face of Elibe.

 

“When I found that out, it…it really changed my thinking on a lot of things. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still not big on the nobility—my childhood’s gonna see to that. And even if he didn’t kill Pamela, Bishop Volker was still a slimy piece of garbage, so I’m not too fond of religion either. But maybe…maybe neither of those things is as bad as I always made them out to be. And you, Renault. I mean, Paptimus should’ve been one of us. He believed the same things we did, and we served him loyally! But then we found out he was manipulating us all that time…framing us, treating us like tools!

 

“So…so that got me thinkin’, Renault. If somebody like us could turn out to be vermin, maybe those who aren’t like us aren’t so much worse, either. The nobles may be bad, but they’re not as bad as Paptimus. And even if Eliminism or any other religion isn’t correct, it’s got to be better than what Paptimus has to offer!”

 

It was the end of his speech, and Renault looked at him curiously. “Hah,” Braddock mumbled bashfully, “aw, I guess I must’ve said too much, eh? Just forget it, I—“

 

“Braddock, no, it’s alright,” replied Renault thoughtfully. “And thinking about it, I guess you have a point. I mean, Paptimus had me just as much as he had you. I looked up to him—and Tassar—as much as you did. But then I found out he framed me, and he was manipulating me all this time. But I guess I never really thought about how much alike we were. Even when my mother died, all I could think of was how she was such a stubborn fool, how her religion never saved her, and how she sold me out just to keep up appearances for her damned flock. But now that you mention it…I think I see things a bit more clearly now. Even if my mom kicked me out, the reason she kicked me out in the first place was because of Paptimus…because of a nonbeliever like me, someone who hated the church as much as I did, as much as you did. So I can give you that point, Braddock.” He laughed. “You know, we may be evenly matched on the battlefield, but you keep getting the best of me in these little conversations. I can’t mock Ilians or Sacaens anymore, and now I can’t mock the faithful, all because of you.

 

“I have to say this, though,” and Renault’s voice lowered, becoming more serious, “Look, I’ll do as you ask and stop saying mean things about Elimineans, but I’m definitely not gonna start believin’ in Eliminism itself, you know? And I’m definitely not gonna start thinking it’s any less of a load of crock. I understand why you hate Paptimus even more than I do, and now that my mom’s gone…maybe I can look at how she raised me with a new perspective. But no matter what perspective I take, I’m not ever gonna forget how she reacted after my dad died. And I’m never gonna forget how God never did anything for my dad, either.

 

“Hell, if you think about it, this whole war’s a vindication of nonbelief, isn’t it? I mean, if God really existed, why would He let Pamela die in the first place? Why would He let both Lycia and Etruria get wrecked by civil war?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, like I said earlier, I’m definitely not gonna be gettin’ all religious myself, with my other experiences with Volker and all,” Braddock nodded. “You’re exactly right. It’s not like I’m askin’ you to buy into all that stuff either. I’m just saying…don’t look at it in such a…I dunno, such a one-dimensional light, I guess?”

 

“Uh-huh. I think I got your meaning, Braddock.”

 

He grinned in response. “Thanks.”

 

The two men said nothing more for several minutes after that, continuing to watch the night sky above them as they continued to grow a little sleepy. The rest of their troop was probably asleep right now, and not particularly worried about them either, given the absence of enemy forces they’d experienced all through the span of their secret mission. So when the silence between them was broken, it wasn’t from an enemy, but from Braddock letting go with one more confession to his friend.

 

“Hey, uh, Renault…after all that, you mind if I tell you one more thing?”

 

“Huh? Of course not. What’re you thinkin’ about?”

 

“It’s…I dunno. Sort of a confession, I guess.”

 

“Go on.”

 

Braddock gazed thoughtfully at his friend. “As strange as it sounds, Renault…I…I think I’m almost thankful for this war. I know I must sound like a hypocrite, with me warning you about getting too used to violence and all, but…I finally know the truth behind Pamela’s death, and I can finally do something about it. And even more than that…I’ve seen so many things, _learned_ so many things, and I’ve become so much stronger. But most of all…” He looked straight at his companion. “I met _you_ , Renault. For the first time in years, ever since Pamela died…I haven’t been alone. Not really. Tassar was my employer, but he was never really my friend. You, though…Renault, no matter what happens, I’ll always be glad I met you. Even if it was one of Paptimus’ schemes that brought us together…well, guess that just proves he’s a fool. He created the team that’s gonna take him down!”

 

“Exactly!” Renault cheered.

 

“But even more than that, I’ve got…Renault, you’re my best friend. You’re the first person since Pamela I’ve been able to talk with like this. Don’t mistake what I’m saying—I wish my Pamela was still alive with all my heart, and I’ll never, EVER forgive Paptimus for what he did. But meeting you…the pain doesn’t seem so bad anymore. The memory of her never faded, not for eight years. And I’ll never forget her, either. But thanks to you, thanks to having you by my side…I think I can imagine a world where she can rest in peace after Paptimus is dead, and where she’s smiling down on us from Heaven…well, at least if heaven actually existed,” he chuckled. “So I…I guess I’m glad, in the end. Glad for everything that happened. And most of all, glad I met you.”

 

The Mercenary Lord blushed a little. “I, uh…”

 

“Hah, sorry for unloadin’ all this on you so suddenly,” grinned Braddock bashfully. “I don’t even know what’s up with me tonight. It’s like I’m a lovestruck girl or something! I really gotta shape up.”

 

“Nah, it’s alright, Braddock. Truth be told, I…I feel the same way. I never had any siblings, but…Braddock, if I could ever call anybody my brother, it’d be you.”

 

“Renault, you…you really mean that?”

 

Renault’s blush grew deeper, and he looked down. “Y-yeah…I mean, uh…hah. Now I’m the one who sounds like a lovestruck girl, huh?”

 

“Nah. It’s just, I was thinking…”

 

“Huh?”

 

“This is gonna seem really strange, but…ah, what the hell. “ While Renault watched him curiously, Braddock sat up and got his axe, but held it in his left hand. Before his friend could react with anything other than astonishment, the Ostian drew the razor-sharp blade across the palm of his right hand. The cut was not deep at all, but still large enough that a very visible trickle of blood could be seen dripping to the ground as Braddock held his hand out to Renault.

 

“Now it’s your turn, Renault.”

 

“Braddock, w…what the hell?” Renault was completely confused. “Did you get hit by a Berserk staff or something? I—“

 

This elicited a loud guffaw from his friend. “No, Renault! Nothing like that! But I guess I should’ve explained it to you earlier…you must be scared as hell right now. It’s an old Lycian warrior’s custom. Each man cuts his own hand, and then shakes hands with his fellow soldiers, the ones he considers brothers. If they weren’t related by blood before, they would be after that. So I thought…”

 

Renault was silent for a long moment, and Braddock almost considered retracting his hand, now fully aware of how utterly foolish he must have seemed at that moment. Renault, however, was too quick. In a single swift movement, the Mercenary Lord picked up his sword with his left hand and sliced the palm of his right, and then reached out with it to give Braddock a firm, bloody handshake.

 

“Don’t tell anybody about this,” growled Renault. “I really treat you too kindly, you know that? First goin’ easy on Eliminism, and now I’m indulging your silly Lycian superstitions!

 

“But you know what? You’ve already been my brother for a while, and I guess this makes it official. So I guess it’s worth, it, right?”

 

Despite himself, though, he couldn’t keep from smiling. And as Braddock looked at the expression on his friend’s face, a wide smile broke out on his own. And that smile soon expanded into a great, mirthful laugh. And as he kept his friend’s bloody hand firmly clasped in his own, Renault soon found himself joining in.

 

That laughter would not last forever. But under the beautiful starry skies, it lasted long enough. And when it finally ended, and the two men broke their grip, they headed back to camp to sleep, easier than they were able to for a very long time.

 

-x-

 

“Hey! Hey!! Renault, wake up!”

 

“Eh? The hell?”

 

Renault hadn’t been prodded awake by someone’s boot for a very long time, and it brought back bad memories of his times with both Henken and Tassar. However, when he saw it was Braddock, who seemed very excited, he quickly forgot all about that and sat straight up on the sleeping mattress on the grassy ground.

 

“What is it? Are we under attack?”

 

“No, but Harvery’s just got back! He managed to get a map of the citadel along with some other stuff! C’mon, let’s go! He’s already briefing Khyron and the others!”

 

Renault didn’t need to be told twice—in fact, this was exactly what he and his team had been waiting for for some time. He hastily raised himself and followed Braddock a few feet away, where the newly arrived Harvery, apparently looking tired but quite excited, was describing to everyone what he’d seen.

 

“This is really important!” he exclaimed, noting Braddock and Renault had joined the rest of their comrades (with Khyron in the approximate center of the semicircle they formed around Harvery). “You guys won’t believe what I found!”

 

“It better be good, thief,” huffed Khyron impatiently. “You’ve kept us waiting for days! I was beginning to worry you’d erred and gotten yourself captured!”

 

“Aw, c’mon, that hurts, milord. Surely you have more faith in my abilities than that?”

 

“Enough! Just tell us what we need to know!”

 

“All right, all right!” Harvery sheepishly pulled out a sheaf of parchment from his robes and laid it out in front of his friends. “There are a few reasons I took so long, and one of ‘em was finding out maps like this. See, where the prisoners are holed up is officially called Elram’s Citadel, but it’s more accurately termed the Citadel of Despair. It’s really old—closed for over a hundred years--and the foundations are real shaky. I dunno how it’s even still standing. It used to be a labor camp, though, and the dungeons below it are pretty extensive, so I guess that’s why they chose it to hold the prisoners. One of King Galahad’s ancestors closed it down because he thought keeping people in a place like that was “inhumane” and “against Eliminean tenets” or something like that. But that’s not the point.

 

“They keep the front door pretty heavily guarded, but overall, for the most part the guards were pretty light. I guess it’s because they’re not expecting us. I was able to sneak in through a broken window and creep around the citadel grounds for a bit. Found a lot of nice stuff, too. I got this little thing stashed away underneath a loose stone in the citadel overseer’s record room, which the rebels haven’t paid much attention to. Now we know their own prison better than they do! Look,” he said, pointing towards an odd structure to the east of the castle grounds. “What you see there is a secret passage from the eastern mines to the guard’s quarters. The rebels have no idea it exists. I guess back when the citadel was still operational, they used it as a way for the guards to surprise the prisoners if the need arose, but now we can use it to get straight into the castle!”

 

“Sounds good, but it’s never that easy, right?” said Renault. “Assuming we manage to use this secret passage to get in, what next?”

 

“Well, here’s the thing,” Harvery replied, looking a bit dispirited. “I explored the place and managed to reach the prison quarters where the girls are being held. I found em, and they’re all okay—the rebels haven’t killed any of ‘em yet. But I wasn’t able to spring ‘em. See, the doors to their cells don’t have any keys! Apparently, the whole thing is controlled by some kind of weird, really ornate mechanism. Nobody expect the prison overseer can get anyone in or out, and that’s only if he operates the doors from his personal room, on the fourth floor of the complex. There’s a series of levers in the room right behind his throne room which control the cell doors in the basement. I couldn’t get any of ‘em to work with my lockpicks and tools…so that’s where all of you come in. We’re gonna have to infiltrate the citadel, get to the fourth floor, occupy that control room, set all of Solgrenne’s ladies free, and lead ‘em back to the city. The moment they hear their girls have been liberated, the people will rise up against the rebels and kick ‘em out! Or at least give Vinland and his men enough trouble that even the token force Gafgarion was given will be able to take the city and drive ‘em back!”

 

“All well and good, thief, but why didn’t you take the initiative and free the prisoners yourself, then?”

 

“Khyron, didn’t you hear what I said? I _couldn’t_ open the cell doors! The only way to get to ‘em is through the control room behind the throne room, and that was the one part of the castle which actually was well-guarded! Trying to infiltrate would have been suicide!”

 

“Or maybe you’re just incompetent,” Khyron huffed again. “A _true_ servant of the crown would have figured out a way! Still, no matter. We’ll just have to do this ourselves.”

 

“Well, yeah,” said Harvery, unfazed by Khyron’s insults. “About that, though, two things. First, there’s a good reason I took so much time. The rebels brought some of their equipment with them and let’s just say I helped myself to some of it. Look at all this!” He unlimbered the pack from his back and removed three items from its depths, much to the impressments of his comrades. “First, check this out! A Rescue staff! Khyron, you’re gonna find this’ll come in real handy. Secondly, I also found this nice little Silver Card! Our finances ought to be much more robust if we make good use of this. Nice, huh?”

 

“Most definitely, Harvery,” said Braddock. “With this stuff we ought be able to take care of things in the Citadel and onwards easily!”

 

“Don’t be too quick to say that, M—Braddock.” Harvery’s expression grew dimmer. “I have to warn you…something felt…off. I mean, really off. I saw a few guards here and there, and there were a lot around the throne room, sure, but there were way too few for so many prisoners, even if they’re not expecting anything. I think I found out the reason why…I overheard some conversations the guards were having. Apparently, Trunicht’s in charge of the citadel, and he’s got something really nasty in there. It…it might be another secret weapon or something, I dunno.”

 

“Not again,” groaned Braddock. “You’re joking, right? How many God damn ‘secret weapons’ can the rebels possibly pull outta their asses?”

 

 “I don’t know, Braddock! I’m just repeating what the guards said! It would definitely explain why the citadel—hell, why this entire area—is so lightly guarded. I…I think we gotta be careful.”

 

“Careful didn’t save my sister,” grunted Roberto spitefully, but no-one paid him much heed. Instead, it was Renault who spoke for them.

 

“Yeah, well, we’re always careful, but something always comes up anyways. Then again, we’ve always gotten through so far. We’ll get through it again. Even if we have to deal with some kind of secret weapon—again—we might as well get rid of it before it gets out, right? So that’s another reason to embark on this mission.

 

“In that case, what’re we waiting for? Let’s just get it over with.”

 

All of them had heard those words before, but they weren’t getting tired of them, for they were still true. Khyron noded, and with that, the men and women under his command began packing up their equipment and heading towards the Citadel of Despair.

 

-x-

 

“Sir Dougram! Sir Dougram! Wonderful news!”

 

As usual, Dougram would have been irritated by Serapino calling him “sir,” but as the priest burst into his makeshift office as he was looking over another supply report from one of his soldiers, the Nabatan decided that figuring out why the priest was so happy was more important than chiding him. “What is it? What’s so great!”

 

“The people are all talking about it, Sir Dougram! I’ve heard the citizenry whispering about it all day! The prisoners are going to be saved! The royalists have sent a team to Elram’s Citadel to rescue the prisoners. That way—“

 

“Serapino! Keep your voice down!” Dougram admonished. “If someone heard you, they’d think you were a traitor!”

 

“O-oh! R-right!” Serapino immediately lowered his voice. “B-but Dougram, aren’t you happy? I know you! Your sense of justice is strong! You don’t agree at all with what Trunicht is doing, right? So if this special team succeeds, we won’t have to worry about the people anymore, right?”

 

“…yeah, that’s right,” sighed Dougram, sliding back in his chair. “I’m loyal to the Revolution but Trunicht…Trunicht, he doesn’t care about truth or justice at all! Even so, I don’t think this is going to solve anything.” His expression grew grim. “Trunicht and Vinland already know about the rescue attempt.”

 

Serapino’s eyes widened. “R-really? B-but how?!”

 

“I don’t know. But all I do know is that they’re expecting our friends. I overheard them talking about it a couple of nights ago. Trunicht has some sort of secret weapon waiting for them…I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it has to do with that scream we heard a while ago. But whatever it is…”

 

Dougram didn’t need to finish that sentence. Both he and Serapino fell into silence, their eyes turning towards the window of their room. Below it, the hustle and bustle of the city of Solgrenne could be heard, albeit considerably quieter given the absence of so many of its citizens. And far off into the distance, near the horizon, Dougram’s sharp Nabatan eyes could just about make out the shape of Elram’s Citadel—where so many people were being held, and where his friends Renault and Braddock were headed.

 

It may have been disloyalty to the Revolution, but Dougram didn’t care. All he hoped for was that they were safe—and that they succeeded in their mission.

 

-X-

 

So far, this was going much, much easier than Renault was expecting. Thus, his premonition that something was going to go very wrong very soon was only further sharpened.

 

They had snuck into the abandoned mine complex to the east of the citadel about a day ago, and had camped there without any problems beyond the creepiness—any minerals and ores the mine had once possessed had been fully exploited long ago, so the rebels had no interest and thus no guards around it. The citadel itself was, fittingly, a grim, foreboding hunk of rock, shaped vaguely like a castle but without any of the beautiful spires or other architectural features which made those so impressive. It was simply a four-story stone box without even windows, around which were set four equally tall guard towers at the north, south, east, and west ends almost right next to the main complex itself. Those towers overlooked the mines, which the Autonomous Company was infiltrating at the moment.

 

Soon enough, they had come to a mysterious chunk of rock deep within the back of the eastern mine, which Braddock and Roberto had lifted away to reveal a dark stone passageway—in Renault’s view, it wasn’t too different from the same secret passage he’d utilized to get to the cathedral in Thagaste. Keith and Kelitha left their Pegasi there (Lisse and her tent were still situated some distance away from the mines, safely hidden among some trees and waiting for their return) and prepared to advance armed only with their spears. Quietly, and with the help of his Torch staff, Khyron led them down, around, and then upwards till they came to what seemed to be a dead end. Harvery, however, carefully felt all around the wall in front of them until his hands happened upon a stone which seemed to be just a bit out of place. When he pressed down on it, to no-one’s surprise, the wall in front of them gave way, revealing the dank innards of what seemed to be the guard’s quarters of the Citadel of Despair.

 

Much to their good fortune, the secret passage opened almost silently, meaning that none of the sleeping occupants had been woken up. There weren’t many of them, however—only five snoring guards lay arrayed on the thin slabs which served as beds in the quarters.

 

The Autonomous Company didn’t have time to waste on them. “C’mon, I’ll show you where the prisoners are kept,” said Harvery. He led them through the darkness out of the quarters, through the winding halls (again, suspiciously bereft of guards) to the entrance to the basement prison complex. They descended the stairs, and finally came across a single alert (though somewhat drowsy) guard. He didn’t pose any problem for them, though—in one single movement, an arrow embedded itself right in his forehead, sending him slumping to the ground with nothing more than a quiet thud.

 

Renault was about to compliment Apolli when he noticed that the shape holding the bow was even bigger than he was. “That Hero Crest did a damn good job teaching you archery, Roberto,” he whispered.

 

The man didn’t even dignify that with a response as all of them stepped into the corridor between the cells. Even in the darkness, just by looking at them, Renault could tell why Harvery hadn’t been able to open them. The huddled forms of masses of women and children could be seen behind grates that were not steel but _stone_. There were holes in each slab of heavy rock through which he could see the prisoners, and through which he assumed the guards passed their food, but other than that there was no way to get past the slabs—even Braddock or Roberto wouldn’t be strong enough to move them. When he looked up, however, he noticed the glint of metal in the darkness. The tops of the slabs were apparently connected to great hooks, roughly similar to those which might be used to lift and lower a drawbridge. The only way to open and close the cells would be to move those slabs of stone via the giant hooks, which were controlled by an external source.

 

“Psst! Hey! Girls!” Harvery said excitedly. “Wake up!”

 

“H-huh?” Several of the women began to stir, getting up from their sleeping positions and blinking at the voice coming from in front of them. “W…what do you rebels want?” one of them asked. “Please, we need food. My baby is…”

 

“We got something better! Freedom!”

 

“W-what?”

 

“We’re not rebels. We’re a team of royalists sent here to infiltrate the citadel and liberate you! So just sit tight and wait here, okay? We’re gonna head to the citadel’s control room and get these doors open for ya!”

 

“Oh! Oh, thank God! We’re free, everyone! We’re—“

 

At this, all the women began to rouse themselves, causing a bit of a commotion, but Harvery quickly hushed them. “Ssh! Hey! Quiet, quiet! You’re not free yet. Just stay here and keep quiet, okay? When the doors open you’ll know we’ve succeeded and you can make your escape. Till then, just stay nice and quiet down here and we’ll come for you. Okay?”

 

The prisoners all nodded their heartfelt assent.

 

“Great! Alright everyone, now to our main destination!” Once again, Harvery led his companions back to entrance and up the stairwell. They ascended, up to the first floor, and then farther, to the second, third, and finally fourth level of the complex. In the tense minutes that passed they heard nothing other than the sound of their own footsteps—quiet footsteps (at least as quiet as their armor would allow, in Braddock and Renault’s case)—but audible nonetheless. The fact that they had not been noticed yet only further cemented Renault’s suspicion that something was very definitely amiss in this citadel. However, he knew there was nothing to be done about it until whatever the threat was actually revealed itself.

 

They passed through the entrance to the fourth floor and came to the entrance to the citadel overseer’s personal meeting room and quarters—the rough equivalent of a castle’s throne room, where he exerted his control over the rest of the grounds, met with his wardens, and generally organized the day to day operations of the labor camps. Behind that room, if Harvery’s information was accurate, lay the control chamber which could open up the stone doors in the basement.

 

It soon became apparent, however, that they’d have to fight for it first.

 

As they neared the large wooden doors—conspicuously absent, yet again, of any guards or sentries—Renault felt the sinking feeling in his stomach deepen, and he wasn’t the only one.

 

“S-somethin’s real wrong with this place, m’lord,” stammered Apolli fearfully. “I-it’s a trap, I know it! W-we oughta leave! There’s”

 

Braddock put a comforting hand on the youth’s shoulder. “It’s too late to turn back now, my friend. Just stay behind me. Whatever’s in there, I’ll keep it offa you and you stick it full of arrows. That plan’s kept us alive so far, right?”

 

“It had better,” muttered Khyron “Enough talk! Now’s the time for action, not hesitation! Let’s go!”

 

Without waiting for his underlings (he didn’t really need to), Khyron stormed straight through those foreboding doors.

 

When they entered the throne room, Renault was struck by how Spartan it seemed to be, though he shouldn’t have been surprised, given it was a prison complex, not a real castle. The room as a whole was smaller than Thagaste or Castle Nerinheit’s throne room, but still large enough to comfortably admit the entire team and give them enough room to fight, too. It was empty except for the throne; the rebels had apparently raided any furniture of value they could get their hands on. The throne, however, was occupied.

 

“This is definitely Trunicht’s doing,” Khyron growled angrily, “It has to be! This is just like Thagaste!”

 

Renault recalled his superior telling him tales of Trunicht’s Fool’s Idol seated on the throne there, and he realized that the situation they were in now was not so different. The room’s sole occupant seemed to be a suit of armor. It was curved in such a way as to indicate its wearer was female (and well-endowed), as well as the fact that long green hair trailed from underneath the bizarre helmet. And indeed, everything about the armor was bizarre. It was grayish-black, curved and fluted in so many strange areas and with so many sharp edges that it seemed almost to be a weapon itself. Strangest of all, the helmet, with its long muzzle and spiky crest, resembled nothing so much as a wyvern’s head.

 

Whoever this warrior was, she apparently hadn’t noticed them yet, as she continued to sit dead still on that throne. Soon enough, however, the power behind her became clear.

 

“Ah, Lord Khyron,” said a mocking, mellifluous, and familiar voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, “How glad I am to see you remember my distinct style! I suppose you may be right. Perhaps I do need to expand my repertoire. Still, I believe you’ll find my latest present for you to be significantly harder to deal with than the Fool’s Idol.”

 

“Trunicht! Show yourself, you cowardly worm!”

 

“Perhaps I will! But only after you’ve introduced yourselves to the lady of the house. She’s an old friend of yours, after all! Especially of you, Renault!”

 

“The hell?!” replied the Mercenary Lord in confusion. And at this, the woman finally moved—she stood up, tall and straight, and though Renault could see nothing behind the inky blackness of the eye-sockets of that terrible wyvern-skull helmet, he knew she was looking straight at him. And the hatred in that gaze was hotter, more focused, than anything he had ever felt before, enhanced twice over by the sheer evil energy which was now radiating from her armor, forcing him and everyone else, even Khyron, to step back in fear.

 

The woman reached to her back to unlimber her weapon—an ornate spear which looked very familiar to Renault. And when she held it up in the air and then slammed its butt on the ground, the Company had to take another step back as gale-force winds appeared out of nowhere all across the room and then centered themselves around the weapon, forming a miniature hurricane with the bluish tip of the spear as its eye.

 

Everything was coming together for Renault now. He recognized the woman’s physique as well as the shade of her hair. “S…shit! It can’t be! You’re that crazy Bernite lady!”

 

“ _Renault…_ ” she rasped, and though her voice was familiar, behind it there also seemed to be another—a voice of chaos, of hatred, of buried evil glad to be unleashed. “ _Minerva…You killed Minerva…_ ”

 

“Your wyvern?” Even in the face of an opponent like this, Renault’s anger and indignation allowed him to regain your composure. “Maybe she’d still be alive if you hadn’t decided to invade my country! What, you want me to finish the job? Guess I’ll send you to meet her!”

 

“Oh, that may be easier said than done, Renault,” said Trunicht’s disembodied voice. “After all, I’ve given her a companion even better than her old wyvern: The Armor of the Berserk!”

 

“T-the Berserk?” said Khyron in shock.

 

“What the hell is it?" Renault snapped.

 

“A cursed suit of armor that can give its user immense power for a short period of time but at the cost of their life. A single soldier wearing this can decimate an army!”

 

“Glad to see you know what you’re getting into,” said Trunicht’s voice. In front of the Company and behind the throne, the door leading to the control chamber creaked shut seemingly of its own volition, and the strange white mist which began seeping out from under it told the intruders who was responsible. At the same time, the entrance to the throne room behind them slammed shut and was sealed by the same magic substance. They were now trapped.

 

“Please, enjoy yourselves!” called the Black Knight’s voice, and with a peal of mocking laughter and a shifting of the room’s shadows, his presence disappeared, leaving Khyron’s team alone with the berserked Vyrleena.

 

And she was definitely going to give them a good time—or at least one of them. “ _Minerva…Revenge…Minerva…REVENGE!”_ The woman’s unearthly voice rose from a low growl to an unearthly Banshee’s wail, and Renault didn’t even have time to ready his weapons before she leapt at him. The only things that saved his life were his reflexes and his armor, and even then just barely. He leapt to the side as a black blur whizzed past him, and yelled in pain as he was literally blown away by the winds which passed in her wake. Already he could get a good sense of the nightmarish armor’s power—she was moving faster than any unmounted Wyvern Lord possibly could, even faster than a Swordmaster.

 

“Grah!” he screamed, slamming into the wall. Around him, his teammates were in a similar position, all of them having been blasted away by the sheer force of the woman’s onslaught. Thankfully, none of them were seriously hurt, though all of them were disoriented and demoralized. And fortunately for them, Vyrleena didn’t really care about them.

 

Unfortunately for Renault, he was her target. This time, however, he was ready for her. He quickly rolled away and scampered to his feet as she charged into the section of the wall he had been leaning against just a moment before, and the power of her enchanted spear punched a hole straight _through_ the wall, allowing everyone in the room to get a good view of the moonlit ground far below (they were on the fourth floor, after all).

 

Of course, they didn’t have time to enjoy the view. Renault darted forwards with a horizontal sweep of his Steel Sword, having managed to get behind Vyrleena while she was momentarily blinded by the cloud of dust which accompanied her attack. However, as he expected, the sword simply bounced off the back of her chestplate impotently—the Armor of the Berserk really was strong.

 

He swore and ducked, preparing to dodge away from the attack he knew was coming, but didn’t expect it to come so quickly. Vyrleena didn’t even bother to turn—instead, she flipped her spear so she was holding it horizontally, and then spunclockwise. Renault was just fast enough to raise his right shoulder, and once again his reflexes saved his life. The butt of her spear connected with his shoulder with enough force to blow a small hole in the pauldron, through the chain mechanism and right into Renault’s arm, breaking the bone. If it had hit his head, his skull would have been shattered, and of course if it had been the point of the spear he would have been blown to pieces. Renault screamed in agony as he was once again slammed away to the side.

 

Luckily for him, his teammates wouldn’t make things _too_ easy for the former Wyvern General. Vyrleena let out another keen of frustration as she toppled to the ground—the Armor may have provided protection, but not necessarily balance. Kelitha had collected herself and dashed forwards with her spear, aiming not for any vulnerable point in Vyrleena’s armor but rather sweeping her weapon across the ground to take the Bernite off her feet. The strategy worked, and Vryleena was now sprawled firmly on her back.

 

“Keith!” the Ilian yelled. “Go for her head!”

 

Her younger sister didn’t need to be told twice. Before Vyrleena could get up, Keith had bounded over Vyrleena’s fallen form, readying her spear for a quick strike at the lower half of the woman’s face, which was exposed by the “mouth” of the wyvern-skull helmet. She yelled in exultation as her spear descended, thinking she had ended the battle…and was thus very surprised when she heard the screech of metal on metal rather than a satisfying spurt of blood.

 

The jaws of the wyvern’s helmet had _shut of their own volition_ and clamped themselves around the head of Keith’s spear. It as was if the Armor of the Berserk was a living entity in and of itself. The young Pegasus Knight yelped and stumbled back, letting go of her weapon as Vyrleena tossed her head and sent the lance flying away.

 

“Shit, this is getting out of hand!” Braddock growled. Taking up where Keith left off, as Vyrleena staggered to her feet he rushed at her with his Wolf Beil leading the way. Whatever kind of bizarre magic armor this was, he surmised, his good Ostian axe ought to be able to cut through it. Once again, however, Vyrleena proved stronger than he expected. As his axe arced down, an attack which would have split open the head of any other opponent, Vyrleena raised her hands and slapped them together, _catching the incoming blade between them_.

 

Braddock was too shocked to say anything. Vyrleena let out a low, animalistic growl and swiftly twisted her hands, snapping the Wolf Beil’s blade off as cleanly and easily as if it was nothing more than a twig and casting it away. She then balled up her right hand in a fist a punched straight out and the Warlord’s chest. Braddock had regained just enough of his composure to raise the shield in his left hand up to protect himself, and Vyrleena’s strike connected to it with a resounding BOOM. The shield shattered as readily as Braddock’s axe did, along with the bones in his forearm. He was launched off his feet and over the throne, knocking it over as he collapsed to the ground.

 

“MY ARM!” Braddock yelled. “DAMMIT, KHYRON, GET YOUR STAFF OVER HERE!”

 

In his state, Vyrleena would have been able to slaughter him long before Khyron reached him, but she was much more concerned with her main prey—Renault.

 

This time he was ready for her, however. Rosamia had rushed over to his prone form and activated her Heal staff, restoring his broken arm (though not his armor). When Vyrleena picked up the Rex Hasta and charged at him again, he didn’t bother blocking, parrying, or even looking for an opening—he just dodged.  He shifted his body left and right, frantically evading the nonstop flurry of thrusts the Wyvern Lord unleashed, barely managing to keep his balance as he was buffeted from the gale-force winds that hit him even as he dodged the spear they originated from. He also knew he couldn’t keep this up forever in this heavy armor—he was already beginning to tire. However, he wasn’t just running away blindly. He could tell from the way the woman moved that her mind was utterly consumed by the armor—she would attack, and attack, and attack without any regard for anything but killing. Thus, she didn’t notice he was leading her to the center of the throne room.

 

Soon enough, he had her right where he wanted her—for he noticed his friends were getting into position. Vyrleena unleashed a wild, two-handed swing of the Rex Hasta which left a huge cleft in the floor, but Renault used the last of his stamina to hop and roll to the side. “EVERYBODY, NOW!”

 

Khyron, Rosamia, Roberto, Apolli, and Harvery were more than ready to carry out their plan. While Khyron rushed over to tend Braddock’s wounds, he had given the Assassin his rich purple-gilt cape. As swiftly as a cat, Harvery leapt through the air over Vyrleena’s head, leaving the cape behind him as he went! The woman clearly wasn’t expecting this—she roared in annoyance as she staggered back, unable to see anything from underneath the thick material. This gave Apolli and Roberto more than enough time to draw a bead on her—they fired off arrow after arrow, each hitting its mark but none doing any damage. This was just a distraction, though—the real threat came from Khyron and Rosamia. Chanting the eldritch words of power, the two Sages raised their hands over their head, summoning a series of fireballs which circled around Vyrleena once before descending down upon her, burying her in an arcane torrent of flame.

 

The woman screamed as her foes had to hide their eyes from the bright light, bits and pieces of Khyron’s scorched cape fluttering in the air around them.  As the light of the flames dimmed, silence reigned across the room, and for a brief moment the Company entertained the hope that this had been enough to put the Wyvern Lord down for good.

 

By this point, however, they knew things were almost never that easy. To no one’s surprise, harsh, ragged breathing could be heard emanating from the hunched-up figure in the center of the room. Vyrleena once again rose to her feet, picking up her spear and growling. She apparently hadn’t been hurt at all.

 

“Wish I had a suit of armor like that,” muttered Renault disconsolately. It was time for a new strategy. As Vyrleena once again turned towards him, she was suddenly slammed right off her feet by a large black shape rushing up from behind. Khyron had healed Braddock’s broken arm perfectly, and though he was now unarmed, the big Warlord could still use his body as a weapon. Vyrleena let out another banshee’s wail as the Ostian lifted her up by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall—the same broken section she had rammed her spear into earlier. The way he was pinning her arms meant she couldn’t bring the Rex Hasta to bear, though even Braddock’s great strength would not be able to restrain her forever. He wasn’t planning to, though. Instead, he slammed the smaller woman into the wall once, twice, three times. She jerked forwards and attempted to headbutt him, and the jaws of her helmet slammed shut in a bite that might have chomped straight through his helmet if he hadn’t jerked his head to the side at just the right moment. He was rapidly losing his grip on her, but he didn’t need to keep it for long. The wall behind him, already crumbling from the force of Vyrleena’s blow earlier, gave way entirely as Braddock slammed her into it one more time. Matching her keening with a furious roar of his own, the Ostian raised her entirely over his head and tossed her straight through the hole in the wall.

 

His companions could only stop and stare in astonishment as he stood there for a moment, breathing heavily while the woman’s screams faded out into the distance below them and the clear night sky outside.

 

“Braddock…that was amazing,” said Renault as he hobbled to his feet.

 

The Warlord simply turned to look back at his friend, his green visor (now slightly cracked) glowing softly in reassurance. “Hey, like I said, you’re my brother, Renault. Like hell I’d let some crazy Bernite take you away from me!”

 

Renault laughed and patted his friend on the shoulder. “And man, am I grateful for that.  Still, either that armor wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, or we’re both a lot stronger than she expected. I thought it’d be a lot hard—“

 

He was interrupted by a most unpleasant noise—the sound of flapping wings.  “Never, ever easy,” he mumbled to himself in dismay, sharing the sentiments of everyone in the room. Through the hole in the wall, the Company could see Vyrleena’s Berserker-armored form rising in the air, back into the fight.  From her back sprung two great, batlike wings of metal—the armor had apparently imitated more from the wyverns than just appearances and jaws.

 

With another loud screech, Vyrleena folded her wings and descended with the swiftness of a Falcoknight. Thanks to their time with Kasha, however, Renault and friends had more than enough experience dealing with aerial foes. He darted out of the way and managed to avoid both her thrust and the accompanying winds perfectly, while the rest of his comrades scattered around the room. Vyrleena, on the other hand, didn’t waste a beat—another flap of her metal wings brought her back up into the air, and she flitted just below the low ceiling of the throne room, above the heads of the terrified Company as if she were some sort of insane moth. Once she drew a bead on Renault, she descended with another vicious jab, completely ignoring the hail of arrows Roberto and Apolli were sending at her—the armor made her far less vulnerable than Wyvern or Pegasus-mounted troops usually were. With all of his skill, Renault weaved back and forth, dodging dive after dive, but the woman’s constant attacks were taking their toll not just on his stamina but also the floor below.

 

“She’s going to bring this whole building down on top of us!” yelled Kelitha.

 

“Even if she doesn’t, we have to get her out of that armor!” cried Keith in response. “It’s going to eat her soul, isn’t it?”

 

“It’s not her I’m worried about, kid!” yelled Renault in irritation, but as _exceedingly_ good luck would have it, Keith’s words were just what it took to finally end the battle.

 

Vyrleena’s single-minded, Berserker-enhanced focus on Renault meant she had ignored the cries and commands of his comrades, for the most part. But somehow, Keith’s mention of her ultimate fate if she continued to wear that armor had managed to pierce the Wyvern Lord’s consciousness.

 

“ _Aah…Gaaah…Soul…Soul? Minerva…”_

 

The woman continued to mumble to herself as the beating of her armor’s wings slowed and brought her back to the shaky floor, holding her head in her hands. The metal of the helmet seemed to be shifting—moving back and forth, as if it was losing control of its wearer.

 

“ _Not like this…consumed by the armor…revenge…worth it? Minerva…I…Gaaah! Not like this! Not like this! NOT LIKE THIS!”_

Vyrleena let out one last primal, feral scream, the loudest she had unleashed so far. Yet this time it was in her voice alone, not backed by the demonic presence of the armor. By the sheer force of her will, pride, and discipline as a former Wyvern General of Bern, she was driving its baleful influence out of her mind and body—though of course, not without cost. The armor shifted and bulged, her Wyvern’s helmet disappearing entirely and receding into her back and chest, revealing, to Renault’s surprise, a head of hair which had gone completely white. Vyrleena was kneeling now, kneeling and still screaming, her Rex Hasta lying discarded on the floor next to her, and wisps of black smoke beginning to waft from the armor itself. Those wisps soon became a great black cloud billowing around her, entirely obscuring her from view. Her screaming was soon joined by what seemed to be laughter—malevolent, cruel laughter from a being neither male nor female, and older than her, older than her enemies, older than the Dragons themselves, and yet at the same time, as carelessly and cruelly innocent as a child’s.

 

Faced with this maelstrom of chaos, the likes of which they had never seen before, the members of the Company could only stand back in shock and cover their faces to avoid the stormy winds and masses of black, evil smoke. Yet, just as quickly and suddenly as the whole thing started, it stopped. With one last peal of devilish laughter, the black smoke coagulated into a dark ball, somewhat similar to a Flux spell, and then soared off out through the hole in the wall into the distance, off into the starry sky. It left behind a white-haired woman whose completely naked body—much to the disgust of the observers—seemed to have been prematurely aged to a horrifying degree, the flesh hanging loosely off decrepit bones which framed blind, milky-white eyes in shriveled sockets.

 

This wretched creature had ceased her screaming, and let out a single pained gasp before collapsing entirely to the floor.

 

Despite everything they had experienced, Renault and his comrades were _still_ shocked by this latest display. But only for a few moments. As the dust settled, Renault finally asked, “Is…is she dead? Is it finally over?”

 

Rosamia hesitantly stepped forwards and kneeled near the woman’s prone form, holding out a hand. “I…no. No, she’s not! She’s still breathing!”

 

“Well, shit,” growled Renault, readying his sword, “Time to finish the job!”

 

“W-wait!” stammered Harvery. “Renault, that’s not a good idea at all! Think of what kind of information we could get off of this woman! It’ll be a waste if we just slaughter her!”

 

“A quick death is too good for this Bernite scum,” Khyron agreed. “Making some use for her is the only way she can atone for the crimes of her country!”

 

“Alright, fine,” said Renault. “Lemme guess, Braddock, you agree?”

 

The Warlord nodded sheepishly. “I guess it’s that white-knight thing you always tell me I have, right?”

 

Beneath his visor, Renault just rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine.” He walked over to her and scooped her up, noting with some disgust that she felt much lighter than he thought she would, almost as if she were hollow. “Now, where’s that control chamber or wherever? Let’s get those other girls out of here and then take ‘em to Solgrenne. I—“

 

“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.”

 

“What the hell?” Renault and all the other members of the Company whirled around towards the back of the room, from where Trunicht’s voice emanated again. Behind the shattered overseer’s throne, the door to the control chamber creaked open as the mystic mist at both ends of the room dissipated. The interior was lit by a single low-burning torch, but it provided just enough light for the observers to acquire a decent sense of how it looked. A very small, completely unadorned room occupied by nothing except three large stone levers on the wall. Within its shadows, however, they could see a shape congealing and solidifying until they recognized the familiar shape of the Black Knight Trunicht and his ebony armor.

 

“Excellent work,” he cheered, clapping his gauntleted hands from the control room’s depths, “excellent, excellent work! I confess I wasn’t particularly surprised—I expected no less from those who were once called Hell’s Wall, who survived both Barbarossa AND the Reaper’s Labyrinth! Really, though, you went above and beyond the call of duty!”

 

“Don’t know what y’r talkin’ about. Don’t care,” said Roberto. “Jus’ shut up so I c’n kill ya!”

 

“You wound me, sir! And here I was just about to reward you for your excellent performance. The first thing I planned on giving you was Vyrleena himself,” he said as he waved towards Renault. “Since you did such a good job of dismantling her armor I figured it would be gauche not to let you keep her. The second thing I offer, however, is the prisoners!”

 

With a gaudy flourish he reached out and pulled the very first lever. The Autonomous Company staggered in surprise as they heard a loud, low rumbling coming from beneath them for several moments, followed by the dull sound of many women’s and childrens voices cheering wildly, audible even from the top floor of the complex.

 

“Trunicht?! Are you turning traitor to the rebels?” stammered Khyron in shock.

 

“Ah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, though. See, I have one more present to give to you: This whole citadel… _crashing down on your heads!_ ”

 

He swiftly reached out and pulled another lever, the very last one this time, before anyone could react. For a moment, nothing happened, and they thought Trunicht was bluffing. Soon, however, they heard a rumbling. It started off already louder than the first rumble, and simply continued to grow and grow in volume. Even more worringly, the ground below them was beginning to shake terribly, and Renault could see the already damaged floor beginning to crumble.

 

“You truly are stupid,” chortled Trunicht. “Did you think I wouldn’t have a secondary plan ready if you managed to beat Vyrleena? This prison citadel was where the King of Etruria sent the realm’s most hated enemies and most vicious criminals for punishment. If a jailbreak ever occurred, it would cause chaos all over the countryside! They thought it would be better to destroy the entire complex rather than allow the prisoners to escape…so the builders set into place a system where the overseer could remove the keystones of every important buttress in this building with the pull of a single lever. A self-destruct mechanism!

 

“Even if you manage to escape, fools, there’s no way the unfortunate women of Solgrenne will be able to. And, of course, the entire city knows that you were supposed to rescue them—since I led you here, after all, I also spread rumors of your liberation mission among the townsfolk as well! When they hear this entire complex has collapsed to the ground—burying the women with it—it’ll be a simple matter to convince them that the King’s men were intent on “punishing traitors” rather than rescuing them! Especially since your Lord Khyron was good enough to give me this piece of evidence!” With a whirl of his hands he produced from the shadows a large piece of charred, purple cloth—the remains of Khyron’s rich purple cape, badly burned but with the royal crest still very visible.

 

“You cretins are simply too easy to manipulate,” gloated Trunicht. “This will be just like Scirocco, don’t you see? You’ve just given us the perfect piece of propaganda to use. Our dragooned conscripts will pledge their loyalty to us, because they’ll now believe the royalists were the ones who killed the hostages! I really must thank you, members of the Autonomous Company. You’ve made things so much easier for me!”

 

With another mocking peal of laughter, Trunicht disappeared into the shadows, leaving his foes standing dumbfoundedly on a floor which would be crumbling within a few seconds.

 

“Shit! SHIT!” screamed Harvery. “We gotta get out of here! What do we do? WHAT DO WE DO!”

 

“C-check the control room! Hurry!” shouted Rosamia as she ran towards where Trunicht had been a moment ago. “There has to be some sort of escape somewhere! The prison overseer wouldn’t kill himself!”

 

“But what about the prisoners?” called Braddock, rushing after her just as the floor he’d been on caved in and crumbled.

 

“We don’t have time to come back and rescue ‘em! They’re done for! Let’s just save ourselves!”

 

“I found it!” yelled Rosamia as her teammates crowded into the small control chamber. She had pulled the lever in the middle of the wall, and lo and behold, a panel had slid open nearby, revealing…

 

Empty air. Specifically, they were looking at the north guard tower, just a small distance away, but while there may have once been a bridge leading from the egress of the control chamber to the top of the tower as an escape route, Trunicht had apparently removed it. They were trapped!

 

“Hell,” muttered Renault, still holding Vyrleena in his arms and attempting to shield her from the debris and pieces of rock which were beginning to rain down on them, “What do we do now?!”

 

“I won’t fall to one of Trunicht’s worthless tricks,” Khyron yelled in fury, “and neither will any of you!”

 

The guard tower ahead of them was well made, constructed of rock and mortar, but not sturdy enough to withstand a proper siege. Summoning up all his reserves of magical energy, Khyron pointed a finger at the approximate midsection of the tower below them and sent a huge ball of Elfire magic straight at it. With a tremendous explosion a huge chunk of the tower was blown away, and the remaining upper half teetered, tottered, and then fell over—towards the shaking citadel itself.

 

With another great BOOM the top of the tower collapsed against the citadel’s north face…its roof steadied just below the egress of the control chamber. Renault could only stop for a moment and admire just how audacious his commander could be when he got angry.

 

“What the devil are you waiting for?” yelled Khyron. “MOVE!”

 

This was an order they were all too happy to obey. As fast as they could, with Khyron leading the way and Renault right behind him, the Autonomous Company hopped through the secret exit of the control chamber and onto the room, then the side, of the fallen guard tower. Just in time, as well—the moment the last of them (Roberto) managed to scurry to the safety of the interior of the tower’s lower half, the top of the citadel collapsed entirely, bringing up a huge cloud of dust and debris which forced all of them to cover their eyes and mouth. After that (and with the top half of the tower following it), the third floor collapsed onto the second, and then onto the first, and with one final, terrible, shuddering rumble which shook the earth and seemed to echo all across Elibe, the entire building simply folded inwards and downwards.

 

It was several minutes before the shaking stopped and the air cleared well enough for the Company to take their hands from their faces, stand up, and get a good look at what had just happened.

 

“Ugh,” groaned Renault, still keeping his armored form hunched over the captive Vyrleena’s protectively. “The hell…what happened?”

 

“Just look,” said Harvery grimly. He was standing with perfect balance on the very edge of the broken wall of the tower, over which they could now get a good view of where the citadel once stood (even though it was only now two stories tall rather than four).  
  
A look of complete shock, dismay, and horror spread across Renault’s face as he gazed at the scene, an expression shared by his comrades.

 

The Citadel of Despair was completely destroyed. There was only a huge pile of rubble where the foreboding structure had once stood. Worst of all, however, was the fact that all the women and children of Solgrenne—the people they were supposed to rescue, the people for whom the unwilling conscripts of the city were fighting for—were now dead and buried beneath several tons of cold rock.

 

“T…this can’t be happening,” Apolli blubbered. “J…just like Scirocco…not again… _NOT AGAIN!”_

Renault wanted to say something—anything—to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, to tell him this was all just a bad dream—but the sight in front of him foiled even the beginnings of any such attempt. As he looked down upon the grave of Solgrenne’s innocent citizenry, he had to face reality. And the reality was that he and his friends had been played for fools—again.

 

In the distance, he could see two small, white forms rising from the ground to the east—Keith and Kelitha’s pegasi, which had heard the great commotion and were now apparently seeking out their masters, to ensure they were safe. At this point, however, Renault would have traded their safety for the success of their mission. As it was, he could only turn to Khyron and ask, “What the hell do we do now?”

 

Khyron offered no answer, simply continuing to stare at the ruins. And it didn’t really matter, anyways.

 

Renault knew that whatever the answer might be, it wouldn’t be pleasant.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

The little ritual Renault and Braddock performed is a reference to Hector and Eliwood’s A support. :D

 

 

 

 


	34. Against Vinland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite their failure to save the hostages, the Autonomous Company refuses to give up. They attempt to defend Caerleon town from the rebel Count Vinland's forces. Will they succeed?

 

34: Against Vinland

 

Earthquakes were _never_ a sign of something good. And Dougram knew very well that the one last night was no exception.

 

Neither he nor Serapino had the slightest idea of what had caused it. However, judging by the way Vinland had called for a mass meeting at the center of the city (the same place Trunicht had paraded his captives earlier), Dougram had the distinct impression it had something to do with the meeting he and the rest of the townspeople were attending right now.

 

He would never have imagined what it actually was, though.

 

All around him and Serapino, the people of Solgrenne milled about impatiently—though they had gathered, as Vinland had ordered, the former Count simply stood before them silently, saying nothing and ignoring their pleas for an explanation. Perhaps he wasn’t the one who would be giving the speech or address or whatever it was today, but if he wasn’t, there was yet no sign of whoever actually was. Even Dougram was beginning to grow restless, thinking it had all been a mistake, until suddenly someone cried out, “He’s here!” and someone else cried “Sister!” and everyone’s eyes turned towards the central platform.

 

With a flash of light and a whiff of ozone, the Black Knight Trunicht appeared, and next to him was a young girl Dougram recognized as one of the female hostages he had taken from the citizenry. She was in terrible condition, though—she was covered in dust and bruises, which on her face were streaked by her tears. Her glassy eyes gave her the distinct impression of being profoundly disturbed, and it seemed she could barely stand, leaning heavily against Trunicht.

 

At the sight of one of their own having been so deeply traumatized, all the noise and milling about from the people of Solgrenne stopped abruptly and completely. It was as if the entire town had taken a deep, collective breath, the hush indicating they were waiting for the Black Knight to give a very good answer as to why this had happened. And if he couldn’t…

 

As it turned out, however, he was more than up to the task.

 

“I suppose you’re all waiting for an explanation,” said the Black Knight, using his magic to amplify his voice. “Well, I will confess right now you probably won’t like it. HOWEVER! As you will see, your anger should be directed towards the Royalists…not me! Allow this young sister of the Revolution to explain.”

 

As Dougram watched, it seemed like the girl’s lips were moving, but no sound came out. “Come, my dear,” Trunicht said, “I know it’s difficult, but even my enchantment has its limits. Speak up!”

 

She continued speaking, unsteadily, uneasily, and raised her voice just enough for the enchantment to have a better effect. “We…we were all together, in the Citadel of Despair,” she said, and her audience still had to strain their ears to hear her. They knew what she was talking about, though—the rest of the hostages Trunicht had kept imprisoned in the Citadel. “It…it was terrible! Every night we prayed for rescue! But just…just last night…we thought the Creator had answered our prayers! In the cover of darkness, we heard a voice from outside our cells in the basement. He said he was part of a team of Royalists sent to capture the Citadel’s control center and set us free! We…we trusted them. He told us to stay where we were, and that we could escape when the doors were open. We…we really believed him…”

 

The people began cheering. “I knew it!” one man exclaimed. “I knew the King wouldn’t let us down!”

 

“What’re ya gonna do now, you Revolutionary bastards?” another jeered. “Come on, we don’t have anything to worry about anymore! Let’s—“

 

“NO!” the girl screamed, now sobbing uncontrollably. “THE KING’S MEN DIDN’T SAVE US! THEY KILLED US!”

 

At this, a hushed, shocked silence fell once again across the entire crowd.

 

“Continue, sister,” said Trunicht comfortingly. “I know it’s hard, but your brothers must know the truth.”

 

“A…after…a few minutes after the man talked to us, we heard the sounds of battle coming from above,” she continued. “We assumed they had engaged the guards, though with the screaming and explosions it wasn’t easy to tell. After a while it stopped, and we thought they won…or at least hoped they did. But then the rumbling started…

 

“We didn’t know what was going on. The doors didn’t move, so we were sure it wasn’t that. But then pieces of rock and dust started falling on our heads, and…and…” She couldn’t continue. She broke down completely, and Trunicht finished for her.

 

“There wasn’t enough time to save all of them,” he said sadly. “Defeated by the Royalist team, despite having tried my best, I retreated to see if I could save any of the women I was protecting, but my magic could only whisk me and one other person—the girl you see before you—to safety. The Royalist scum, you see, had no intention of “rescuing” the girls. They weren’t hostages! I was protecting them! But I failed, nonetheless. Elram’s Citadel, as a former prison complex, had a self-destruct mechanism in case of a break. The rebels decided to activate _that_ instead of the lever to open the cells! The entire citadel has collapsed to the ground—the cause of that earthquake you heard last night. I barely escaped myself, and could only rescue this one girl as a witness to their crimes.

 

“They never had the slightest intention of rescuing the girls in the first place. According to the King, all of you are _already_ traitors, and thus, already condemned to death! He has no loyalty to you! No faith in you! No care for you! For all your devotion to him, he has abandoned you!”

 

“It can’t be! You’re lyin!” called one man. “We’re his loyal subjects! Don’t listen to that Black Knight’s lies! I bet HE was the one who collapsed that citadel!”

 

The crowd began to clamor, boiling with rage, and had Trunicht not reacted quickly he might have lost them all then and there. “The word of one of your own is not enough? Fine! How’s this for proof, brothers?!”

 

With a dramatic flourish, Trunicht reached to his side and pulled out a strange, small, purple object. It was a large scrap of purple cloth, charred and burnt. However, from the gilded crest still visible on its surface, glinting against the sun, it was impossible to mistake where it came from.

 

It was the royal crest of Etruria, and everyone in the region knew who constantly wore a purple cape with that crest—Khyron, count of Caerleon.

 

“Yes, my brothers, this is Khyron’s cape,” continued Trunicht. “You may remember the man from what he did at Scirocco, along with the rest of the team sent to “rescue” your women. The King tried to pin the blame on Brother Paptimus with a forged letter, of course. But now, after this, after this earthquake, after the testimony of one of your own, after the deaths of your sisters, do not the Revolutionaries sound more honest? The same kind of man who would poison a town is the same kind of man who would kill a group of prisoners rather than rescuing them!

 

“Perhaps you’re still loyal to the King—even though he’s not loyal to you! Perhaps you still despise the Revolution—even though the Revolution cares about you! But the simple fact of the matter is, brothers, that in the eyes of the Royalists, you are already dead. They have already marked you as traitors! They have already murdered your daughters, sisters, and mothers! Even if you cannot support our cause, do you at least not want revenge? This is your only option, now. You don’t have to fight for the Revolution. Simply fight for Garl Vinland, and hunt down  Khyron, Renault, and the other murderers the Crown has employed! The blood of Solgrenne’s women calls out for revenge! Any man with a strong spine and justice in his heart is welcome to join us, Revolutionary or not!”

 

Dougram had watched this entire scene with a growing sense of absolute horror, stunned into complete silence. Next to him, Serapino had gone white as a sheet, saying, “No…no…Renault…it can’t be…”

 

The people around them, however, were much less skeptical. “I…I trusted the King!” yelled one man in disbelief. “How…how could they do this?”

 

“They were supposed to rescue our girls, not kill ‘em!”

 

“Can’t we trust anybody?

 

“THEY BETRAYED US!”

 

“LET’S PAY ‘EM BACK!”

 

“VINLAND! TAKE US TO CAERLEON!”

 

“KILL KHYRON! SLAUGHTER ALL OF THOSE BLACKHEARTED TRAITORS!”

 

“WE PUT OUR FAITH IN ‘EM, AND THEY REPAID US LIKE THIS! KILL EM! KILL ‘EM ALL!”

 

“Begin your preparations to move out,” said Vinland, finally breaking his silence. “If you want your revenge, you’ll be ready to depart with my army and begin fording the river within a week.”

 

As the King’s previously loyal subjects began cheering—more like screaming, actually—for his death as Vinland and Trunicht left them to return to the mayor’s residence, Dougram still hadn’t recovered from his shock enough to do anything besides stand, dumbfounded, besides Serapino. He still couldn’t believe exactly what he had just heard. But even in his state, he knew a few things for certain. He knew Trunicht wasn’t telling the whole truth.

 

And he also knew that the Revolution he was a part of was going down a path he wouldn’t be able to tread for long.

 

-x-

 

“Are you there, mendicant?”

 

Serapino nearly jumped a foot in the air when he heard the knock on his door and the deep voice from outside of it. Not just out of surprise, but because he recognized that voice.

 

It was Garl Vinland’s. The commander of the Revolutionary forces himself, at the humble mendicant’s door! Well, it was technically Dougram’s door, since this was his room, but the Nabatan was out at the moment, meeting with Trunicht and some of the other troop leaders before the departure of their army. Serapino, thus, had been left alone to pack his (meager) belongings and ready himself for the trek to Caerleon. He never once expected, not in a thousand years, for Vinland himself to make time for a personal discussion with him. Why? He was just a humble Eliminean and Dougram’s assistant (and friend).

 

Still, Serapino knew better than to question the reasons any superior had for paying him a visit—he just had to obey. Jumping out of his chair and scrambling to the door (tripping over himself once as he did so), he threw it open and bowed his head in deep respect.

 

“L-Lord Vinland!” he exclaimed, his voice trembling out of both surprise and fear. “T-to what do I owe the honor! Ah, I must have done something wrong! I-I’m sorry! I don’t know what I did, but I—“

 

It seemed Vinland wasn’t even paying attention to him. Though the man was not clad in his armor, nor was he carrying his great Basilikos, he still commanded an aura of great respect. Serapino could only stumble backwards with another frightened squeak as the General brushed right past him, straight into his room, without even asking permission. He was clad in his fine noble’s attire—sheer white pants and a very nice black doublet with silver gilding. His strong, muscular frame towered almost a full two feet over Serapino’s, and his broad, rock-jawed face looked down on the young mendicant impassively with cold brown eyes framed by shoulder-length, wavy sandy-blond hair.

 

“I wish to make confession,” the man said. “Can you perform the sacrament?”

 

Serapino was completely taken aback. “C-Count Vinland,” he stammered, making to effort to disguise his surprise (as surprised as he’d ever been), “You’re a devout Eliminean? But you joined the Rebel cause of your own free will! How can you—“

 

Vinland’s expression darkened. “I have my reasons, if you will allow me to speak them. And I figured a man like you, assisting Dougram as you have, would be able to understand them better than any. Or was I wrong? Are you a traitor to the Revolutionary Cause? Or are you loyal, and have lost your faith!”

 

“No! No! I’m both faithful and loyal!” Serapino, deeply shamed, bowed his head. “Forgive me…please forgive me, Lord Vinland. I judged you by higher standards than I judged myself. I took not the speck from my own eye before pointing out that in my brother’s. I beg forgiveness before you, the Saint, and God.”

 

Vinland barely seemed to notice. “I only ask you perform the rite. Can you? Or have you not learned how?”

 

“I…I’m a traveling mendicant, not a priest, and I haven’t even been fully ordained yet, but…I’ll try.”

 

Vinland nodded, got down on his knees before the uncertain mendicant, and began.

 

“God, my Lord, I have sinned, and now I repent. I have transgressed against my fellow man, and ask for Your forgiveness as well as theirs.

 

“I am a traitor. I swore to serve the King of Etruria as one of his loyal soldiers, and I did, for a time. Yet I turned my back on him and my oath. I joined Nerinheit’s rebellion, helping to murder those who did not betray my lord, as I did.

 

“Such is the least of my sins, however. God, my Lord, I am also complicit in the deaths of innocents. The Royalist team did not topple Elram’s Citadel. Trunicht did. He lured them there for that specific purpose. And pulled the lever which brought down the building, knowing full well the Royalists would be blamed. And I…I did nothing to stop it, for I knew it would assist our war effort. The blood of Solgrenne’s women is on my hands. I beg God for forgiveness, though I know He will not grace it upon me.”

 

Serapino’s jaw had dropped and his wide, stricken eyes gazed at Vinland almost without comprehension. “It…it can’t be…so Renault really wasn’t…but then Trunicht…why? How could…”

 

“I have confessed to you my sins, mendicant. Will you speak of them to another?”

 

“I…” Serapino seemed as if he were about to cry, gulping panickedly. “I…”

 

“Well?”

 

He sniffled, still in a state of shock. “I…no. Never. I don’t know why Trunicht would do such a horrible thing, and…I thought you were a good man, Vinland! I don’t know why you’d go along with it! But as the Church has commanded, nothing spoken within my confessional—or, or wherever—will leave its walls.” Still sniffling, he held out his hand and placed it on the kneeling Vinland’s head. “I have received your penance. If…”

 

He removed his hand and shook his head. “No…your heart will not change, will it? I…I can’t lie. I can’t speak the last words. Vinland, my lord Vinland, I’m sorry, I—“

 

The big General shook his head as he stood. “I understand, and I will not begrudge you for it. Neither will God. But I do have one last request of you.”

 

“H…huh?”

 

“I want to tell you one more thing, mendicant,” he said coldly. “And I want you to remember it. Whether or not you tell others doesn’t matter to me. Not anymore.”

 

“Th…this isn’t part of the rite!”

 

“You can make no exception for me?”

 

“I…uh…”

 

Vinland didn’t even notice. He simply took a breath and began with his story.

 

“Eight years ago, my father was murdered by the Scarlet Wolves of the Western Isles. To avenge his death, I crossed the Shield of Durbans with nothing beyond my armor and my axe—for the other nobles of Etruria were too cowardly and too afraid of the bandits to see justice done.

 

“I killed, and I killed, and I did not stop killing until the last Wolf was a corpse cooling on the soil of the Isles. Tell me, mendicant. Do you believe I accomplished anything?”

 

“Well…the Creator does not wish for His children to kill each other, but…”

 

“Perhaps I didn’t. But I gained something. My…the love of my life.

 

“Her name was Astraea. She was both the most beautiful and the most pious of all the maidens of the Western Isles. Her village had been burned to ashes by the Scarlet Wolves and she had been taken as a captive. I rescued her from their clutches on my third day there, and from then on, she…was my constant companion. Her skill with the staff saved my life more times than I can count, and her unshakeable faith sustained me through endless battle. When my task was finally done and the last Wolf lay dead, I knew we could not be parted. I brought her back with me from the Isles, and the moment we stepped back on my homeland’s shores, we were wed.

 

“What I did not expect, however, was the cruelty of my fellow nobles, and how the King turned a blind eye to them.

 

“The blessed Saint never said that Etrurians were any sort of “chosen people.” All were created by God, and so all were equal in His eyes. Thus said Scripture. Yet it was Scripture which the supposedly virtuous lords and ladies of this land ignored. From the moment she became my bride, the great aristocrats spared no effort in making my Astraea’s life hell. They felt she did not belong within the ranks of the Etrurian nobility, especially not married to an old, respected family like mine, because she was a “barbarian” from the Western Isles.

 

“They spread the cruelest, most vicious slander about her you could imagine. Whenever she even showed her face to court, they called her a whore, a gutter dog, a Godless subhuman. They claimed she had propositioned every man of the nobility, and when rebuffed each time, turned to the common people of Aquleia. When even they rejected her, the nobles claim she lay with the beasts of the field. She could not bear it, and within a year, when I was summoned to court, I came alone. Yet even that was not enough for the aristocracy. The rumors continued to hound her back to our home, and the halls of my manse were filled with endless whispers of my wife’s immorality. Some even accused her of being a witch, of trying to steal my soul away. No matter how many servants I sacked, the rumors never stopped. They soon extended to me as well…what sort of man, the other nobles asked, would lie with a “barbarian” from the Isles? It didn’t matter they knew nothing of me or my wife. It didn’t matter they knew they were lying, knew each and every one of their calumnies and slanders were falsehoods worthy of damnation. They wanted to destroy her…destroy me. And eventually, they succeeded.

 

“I still remember it as clearly as it were yesterday. One of the maidservants claimed our inability to conceive a child was a sign from God, that we had violated the natural order by joining an islander and a noble Etrurian in matrimony. It was more than my Astraea could bear. Before I could stop her, she had flown up the stairs, up to the highest tower of Castle Vinland. And as I reached her, she looked at me one last time, with the saddest eyes I will ever see.

 

“And then threw herself to the ground.

 

“Since that day, I have held no loyalty towards the Crown. King Galahad knew what was happening…but simply laughed it off, cavorting with Malonda and saying it was none of his concern. My beautiful Astraea…my holy maiden…it was on their account, those fat, hypocritical pigs of the nobility, that she was taken from me. So I waited…waited for a chance to strike back at them. And Nerinheit provided that chance. When he declared his rebellion, I and the men loyal to me joined without a second thought.”

 

He stood up, gazing coldly down at the young holy man who seemed completely bowled over by his confession. “Do you know why I’ve told you all this, mendicant? Do you know why I decided to take confession this night?”

 

Serapino shook his head helplessly.

 

“Because I do believe, Serapino. In my mind I know the Saint’s words are true, and that the Path God has set down for His children exists. And yet I know, at the same time, I am not strong enough to follow that path. I know the Saint commanded us to forgive, to love our enemies. I have not the strength. In my heart, I remember how my wife died, and no matter what I do the memory lingers. I cannot live with it. And I cannot live without seeing justice…no, not justice. I cannot live without taking vengeance. Thus, Serapino, I have sold my soul. I have let myself be damned. I have betrayed my country, cast away my oaths, and dedicated myself to the destruction of all I once served.

 

“But…” and for the first time, a glimmer of warmth appeared in his eyes. “Perhaps this rite will give me some measure of vindication. Not even redemption, but simple honesty. When I die in the coming battle, my soul will be weighed on God’s scales, and my sins will weigh heavier, condemning me to the land of the cursed. Yet on the other side of those scales, God will see…if nothing else…my love for Astraea. That is the only thing I hold onto…perhaps the only thing I ever did. And perhaps, as I wander forever in the land of the cursed, it will be the single tiny star to light the darkness all around me. I can ask for nothing more than that.”

 

He stood up, turned, and left the bewildered mendicant with a single, final word:

 

“Farewell.”

 

-X-

 

Lisse hated having to sleep next to that woman. She’d already seen some very scary things, having associated with Renault and the rest of the Company for so long, but the “guest” they’d brought back with them from their rescue attempt at Elram’s Citadel was the downright creepiest thing she’d ever seen. None of them, especially not Renault (who just rebuffed her angrily when she asked) were at all eager to discuss what had happened, but judging by the earthquake and the fact that they only returned with a single, unnerving, unnaturally aged woman with long grey hair and saggy, decrepit skin which looked as if it might fall off at any moment, even a humble transporter like Lisse could tell that something had gone very wrong.

 

It had been a day since her friends had returned, and their only orders were to get back to Caerleon as quickly as possible. Khyron had intimated they might be pursued very soon (another tell that something had gone wrong) and Lisse was thus stuck with watching over their prisoner while the rest of them kept on guard. This strange woman—Lisse had no idea who she was—had apparently fallen into a coma, or at least a deep sleep. Her bed was ordered by Khyron to be Lisse’s little caravan, and the former innkeeper could not contest that. Still, she was so terribly uncomfortable with that whole arrangement…

 

And her discomfort only increased—greatly—when the strange woman began to stir.

 

“Eek!” yelped Lisse as the crone on the blanket next to her began to shift and moan. It was late at night, and the troop had set up camp for one of their (rare) rests, but Lisse was not a heavy enough sleeper to ignore a development like this. She also knew her comrades had to be warned. “H-hey!” she yelled, throwing aside her own blanket and jumping up from the ground. “Renault! Khyron! Somebody! S-she’s started moving!!”

 

Her frantic cries were enough to draw the immediate attention of the guards on duty (Kelitha and Braddock) and, not long after, rouse the rest of her sleeping friends. Within a very short span of time, all of the Autonomous Company had gathered around the decrepit woman, watching carefully what she did. She was twisting and turning, gasping and coughing, and her eyes fluttered open and shut over and over again.

 

“What the hell’s wrong with her?” asked Renault. “Khyron, can’t your staff do anything about it?”

 

“I’ve already tried,” he replied in frustration. “Neither Mend nor Restore magic has any effect! Whatever that armor did to her, it’s not something I can cure!”

 

“Well, she needs something. If she keels over we won’t get anything useful from her, right?” Braddock unlimbered his canteen from his side and kneeled down next to the woman, gently lifting her head as he put the canteen to her lips. Coughing and sputtering, she gulped down the clear water with a desperation that made Lisse think she’d been in a desert for weeks.

 

It seemed to do her some good, at least. Her breathing steadied and her coughing subsided. She finally opened her eyes completely, and everyone watching couldn’t help but draw back in horror. Where there should have been healthy white was now just a mass of grey sludge in hollowed sockets.

 

“Wh…where am I…?” asked the woman—Vyrleena, Lisse remembered Khyron mentioning—in a faint, cracked voice.

 

“Uh…easy now, don’t worry about that,” said Braddock. “You’re…somewhere safe. That’s all that matters.”

 

Apparently, it didn’t matter to the woman. “Y-you!” she squirmed out of his arms in fright. “You’re one of the Royalists! I recognize that voice! I—“

 

“Yeah, it’s us,” said Renault irritatedly, “and yeah, it’s me. Look, I know you hate me in particular something fierce, judging by how you went after me the last time we met, but unless you missed the news, you lost. Now, don’t do anything stupid or we’ll send you to meet your wyvern. Got that?”

 

Much to everyone’s relief, she obeyed. “Murdering scum,” she spat at Renault with no small amount of hatred. “Go ahead and kill me! Returning to my partner’s the only thing left for me now!”

 

“Look, he didn’t kill Minerva because he wanted to,” said Braddock, and even he was beginning to get angry. “ _You_ were the one invading Aquleia, remember? If you’d just left us alone after we destroyed that Barbarossa thing of yours, we’d all be a lot happier. Right, Renault?”

 

The Mercenary Lord nodded (though obviously the woman couldn’t see it). “You may have something personal against me, lady, but I can’t return the favor. I’m a mercenary. I just do my business.”

 

“You see?” Braddock turned back to her. “Besides, hating him now’s no good. You’re not in a position to do anything about it, right? So just calm down and maybe we can actually make something useful of this situation. I mean, when you think about it, it’s not as if our goals are entirely at odds. We may be on different sides, but we both hate Trunicht. Judging from the way that armor of his ate away at you, I’d think you’d wanna get back at him not much less than we do. At this point, I don’t think there’s much more you can really do.”

 

The Ostian always seemed to have a way with women, and this case was no exception. “Fine…fine!” She took a deep, ragged breath, still glaring at Renault with hatred burning from her sightless eyes. “Trunicht’s even worse scum than you lot. After what he did to me, I don’t have any loyalty to the revolution. Not even to Paptimus. That armor…that cursed armor…I—“

 

“Yes, we saw its effects, Bernite,” said Khyron. “But if we’re to triumph over Trunicht, we need to know if he still has it, or anything like it. Tell us what you know of it, or we’ll extract the information from you!”

 

She took another pained breath—indeed, it seemed as if it was becoming more painful for her as time passed. “I already agreed to help you, royalists. T…there’s no need for threats.

 

“As for Trunicht…the armor is still in…in his possession. He won’t wear it himself—he obviously knows what it will do to him. However, there…there’s another candidate to wear it. I remember…he kept me in a coma before he unleashed me on you at the Citadel. But I remember…remember hearing him…talk…while I slept. There’s one more…”

 

“Do you know who it is?”

 

“D…don’t remember. Didn’t say…he just mentioned he…had…a “backup.””

 

“Do you not recall, or are you just not telling?” asked Khyron. “Remember, we have ways of making you talk!”

 

“Knock it off, Khyron,” replied Braddock. “You seriously think there’s anything more we could do to her after what that armor did? Besides, we both know you’re not the kind of man to use ‘methods’ like that.”

 

The Sage sputtered indignantly, something about “uppity freebooters! Don’t forget who you’re talking to, turncoat!” but didn’t say much more than that, unsure if he was being insulted or if he’d just been paid an unexpected compliment. This gave Braddock a chance to continue with his interrogation.

 

“Well, that’s better than nothing,” he said. “At least we know _something_ ’s waiting for us. But can you tell us anything else? Did you hear anything about Paptimus’ plans? What his campaign looks like after this?”

 

“Paptimus…Paptimus…friend…I believed in him…betray him? I…”

 

Braddock’s face hardened. “You believed in him, huh? I did too, once. Now I know better. At this point, convincing you he’s a piece of shit won’t do any good. I’ll just say this, Vyrleena. You think Trunicht was acting on his own when he put you in the armor? Don’t delude yourself. That blackheart serves an even worse blackheart. If you ever want to pay Trunicht back for using you as as…as nothing more than fodder for that abomination, there’s no better way to do it than helping with our war effort!”

 

Vyrleena let out a whooping, racking cough that seemed as if it could have been a laugh. “E…even if I wanted to, you think I could? I don’t know anything about what his plans are now. I…I know what I was given: Send Barbarossa to Aquleia and sack the city, ending the war. After you “bandits” showed up, though, that plan was sent straight to hell. He…no one…ever told me anything about what would happen if the siege failed, much less what…would happen if Thagaste fell. Trunicht mentioned nothing of value while I was sleeping, either…I…I cannot help you.”

 

The Ostian threw up his hands in frustration. “That so? I shoulda known. Worst thing is, you’re probably telling the truth, knowing Trunicht. I guess you don’t have any more information on rebel numbers, supplies, weaponry, or anything like that, huh?”

 

Vyrleena coughed and shook her head.

 

“Well, it seems as if we’ve learned all we can from her,” said Khyron impatiently. “What a waste! Well, what do we do with her now? This Bernite’s nothing but dead weight, I say we—“

 

“Wait, I wanna know one more thing.” Braddock looked at the woman coldly and intently. “I guess this is just for my own personal curiosity, then. Vyrleena, I have to ask…why? You’re definitely a Bernite, and I can tell you’re a high-ranking one judging by that weapon of yours.” He nodded towards the Rex Hasta, slung on Kelitha’s back—she was the only one in the company skilled enough with a lance to use it. “For all I know, you could be one of those…what was it? I know I heard the term back when I was being taught in Ostia. Dragon generals? Wyvern generals, that was it. Only a Wyvern General would use a weapon like that. Hell, only a Wyvern General would be in charge of something like Barbarossa. So I want to know. Hell, I _need_ to know. What in the world were you doing in Etruria, lady? Why would you throw away your position—and your life—to get involved with another country’s civil war?”

 

She sent out another one of those laughing coughs. “You…you couldn’t possibly understand.”

 

“Try us.”

 

“Why should I?

 

“It’s not like you have anything to lose at this point, right?

 

One more cough.

 

“Mercenaries…Royalists…freebooters like you…have you ever really seen war?” she asked. “No, I don’t mean fighting for money, or just…just because your king tells you to, or just to satisfy your lust to kill,” and she shot Renault another angry glare. “But for a cause…for what you believe in…for your homeland’s sake! Can you understand that?”

 

Khyron was about to come up with an angry reply, but Braddock cut him off. “I take it you do?”

 

“Not as much as my family did. Thirty years ago…the war in Sacae. My father and grandfather left my mother as whole men…my father came back to her without a leg and an eye, and my grandfather did not return at all. But they didn’t regret anything! Because what they gave, they gave for Bern!

 

“But that wasn’t the only thing my country took from its people. No…I…I became a Wyvern Rider, like my father, and his father, like I had to…and I served my country well, better than almost any ever had. My skill with the spear and my bond with my Minerva sent me straight up the ranks…but for me…as long as I had him by my side…that was all that mattered. Helminus…he was the only one who could match me. Only Minerva was closer to me…and I thought…we would never be parted…

 

“And yet it was the…the Lycians who…took him away…from me. After the defeat in Sacae, the decimated Wyvern Riders had all we could handle simply keeping the peace and staving off bandits in our own borders. But then…it was five years ago. Only five…a band of Lycians on the border between our countries, hunting the same bandits we were…they mistook us for what we were hunting. We never even knew what hit us…a Bolting spell blew Helminus’ second in command out of the sky, and then Helminus…Helminus…he was calling my name as he fell…

 

“And I didn’t fight back. I…I didn’t fight back. I didn’t avenge his death…my Helminus’ death…because of the discipline the Wyvern Knights were expected to hold. I knew it would cause another incident if a Bernite attacked a Lycian on the meeting between their countries. As arrows and magic fell around me, I couldn’t even gather his body…I…I had to leave him to rot in Lycia. I returned, alone, to the capitol to report what had happened…

 

“It was…not even a patrol. It was a band of deserters fleeing the canton of Araphen who had killed him. They’d abandoned their posts during the Lycian civil war and were living as bandits since then. So…so ironic, isn’t it? I would have done Lycia a favor had I killed those vermin. But my king passed my report to the leaders of that country, and they sent a force to the border and exterminated Helminus’ murderers…

 

“For my “good judgment,” I was given the post of Wyvern General, to replace my dead predecessor. I didn’t want any of it…not a title, not the authority, nothing. I only wanted Helminus back…

 

“It was then I met him…met Paptimus. Not even a year after my assignment as Wyvern General…some Etrurian count came to Bern as part of a diplomatic mission. He brought along Paptimus…and the moment he saw me, he knew…knew what lay inside my heart…

 

“In public, he acted the fool. But when we were alone…when his master had gone to sleep, when he suddenly knocked on my door in the middle of the night…he was a completely different person. Eloquent and learned…and also completely disloyal to the Etrurian Crown. I couldn’t believe what I heard from him that night, and thought I should have slew him then and there. But instead, I listened…and when I did, I knew I had finally found a cause I could believe in.

 

“Do you know what he told me? He envisioned a world without borders! A world where Bern—the country my father gave his body for, my Helminus gave his life in defense of—ruled over all with justice and equality! Where war would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory! Right then and there, I knew only he could make such a world a reality—it would happen only when the two strongest powers, Bern and Etruria, were united. After that, the rest would follow. To create a world where no-one would suffer like my father and Helminus did…I wanted to make that world a reality. And for that reason, I joined Paptimus, supported his schemes, and sacrificed everything for him. And I would do it all again…without the slightest hesitation.”

 

“You seriously believed all the garbage he fed you?” retorted Braddock. “He was lying, Vyrleena! He didn’t believe a word of that high-sounding nonsense! Don’t you know? HE caused the civil war in Lycia! HE started all of it! If it wasn’t for him, your Helminus would still be—“

 

Braddock was surprised, however, not by an angry denial but by another spate of coughs which seemed  more accepting and resigned than anything else. They were pained and racked her entire body, and to the dismay of the people watching her, it was evident she wouldn’t last much longer. However, there was a smile on her face, beneath her ruined eyes. She did not deny what the Ostian said, but seemed to accept it wholeheartedly.

 

 “Yes…yes, you’re right,” she said between coughs that sounded like a cross between a cackle and a sob. The armor…it taught me why. I saw the answer in the black maelstrom it produced in my mind. Such a world…such a world is only a dream. It can’t possibly exist. Paptimus…my Paptimus…he’s doomed to failure. He wants to create a world without war…through war. A world of reason…through unreason. The armor saw that…saw my belief in it…and laughed at me, laughed long and hard, laughed as it devoured me bit by bit. It saw…it knows…it…everything. Our condition brings it nothing but mirth, you…you know? We’re such pathetic creatures, we humans. Everyone…my father…Helminus…they all…died for nothing. You’ll win…you royalists will win. There’s nothing in this world but war. Anything better…such dreams don’t exist.

 

“So then take…take it! Take your victory with your own hands! Stand up and grab it from atop the corpses of my father, of Helminus, over my body, over the bodies and blood of everyone you’ve ever killed! Prove it right! Prove that the Armor of the Berserk was right, like I know it is! It’s…”

 

She could say no more—the next words out of her mouth were drowned out by her loud, ugly coughing, which did not stop even as her eyes rolled back in her head. She began to burst into wild spasms, her hands jerking this way and that, and her coughing deepened into gagging, foam erupting from her unnaturally wizened lips. The grey sludge that had been her eyes rolled back in her head as Braddock ran over to her and desperately tried to keep her skill, calling for Khyron to lend assistance.

 

Swearing, the Sage hastily ran over and attempted to provide it, the blue of his Mend staff glowing brightly as waves of healing energy washed over the woman. It provided her no relief—though the staff may have been very good at healing physical wounds, her affliction was not something it could handle. Even as she was surrounded by the soft blue glow, Vyrleena let out one last, great cough, jerked wildly in Braddock’s arms, cast Renault one final, sightless, hate-filled glare—and then fell silent and motionless.

 

The Autonomous Company stood there, almost as motionless as she was now, for a long time as her last words sunk in to them. None of them knew what to say, or how to respond. Lisse, being confused and frightened by the whole affair, began sobbing quietly.

 

This was enough to spur Khyron into action. “Don’t just leave her there,” he said, “Make a hole and bury her in it! Quickly! For all we know we might have pursuers behind us right that minute! We have to get moving as quickly as possible!”

 

“A burial for a Bernite?” asked Renault sarcastically. “Didn’t think you were so generous, Khyron.”

 

“I’ve only heard tales of what that armor can do, you insolent fool,” he spat back, “but I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks! Anyone with the least training in the arcane arts knows you don’t trifle with dark magic. Who knows if the body is cursed, or if the Armor of the Berserk can produce plagues, as well! Better not to find out by just leaving the corpse to rot!”

 

Renault blinked in surprise—Lisse guessed it was because Khyron didn’t say sensible things very often. Thus, she watched him as he turned his back to assist Braddock in digging a grave for the woman without another word.

 

After everything she’d heard and seen, however, even if that woman was buried in the ground a thousand miles away from her, she still wouldn’t find it easy to sleep for the next few days.

 

-X-

 

Kelitha, as any good soldier would, took her sleep when and where she could get it. It had been three days since they’d buried Vyrleena, and a day since they’d managed to cross the destroyed Bingham Bridge without incident. They had suffered from no pursuit, though it was too soon to say Khyron’s fears were entirely misplaced—perhaps the enemy was more concerned with massing their forces for the assault on Caerleon rather than chasing down a single team, or perhaps Trunicht was unaware that they had escaped from the Citadel with their lives. On the other hand, it was still entirely possible that their foes had something terrible in store for them, just waiting for a chance to surprise them. Thus, Khyron had maintained his grueling pace, and the sisters had been worked very hard ferrying their comrades and equipment across the river. As a result, they were both extremely tired and should have been more than willing to make the most out of this break Khyron had given them. However, as Kelitha was awakened by the sound of her sister’s heavy breathing and the sound of an Iron Lance jabbing and thrusting through the air, it occurred to her that perhaps the same could not be said for Keith.

 

“…Keth? Keith, is that you?” she asked hesitantly and groggily, rising from her blanket and rubbing her eyes. Even in the darkness there was enough light from the moon to make out her younger sister’s form stabbing and thrusting frantically in the air. She recognized what she was doing as well—it was the standard spear training routine first taught to Pegasus Knights before they were given their first wings. Kelitha remembered Keith’s first attempts at these—so long ago, it seemed, the young girl had tripped over and fallen before getting through even the first two thrusts. Now, however—and Kelitha noted this with a twinge of sadness—she performed the drills expertly, the lance bobbing and weaving through the air as if it was a part of her own body.

 

“Keith?”

 

The girl didn’t take heed. She continued with her training, dodging and parrying and invisible opponent.

 

“Keith, what are you doing?”

 

“S-sister?” This finally seemed to gain her attention as she stopped her drills and turned to face Kelitha. “I’m sorry, did I wake you? I…I was…”

 

“It’s fine, Keith. You were training, I understand that. But why? And why this late at night?”

 

The girl lowered her spear and looked down at the ground. She spoke so quietly it was almost impossible for Kelitha to hear her.

 

“…too weak,” she whispered. “I’m too weak…that’s why…”

 

Kelitha blinked in confusion, drawing closer. “Keith, what are you talking about?”

 

“I’m too weak!” the girl burst out, and as she looked up at her sister, there were tears evidently rimming her eyes. “Everything…everything that happened…it’s all my fault!

 

“When…when Renault and I were trapped behind enemy lines…we…no, I captured one of the enemy soldiers…he…he didn’t seem to be with them! And when he gave us that information about the Citadel, I was so pleased…I thought I’d made a real accomplishment! Made Mother proud! But then…but then…” She was sobbing, now. “It’s all my fault! All those people are dead…and our reputations are ruined…all because of me! If I’d just killed that soldier, none of this would have happened! If I was a better flier, Renault and I wouldn’t even have been stuck there in the first place! It’s…It’s…”

 

“Shhh, Keith, stop…please, stop.” Without even thinking, Kelitha strode right up to her crying sister and embraced her. “You can’t blame yourself, dear little sister. How can something like that be all one person’s fault? It’s Trunicht, it’s the Rebels who deserve to be blamed, not you! You did what you thought was right. You fought as hard as you could. What else could anyone ask?”

 

The older sister kissed her on the cheek and stroked her hair as she held her, as comfortingly as she knew how, as comfortingly as their mother did. But even that was of little help—though Keith’s sobs eased, they did not disappear. “But…but…Sister…I…”

 

“Enough of that, Keith. Your sister’s right.”

 

Both women turned around in surprise to see…Renault, of all people, walking up to them in the darkness. Though he wasn’t wearing his armor, they could tell it was him by the way the sword at his hip glinted in the moonlight.

 

“R…Renault!” sniffled Keith, still crying. “How’d you…why are you here?”

 

“Your caterwauling woke me up,” he growled in irritation. “Sleepin’ light’s a good thing for a mercenary to learn, you know.”

 

“I…Renault,” said Kelitha hesitantly. Keith, on the other hand, took his advice to heart. “Y…you’re exactly right. I need to learn that…there’s so much I need to learn! I’m so weak! So—“

 

“God damn it, Keith,” he said, “I don’t mind being woken up. It’s _that_ I can’t stand.”

 

“That? But I…ah…it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, Renault, so sorr—“

 

“ _That_ is exactly what I’m talking about! Keith, stop blaming yourself. Don’t you remember what I told you on the other side of the river? Quit trying to fall on your own sword!”

 

“But Renault, how can I?” she burst out, seemingly on the verge of crying again. “You heard what I said! And you remember what I did! You were there with me! If I hadn’t wanted to capture that soldier, noth—“

 

“Yeah, I was there. Don’t _you_ remember? It’s not like you captured that guy alone. I went right along with you. Hell, I was as eager about it as you were! When we captured him, remember what I said? “A mercenary takes an opportunity when he sees it, and this is a hell of an opportunity!”

 

“Hah! It’s not bad advice, but in that case…did it ever give us more trouble than it was worth! So if you’re to blame, Keith, then it’s my fault every bit as much as it was yours. I could’ve noticed something was off, I could’ve stopped you, I could’ve thought for even a little bit before going along with your plan. But I didn’t. So don’t go taking all the blame for yourself. Leave some for me!”

 

“B-but Renault, that’s silly,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “How can it be your fault? You didn’t know what Trunicht was planning. The…the soldier seemed so sincere.”

 

“Yep. And neither did you. So why are you blaming yourself? If I don’t deserve blame, neither do you. Your sister’s exactly right.” Renault smashed his fists together, an angry grimace on his face. “It’s Trunicht’s fault…all that damn Trunicht’s! My reputation already got ruined once, at Scirocco. You’d think that would be enough for him! But then he goes and slaughters his hostages, and then blames it all on us! On ME! I’m not gonna let that bastard get away with it. I’m gonna find him, and tear him apart. And you girls are gonna help, right?”

 

“E-exactly!” yelled Keith. Her sister, still holding her, nodded her assent as well.

 

“Great! And the first step to doing that is listening to your sister’s advice. Stop blaming yourself, understand? I don’t want to hear any more of it. It’s fine to get angry. But don’t get angry at yourself. Get angry at Trunicht. And don’t let that anger control you—instead, you control it. You turn that anger into a weapon, then turn it away from you—and make use of it, use it to make you stronger, smarter, tougher. Use it to do something that needs doing—avenging the people of Solgrenne, avenging your reputation, and avenging me, by killing Trunicht! You understand?”

 

“Y-yes!” she said. She had stopped crying, and wiped at her face to dry it. “Renault…th…thank you! Thank you so much! I’ll fight as hard as I can! For my sister, for my mother, for Ilia, and for you! I’ll become stronger, just like you, Renault!”

 

“I’m glad to hear that. That’s another thing, though. Stop calling yourself ‘weak.’ You’ve got a lot to learn, but inexperience isn’t the same as weakness. You’ve got a hell of a lot of promise, girl. You keep improving your skills, and you’ll be a great mercenary one day—not just one of the best in Ilia, but one of the best _anywhere_. You think getting shot down in circumstances like those at the Bingham Bridge is anything to be ashamed of? Remember what I told you! Saddled with my extra weight, surrounded by Wyvern Knights, and chased by a guy like Yazan, a ‘weaker’ Pegasus Knight would’ve gotten slaughtered. But you kept us alive.

 

“Maybe you could’ve done better, but you still did the best you could. Remember, there are limits to even the strongest mercenary’s strength. No single merc can win an entire war by himself. But each one does the best he can…just like you did. That’s all anyone can ask. As long as you get the job done, you’re not weak. And you sure got that job done, judging by how you kept me alive.

 

“So, come on. Enough of this. Budding mercenaries need their sleep. Put down your spear and we’ll get back to camp. You need rest. Maybe if we have some time later I can spar with you and your sister, but for now, bed.”

 

“I…okay. Thank you, Renault. Really…” Renault gave Keith an affectionate pat on the head, and together, the three of them headed back to where they’d bedded for the night, quietly so as to not wake up any more of their sleeping comrades. Renault grinned in satisfaction as he watched the two of them settle down together. “Now stay down, alright? I don’t wanna be woken up again.”

 

He turned and strode off into the darkness, heading back to his own bed. Next to Kelitha, Keith had already snuggled down onto her blanket, and up against her sister. She seemed much, much calmer after Renault’s speech to her, and her eyes were closed and her breathing steady. Her elder sister was very glad to see this. She stroked the girl’s hair, hoping to send her to sleep quicker.

 

She was a bit unhappy about one thing, though. Renault had already gone off to his own bed.

 

Which meant that Kelitha hadn’t had a chance to thank him personally herself.

 

-X-

 

It was on the 29th Wyvern that the Autonomous Company finally arrived at the gates of Caerleon, tired, disheveled, and utterly demoralized. Though they had figured out they wouldn’t be pursued, Khyron had insisted they maintain their pace so as to tell their comrades what had happened as soon as possible. As they’d grown to expect by this point, however, word of their deeds had already preceded them.

 

Khyron marched up to the iron portcullis guarding the city, calling to the watchmen, “Ho! Your Count has returned! Open this gate! _NOW!_ ”

 

It took them several moments to respond—slower than one would have expected, as if they were debating amongst themselves what to do. However, the portcullis did rise eventually, and the team was allowed to enter the town and head for the castle itself.

 

As they entered, they noticed that the normally bustling city seemed unusually hushed. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why. As the ten of them marched, grim-faced, through the streets, none of them could fail to notice that almost every eye of the citizenry was on them. And none of them could fail to hear the whispers buzzing through the air around them.

 

“Did you hear? Those are the ones who destroyed Elram’s Citadel!”

 

“They couldn’t have done it by themselves, could they?”

 

“But Lord Khyron is a good man! Why would he kill all those people?”

 

“I heard he was paid to do it!”

 

“I heard it was the idea of that man with the teal hair!”

 

“I’m glad Khyron killed ‘em! The traitors of Solgrenne deserved no mercy!”

 

“But even so, it was all just women at Elram’s Citadel, wasn’t it? Burying all of them under the building’s rubble…”

 

As he heard all this, Renault’s mouth twisted into an angry grimace and he balled his hands into fists. “Scirocco again…just like Scirocco. Trunicht, you bastard…you’ve made a fool of me again. I’ll slaughter you!”

 

“My own subjects,” spat Khyron bitterly. “No faith in their own count? Paying heed to Trunicht’s lies? I’ll put them all in the stockades!”

 

The rest of his team very thoroughly shared his sentiments--—they wanted to scream, declare their innocence, lash out at those stupid enough to believe the damnable rumors. But none of them did anything. They’d lived through this before, and knew very well such gestures would be pointless.

 

Silently, the Company made its way up to the castle gates. The lazy-looking guard there seemed quite surprised to see them, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but an absolutely vicious glare from Khyron cut him off before he could start. With no further delay, they entered Castle Caerleon, passed through its quiet halls (as the servants stopped to stare at them) and reached the steward’s chambers, where Gafgarion resided.

 

Khyron didn’t even bother to knock, barging right in, and apparently, Gafgarion wasn’t expecting anything different. “I’ve already heard about what happened t’ the girls,” said the former steward in a sad, tired voice. Indeed, despite not having fought so far, the bags under his eyes  and how his drawn, haggard face looked pale and weak below his orange hair suggested the last few days had been very trying on him as well. “Just tell me your side of the story. Fast.”

 

“Everything you’ve heard is a lie!” declared Khyron, and he and the rest of his team proceeded to describe what really happened at the Citadel—the battle with Vyrleena, Trunicht’s sudden appearance, and how he had been the one to pull the lever which condemned the women to death. He then recounted Vyrleena’s last words, which were enough to make Gafgarion’s eyes widen for a moment—and then return to their previous, tired, half-lidded state.

 

“I thought this’d be the true story,” he said with resignation. “Y’ aren’t the kinda folks to kill in cold blood like that, and I sure as hell know that nobody gave y’ any orders t’ do so. It’s the exact same tactics they tried back at Scirocco, pastin’ a crime on us like that. Problem is, it’s still effective. First, those Revolutionary spies have already been spreadin’ rumors all over the place. Clearin’ the air with th’ truth is gonna be much easier said than done. Secondly, even if we could do that, the basic fact is, we still failed our mission. We were s’posed to rescue those girls, but they’re dead now, even if it wasn’t y’r fault.

 

“And this is leadin’ t’ some serious problems for us. If we managed t’ win back the people o’ Solgrenne, we’d have a few thousand more soldiers on our side n’ Vinland would have a few thousand less, which’d make our lack o’ numbers less of a problem. Now, though, th’ exact opposite’s happened. The Rebel forces are gonna be marchin’ here with high morale and more men than we c’n keep up with. Even with the advantage of bein’ in friendly territory and defendin’ against the siege, it’ll take a hell of a lot o’ doin’ to keep Caerleon.”

 

“You don’t need to tell us of our failures,” retorted Khyron bitterly. “Believe me, we know all too well. What I’m interested in, commoner, is where we go from here! Yes, the operation in the citadel failed, and I take full responsibility for that.” At this, the rest of his team looked at him in surprise. “ _I_ am their leader! _I_ am the Mage General! _I_ am in command here, and _they_ serve _me!_ One cannot blame servants, their master should have known better. But I am also an Etrurian! I’m not going to wallow in my failures like some lachrymose Ilian! This servant of the King did not give up after his brother died, did not give up after the debacle at Old Castle Nerinheit, and will not give up now! So if fending off this rebel assault on my land is so difficult, Gafgarion, tell us how we’ll do it so we can get it over with sooner rather than later!”

 

The older man blinked, as surprised (and impressed) by Khyron’s impassioned speech as his underlings were. “Well, I’m mighty glad t’ hear that, milord.” For the first time, he smiled. “Makes me think we might have some hope after all. Truth is, though, Great General Henken’s already got a plan set up. He already heard th’ news about what happened at the Citadel barely a night after it did happen, and he sent this letter containin’ y’r orders.” Gafgarion picked up a single piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Khyron.

 

“Aw, no,” groaned Harvery. “Ch—Henken had to be absolutely livid when he heard about how we messed up! I don’t even wanna read this…he’s probably gonna call for our executions or something!”

 

“Silence!” said Khyron as he read the note. “What is…” From an initial expression of surprise, his mouth hardened into a grim line. “Fine. Fine! I understand!”

 

“Don’t got all day,” grunted Roberto. “Th’ hell does it say?”

 

The Sage held up the letter for all of his comrades to see. It consisted of two words, and two words only, scrawled harshly but still with impeccable penmanship—perfectly fitting with the Great General’s cold, calculating personality.

 

“KILL VINLAND.”

 

“’S the only chance we got,” said Gafgarion. “That single man and his reputation as a battlefield terror are what’s holdin’ this rebel force together, t’ a large extent. We kill ‘im now, we’ll break their morale, possibly enough to make them retreat entirely.”

 

“Respectfully, sir, we already tried that once,” said Rosamia, looking at Keith. “It did not go well.”

 

“Aye, lass, I understand that. But this second time’ll have to be the charm. There’s no other way we c’n defend Caerleon with th’ forces we got.”

 

“So then what’s the plan this time?” asked Renault. “We’re not gonna be able to send the bridge down under him again.”

 

“Nope. Just as well, since I’ve heard reports they’re close to finishin’ fordin’ the river.”

 

“What?!”

 

“That dark magic o’ theirs comes in mighty handy, and they had a few of their survivin’ Wyverns helpin’ the engineers. Workin’ together, the black magicians managed to levitate a lot of the rock, stone, and debris from the bridge to fix up the hole y’ made. It’s a patch job, but it’s strong enough to get their men across safely.”

 

“Wonderful,” drawled Braddock. “So how long ‘till they get here?”

 

“’bout a week. They’re ready for a standard siege, judging from what m’ spies have told me.”

 

“Just kill Vinland, is it? I’ll challenge him to a duel, then!” exclaimed Khyron. It’s what I should have done in the first place! We’ll set out tonight and give him the terms! Why, all this trouble started because I agreed to all these kinds of dishonorable tactics in the first place! Let’s—“

 

“Khyron, you’ve dealt with that armor of his. You know you’d get slaughtered!”

 

“Well then, what do you propose we do? At least in a man to man fight we’d have a chance at defeating him. How could we do so when he’s protected by all of his army?”

 

“Well, I got an idea,” Harvery piped up. “Khyron, you still have that Rescue staff I got from the Citadel, right?”

 

“Yes. What of it?”

 

“Well, listen to this…”

 

The members of the Company moved closer together to listen to Harvery’s plan. When he was done, Khyron made no mistake of what he thought of it.

 

“Nonsense!” he declared. “While a dishonorable plan is to be expected from _you_ , Assassin, do you really believe it has any chance of working?”

 

“Actually, milord, I don’t see any reason it wouldn’t be possible,” said Rosamia thoughtfully. “From what I understand of the theory behind the Rescue staff, there’s no reason it wouldn’t be able to perform that function…”

 

“Yes, but the risks!” Khyron turned towards Braddock. “This whole plan relies on you, you know, and to say you’ll be facing most of the danger is an understatement. Are you _really_ all right with that?”

 

“Hey, I’m no stranger to tough jobs,” grinned the Ostian. “Trust me, I’m fine with it.”

 

“Don’t think we’ll be seein’ anythin’ better, milord,” said Gafgarion. “I’m not much fond of th’ plan m’self, but as far as I can tell, if there’s any way t’ best Vinland, Harvery’s the closest to it.”

 

“Very well. Very well!” said Khyron as he clenched his hands and gritted his teeth. “Then, all of you, get prepared for the operation as soon as possible! If I’m going to have to involve myself with a plan like this, I will _not_ tolerate it failing! Make sure your equipment’s fully repaired and steel your souls for an even tougher battle than we had at the Citadel!”

 

The team had ended many briefings in the same way, and their reaction to this one was no different. As per their routine, the Autonomous Company didn’t bother to say anything further. They simply filed out of the room, faces set in resignation and grim determination, to do as their leader commanded.

 

-X- _The Battle of Caerleon_ -X-

 

 _This shouldn’t be too hard_ , Dougram thought to himself. At least, he hoped very desperately it wouldn’t.

 

He stood at Garl Vinland’s side, Serapino alongside him and Trunicht and Yazan on the other side. All of them were standing in the midst of their army, which surrounded the north side of the city of Caerleon at the moment. Around them milled their thousands of spearmen, Cavaliers, and Knights, many of whom were comprised of the now-enthusiastic (but still unskilled) conscripts from Solgrenne looking for revenge. They were assisted by the more able Paladins, Sages, and Generals of Vinland’s personal guard, along with the Druids and Black Knights of Trunicht’s Red Shoulders, as well as a few dozen Wyvern Knights under Yazan which survived the Battle of Aquleia and some of the experienced Rebel mercenaries who’d been with them since Paptimus’ initial betrayal, which seemed so long ago. All in all, they numbered eight thousand, a decent size advantage compared to the Royalist force of five thousand within Caerleon’s walls, most of which wasn’t as well trained and experienced compared to Vinland’s men either.

 

The real feather in their cap, however, was Vinland himself. Though Dougram, Yazan, and Trunicht fully intended to stay back from the fighting, and though the army had brought with them battering rams, trebuchets, and other siege engines, they were relying on Vinland to power their thrust into Caerleon. While the rams and catapults would take a while to break the walls, Garl could tear apart the gates of the town with a single sweep of his axe. This was why Dougram and the other high-ranking rebels were standing near Vinland, close to the head of the army, rather than behind the front lines. While the others would fall back soon, after they were finished surveying the battlefield, Vinland would remain at the front of his army. He was virtually invulnerable; his silver armor able to ward off both magic and even physical attacks as strong as ballistae, so the rebels figured there would be no drawback keeping him in harm’s way even if he was their supreme commander; the Royalists couldn’t touch him and his strength would be enough to shatter their defense.

 

At least, that was what Dougram hoped.

 

He noted Serapino didn’t quite share that hope; the mendicant gazed at Vinland’s impassive form with a singularly fearful, ambivalent expression. Dougram figured some of this was due to the mendicant’s first time being so close to battle (he had to keep the priest close to him both to comfort him and to ensure he didn’t run away, the first time he’d head the twang of a ballista bolt being launched and the scream of someone dying he’d nearly passed out, and now that battle had been joined for several hours, their soldiers casting spells and throwing arrows at the men on the walls and the Royalists reciprocating, he seemed halfway to dying of fright, but to his credit, he wouldn’t abandon his friend. However, even before they had reached Caerleon he had seemed remarkably suspicious of Vinland, going out of his way to avoid the man. Dougram had asked him what the problem was, and the only response he had received was “I can’t violate the sacrament of confession!” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but decided not to press the issue.

 

Not that it really mattered at this point, anyways. The battle would be over not long after it started, Dougram wagered. “It’s time,” said Vinland coldly as he watched the trebuchets lob a few stones at the walls. Hefting his massive, glowing blue axe, the silver-clad General began marching slowly but calmly and inexorably towards the north gate of the city of Caerleon. As his soldiers cheered (while Dougram, Trunicht, and Yazan stayed where they were, both to keep from being targeted and to stay out of his way), ballista bolts, arrows, and spells rained down around the general, all to no effect. As he neared the gates, Dougram thought they might be finished taking Caerleon by the end of the day!

 

That is, until the Royalists unleashed a trick of their own.

 

As Vinland neared the north gate, his Basilikos glowed and gusts of wind began zipping around his body. He raised axe and prepared to unleash a mighty sweep that would have shattered the portcullis and allowed his troops clean entry into the city.

 

He was interrupted, however, by a flash of bright white light.

 

Garl covered his eyes and stepped back, his blow momentarily fended off. When he lowered his Dark Silver Shield, however, both he and everyone watching the battle was more than a little surprised at one they saw.

 

In front of him stood a single man clad in full, deep-blue plate male and wielding a shield and Silver Axe. Dougram thought he was familiar by his height and build, and Trunicht confirmed his suspicions.

 

“Braddock?” the Black Knight pondered. “I guess they were able to escape the Citadel after all.”

 

That told Dougram there was something suspicious about the story Trunicht had told earlier, but for now, he wasn’t worried. Rather, he—and the rest of the army, too taken aback to do anything—watched what seemed to be a duel between Vinland and the Ostian. Could this have been the rebel plan?

 

Vinland may have been distracted for a moment, but he didn’t let down his guard. Instead, he resolved to kill one soldier before concentrating on the gate. “DIE!” he yelled, bringing the Basilikos over his head and down in a chop which would have obliterated the brave and insanely foolhardy Lycian. That is, if it had hit. As both the rebels and the soldiers manning the walls watched in amazement, Braddock leapt to his right and Vinland’s left, belying what one might have expected to be the weight of his armor, farther than he needed to escape the arc of the axe’s cut. This proved to be a wise decision, for if he hadn’t, the gusts of wind emanating from the Basilikos would have hit him. As it were, they only carved a deep furrow into the ground.

 

Vinland raised the shield in his left hand, preparing to guard what he expected would be a follow-up blow from Braddock’s Silver Axe. And indeed, he was hit by something—but not an axe.

 

The Ostian, crouching from the position he’d found himself after his dodge, launched his entire body straight at Vinland. The General, though he wasn’t expecting something like that, braced himself to keep from getting bowled over. With a crash of metal, the two men met like waves of silver and blue smashing against each other. Vinland was almost as large as Braddock, so he was able to hold his ground, his shield keeping the Ostian from getting a good grip on him (he thought Braddock was attempting to wrap him up in a bearhug and crush him to death).

 

Braddock did indeed intend to get a grip on the General, but not to crush him. As he’d made his initial dodge he’d limbered his silver axe, leaving his right hand free, and Braddock snaked it under Vinland’s shield to grasp the man’s forearm. Not a good move—this made him wide open for any number of attacks from Vinland, ranging from a simple head smash to a blow from the sturdy butt of Basilikos’s haft. They both realized this.

 

But it was a risk Braddock was apparently willing to take. “KHYRON!” he screamed, his voice reaching across the entire battlefield. “NOW!!!”

 

“What the--!? What’s he doing?” exclaimed Dougram, suddenly realizing that the royalists had concocted a plot much more subtle than he’d first thought.

 

“Hey, what the hell do the rest of you think you’re doing!” yelled Yazan. “Mages, blow that Ostian straight to hell! Archers, put an arrow through his helm! What’re you waiting for? “

 

However, it was too late. Vinland could only let out a startled, “What is this?!” before both he and his opponent were enveloped within a field of bluish-white light. Both men then glowed bright white themselves, and then dissipated with a flash into particles of white light.

 

These particles soared far away, straight into the air, over the heads of both the shocked, dismayed Rebels and the surprised Royalists. In the distance, they could be seen descending…behind the walls of the castle.

 

Dougram suddenly realized what the Royalist plan had exactly been—and realized that this battle would be nowhere near as easy as he first hoped. “TRUNICHT! DON’T YOU HAVE A RESCUE STAFF? TAKE HIM BACK?!” he yelled.

 

“I don’t know where they took him!” replied the Black Knight in frustration, who then jerked his horse to the side to avoid a Bolting attack crashing down on his position followed by several ballista. “And their artillery’s focusing on me and the other magic users! We don’t have enough time to ready any spells that might be useful! Fall back, Brother Dougram! Vinland will be able to take care of himself. Just let him deal with them inside of the walls and then we’ll deal with the ones he’s left over!”

 

“Dammit!” yelled Dougram. “Alright, Serapino, stay close to me! Let’s return to the back of the lines!”

 

“Eep!” The absolutely terrified mendicant (this was indeed the first real battle he’d seen up close, and he was handling it surprisingly well, in Dougram’s view) followed his orders without question. As the leaders of the Rebel army retreated, flanked by some of Vinland’s Generals and Paladins for protection as the rest of their soldiers surged forwards in the hope of rescuing Vinland, the Nabatan could only hope Trunicht’s faith in the man was justified.

 

-x-

 

“Gah!”

 

Braddock had never taken well to Warp spells, and the magic of the Rescue staff seemed little different. First came the bright white light, then the horrible sense of disorientation, and then being plopped straight down onto an entirely unfamiliar area.

 

Well, thanks to the plan, he didn’t find himself in an _entirely_ unfamiliar area. Instead, he was in the main square of Caerleon, a picturesque plaza with a large fountain in front of the castle itself, whose spires provided a lovely background. Not that they’d have too much time to enjoy the scenery—they’d be too busy fighting. Arranged around the plaza, in front of the fountain, were the other members of the Company, Khyron at their head, gasping from the effort of using magic as powerful as Rescue, along with several squads of regular Royal soldiers.

 

Unlike Braddock, Vinland was quite surprised, but he didn’t let that get in the way of his fighting spirit. With a loud yell, he shoved the Ostian off of him and then crouched, keeping his shield up and his Basilikos ready over his shoulder, glaring suspiciously at his surroundings and the foes who seemed to have trapped him, all their weapons pointed straight at him.

 

However, even in this state he didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply allowed the Basilikos to glow and summon gusts of wind surrounding himself to ward off any advance from his enemies.

 

“Not bad, huh?” Braddock grinned, getting up from where Vinland had shoved him. “That Assassin over there came up with it last week. We knew we couldn’t beat you and your army head to head, so we had to get you alone. Thankfully, our fearless leader managed to get his hands on a Rescue staff. The magic only works on those who’ve pledged loyalty to the man who wields it, so I’ve heard. However, it also brings along anyone such a loyal person may be carrying, and that includes enemies he’s grabbed on to. So by Warping me in to get a hold of you, the Mage General could then Rescue both of us to a…more advantageous position, know what I mean?” Braddock leveled his own axe at the General. “Look, I don’t enjoy senseless bloodshed. Even you can’t get out of this. Drop your weapon and just surrender, and we’ll show you off to your army and get them to back off. We won’t treat you badly, either. So, what’re you waiting for? You can’t really expect to put up much of a fight when you’re in the middle of an enemy city, right?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” replied Vinland emotionlessly. “I will destroy the city from the inside!”

 

Braddock just had time to groan, “I was afraid you’d say that” before the General swung the Basilikos at him. Once again, he managed to dodge in time, but not quite fast enough—a stray gust of wind caught him in the arm and made him stumble. However, it wasn’t a fatal mistake, for the other Royalist soldiers covered for him. “Capture him!” one of the younger Soldiers said. “We’ll be sure to get a reward!” He and his comrades rushed forwards, thinking to overwhelm the General with numbers, but it turned out to be a singularly foolish decision. Without wasting a beat, Vinland quickly turned his right wrist, thus flipping the axe so that it was now horizontal rather than embedded in the ground vertically (a display of his most impressive strength), and with a twist of his shoulder followed by a twist of his torso and a spin on his heel, swept the Basilikos around him in a great circular cut. Though not as fast or dramatic as Henken’s spin during the battle of Aquleia, it got the job done—before any of the Royalists could get close enough to even land a single blow, they were smashed into a shower of bloody bits scattering around the plaza.

 

“DAMN IT,” yelled Braddock, looking at the remaining Royal auxiliaries, “DON’T CHARGE HIM! JUST LEAVE HIM TO US! GET BACK TO THE WALLS, AND DON’T LET THE REBELS BREAK IN BEFORE WE’VE DEALT WITH VINLAND!”

 

He hoped his comrades intended to follow his orders, but he didn’t have time to verify it. Stopping his spin, Vinland stepped back with his right foot (faster than Braddock expected), braced himself against the momentum of his spin, and in the same moment, flipped Basilikos once again and brought it down in another long, overhead cut. This time, Braddock wasn’t quick enough to dodge it completely. He ducked to the side, away from the blade itself but grimacing as he raised his shield to block what he knew to be wind close by. He was expecting the impact to be harsh, but not _that_ harsh. “AAAAGH!” he screamed as the shield was literally torn away from the forearm and he was sent stumbling back, his left hand once again ruined. Though it was the second time that arm had been hit like this, Braddock was honestly more worried about his shield—it’d cost him over a thousand gold to repair after he’d arrived at Caerleon following the battle with Vyrleena, and it hadn’t even been a month since he had to repair it again!

 

Of course, the fact that he even had time to spend on such thoughts proved that his friends were doing a very good job of keeping Vinland occupied. Upon seeing him beaten away, Apolli and Roberto immediately unlimbered their bows and began firing at Vinland—even though their arrows simply bounced ineffectively off his armor, they still kept him distracted. Keith and Kelitha did the same from above, soaring around the General’s head and sending Javelin after Javelin down at him. Meanwhile, Khyron launched an Elfire spell at the man, engulfing him in magic flames. He knew it wouldn’t do much good, but it at least blinded Vinland long enough for Rosamia to scurry over and use her Heal staff on Braddock’s broken arm.

 

It also turned Vinland’s attention away from Braddock. “Khyron Caerleon,” said the man coldly as the Elfire magic dissipated. “I remember you. You were the one of the ones who spoke most loudly against my marriage to a woman of the Western Isles.”

 

The Mage General clearly wasn’t expecting Vinland to bring up an old marriage issue while in the midst of battle. “W-what?!” he stammered. “I might have, but it was so long ago, I don’t even remember! What foolishness are you playing at, Vinland?”

 

Garl tightened his grip on the axe, and for the first time a small hint of anger entered his voice. “It’s because of people like you my Astraea cast herself from this world. DIE!”

 

He threw himself at Khyron, axe leading the way, and the Sage had  to leap and roll to the side to avoid Vinland’s charge. However, as the man raised his axe again to launch another strike, to his surprise he found something wrapped around it.

 

A dagger attached to a long chain.

 

-x-

 

Renault knew his knife wouldn’t be able to pierce any part of the General’s armor, but it could annoy him. As expected, Vinland simply jerked his entangled hand forwards, but Renault slackened the chain, so he wasn’t dragged along with it. However, as he jerked his arm back to activate the mechanism (newly repaired, though the craftsman had had trouble with it—it was an ancient piece of work from the Scouring, after all, and couldn’t even be replicated. He was glad it hadn’t been *too* damaged in his last fight or it wouldn’t have been able to be rapaired at all) in his pauldrons and draw the knife back to himself, he didn’t step back but instead rushed forwards, forcing Vinland to meet his charge. The General momentarily forgot about Khyron as he raised his shield to block a slice of Renault’s long Steel Sword. Renault didn’t let up, letting loose with two more slices which Vinland wasn’t quick enough to guard. They landed on his upper arm and shoulder, however, which meant they were blocked by his armor, and Garl paid them absolutely no heed. Instead, he quickly jabbed forward with the butt of his axe, and Renault avoided having his head slammed by hopping backwards with a flourish of his two weapons. Vinland promptly followed this up with a very quick flip of his wrist and another vertical cut, but Renault dodged this one with ease as well—another hop brought him well clear of Vinland’s attack. His light swords didn’t encumber him, which gave him a natural advantage against powerful but unwieldy axes, while his experience with the Rex Hasta had taught him how to evade the wind these ancient enchanted weapons seemed to produce.

 

“Harvery, he’s open!” Renault yelled, noting where Vinland’s back was turned. Behind the General, Harvery nodded grimly, unsheathing his small twin daggers. In a bizarre display—Renault might have thought it a trick of the afternoon sun shining over them if he hadn’t known better—Harvery seemed to _shift_. Almost like an optical illusion, he seemed to separate into three people as he twirled his daggers in his hands—and then suddenly disappeared. He hadn’t been Warped away, though. Instead, the whole area darkened as Vinland, in surprise, suddenly stopped moving, looking around himself in what could have been panic. Suddenly, the images of Harvery appeared all around him, slicing and cutting at every inch of him, the Assassin moving so incredibly quickly he was leaving afterimages all over the field of battle. Finally, with three flashes of red, Harvery appeared directly in front of Vinland, sheathing his daggers, as the warrior fell to his knees.

 

“Great job, Harvery!” cheered Braddock , now fully healed thanks to Rosamia, as his teammates looked on with expressions caught somewhere between revulsion at the dishonorable attack and relief that they might have finally achieved victory. “Haven’t lost your touch, huh?”

 

Lamentably, he apparently had. Shaking his head, the General rose to his feet, his armor glinting in the sun—and it was now evident it was covered in cuts and scratches, the only thing Harvery’s handiwork had amounted to.

 

“Damn!” yelled the Assassin in utter frustration. “I should’ve hit his vitals! I KNOW I did! What the hell is with that damn armor?!”

 

“Guess it does more than ward off magic!” yelled Braddock as he tossed a Hand Axe at the General. It bonked ineffectually off his helmet, as did the arrows Roberto and Apolli continued to send at him, along with Khyron and Rosamia’s magic. This time, Vinland didn’t even hesitate,  taking a step forwards, drawing back his axe, and then slashing it through the air, sending a shockwave which forced Braddock, Rosamia, and Renault to scatter.

 

Even worse, the flapping of heavy wings above them indicated that help had arrived. “HEY VINLAND! NEED A HAND?” came a voice from above them, and all the Royalists looked up in dismay to see Yazan flying in once again, trailed by three Wyvern Riders. “Damnation! How’d they get through?! What are our archers doing?!” Khyron swore, but he didn’t have enough time to complain much more.

 

Vinland merely nodded his assent, and the quartet began their dive, aiming for the softer targets of Khyron and Rosamia. However, they were interrupted by a flash of white soaring past them, forcing them to veer away…three of them, that was. The fourth leaned back in his saddle, a Javelin through his chest, and fell off his mount to the ground below.

 

Past them soared Keith, who veered her mount around in a U-turn and fired off another Javelin, which sunk into the soldier of yet another Wyvern rider and forced him to descend, where he became easy pickings for the archer—Roberto knocked him off his mount with a well-placed arrow to his eye, and beside him, Apolli sent a trio of fletches into the belly of the third rider’s mount, sending it and its master down to the earth as well. Within a moment, Yazan’s “help” had been whittled down to almost nothing.

 

“God damn, kid!” yelled the Bernite in genuine surprise. “You’ve improved!”

 

Renault couldn’t help but grin when he heard Keith’s response from above. “Not so easy to catch me now that I’m not weighed down, huh?”

 

Even if Keith was doing a good job of holding things up in the air, Vinland was still keeping them busy on the ground. She continued to duel with Yazan, zipping over and under him while the Wyvern master deflected her quick blows with measured, skillful parries of his Steel lance. Their shadows highlighted Vinland’s continuing onslaught—he changed his focus almost every second, launching a shockwave towards Braddock, then a quick slash towards Renault, and then another shockwave at Roberto and Apolli when it seemed they might be drawing a bead on Yazan. This didn’t allow him to make any killing blows, but it kept his enemies off-balance and disoriented even when they outnumbered him ten to one. The effort should have exhausted him, but he moved as if he hadn’t even broken a sweat. The Royalists, on the other hand, knew they were running out of time—they could hear the battle going on outside the walls, and they knew it wasn’t going well.

 

Kelitha, for her part, decided to take a chance. Soaring over Vinland, who was currently hacking away at Harvery, she turned her mount upside-down in the air, clinging to him with only her strong legs, and spurred him to descend as fast as possible. Vinland noted this attack from the shadow over him, but out of overconfidence, didn’t pay it any heed until the last moment, when he felt a surge of magic and realized there was something amiss.

 

He jerked out of the way as quickly as he could, but he wasn’t fast enough. The mighty Rex Hasta clipped his left shoulder, and though his Dark Silver armor was strong enough to protect his body, even it had to give way to the power of the ancient weapon. With a loud SCREECH Vinland’s pauldron fell away, exposing the unarmored, fair skin of his shoulder and upper arm.

 

“ALL RIGHT! THAT’S MY GIRL!” cheered Renault, elated that they’d finally seemed to do some damage to Vinland. Kelitha responded this for a smile Renault caught a glimpse of as she veered once again for another blow. Lamentably, Vinland wouldn’t be so careless again. He quickly turned, as nimble as could be in such heavy armor, and just as Kelitha spurred her mount for a second charge at him, he flipped his axe’s blade so that it faced the ground horizontally, and then hefted it across his unarmored left shoulder and swung it in an arc. Kelitha’s Pegasus had already reached him, her Rex Hasta at the ready, but her magic spear met the swing of his magic axe, and as expected, the power of his weapon outweighed even hers. The Rex Hasta provided some resistance, but not enough—Kelitha could only cry out as it was torn from her hands and flew uselessly away. Even worse, it gave Yazan an opportunity. While Keith, to her credit, hadn’t been distracted by her sister’s plight, continuing her harassment of Yazan, she hadn’t expected the Bernite’s greed to outweigh his lust for battle. “Hey, score!” yelled the Wyvern Knight as he noticed the spear flying away from its wielder. “Don’t need this anymore!” To the younger sister’s immense surprise, he tossed his Steel Lance right at her. The weapon wasn’t made for throwing, so it missed her, but it still forced her to veer away. In that time, his Wyvern had zipped straight down, under another group of arrows from Roberto and Apolli, just close enough to the flying Rex Hasta for Yazan to reach out and grab it.

 

Had he acquired that weapon a bit earlier, it might have changed the course of battle. However, as it was, Vinland was no longer dominating thanks to the damage to his armor. Kelitha had been driven to the ground, her mount momentarily disoriented by the force of Vinland’s parry, and the man intended to make full use of it. Renault, however, wouldn’t let him. “DAMN IT! KELITHA, WATCH OUT!” yelled Renault despairingly as Garl raised his axe. “I’M NOT GONNA LET YOU DIE!” Vinland’s damaged shield arm was facing him, and the shield itself was large enough to keep Renault from making any successful attack. He didn’t intend to, however. With a single quick movement he dropped his Steel sword and flicked out his right hand, sending out his secondary dagger. With another quick movement he raised his arms, flicked his wrists, and sent both chains flying around Vinland’s right leg. He then jerked forwards with both hands, and though he wasn’t as strong as Vinland, the General wasn’t expecting a move like that, and collapsed down to one knee, abandoning his attempt to finish off Kelitha.

 

He was now in dire straits, and everyone knew it. Yazan attempted to dive down again and make his first kill with his newly-found spear, but Keith wouldn’t let him. Though she knew enough not to get close to Yazan, she kept him occupied by throwing Javelins in the way of his descent. Kelitha, on the other hand, had regained her balance and charged once again at Vinland on the ground, as a mounted Cavalier might. She no longer had her Rex Hasta, but she was still able to force Vinland to raise his shield to keep his shoulder from being skewered by her slim lance. As Renault retracted his daggers, Vinland quickly got to his feet, keeping his shield up and turning so it received the brunt of the next attacks—another flurry of fireballs from Khyron and Rosamia. Even if his armor was damaged, after all, his shield could still block magic as effectively.

 

It left him wide open, though. Renault didn’t bother to pick up his sword—he leapt straight at Garl, who was too occupied with blocking the magic to pay attention to him. Thus, he could only cry out in agony as Renault darted in front of him, close but right behind his shield, and stabbed up and down with both daggers—one of them sinking into the top of his shoulder and hitting the bone, but the other scoring a much more serious wound to his underarm, cutting through the soft flesh and through the large, important artery below it. Renault couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across his face as bright red blood gushed from Vinland’s underarm and onto his right hands.

 

He couldn’t indulge in the sensation forever, of course. With an angry, pained grunt, Vinland twisted and chopped at Renault, who nimbly ducked under the blow and its associated gusts of wind and hopped back. The swing was noticeably slower, too—he’d definitely hurt Vinland. The General felt even more pain when an arrow sunk into his unarmored left shoulder, courtesy of Apolli. If there was one thing the Autonomous Company knew how to do well, it was exploiting even the smallest weakness their opponent might show them.

 

And then came time for the coup de grace. The wounded General swung his axe around himself over and over again, but remained in the same place—though there was still considerable strength from those slashes, enough to keep all of the Company back, the blood pumping from his armpit and staining his silver armor indicated that we was finally tiring. One awkward swing left him open for a moment, and Braddock took the opportunity. “DIE!” he yelled, pumping his legs as quickly as he could towards the wounded General’s back. He deeply wished he still had his Wolf Beil, as that might have made very quick work of the armored opponent. Still, his Silver Axe did the job well enough. Putting every last bit of his sizable strength behind the blow, Braddock slammed his weapon down on Vinland’s armored back. The Dark Silver Armor proved its strength once again, screeching in protest and deflecting away much of the chop’s force. There was still enough left over to cut through it, though—after a moment’s hesitation, with a brief spark of what Braddock assumed to be the armor’s enchantment, the axe continued on its course, embedding itself into Vinland’s back.

 

“A…agh!” Vinland took one step forward, then collapsed down to his knees for what would be the last time. Yazan, upon watching Vinland suffer from that wound below him, knew immediately that the battle was over. “Shit! SHIT! I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY ACTUALLY BEAT HIM! TO HELL WITH THIS, I’M OUTTA HERE!” With one last swing of his Rex Hasta to shoo away Keith (who no longer wanted to fight either), he turned his Wyvern away and back over the streets of Caerleon, over the heads of the now-encroaching Rebel army (screaming about Vinland’s death, which was enough to blunt the rebel push and sow confusion and discord among their ranks), and away to the North.

 

For their part, Vinland’s Rebel enemies could only watch in shock and awe as the mighty warrior finally breathed his last. Vinland gazed up at them from his kneeling position, dropping both his shield and the Basilikos to the ground next to him. He stared up at Braddock, who, like the rest of his friends, didn’t want to risk getting closer, still not fully believing they had triumphed.

 

The former Count stared at his killers, not with hatred—not even for Khyron—but instead, with resignation, and when he spoke his last words, there was only that same emotion in his voice.

 

“Dearest Astraea…I have failed you.”

 

He slumped forwards, forcing him to go down on his hands and knees.

 

“Saint Elimine, I have forsaken your path.”

 

His elbows began to buckle.

 

“I deserve no forgiveness.”

 

With that, his strength finally gave way completely. The hero of the Western Isles fell dead to the ground, his blood pooling around him as it would a common soldier. The axe next to him glowed brightly for a moment—and then fell silent.

 

-x-

 

Trunicht _really_ hated inconveniences, especially when they came just as he was winning. Though the Royalists had put up a very spirited defense, they could not hold the front gate and were retreating into the city—and he knew they wouldn’t have any nasty surprises there. Trunicht was now leading a steady stream of Rebel soldiers through the destroyed north portcullis and into the town, intending to loot and plunder, sack the castle, and of course meet up with Vinland.

 

His good mood, however, was spoiled by Yazan flying overhead. “Trunicht, we gotta get out of here!” he yelled as he passed by—and Trunicht noticed he was now carrying Vyrleena’s spear. “We don’t have a leader! Vinland’s dead! Let’s cut our losses and run!”

 

With that, he continued to zip off into the distance, leaving the rebel advance to slow and almost halt due to the uncertainty of the troops.

 

He wouldn’t let that happen. “Brothers, you must have misheard him! Nobody can best Vinland in combat! He meant to say Vinland still lives! Come, let’s save him!”

 

Trunicht spurred his mount as the men behind him cheered, and he grinned to himself, thinking he’d done something very clever.

 

He’d soon find he was completely wrong.

 

As they continued their march, nearing the town square, Trunicht noticed a figure in the distance. It was tall and sturdy-looking and carrying a huge blue axe he recognized as the Basilikos. “Excellent!” Trunicht muttered to himself. However, as he and his men drew ever closer, he noticed that something was wrong. The man was taller than Vinland, his armor was differently shaped, and most importantly, it was not silver, but…blue.

 

Behind him, his troops had come to the same conclusion, the entire column slowing their march, then stopping entirely, discontented whispers rippling through their ranks. It was obvious this blue-clad man wasn’t their commander; he was the one who’d spirited Vinland away. But then where was he? And why was this man holding his axe?

 

Of course, Trunicht recognized who it was instantly. And he wasn’t at all pleased.

 

“Been a long time, Trunicht,” yelled Braddock mockingly, and behind him, the rest of the Autonomous Company, last seen at Elram’s Citadel, readied their weapons with determination. Even though there were only ten of them, and even though they were all hurt, tired, and dirty, they still somehow seemed like more than a match for all of Trunicht’s men.

 

“Were you looking for Vinland?” the Ostian continued. “Got some real bad news for you. He’s dead!” With a dramatic flourish, he stepped aside to reveal a body bathing in blood right behind him. Trunicht didn’t want to believe it, and neither did his shocked troops, but the silver armor gave it away. It was Garl Vinland’s corpse.

 

“It…it can’t be!” yelled the Black Knight. “This is a trick, brothers and sisters! These men and women killed your mothers, wives, daughters! They’re trying to trick you again! I, for one, won’t listen to their lies! I’ll silence them right now!”

 

“Try it!” yelled Braddock, hefting the axe over his shoulder just as Vinland had done and slamming it into the ground in front of him, sending a shockwave forwards that forced Trunicht to brace himself on his mount and scattering the other rebel forces behind him. If the rebels weren’t convinced that Vinland really was dead before, they were now.

 

“You’re a liar, Trunicht!” screamed the Ostian at the top of his voice. “All of you, we _WERE_ TRYING TO RESCUE THE HOSTAGES! TRUNICHT WAS THE ONE WHO PULLED THAT LEVER!”

 

This caused enough chaos on its own. Even worse, the Royalists had apparently sent out the last of their reserves in an attempt to drive away the rebels. “Brother Trunicht!” cried the voice of another soldier behind him. “I’ve just heard! Commander Gafgarion has brought his horsemen to the fields, and they’re attacking our flanks!  All of our men are demoralized thanks to Yazan’s screaming, and it’s all chaos back there!”

 

This was enough to utterly smash the morale of the previously enthusiastic Rebel army, especially the conscripts from Solgrenne. “T…Trunicht told us Vinland couldn’t die! But there he is!” yelled one terrified youth. “He lied to us about Vinland! Maybe he lied to us about the Citadel, too!” called another. “We can’t stop them!” screamed one older man. “If they could kill Vinland and take his axe, they’ll slaughter all of us!” “And for all we know,” yelled one strong voice, “they’re tellin’ the truth! I dunno what to believe anymore, but I know I don’t wanna fight! RUN!!”

 

With that, the rebel army dissolved into chaos. The townsmen threw down their arms and began a mad rush out of the city, their desire for vengeance now replaced by suspicion of Trunicht and fear of the ones they’d wanted to take revenge on. That would have been troublesome enough on its own, but the bulk of the forces, Vinland’s own militia, was similarly unwilling to fight. They had less loyalty to the revolution than they did to Vinland personally, and now that he was dead, they found their desire to continue slipping away as well. “Wait, are you running too?” called Trunicht, a distinct note of panic creeping into his voice as he saw a pair of Paladins shifting their horses. “Don’t you want to avenge your master? You cowards!”

 

“And who’s the target of our revenge, eh?” the men shot back angrily. “It’s because of _your_ poor leadership he died in the first place, Black Knight!”

 

“You want the body, you can take it,” said Braddock. “Vinland had his own reasons for being here, and he fought honorably enough.” He cast a pointed look at Khyron. “I’m keeping the axe, though. And  I don’t think you guys want to take it.”

 

“We won’t forget this,” said one of the Paladins as Trunicht looked on in astonishment, “and we won’t forgive you, but for now, we refuse to fight. We won’t spill one more drop of blood on behalf of a “revolution” which got our lord killed!” He trotted over as the Autonomous Company parted, dismounting, placing Vinland’s body on his horse, and then getting back on. “Now, everyone, retreat! This battle is over!”

 

“Not yet,” said a man in white armor behind Braddock—Renault, Trunicht remembered. “We’ve got unfinished business with you today, Black Knight!”

 

 Before the Company could bring their weapons to bear on him, however, he was already gone. “You are truly more resourceful than I could have ever dreamed,” spat Trunicht through lips clenched in a smile. “I was right to recruit you to Paptimus’ side! Ah, but I suppose I should have investigated your histories first. No matter! We’ll meet again!”

 

With a quick flick of his arms he gripped the trusty Warp staff he kept belted to his horse whenever he went into battle. Holding it high in the air, a field of light enveloped him and took him far away just as arrows, spells, swords, axes, and spears crashed all around his position.  Despite the absolute debacle this battle had turned into, he could at least savor the cries of frustration he left behind as his magic took him to safety. It was a hollow pleasure, though. Try as he might, he really couldn’t deny one thing:

 

Without a doubt, the Royalists had won the day.

 

 

 

 _::Linear Notes_ ::

 

I should note that the racism towards Western Isle peoples is based on how poorly Etrurians treat them in FE6.

 

I also gotta warn you, though, expect more named character deaths. Remember, this story is a bit themed around the old-school mecha animes, like those of Yoshiyuki Tomino! And you know what they say about Tomino endings. In the chapter after the next one, things are REALLY gonna get intense, and they’re gonna get darker too ;_; Ready yourselves for some hardcore action, brothers and sisters, but also plot twists you might not expect. On to the next chapter!

 

 

 

 


	35. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After defending Caerleon against all odds, the Autonomous Company takes a bit of time off for a well-deserved celebration!

 

35: Celebration

 

Braddock still couldn’t believe it, even though the evidence was all around him and in his firm grip.

 

Granted, it may have been because he and his comrades had been so exhausted by the battle that they could barely stand, but even so, the commotion around them was enough to keep them conscious for at least a little while. The rebel forces had retreated, though not in disarray, leaving the royalists to enjoy their victory. All around the Autonomous Company, their allied soldiers were rejoicing, the ground almost shaking with their cheers as soldiers gleefully raised their weapons, hugged each other, and, of course, looted as many dead bodies as they could find. The scene was almost as chaotic as the battle itself had been. Ironically enough, however, the actual heroes of the day found themselves more than a bit excluded from the festivities.

 

Braddock hefted his newfound Basilikos to the ground in front of him, standing it on its head—it was big enough that he could lean on it like this. Renault plopped right down on the ground next to him, and around them their friends did the same. They didn’t have the energy to join in the cheering—they were just too tired. They did, however, expect at least a bit of praise to come their way, and when a couple of smiling young soldiers rushed over towards them, looking as if they wanted to hoist one of the Company on their shoulders and parade the person through the streets, Braddock and his friends thought that they’d finally be getting a bit of well-deserved credit for their accomplishments.

 

Of course, it was not to be.

 

“Hey, you’re the ones who killed Vinland!” called one of them. “You’re heroes! Let’s—“

 

He was stopped by his companion, who was now looking at them with a much less pleased expression. “Hey, be careful! Don’t you know who those people are?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“They’re the Autonomous Company! A band of murderous demons who’ll kill absolutely anyone they’re ordered to! Why do you think they were assigned to take out Vinland? They’ll use any kinds of tactics to get their enemy. You saw what they did with that magic, and then there was what happened at Elram’s Citadel, and even earlier…I heard they were involved with Scirocco!”

 

“But they said Trunicht did that!”

 

“Maybe  he did, maybe he didn’t, but I’ll be damned if I know. The only thing I’m sure of is that Commander Gafgarion sure knew what he was doin’ when he sent them against the enemy leader, but I definitely wouldn’t hang around them too much. C’mon, let’s get outta here ‘fore they start targetin’ _us!_ ”

 

Casting glances behind them that were now suspicious and frightened rather than elated and grateful, the two soldiers headed away, searching for either some other group to celebrate with or some other bodies to loot. Now, Braddock and his friends finally realized why none of the jubilation seemed to have reached their little portion of Caerleon’s central square, despite how everyone else around them was so very happy.

 

“I…I can’t believe this,” said Renault, though he was too tired to speak with anger rather than resignation. “We killed Vinland by ourselves and saved this whole damn city, and our allies STILL think we’re criminals! How the hell does that make any sense?”

 

“It probably doesn’t make any sense to them, either,” said Harvery dejectedly, who was leaning against the face of the fountain, not caring that he was getting wet. “This whole damn war’s seen so many crazy rumors floating around from both our side and the rebel’s. Nobody knows what to believe anymore, so they’ve just stopped caring. We’re the heroes of Caerleon…and the murderers of Elram’s Citadel. The saviors of Thagaste…and the villains of Scirocco. At this point in the war, finding the truth’s less important to people than surviving the next battle.”

 

“That’s the only thing that should matter to us, too,” said Braddock dejectedly. “Not the worst thing we’ve ever had to deal with, anyways.”

 

They could all agree on that. So, after having taken this small break, the Autonomous Company didn’t mind not being praised for their victory, or excluded from the festivities breaking out all over Caerleon. They simply picked themselves up and headed for the castle, knowing that it would at least be open to them, and that at least their beds wouldn’t reject them. They were too tired to muse over the changes in their armory—Kelitha’s loss of the Rex Hasta and Braddock’s gain of the Basilikos—too tired to join in the looting, and too tired to wait for whatever their next commands would be. They simply marched to their respective quarters, tossed away whatever armor they had on, and slept.

 

-X-

 

Paptimus sighed when he heard the knocking on the door to his personal chambers. He had heard of Vinland’s death not even a day ago, so naturally he knew this confrontation was coming. He had previously been more concerned with Meris’ studies. Indeed, as the girl was clearly showing, now, Paptimus had begun to step up her lessons in dark magic, whenever he had the time—he knew that one reason magical talent was often inherited from a child’s mother was because the energies she used herself often suffused into her womb. Thus, before the knocking had commenced, Paptimus was teaching his apprentice about the finer points of the Nosferatu spell. As the noise grew louder and more insistent, however, he had to sigh, put the book down at her disappointed expression, and head to the door after a quick apology to her, as she continued to watch him with an uneasy expression on her face.

 

Just as he expected, Glaesal was standing before him. However, there was something about the almost-sixty-year-old man’s demeanor he was certainly _not_ expecting.

 

He was deathly calm. He stood in his simple tunic and loose pants (Glaesal had eschewed the expensive doublets and pantaloons he used to wear for some time, as a way of showing solidarity with the Revolutionaries who wished to abolish noble privilege), but contrary to what Paptimus was used to, his face wasn’t twitching or trembling, and his eyes evinced a cool, calm state of mind. Paptimus had been preparing himself for an outburst of panicked paranoia, but upon seeing Glaesal so composed, he was so surprised that he could do nothing but stand back as his old friend invited himself in and promptly sat on the couch in front of Meris.

 

“We have to talk, Paptimus.”

 

Again, the Dark General sighed, this time having regained his footing as he took a seat next to Meris. “Indeed we do. You’ve heard the news as well, I presume?” He reached out a hand towards the trusty bottle of wine he always kept in his room for occasions like this, but Glaesal simply waved him off.

 

“Not now, Paptimus. I’ve come here to tell you one thing, and one thing only:

 

“This war must end. Immediately.”

 

Paptimus remained silent for a long moment, staring evenly into Glaesal’s cold, calm eyes while Meris gaped. “You realize what you’re saying, Glaesal?”

 

“Yes, I do, Paptimus.” _Now_ there was a hint of a tremor in his voice, the old paranoia Paptimus recognized. “You’ve given me many promises, old friend, and kept none of them! The war would end when we took Aquleia! The war would end when we held Thagaste! And now, the war would end when Garl took Caerleon! But he’s dead, Paptimus. We’ve suffered defeat after defeat! All your plans have ended in failure! But perhaps that was—“ He stopped himself, attempting to reign in the dark thoughts flying through his mind. “No, no…I…I remember how I shamed myself earlier. You’ve always been loyal to me, Paptimus, yes? You thought this was for my best interest, for the people’s best interest, and I went along with you. All this isn’t your fault, yes? Yes?”

 

He looked at Paptimus, almost pleading, and on cue, the turncoat Prime Minister nodded. “Of course, Glaesal. No-one is unhappier than I am about this. All my efforts…the destruction of my reputation…everything seems to be for naught.” He ran a hand through his purple hair—indicating to his friend how it had lost its luster and become increasingly disheveled as of late. “I have done nothing but my best for you, Meris, this country, and Elibe as a whole. To see everything I’ve strived for come to nothing hurts me every bit as much as you.”

 

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Glaesal, a bit relieved. “But wasn’t it I that taught you that good intentions and good efforts mean nothing unless they end in good results? We tried our best, Paptimus, and we have nothing to be ashamed of. But the people _cannot_ suffer anymore! The war is essentially lost, Paptimus! Nerinheit’s coffers are going dry, Vinland has withdrawn from the war effort after the Count’s death, and your personal fortune is running out! Inflation is rampant all across our lands—a single loaf of bread costs over a hundred pieces of gold in some areas! Our soldiers’ morale is dwindling, and the mercenaries who joined us doing the first ambush against Exedol so many months ago are growing suspicious of our cause. We’re already having trouble paying them, and they’re the core of our army! More and more of them are deserting each day! Of course they would, what did we expect! They’re loyal to nothing but gold, not our cause! Only the most devoted of our soldiers remain. Granted, they’ve gained much experience by this time, and Trunicht’s re-established Red Shoulder Battalion is a force to be reckoned with, but it’s not enough. Any prolonging of this war will be utterly futile, and only hurt the people even more. We have to stop it. Now!”

 

“So then what do you propose we do, Glaesal?”

 

The Count of Nerinheit took a deep breath, indicating a great deal of determination and forethought and also why he had seemed so strangely calm when he had first entered.

 

“We have to surrender, Paptimus. We tried, and we failed, and we must take responsibility for it—not our people. We have no choice—there is no other “right thing” to do. Let us tell our men to lay down their arms, and hand ourselves in personally to the Royalist forces. If we do that, they may show our soldiers, our supporters, and the people of Northern Etruria some mercy.”

 

“N-no! You can’t!” Meris blurted out. “What will become of you?! Of Paptimus! You know what they’ll do to you! I can’t…you’re my friend, Lord Nerinheit! And Paptimus is the father of my child! You can’t—“

 

“Remember what we said about calling me ‘Lord,’ Meris?” Glaesal chuckled sadly. “But Meris, if we don’t do this, think of what they’ll do to _you_. And your child! If we take responsibility for our actions, they’ll understand that you were nothing more than a loyal servant, and thus not to blame for our mistakes. You and your child will live, Meris. Aren’t our lives a worthy sacrifice for that?”

 

“Will that truly be the case, though?” asked Paptimus. “Glaesal, I am no coward. If I thought sacrificing my life would bring us victory—or even alleviate the suffering of our people, or even give them _mercy_ —I would do it in a heartbeat. But you know the kind of men the King and his cronies are. They’re full of rage—misguided rage, but rage nonetheless. They won’t stop at our deaths—they will take out their anger on our people as well. Northern Etruria will suffer under “reparations” and “retribution” from the King’s men for _years_ , if not generations. Look at how he treated you as a loyal servant! Look at how he allowed Exedol to mock you, simply because he could! And you were a _noble!_ No, my friend, I doubt he will treat the common people much better.”

 

“Yes, yes, that lying, adulterous vermin!” Paptimus still knew how to play off his old friend’s hatreds and resentments. “You’re right, Paptimus. Blackhearts such as they know nothing of honor! But they are the ones with the advantage in this war! For the sake of our people, what can we do to—“

 

“How about a cease-fire? A peace treaty?”

 

“Eh?”

 

“We wanted to gain control over all of Etruria, this is true. However, we can still maintain control of a new, independent nation. Even if we couldn’t accomplish all we wanted to in our lifetime, our new rebel nation will serve as the glowing torch of liberty which will someday spread its light to all of Elibe. We cannot allow it to be snuffed out! The Royalists have begun to grow weary of this war as well. We could ask them for a peace treaty, ending the war so long as they recognize the independence of the regions still under our control. We need not give ourselves up to their hands so long as we agree to lead our new nation on a peaceful path…at least for now.”

 

“Paptimus, that’s unrealistic! We’re in no position to ask for something like that, given the advances the Royalists have made!”

 

“Ah, but all those advances are due to one thing—the Great General they have. What would he do if he disappeared, I wonder?”

 

“I…well, obviously it would be a crushing blow to them. They don’t have anyone else as skilled as he, either with blades or tactics. But why the devil are you even talking about this? That General can’t be defeated on the battlefield. What, are you planning on assassinating him?”

 

Paptimus sighed. “As dishonorable as it may be, yes, I am, Glaesal. I know, I know—it’s below us, it’s something that Exedol would do. But he wouldn’t do it to save our people, as I am. If we can kill this Great General of theirs, it will put a halt to their war effort and make them willing to come to the negotiation table, and even if it doesn’t by itself, without their leader their forces will be weak—we’ll defeat them when they make their next uncoordinated, leaderless move and _force_ them to negotiate.”

 

“Even aside from the low-handed nature of your plot, Paptimus, killing such a man is virtually impossible! You know how he fights. Only the Red Comet of Lycia would possibly be his equal! For all we know, they could be the same man! How could we possibly assassinate him?”

 

“We? You mean _I,_ Glaesal.”

 

The man remained quiet at this, not at all certain of what Paptimus was getting at.

 

“You’ve heard how the Royalists were able to defeat Vinland, yes? By Warping him away from his men and into an ambush they set up. Why can we not do the same?

 

“Perhaps I am not as strong as their Great General, but you have seen my magic, Glaesal. I am no easy prey, either. If I cannot stand against this warrior alone, I will be able to with allies. A tributary of the Tiber river runs right to the strait separating the Western Isles from the mainland—the Shield of Durbans. There is already a pirate captain willing to send a ship through this river to infiltrate Thagaste.

 

“He and his men, however, are a distraction. While the pirates occupy the rebel forces, a team will infiltrate the city at the same time, aiming for the Great General himself. This team will consist of the best soldiers in the rebel army—Yazan, Trunicht, and several others—and will be led by…me, personally.”

 

After a moment’s silence, both Meris and Glaesal burst out incredulously. “Paptimus, are you serious?” Glaesal sputtered. “M—Paptimus! That’s no better than surrender!” Meris cried. “What if you die? What will we do then? What will _I_ do then?”

 

“I’ll die anyways if we surrender,” said Paptimus calmly. “As will you, and Glaesal, and everything we hold dear. Even if I die at Thagaste, we at least have a chance to hold out. Besides, I’m not the leader of this struggle, Glaesal is. Even if I perish, so long as I take the Great General with me, we will not be defeated.”

 

This reasoning seemed to convince the suspicious former Count. “I…Paptimus, I don’t want to see you die,” he said, “but…I never knew you were this dedicated to our cause…or this courageous. I can only curse my age; for otherwise I would accompany you. But as it is…”

 

“G-Glaesal!” sputtered Meris. “You’re going along with this?”

 

Paptimus laughed. “Do you truly have that little faith in me, my dear? And I mean genuine faith, not that religious nonsense. After all, I have demonstrated my abilities many times before. As strong as the Etrurian Great General may be, surely I have at least a chance of victory, do I not?”

 

“Well…yes, but…”

 

“Can you think of any other solution, given our position?”

 

She bowed her head. “N…no.”

 

“That would settle it, I believe. But…” Paptimus paused contemplatively, looking fondly at both Meris and Glaesal. “I don’t think we made a mistake. We fought for what we believed in. We fought for what is right. Do we have anything to regret?”

 

After his own thoughtful pause, Glaesal said, “…No. No, we don’t. This war has brought great suffering across the land, yes, and you’ve done immoral things, Paptimus. Things which you made me be a part of. But in the end, what the King has done outweighs the sins we have committed. I don’t regret rebelling, and I don’t regret joining you, my old friend.”

 

“Indeed.” Paptimus smiled. “When all’s said and done, no matter what the outcome of the next battle may be, what the outcome of the war may be, I know this—I’m honored to have served a man such as you, Glaesal. And I’m glad to have a woman like Meris by my side. Even if I die in the upcoming operation, I’ll die with more satisfaction than most people lived with.”

 

“M…Master Paptimus,” mumbled Meris, blushing.

 

“Well, enough of this. Glaesal, how about a drink? It may be the last one we ever have together.”

 

“I can’t argue with that, Paptimus.”

 

The big man nodded in satisfaction, standing up and walking over to the table on which his fine wine was set, as Glaesal conscientiously engaged Meris in conversation, asking her how both her studies and her pregnancy were proceeding. He was genuinely concerned for the girl, so he didn’t look at Paptimus closely, nor did he care that the man had actually stood up to get them a pair of glasses rather than simply levitating them as he usually did.

 

It would come back to haunt him later. Because he didn’t notice that before Paptimus poured the wine into his glass, he deftly reached into the folds of his robes and produced a tiny vial, out of which came precisely three droplets of a strange, blackish-red substance. He quickly returned the vial to its hidden pocket in his robes, and then poured the fine wine into the infected glass.

 

With a broad smile still on his face, he walked over and held it out to his friend.

 

-X-

 

In all the time he had spent with the Revolutionary army, Dougram was never angrier than he was now.

 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand Trunicht’s reasoning at all. The Black Knight’s forces had almost completely shattered and fragmented after Vinland’s defeat. Garl’s personal militia was heading straight back to their home countship. The “conscripts” from Solgrenne had either surrendered or ran off immediately. Of the rebels themselves, many had deserted upon hearing of the death of one of their heroes. At the moment, the rebel forces had maybe a thousand loyal men still at their command.

 

Even so, however, Dougram thought they ought to do _something_. Specifically, something for Solgrenne, and the regions they held in the north.

 

Trunicht had ordered their forces to make a full retreat, but not to Solgrenne—they were skipping over the city entirely and instead heading for a region near the middle of the country, north of Thagaste.

 

What this meant was that they were essentially leaving Solgrenne to burn. The city would be in absolute chaos, with its women and children dead and its men disorganized, demoralized, and leaderless. Considering they had caused such a situation, did they not have a responsibility to alleviate it somewhat? Dougram very much thought so. Trunicht, however, disagreed—he said it was “orders,” but the Nabatan was convinced he was just a coward.

 

Thus, on the second day of their march away from Caerleon, before they crossed the repaired Bingham Bridge, Dougram fully intended to give the sinister Black Knight a piece of his mind. As the ragtag army set up camp for the night, the Swordmaster found his friend Serapino, telling him what he wanted to ‘discuss’ with Trunicht. The young mendicant readily agreed, and together they made their way to the commander’s tent.

 

Neither of them expected what they’d find there.

 

Dougram and Serapino didn’t even bother to announce their presence as they barged in. The man was sitting on the ground with his back turned to them, seemingly concentrating on something very important. He started—but just very slightly—when he heard their footsteps behind him, and promptly closed the lid on what he was looking at—Dougram realized it was a treasure chest of some sort.

 

“Ah, how good it is to see you again, Brother Dougram,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm. “What brings you here today?”

 

“What’s in the chest?” asked Dougram suspiciously.

 

“Nothing, nothing much. At least nothing for you to worry about. Surely that can’t be the reason you’re here, yes? While I appreciate you talking to me, neither of us has that much time to waste. So please, let’s get down to business?”

 

“…fine,” said Dougram, still very suspicious of what Trunicht was keeping in there. “I want to talk to you about Solgrenne. It’s—“

 

Trunicht rolled his eyes. “Not this again. I’ve already given you my reasons for “abandoning” the city, as you so gracelessly put it, and you’ve never once put forward any rational explanation for why we shouldn’t! I’m not having this out with you again, it’s—“

 

“But we just can’t abandon them! We’re the ones responsible for their situation!”

 

“There’s nothing we can do,” he replied, with a hint of frustration coming through this time, “we—“

 

He was interrupted by an unexpected and unfortunate arrival—his friend Yazan.

 

“Hey, Trunicht!” called the Bernite as he stepped through the tent’s flap, “How much d’you think we can sell this White Gem for? I dunno where the mayor got it from, but it sure looks like it’d fetch a good price.” He then stopped and looked at Dougram curiously. “Hey, why’re you here? Trunicht didn’t promise you a piece of the loot too, did he?”

 

“Loot? LOOT?!” Dougram was now not only suspicious but angry. Before the Black Knight could react, the Swordmaster pushed him aside and opened the chest he had been examining, eyes widening as he beheld its contents.

 

It was full of gold, gems, and other expensive things. Where had Trunicht found all this? Certainly not from Caerleon, since they’d retreated in disarray. That meant…

 

“T-TRUNICHT! YOU SCUM!” Dougram stammered in disbelief. “DID YOU STEAL THIS FROM SOLGRENNE’S COFFERS?”

 

“Steal is such a harsh word, brother Dougram. I _liberated_ it!”

 

The Swordmaster was completely shocked, and Serapino, standing next to him, seemed to be equally so. “S…Solgrenne has some really big problems now,” he said dumbfoundedly, an understatement if there ever was one. It was bad enough that the Rebel forces had left Solgrenne with nearly all of its women and children dead, but they had raided its coffers and stores of money as well. The city was absolutely doomed.

 

And even worse, Dougram could tell, judging from how Yazan was acting, that the money from those poor people wouldn’t be going to any worthy causes.

 

He couldn’t take anymore. Boiling with rage, Dougram gritted his teeth, tensed his legs, gripped his sheath with one hand and the grip of his sword with the other, and prepared to launch himself at the evil Black Knight.

 

Just as he was about to leap, however—and his attempts didn’t even begin to wipe the smile of the Trunicht’s face—he found that he couldn’t remove his Killing Sword from its scabbard! Yazan, not wasting a moment, had dropped his White Gem, darted up behind him, and grabbed him by the arms.

 

Trunicht, for his part, had lost his patience. “Dougram, I’d be happy to discuss this matter with you like a civilized man. But for someone who claims to be so rational, you are very quick to resort to force. Sheath your sword or we’ll have to have this out while Yazan is pinning you. And he’s quite a strong man, he can hold you like that all day.”

 

The Swordmaster realized his emotions were getting the better of him—if they weren’t, he wouldn’t have been so careless as to have been caught by Yazan—and realized the truth of Trunicht’s words. He relaxed his muscles and Yazan let him slip out of his grip, still keeping an eye on him. “Better hope this gem isn’t damaged,” he grumbled, stooping down to pick it up, “Or else I’m takin’ it out of your pay! And that’s low enough as it is!”

 

“There, isn’t that better?” said Trunicht. “Honestly, if I knew you’d get this angry over a just a little bit of ‘revolutionary requisition.’ I can’t fathom why you’ve chosen this moment to vent your misguided, moralizing rage. After all the ‘questionable’ things we’ve done up to this point, you choose a little bit of money to pick a fight over? At a time when we’re in full retreat from the rebel forces?” His smirk grew wider. “Is this the straw that breaks the camel’s back? Have we finally become so horrendous to your sensibilities that you think to betray us _now_? I daresay that you should have left with Renault and Braddock, then. As it is, we’ll kill you long before you can set foot away from here. Even though we’ve only a thousand men, it’s still more than what a single Swordmaster could deal with, no matter how skilled.”

 

“I…I’m not going to betray the Rebel cause!” Dougram growled. “The only ones I’m standing against are you and Yazan! Your offenses against justice have continued for long enough! Making you pay won’t be betraying the rebels! It’ll clean out our ranks, and it’ll strengthen what we stand for!”

 

Trunicht didn’t get offended by this—no, instead, he laughed, long and hard, surprising even Dougram as Yazan joined in again. “You naïve fool,” chortled Trunicht. “For someone so “rational,” you sound like you’re one of little Serapino’s colleagues.

 

“You don’t understand, do you? Yazan and I, we ARE what the Revolution stands for.”

 

He let out another chuckle. “Despite your protestations to the contrary, my dear Nabatan, you’re not nearly as rational as you’d like to think you are. You’re still bound by the chains of the old, traditional morality. Whether they’re vestiges of whatever they worship in the desert or of your own making, they’re still relics of an age which has now passed. Men like Yazan, men like me, we’ve risen above such primitivism. Our conduct is governed by reason. No more, no less.”

 

Now it was Dougram’s turn to laugh. “What a load of hypocritical, self-serving tripe! Maybe _you’re_ the traitor here, Trunicht! I couldn’t imagine anyone lending more support to Royalist propaganda than you! It’s as if you’re a villain from one of those morality plays the Elimineans are so fond of, dedicated to show the faithful the horrors of unbelief! Do you really expect me or anyone else to take you seriously?”

 

“What fancy words, desert-dweller.” As Trunicht said this, the girl next to Yazan whimpered quietly and seemed as if she wanted to make a move to get away, but the Wyvern Knight laughed and wrapped a restrictive arm around her, intending her to see the show. “Tell me, then. On what rational basis do you condemn what Yazan and I are doing?”

 

“Are you stupid? You’re _stealing_! That’s a crime in and of itself, and not only that, you’ve condemned the people of an entire city to penury and privation! You murdered their women and children and ensured that Solgrenne will never recover!”

 

“Haven’t you done similar things? You’ve never killed a woman or a young soldier in all your years of wandering?”

 

“Th…that’s different!”

 

“How so?”

 

“I never fought or killed anyone for my own personal gain!”

 

“You do know you’re a mercenary, right?”

 

“Yes, but I always fought for the people! For justice! You’re just stealing for yourself!”

 

“Ah, so killing is moral if it’s done for a ‘just’ cause, yes? You’re right—we’re not Elimineans, after all, we can see nuance. However, stealing is just as moral when it’s done for a just cause. And our cause is just, is it not? The money we’ve “liberated” from Solgrenne’s coffers will be used to support the Rebel war effort, whereas if we hadn’t taken it, it would have been misused by the Royalists. Yes, it’s unfortunate that the people of Solgrenne may suffer, but their suffering is outweighed by the good this money will be put to.”

 

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that,” retorted Dougram in disbelief. “What kind of cretin would argue that stealing for personal gain causes less suffering than leaving people alone?”

 

“Ah, but that’s the nice thing about rational morality, isn’t it?” Trunicht chuckled. “After all, how difficult “happiness” or “well being” or “justice” are to measure! Is a quart of happiness worth a pint of fairness? If this money can bring me only 5 stones worth of pleasure, does it outweigh the hundred stones of suffering the people of Solgrenne have if it is of a more refined, higher quality?

 

“We rationalists truly have accomplished something. Sacaens must appeal to the unverifiable whims of Father Sky and Mother Earth, while the Elimineans must resort to the endlessly vexing mysteries of their Scripture. You can justify virtually anything by resorting to either, but it’s so much easier if the only thing you’re concerned with is “happiness!” Who doesn’t want to be happy, after all? Who doesn’t want to reduce suffering? Who would oppose the greater good? That’s all you have to do, Dougram! Simply tell yourself “it’s for the greater good,” or “I’m alleviating their suffering” and you can join us, my friend, in doing absolutely whatever you want. After all, nobody can prove you wrong. It’s easier to count the number of angels dancing on the head of a pin than it is to measure how much “happiness” or “suffering” any given action will produce, especially in the long run.

 

“Remember, I can easily argue that the people of Solgrenne would have misused the money I’ve ‘liberated’ from them. Perhaps they’d return it to the Loyalists, for instance, which would prolong the war and increase suffering. They probably would, given the evidence about them we’re already aware of. So really, how can you condemn me for causing “suffering?” From my assessment of the evidence, it’s _you_ who would have brought more misery to the people of this country, because your moralizing and weakness of will would do nothing but slow the advance of the Revolution.”

 

“This is nothing but hypocritical self-justification, Trunicht,” Dougram spat, “You _know_ what you’re doing is wrong! All human beings are born with moral instincts. Stealing is wrong in Sacae. It’s wrong in Lycia. It’s wrong in Etruria. Isn’t that one of the ways Revolutionaries can see that all religions are incorrect? We don’t get our morality from any of them, we get our morality from _ourselves!_ If you deny this, you’re denying the truth!”

 

“No, my dear Nabatan, I believe it’s you who’s denying the “truth.” Humans have plenty of“natural instincts,” few of them laudable. The Etrurians hate the Bernese, both look down on the Lycians, who disdain the Sacaens, and everyone hates Ilians. God didn’t put it there, though I don’t know what did, but it doesn’t matter—racism is as much a part of the “universal human condition” as the desire for truth and justice and whatever else it is you prattle on about. By this token, perhaps I do have some inherent compunction against thievery—and murder, and deception, and all the other crimes I…no, we, have committed in the name of a better world. But I realize that these instincts are, in certain contexts, as stupid and misguided as the hatred and mistrust between races that seems just as universal as our inborn abhorrence of murder and theft. Yet you demand we follow those instincts and reject the other ones. Why? Your ‘rational’ assessment of which instincts will most minimize suffering?”

 

“That’s exactly it!”

 

“Most excellent, then! See, it’s the exact same moral process I have undertaken! The evidence has simply led me to a bit of a different conclusion. You see, my friend, terror, fanaticism, and hatred…these aren’t inherently bad things. Emotions aren’t necessarily irrational in and of themselves, after all, only when they’re misdirected! In the service of a nonexistent God they’re evil, of course. But our Revolution uses terror to bring the people to the path of reason, fosters hatred of irrationality (and I suppose hatred of the irrational themselves is an unavoidable side-effect), and uses fanaticism to crush the death-grip priests and kings have always held upon this country, and all of Elibe!

 

“Thus, then, the destruction of Solgrenne was no sin at all, yes? ‘Twas unfortunate we had to kill all of its women and children, but the suffering that caused was outweighed by the benefit of damaging the reputation of the Royalist cause, which would reduce suffering by allowing us to win the war with ease. And when that didn’t work, stealing from Solgrenne was still the right thing to do, because we rescued all that money from either going to waste or worse, furnishing the coffers of the Royalists! Truly a victory for the minimization of suffering all across Elibe.” He gave Dougram a mocking smirk. “There now, my Revolutionary brother. Doesn’t that make you feel better? I’m sure I’ve addressed any concerns you had. Now—“

 

Dougram wouldn’t be swayed by his sophistry. “There’s only one thing I need to prove you wrong, Trunicht. It’s how people will react! If you’re genuinely kind to others, they’ll be kind to you in return. But if you do evil to other people, they’ll do the same to you. You think it’s okay to steal from the people of Solgrenne? What’s to stop them from doing the same to you? Unless you want to live in a world where everybody steals from everybody else, and where everybody kills everybody else—“

 

“Sounds like heaven to me,” said Yazan, who by this point had wandered off from behind Dougram and took a seat next to Trunicht on the ground, poring curiously through the contents of his chest. “More fun than how most people live, anyways!”

 

“What the hell do you know, you madman?” Dougram retorted. “You’ve never lived anywhere but the battlefield! Who would listen to a lunatic like you?”

 

“Nah, that’s not quite right,” grunted the Bernite. “You think I was always a Wyvern Knight? Nope!

 

“I was the third son of a mountain goat herder in Bern. Before I turned 15, the closest I ever got to battle was chasing wild wyverns away from the herd. My old man was pretty wealthy for a farmer, and you’d say we didn’t have a bad life. Certainly never had to risk it, in any case.”

 

Dougram was shocked at this admission—he could never imagine Yazan as a peaceful goatherder. “So…so then why are you here?”

 

Yazan laughed. “Simple! ‘cause it was boring as hell! I was with my dad when he died—his sons at his deathbed, a smile on his face, thinking he was “content.” I know what you’re gonna say—what’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. He never lived at all!

 

“My dad lived ‘till he was 60, and what did he ever experience? NOTHING! He spent his whole life up there on that mountain with his goats, and he probably stuck it in them more than he did my mother! Same way his father did, and his father before that, and every god damn slave who’s ever picked up a hoe or shovel in the history of Bern! He never saw anything! He never experienced anything! He never accomplished anything!

 

“I haven’t even lived half as long as he did, and look at me! After he died I signed up to join the Wyvern Knights, and it’s been nothing but upwards for me ever since! Rising through the ranks ‘cause I was so good at killing, then getting sent to prison because I was _too_ good at killing, and then breaking out and flying, slaughtering, and screwing my way across Elibe…I wouldn’t change any of it, not for the world! I’m not even 30 and I’ve seen more, done more than my family ever did! My old man and my brothers never felt the joy of watching your spear plunge through an enemy’s chest! Of feeling a different woman under your body every week, whether they like being there or not! That sense of accomplishment, of _victory_ you feel when you’re the only living man amidst a sea of corpses!

 

“Nobody’s gonna remember my father after he dies—my brothers’ve probably forgotten him already, and that’s only if they haven’t died and been forgotten themselves! And why shouldn’t they? There’s nothing that set him apart from every other worthless shepherd who ever lived. Me, on the other hand? They’re gonna be talking about me long after I go out laughing with a spear through my gut. There’s no afterlife, right? This world is the only thing that matters. So I might as well make the most of it! I slaughtered my way through Bern and now I’m cutting a swath through Etruria. Even if I die tomorrow, I’ll always be remembered as one of the deadliest men who ever rode a Wyvern! If this life’s the only one I’ve got, I’d rather spend it having fun than pissing it away like my father did!”

“Not surprising, coming from you,” snarled Dougram. “And you’ve never given the least bit of thought to the people you’ve hurt, have you? You’re going to get your comeuppance someday, you vermin! If not from me, then from someone else!”

 

“Oh yeah? Hey, Trunicht, mind if I take some of that wine?” Still smirking, the Black Knight shook his head, at which Yazan reached into the chest and took out a large, half-century bottle of Solgrenne’s finest, also apparently pilfered from its cellars. After taking a great swig, he said, “Maybe you’re right. And guess what? I don’t mind a bit. What you do to others, you do to yourself,” Yazan sneered. “Isn’t that what the Elimineans say? I think you’ve been spending too much time with your dumb little friend over there. But hell, what was I sayin’ again? Ohh, yeah. See, if that’s the “Golden Rule” or whatever, then I’m the most moral man on Elibe. ‘Cause I’ve been followin’ it ever since I became a soldier!

 

“I think the strong should be able to do whatever they want to the weak, and that applies to me, too. If I meet someone strong enough to kill me, then I deserve to die!” The grin on his face grew wider and more manic. “If someone wants to do to me whatI’ve done to his daughters, let him try! If I’m ever too weak to defend myself, I don’t mind givin’ a bit of pleasure to anyone worthy enough to take it! I’d rather die on the battlefield than waste away on my bed like some kind of pathetic worm! Getting’ raped and murdered’d be more satisfyin’ than living as one more stupid dirt farmer or fat nobleman, who’ve never experienced anything but the same old drudgery day after day after day! Better to live a life filled with pain than a life filled with nothing at all!”

 

“Might makes right? Is that the only thing you have to offer, Yazan? You’re not just crazy, you’re stupid!”

 

“Am I? You’re good at insultin’ me, but you haven’t actually proven me wrong. Unless you believe in God, what else matters?”

 

“Wow, that’s what Bishop Monica always told me!” chirped Serapino, who had been following the conversation in his typically clueless manner.

 

“Serapino, you’re not helping!”

 

The Bernite laughed. “Hey, Serapino, maybe you’re not as dumb as you look. I think you need a lil’ reward!”

 

“H-huh?”

 

“THINK FAST!”

 

In a swift movement, Yazan hurled the bottle towards the unfortunate mendicant. It would have smashed him clean in the face if Dougram hadn’t reached up and immediately grabbed it.

 

“Nice way to prove my point,” laughed the cruel Bernite as Serapino began whimpering. “Your friend’s weak, you’re strong. What would he ‘ve done if you weren’t there? You can talk about “truth” and “justice” all you want, desert boy, but it’s meaningless if you don’t have the strength to back it up.”

 

“You have no idea what you’re implying, do you?” Dougram tossed the bottle to the ground, not caring about how expensive it was. “The only thing “might makes right” leads to is anarchy!”

 

“Haven’t you been listenin? I’d _love_ anarchy. Failing that, though, I’ll just follow whoever seems to be havin’ the most fun. In this case, I guess it’s the rebels. Trunicht’s no anarchist, but he’s close enough for my tastes!” Another hoarse laugh.

 

“Do you think anyone else agrees with that?! The only ones who believe as you do are freaks and madmen! If the Revolution were to follow your moral example, you’d be the only one fighting in it!”

 

“So tell me, buddy. You’re big on “reason” and “truth” and all that crap, right? Riddle me this, then. Is something true just ‘cause a bunch of people believe in it? Is Eliminism true because everybody believes in it?”

 

“No, but that’s because everybody DOESN’T believe in it! I don’t, you don’t, and neither do people all across Elibe!”

 

“Yeah, well, I think the “morality” you follow is a load of shit. So does Trunicht, and apparently, so do a whole lot of other people in the Revolutionary Army. What’re you gonna do about it?”

 

“What am I gonna do about it? I’ll show you!” Dougram had had enough. He grimaced, and put a hand to his sword—before Trunicht stopped him.

 

“Ah-ah-ah, my hotblooded friend. Why don’t you use that rationality of yours and think about your actions a little bit? After all that about not betraying the Revolution, have you changed your mind so quickly? If you have, you might do well to reconsider the wisdom of your actions. Even if you were able to kill me and Yazan—much easier said than done, I would add—where would you go? You’re surrounded by our troops, and even a swordsman as skilled as you won’t be able to escape. It’s not as if you have anyplace to go, either. What are you going to do, defect to the royalists? You don’t have any plans or information which they’d find useful, which means you have nothing to bargain with. And besides, they’re worse than we are. Yazan and I may be ‘evil men,’ in your view, but at least we share some of the same views. You have absolutely nothing in common with the Royalists. After all, they’ve done even worse things than we have, just under the name of the King instead of reason.”

 

Dougram desperately wanted to refute this argument. But all he could do was grit his teeth and clench at the grip of his sword.

 

“So please, stop wasting our time and go back to your tent, my dear Nabatan. I’m sorry, but there’s just no escaping from us. You’ve noplace else to go.”

 

“D…Dougram…” whimpered Serapino, feeling immensely bad for his friend. But there was nothing he could do to help.

 

“You’ll pay for this someday,” Dougram spat. “Both of you!” He turned and stormed out of Trunicht’s tent, with Serapino and the mocking laughter of both Yazan and Trunicht following him. His loyalty to the Revolutionary cause had been severed. But unfortunately, as he fully realized while he and Serapino were walking back to their tent, under the present circumstances there was nothing they could do.

 

They just had to wait for the right opportunity.

 

-X-

 

Braddock hated to admit it, but he was lost.

 

He couldn’t really be _entirely_ blamed, since he had never before spent any great deal of time in Caerleon—it had been three days after Vinland’s death, and he was still feeling a little fatigued from the battle. However, he should have known how to get straight to Exedol’s personal sanctuary, considering he’d been there before. Only once, though, and not from his personal dormitories. He’d apparently taken a wrong turn somewhere, and the stairwell to the second floor he’d passed to had deposited him near a room which was similar to the sanctuary, but much larger. It was, however, filled wall to wall with bookshelves, which was a reason he was confused. He realized, however, he was in the castle library, not Exedol’s personal study. Since the study was where Gafgarion had told them to meet, he knew he was very much in the wrong place.

 

Thus, it was to his great relief that he found a familiar face—which meant a friendly one, given how the citizens and his fellow soldiers in Caerleon seemed to distrust him and his comrades. She wasn’t expecting him, and gave a slight yelp when she saw him.

 

“S-Sir Braddock!” exclaimed Keith, hopping back a bit. “You surprised me! What’re you doing here?”

 

He laughed. “Got lost, found myself in here. What about you? I don’t think you were looking for reading material, huh?”

 

She blushed and looked down. “N-no, I…I got lost too. These castles are so big in Etruria! The only buildings of this size we have in Ilia are in the capital. And I haven’t spent much time in Caerleon, so…”

 

Braddock laughed again. “I know. Nobody’s holdin’ it against you, Keith. So how about we try to find out destination together? Two heads are better than one, right?”

 

She heartily agreed to this, and together, the two friends made their way out of the library in search of their actual destination on the second floor.

 

They didn’t go too quickly, though. From the tone of voice of the messenger who had informed them, the orders were important, but not urgent; i.e they wouldn’t have to set out within the hour. So the sauntered through the halls at a leisurely pace, looking at the surroundings—Exedol was apparently a very cultured man, and the walls were adorned with all manner of exotic and beautiful artwork. Aside from the views, the two also thought they could enjoy each other’s company.

 

“Hey, Keith,” said the Ostian, still smiling, “I just remembered. You did _really_ well back there in the fight against Vinland. Holding off those Wyvern Riders as well as Yazan himself? You do your country proud, girl!”

 

She blushed and smiled back. “It’s all because of Sir Renault’s training. And because of you, too! Since you’re an armored axeman, watching how you move and attack taught me to anticipate how enemies with your stuff would move too!”

 

“Hey, still with the ‘sirs,’” he chuckled. “Anyways, though, that’s great, Keith. Being able to observe both your allies and your enemies like that is the mark of a skilled, experienced warrior.” His expression darkened a bit at this. “Sad that you’re so good at your age,” he mumbled to himself.

 

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“U-uh, nothing! Didn’t mean to insult you or anything like that,” he stammered. “It’s just that…I mean, you’re what, 15? When I was your age, I was just getting in trouble and fooling around with my fiancée. But you’re already killing people and risking your life. I…just think it’s kind of sad, I guess.”

 

She shrugged. “I’m an Ilian. If I don’t kill, my people starve. If I don’t die, my people die. Just like my mother and my sisters.” She then looked at Braddock curiously. “But, sir—I mean, Braddock, you have a fiancée?”

 

“Had,” he corrected gently and sadly. “She’s…gone, now. Been gone for seven years.”

 

“O…oh.” Keith recognized this was a sensitive subject, so she tried to change it. “Seven years? How old are you, Braddock?”

 

“27. Why?”

 

Her eyes widened. “27?! Really?”

 

The Ostian’s expression soured just a bit. “Hey, I’m not _that_ old!”

 

“Er…yeah! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you! But…” Keith, though blushing, looked a bit thoughtful for a moment. “In my country, it’s rare to see Pegasus Knights keep fighting over the age of thirty. My mother was one of the few who did. Most of the time, veterans who live to that age return home to train new recruits and pass their wisdom on to the next generation. I guess I can see why you’d think it’s kind of sad I’m fighting at my age, but isn’t it just as sad that you’re still fighting at yours?”

 

“Hah, hah! Again, perceptive of you. I guess it is. But just like you, I don’t really have much choice, either. At least for now. I’m gonna kill Paptimus, no matter what happens. Maybe I can settle down after that, but at the moment, the battlefield’s the only place I belong, right beside my friends.” He grinned. “I mean, somebody’s gotta look after Renault, right?”

 

Keith nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! He’s taught me so much! I’m never gonna let anything happen to him!”

 

Braddock’s grin widened into a smile. “Well, with both of us on the job, he’ll definitely make it through this war. And you will too! Renault n’ me won’t let anything happen to you. You can count on it!” He reached out a hand to ruffle Keith’s short green hair affectionately, a gesture she accepted with much pleasure. And as fortune would have it, while they were chatting they’d manage to happen across a smaller room with its door open, from which familiar voices could be heard. They’d reached their destination, and with smiles still on their faces, entered to hear what their next duties were.

 

-x-

 

“Everyone here?”

 

Gafgarion said this as Braddock and Keith entered the room, looking cheery, and since he could see everyone else, he knew it was just an afterthought. The two new entries were a little late, but it didn’t matter, given the contents of the letter he’d received today.

 

“Well, let’s get down to business. Landez, c’d ya hand me the report?”

 

The nervous steward hastily did so, fishing a piece of parchment from a nearby table and handing it to the Cavalier, as the assembled Autonomous Company watched eagerly. Gafgarion looked it over and began to read.

 

“Directly from the Great General himself,” he said. “Good work defending Caerleon.”

 

It wasn’t even a sentence, but it still managed to draw an impressed whistle from Braddock. “Wow, a compliment from Henken? We really _did_ accomplish something back there!”

 

Gafgarion and the rest of them chuckled a bit at this, but not for long. He continued, “The rebels don’t have enough men to keep pressin’ the eastern front. This is an ideal time to take the initiative, go on the offensive, and put an end to this war. I want Gafgarion and the Autonomous Company to return to Thagaste. They’ll accompany the rest of the Royal Army as we head north, straight to the Fortress of Spears. ‘S the most powerful stronghold the Rebels have open to them. Once we take that, we can push past Austros, through the Lurkmire Forest, and take the city of Nerinheit. The Autonomous Company’ll be an important part of this plan.”

 

“That all?” grunted Roberto, surly and impatient as usual.

 

“Nope. Th’ army’s gonna be th’ largest assembled so far in this country, and it needs to be organized and outfitted for a siege like that. It’ll take about three weeks for it to be ready. So until that time, I can give you folks a few extra days of rest before we head back to Thagaste.” He grinned, seeing the relieved expressions on his friends’ faces. “Now, don’t think I’m just bein’ nice to ya. We never know what th’ rebels might be up to, so I’ve got to do some reorganizin’ m’self. Need to repair this city’s defenses and set up a standin’ garrison in case the rebels come back or somethin’. So, sorry, Khyron, but you’re gonna have to help. Wish I could—“

 

“Don’t patronize me, commoner!” replied the Sage. “A good servant of the crown never rests!”

 

“Ain’t that the truth. For th’ rest of ya, though, fightin’ Vinland musta taken a lot out of ya, so you can enjoy y’r time here for a while longer. Heck, the people are plannin’ a celebration for their victory…lots o’ dancin’ and all that. Might be good to relax and unwind with that while you can. Or not,” he shrugged, “doesn’t really matter. It’d also be good to spend this time repairin’ y’r arms and armor. You especially, Renault. It’s startin’ to look mighty banged up.”

 

“I know,” said Renault. “I tried. But there’s not a blacksmith in this Podunk countship that can look at the mechanism in its shoulders!”

 

“Did you just call _my_ countship ‘podunk?’” said Khyron indignantly, but before another argument could erupt, Harvery quickly piped up with, “Hey, don’t worry about it! I know there’s a master artificier in Thagaste. He’s the guy who maintains Henken’s armor. He’ll surely be able to look at yours!”

 

Good enough for Renault. “Great. So until we get back there, can I go back to sleep?”

 

Gafgarion nodded, and the mercenary hastily made his exit, followed by his comrades.

 

-X-

 

As every soldier knew, keeping good care of one’s weapons was of the utmost importance, and archers were no exception at all. Apolli sat at a table in the guard’s quarters painstakingly re-stringing his Iron Bow. It was getting pretty worn down, and he’d probably have to replace it soon, but he intended to get as much use out of it as possible. Engrossed in his task as he was, though, he was still alert. When he heard soft footsteps coming up from behind him, he turned and saw Rosamia coming in.

 

He smiled. “O-oh. Hi, Rosamia. You doin’ alright? There anything you need?”

 

She smiled back. “Hello, Apolli. It’s nothing much, though it may sound strange…ah, may I see your tunic?”

 

“Huh?” He was confused, but without a second thought he took it off, rendering himself bare-chested, and handed it to Rosamia. She peered at it for a few moments, a somewhat sour expression on her face. “Just as I thought! Apolli, how long have you been wearing this?”

 

“Wha--? I wash it as much as I can! It shouldn’t be that dirty!”

 

“No, I mean it’s too small!” She looked at him with exasperation tinged with affection. “I’m sure it must be tight for you, and besides, it’s wearing down, especially around the arms.” She smiled. “You’ve grown a lot stronger, after all. But in any case, I really should repair this. There’s a spare sewing kit in storage somewhere, I’ll just—“

 

“Y-you?” Apolli stuttered. “Uh, you don’t have t’ take the trouble, Miss Rosamia. Really, it’s fine! I mean, sure it’s a little tight, and maybe a lil’ rough around the edges, but…”

 

“But what?” she asked. “If you’re going to be wearing it, there’s no reason it shouldn’t be as well-fitted as possible.”

 

“Er…uh…aren’t ya busy?”

 

“Not really. Aside from studying, Khyron’s too occupied with setting up this city’s defenses for when we leave that he hasn’t asked me to do anything. I know there’s the great celebration tomorrow, but…” her expression darkened. “I know how the people look at us whenever we go outside. Suffice it to say I don’t think we’d be very welcome.”

 

Apolli nodded—he couldn’t deny that. “Y…yeah. But even so, you? Sewin’?”

 

“I’m not bad at it. I always patched up your clothes while you and Gafgarion were with us, don’t you remember?”

 

“I know, but…it’s weird, now. Y’re a Sage and everything. A real great mage! Isn’t it…I dunno, uh…below ya? I-I guess?”

At this, Rosamia couldn’t stifle a chuckle. “Apolli, why should that matter? Regardless of who I am, I should still take care of you, and even being a mage as great as Athos himself wouldn’t change that. Besides, I hardly mind it, and it’ll give me a nice break from my studies. “

 

“But it…it’s not a burden for ya?”

 

“Not at all. The seamstresses of the city are almost all occupied with other important jobs, so I might as well do my part. And besides, It’s not as if I had any siblings growing up, so I suppose I hardly mind being like a big sister to you.”

 

Apolli blinked at this, and Rosamia blushed, realizing what she’d just said—she apparently hadn’t been thinking too much. “B-but enough of that! May I sew this up for you or not?”

 

“O-of course!” Apolli nodded hastily, smiling. “I’d be more’n happy to see it fixed up!”

 

“Well, that’s good then.” She smiled again at him and turned to leave, but then he called out to her.

 

“W-wait, Rosamia!”

 

“Hm? What is it?”

 

“I..uh…thank you.” He wasn’t blushing, but he was looking at her with great sincerity in his soft blue eyes. “Me n’ Gafgarion…we…we’re grateful f’r everythin’ Lord Khyron’s done for us, of course. Lettin’ us serve him and givin’ us a roof over our head…but Rosamia…it’s _you_ who’s made this place like a home for us. And…and we never thought we’d have that again. Not since Yulia died. So…so…thanks.”

 

“A…Apolli.” The young woman stood there for a moment, taking in what he had said. Then, almost faster than he would have anticipated, she stepped up to him, still holding his tunic, bent down and gave him a light kiss on the forehead. And with that, she turned and made her exit for real this time, leaving her friend to sit and stare after her in wonder for a few moments. But just a few. He softly rubbed his forehead, then turned back to his table to work on his bow—this time with the widest smile he’d had on his face since that fateful journey to Scirocco, so long ago.

 

-X- _The Night of the Festival_ -X-

 

The great celebration had been going on all day, and it was continuing tonight. Renault didn’t care a bit, though. First off, he was never particularly big on parties or celebrations.  He much preferred the din of the battlefield to the mindless chatter of crowds. If this was a city like Thagaste, he might have taken pleasure in admiring the architecture, but the best building in this countship was the castle itself—aside from that, the buildings were modest and functional, comparatively austere next to the cathedrals and great patrician’s houses of Thagaste. So there was nothing outside the castle walls that would have appealed to him, even under the best circumstances.

 

And these definitely weren’t the best circumstances—Renault had other reasons for staying inside. He had ventured out into the town proper a few times after his briefing with Gafgarion, simply for basic things like a better sword—even if they couldn’t help with his armor, the blacksmiths could at least do that.

 

And they did—but not cheerily.

 

As he walked through the streets, people hushed and turned to stare. When he got to an armory, the proprietor had turned pale and gaped at him for a few moments before he simply tossed a heavy bag of gold at him, along with his old Iron Sword, and left with fine, shining new Silver Sword.

 

All around him he heard the people whispering:

 

“Hey! Isn’t he supposed to be a hero?”

 

“Would a hero bury the people of Solgrenne?”

 

“But I heard he was the one who killed Vinland himself!”

 

“Yeah, and I heard he was the one who carried the poison that killed Scirocco.”

 

“Well, one thing’s for sure—there’s a reason they call him Renault the Impervious. Best to just stay outta his way!”

 

The stupid townies still believed those stupid rumors. Hell, they didn’t even know what to believe. Renault had clenched his fists, wanting to lash out at them, but he remembered how well that course of action had served him so long ago in Thagaste, his first homecoming to that city. Thus, he simply made his way back to the castle stoically, doing nothing more than giving the common, foolish people equally hostile glances in return. If they really wanted to stay out of his way, that was fine with him—in fact, it was all he wanted.

 

He didn’t need them. And he sure as hell didn’t need their stupid celebration. When you got right down to it, all he really needed was right in Castle Caerleon itself.

 

Sitting across from Kelitha at a table in Exedol Caerleon’s great library—which Braddock and Keith had surprisingly “discovered” the other day—Renault couldn’t keep himself from breaking out in a grin. Kelitha, like all the other members of the Autonomous Company, was just as distrusted by the populace as Renault was, except, of course, she had to deal with them calling her and her sister “vultures” as well. Thus, she’d kept herself to the castle, which meant she had an opportunity to spend time with Renault, which neither of them minded in the least.

 

She very much wanted to see Exedol’s library, given how she’d heard tales of his great skill with magic. Since she was so interested in the subject, Renault was happy to oblige her, just as long as she didn’t appear too curious about Light magic, which she took care not to do. At the moment, they were poring through what seemed to be a biography of the most mysterious of the Eight Heroes, Bramimond of the Darkness. It was written by a Sage, so it was naturally fairly distrustful and condemnatory, but not as much as it would be if it was written by a clergyman, for which Renault was thankful. He was even more thankful for the view Kelitha provided to him, though. As strange as it sounded coming from a battle-hardened mercenary like him, even though she was a fellow warrior, he couldn’t help thinking that, looking over the book so intently, taking care to brush her green hair away from her green eyes every now and then with such a serious expression on her face, she looked…cute. Endearing. As if this was where she truly belonged, not the battlefield.

 

“So they really know almost nothing about Bramimond’s appearance or personality?”

 

“Hm?” Renault was broken out of his reverie by the voice of the woman he was admiring.

 

“I mean, this is a biography of Bramimond, right? But it just describes the battles he fought in and the terrible power of the Apocalypse spell. I mean...after reading this, I’m not even sure Bramimond was a ‘he!’ “

 

“Maybe it’s the nature of dark magic,” said Renault thoughtfully. “I don’t think you can blame the author for this one—he’s a lot more objective than a priest would be, right? Doesn’t it say at the end of the book the Bramimond became “a master of darkness?” But he quotes Bramimond himself as saying, “to master the darkness, you must lose yourself to it.” Maybe he gave up his body, his appearance, to be able to use Apocalypse? That would explain why nobody knows what he looked like or where he came from, because any records of his life before he “lost himself to the darkness” would have been lost in the Scouring.”

 

“I guess you’re right.” Kelitha crinkled her nose. “Jeez, even if we weren’t fighting them all the time, I’d find black magic scary. How could anyone use spells like that? “

 

“I see where you’re coming from, but you can’t deny it worked well for Bramimond. Despite Apocalypse being his tome, this says he could draw out power from all of the Divine Weapons. Then again, if that sort of thing came at the price of losing everything that made you…well, you, maybe the darkness really is overrated.”

 

“I think so too. Anima is so much nicer.”

 

“Hah! You’re an anima sort of girl, eh? I figured.”

 

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I’ve never met a dark mage who wasn’t creepy. You, on the other hand, are precisely the opposite!”

 

“Um…you mean…cute?”

 

Just like Apolli had done yesterday, Renault blushed when he realized what he’d said. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he stammered, not denying the compliment (which would make him look bad) but heading straight for a change of subject. “But anyways, you said you liked Amina magic? I think there’s a biography of Athos in here somewhere. You wanna read that?”

 

“Sure!”

 

It didn’t take them much searching to find it—Exedol had kept his library very well organized, and they knew where the section on Anima magic was. The problem was that the bookshelves were fairly high—even Renault couldn’t reach their highest levels. Kelitha, seeing the large tome on the highest shelf near the western wall, attempted to grab for it, but of course failed utterly. There should have been a step or stand somewhere in the room for this sort of thing, but none seemed to be around and she didn’t want to damage the expensive-looking chairs by standing on one of them.

 

“Come on, you could face off against a giant wyvern but can’t grab a single book?” Renault muttered impatiently.

 

Kelitha blushed. “I wasn’t made a Falcoknight because I was tall!”

 

“Okay, okay, fair point. Don’t get mad, I wasn’t thinking.  Here, let me help you, then.”

 

“Hey, what’re you—“

 

Keith didn’t have time to finish asking before she found herself swept up in Renault’s arms. Before she could protest, when she felt her body being lifted she instinctively righted herself, and then tensed her legs before she could fall. She realized she was mounted securely on Renault’s shoulders, and making it somewhat uncomfortable for him.

 

“H-hey, ease up!” he gasped. “I’ve got a hold of you”—and indeed he did, his hands were over her knees—“you don’t need need to be this tense! We’re both gonna fall over if you suffocate me!”

 

“S-sorry!” She immediately loosened her grip, causing Renault to sigh in relief. “But what do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Helping you get that book!” he grumbled. “Now, do you wanna read it or not? I mean, I can give you a piggyback ride if that’s what you really want, but then why’d you drag me all the way up here to the library?!”

 

Giggling, Kelitha had to stop herself from actually asking for a ride, if for no other reason than to tease Renault. She really did want to read that biography of Athos, though. She plucked it off the shelf with ease this time, and Renault promptly set her down. The two of them re-took their seats, within a moment forgetting their previous exchange and losing themselves in the world of the Scouring.

 

This was a much more in-depth biography of the Hero than Bramimond’s had been. Describing in detail his youth in what would become Etruria, along with his friendship with the woman who would be known as Saint Elimine, his many heroic battles in the Scouring, all up to the time he finally retired to the desert of Nabata and faded from the pages of history.

 

“I can see why Lord Athos retreated to Nabata after he did,” said Kelitha contemplatively as they flipped through the pages of the heavy tome. “After a war as harrowing as the Scouring, who wouldn’t want tranquility and solitude? This war alone’s made me wish I’d never have to leave this library!”

 

“I can understand that,” said Renault. “It’d be nice if this break lasted forever. Just our luck, though, it’s probably gonna get even harder after this. Especially now that Yazan has our Rex Hasta…”

 

“Yes…yes.” Renault had intended that as just an off-hand comment, but it seemed to cut Kelitha deeply. “It’s my fault. I erred, and gravely. I’m very sorry…”

 

“What? Aw, hell, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I mean, look, I’ll admit I was angry at first when you lost it. It’s definitely a powerful weapon, and we had to kill that berserked Vyrleena to get it! And we always told your sister to keep a good grasp on her spear, remember? But I know Yazan, and he’s a hell of a sneaky bastard. If anybody could get it away from you, it’d be him. He didn’t steal the Basilikos as well, so I guess we should be grateful for that.”

 

“Heh…I suppose so. Thank you, Renault,” and she gave him a genuine smile. “After hearing this, I don’t feel as ashamed of myself.”

 

“Well, don’t get used to this sort of thing,” replied the swordsman, scratching his nose. “I’m only nice like this to special people, you know. Like Braddock!”

 

“Well, you’ve really been looking out for me and my sister for these past few battles.” She cast him a wry grin. “I guess we’re pretty special to you, huh?”

 

Renault was caught, fair and square, and he couldn’t wriggle out of this one easily. “Well, uh, sure! Like, you know, comrades. I mean, you saved my life and Braddock’s a bunch of times. Of course I’d look after you! We wouldn’t even be half as strong without you!”

 

She seemed a bit disappointed—Renault thought she was pouting. “So, just comrades? Nothing more?”

 

It was time to get serious. “Well…maybe. But now’s really not the time to think about that sort of thing, you know? We have a war to win. After this is all over, there’ll be plenty of time for thinking about that sorta stuff. But it’s no good if we die before then, right? So let’s just concentrate on winning for now. Then we’ll see where we go from there.”

 

She couldn’t refute that. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. Reading that biography of Athos must have turned me into a silly romantic. It’s just that…”

 

“Just what?”

 

“Look at Athos’ childhood. At least assuming the biographer was accurate, he lived a peaceful life with his parents before the war came. He even studied magic with Elimine in the Great Library before the dragons turned it to ash.” She sighed. “I wonder, is this how the rest of the people in Elibe live? Centuries after the Scouring, and Ilians like me still don’t know anything except war. From the time my sister and I were little girls, we were told we had to fight, and that sharpening our skills for the good of Etruria was our greatest—and only—purpose. I…I never had time to make friendships with anyone aside from my sister and our comrades, and I obviously never got close to any boys.

 

“Elimine…I guess I envy her. Studying magic together with a man like Athos, hours upon hours in a library even bigger than this one…it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted out of life. But here I am, as a Pegasus Knight, my life tied to my spear and my mount. They and my sister are the only things I have…the only things I’ve ever had. Nobody’s ever looked at me like Athos looked at Elimine, when they were younger. I’ve never even had a kiss from anyone except my mother and my sister.

 

“Why is this so? Why could Elimine, even a thousand years ago, have what I can’t? She talked so much about God, didn’t she? That was one reason her path parted from Athos. But God doesn’t love Ilians like he loved her? Like I always told you, Renault, I can’t really believe in a God like that. Of course, since the Gods of my people don’t seem to care much for us either, I don’t put much faith in them either. But then why? What’s the reasoning behind our suffering? Are we simply destined to spill our blood for the sake of our frozen homeland?”

 

This was quite a soliloquy from his friend, and Renault was taken aback for a moment, absorbing everything she said. From the way Kelitha looked at him, it seemed she thought she must have overwhelmed him or offended him or something like that, so to immediately dispel her fears, Renault did his best to rise to the challenge she set. “Well, there’s no God that sets out the course of our or anyone else’s lives, we both know that,” he said, and then thoughtfully added, “You might call it fate, but I don’t believe in that much either. What I do believe in, though, is luck. Random chance, or maybe you could say that if there is such a thing as fate, it’s so capricious as to be totally unpredictable.

 

“I’m an Etrurian and I’ve never been kissed, either. I had a decent, peaceful life, too—stoneworking might not be your passion, but I bet you’d like it better than fighting. But that’s all behind me, now. Not because of where I was born, or who I was born to, and definitely not because I was condemned by my parents to fight. It’s just…life never really took me that way. My path parted from Henken’s because of who I was and what I believed in. If it’s fate, I had a hand in it too, and I made my own decisions. And a kiss? For whatever reason, I never had anyone like that growing up, and I never met a girl who could make me feel that way,” and at this, he grimaced slightly and thought, _Much to Lisse’s dismay_.

 

“But in the end,” he continued, “it is what it is, and wondering why won’t do anyone much good. If it’s “fate” I’ve never been kissed, then it’s also “fate” that I became a mercenary. That would mean it’s “fate” I met Braddock. And also “fate” that I met you.” Now it was his turn to give her a disarming grin. “So if you wanna talk about fate, what’s the point of complaining? If it’s “fate” Ilians have to fight, that you never had anything like Elimine and Athos had with each other, it’s “fate” you have a sister like Keith and friends like Braddock and me. Take what it gives you and make the most of it.”

 

She blinked, staring at him curiously. Getting a bit nervous, he said, “Well, uh, what, was that too much verbiage? Don’t take it too seriously, then. I’m just a mercenary, not a sage!”

 

“Well, maybe you’re a bit of both, Renault. That was one of the most perceptive things I’ve heard anyone say in a long time. I really do feel better now, after hearing it. Th…thank you.”

 

“Heh, it’s what I do.” The red on Renault’s face belied his attempt to act nonchalant. “So, uh, anyways, it’s getting late. Are you feelin’ hungry? I know I am.” He knew there was no need to invite her to partake of the food undoubtedly being enjoyed by the participants of the celebration outside. “Apolli might be cooking something up. Wanna go see?”

 

“Why not?”

 

As they exited the library together, Renault grinned as he followed his friend downstairs. Given how much he was beginning to enjoy Kelitha’s company, he anticipated their meal would be just as pleasant as their time in the library had been.

 

-X-

 

As long as he lived, Apolli thought to himself, he’d always be grateful for the time he spent in Caerleon. One reason for that was the many wonderful recipes he’d learned over the course of his stay in this countship. Though he’d always have a soft spot for the cuisine of Sorveno, he had to admit that Caerleon’s foodstuffs were much more varied. Back at home, given how poor their village was, whenever people wanted to eat meat they made do with rabbits, boars, or pheasants—whatever they could hunt, basically. They didn’t have much in the way of livestock beyond a few chickens and some cattle. At Caerleon, however, there were not only chickens and cows but also pigs and sheep (the sheep in particular being valued not only for their meat but also for their wool, which the busy seamstresses of Caerleon used to make clothing and textiles so valuable to the economic life of the region—no wonder none of them had time to spend on his own clothing, then!). Thus, the man found a great degree of pleasure in cooking up all sorts of savory meat dishes folks back at Sorveno could only dream of having. Tonight’s entrée was a great slab of roasted pork, seasoned with the herbs Apolli remembered from his hometown. It’d definitely be something none of his friends had ever tried before.

 

Of course, even the greatest chefs (though Apolli didn’t consider himself to be one) needed good assistants, which was why Lisse was beside him, helping him tend to the meat. He had noticed that she had been looking much healthier over the course of their travels together.  She no longer seemed as frail and bony—she’d put on some flesh (in the right places, he couldn’t help but notice) and her arms were sturdier and more muscular than they’d been the first time he’d seen her in Thagaste, so long ago. Her hair seemed shinier rather than stringy, though it was still far from being as lustrous as Rosamia’s (and hers wasn’t even the best he’d ever seen either), and her face seemed to indicate less of the privation she’d displayed in her hometown; her worry lines seemed to have receded and her eyes seemed brighter. It was very ironic—while the war had taken away so much from the rest of them, it seemed to have done a lot of good for Lisse. Not that he could blame her, of course. The truth of the matter was that she’d almost certainly been eating better since she joined up with the Company. Their rations alone would have been more consistent than what she had to eat back at Thagaste most of the time, and Apolli on his own had been making very sure that she ate a little extra—since he’d been teaching her how to cook better, it followed that she was eating better as well, especially since he always made a bit more, just for her.

 

And she learned well, too. The meat roasting on the spit in front of them had been cooked to perfection, neither burnt nor too raw, and her choices of seasoning had been perceptive—they’d definitely be eating well tonight. When Apolli nodded to her, he didn’t even need to tell her what to do—together, they carried the meat from the kitchen’s cooking pit and set it up on the table and plates in the castle’s Great Hall, where they’d be setting it up for their comrades, who’d probably be coming to eat within a few minutes. In addition to all the pork, the two of them had also whipped up some exquisite delicacies—specifically, a batch of small, delectable cheese tarts topped with apples, a Caerleon specialty that Apolli had wanted to share with his friends for some time now.

 

Apolli thought they’d be able to sneak in a few bites before everyone else arrived, but Lisse would be having none of it. “We can’t eat now!” she snapped at him, noticing he was reaching for a tart. “Wait for Renault and everybody else!”  


He hastily withdrew his hand, withering under Lisse’s glare. “Okay, okay, I got ya. We’ll wait, then.” He smiled. “Just’s well! I bet he’d really love these lil’ tarts. Assumin’ he hasn’t already stuffed himself at the celebration outside!” Apolli laughed, trying to make a joke, but he saw that it seemed to bring Lisse a bit of concern rather than mirth.

 

“If any of us were out there enjoying ourselves, we wouldn’t be eating here, right?” she said sadly.

 

He couldn’t argue with that. “Uh…yeah. Y’r right, I guess…”

 

“I can’t even take a single step outside the castle!” she continued indignantly. “I can’t believe the people of Caerleon! All they do is spout lies about Renault! “Renault the Impervious poisoned Scirocco! Renault the Impervious destroyed Elram’s Citadel!” They don’t know Renault at all! Not like I do! It makes me sick!”

 

“Aye, I c’n see why.”

 

“And I heard all kinds of nasty things about you, Apolli! They were calling you the “Phantom Arrow” and saying you were caught up in all of Khyron’s schemes! Can you believe that?! How could anyone think you were caught up in something nasty? You’re so sweet! You’d never do anything like that!”

 

Did she just call him sweet? “Uh…um…y, yeah.”

 

“They’re so ignorant! I can’t stand them, Apolli!”

 

“W, well, don’t be too hard on ‘em, Lisse,” he said sadly. “Think of it fr’m their eyes. I mean, if y’ didn’t know Renault n’ me as much as y’ did, you might be sayin’ the same things.  These folks have suffered a whole lot over the years. Their friends n’ family have been sent off t’ war, a gold piece don’t buy nearly as much as it used to…I just can’t blame ‘em if they can’t figure out the truth about not even a dozen men and women. We’re just a tiny part of all the concerns they’re havin’ t’ deal with.” He laughed. “Then again, maybe it’s like Khyron says. Maybe I’m just a dumb country bumpkin.”

 

“I guess you’re right, Apolli. Being angry at the rumors won’t make them go away. And don’t call yourself a bumpkin! You’re just as good as anybody else! You’re on Renault’s side, right?”

 

“Heh. Yeah.”

 

She sighed. “I really miss him, you know? I’m glad he likes my cooking, but we barely talk these days. I…I should be seeing him as much as I want! We’re together almost every day since we’re both in the Autonomous Company, but he’s always busy. Training, or fooling around with Braddock, or risking his life in battle…I just want everything back to the way it used to be! Before Scirocco, before this horrible war…just me and Renault, with the Ruby Tortoise…”

 

Apolli put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I hear ya, lass. Believe me, y’r not the only person who feels this way. What I wouldn’t do to be just a regular Sorveno lad, with Yulia, and Roberto, before Scirocco and everythin’…”

 

“You miss your old life, Apolli, just like I miss mine,” Lisse murmured contemplatively.  “I wonder if it was similar?”

 

“Huh? Y’mean, like th’ same? Well, I dunno ‘bout that. You ran a lil’ tavern in a big city, but me an’ Roberto were jus’ country boys.

 

“But Sorveno…it had its own charms. Th’ winters were cold, but y’ could always bunk down with a neighbor if ya needed. The summers were hot, but there was a big lake jus’ to the east where y’ could cool off if we needed. Me n’ Roberto spent a lotta time there, horsin’ around in the water while Yulia watched an’ laughed. And every fall we’d have a harvest festival…kinda like the celebration we have now. Ah, I wouldn’t give that up f’r the world. Th’ music, th’ dancin’…th’ happiest times o’ my life were when I was spinnin’ Yulia ‘round the town square, Gafgarion watchin’ an laughin’, and Roberto givin’ us music with ‘is reed pipe. The smile on Yulia’s face…for me, ‘twas brighter’n any of the stars in the sky.”

 

“She sounds like she was quite a woman,” said Lisse sadly. “I’m sorry I never had a chance to meet her. I remember when you first came to Thagaste it was just you, Roberto, Braddock, and Tassar…”

 

“Aye. She was with the Mage Corps, so Khyron had to pay f’r her lodgings, but since we were jus’ mercenaries, he didn’t wanna pay for the rest of us. Guess some things never change, huh?” He laughed, and Lisse giggled with him.

 

“Those harvest festivals sound lovely,” she said. “I wish I had a chance to experience something like that. Oh, there’s so much across all of Elibe I’d like to experience…but I never had the chance. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to. If it wasn’t for Renault, I wouldn’t even know those sorts of things existed!”

 

“Really?”

 

“Oh, yes. My parents were too poor to travel, of course, but they also couldn’t afford any books. But Renault…he knew so much. He’d always tell me stories of life in other lands, that he learned from the books in his father’s library. The winters of Ilia, the deserts of Nabata, the cantons of Lycia…it’s like he took me to a whole other world with the stories he told me! For a little while, at least, it was like I wasn’t even living in a slum anymore…”

 

“Yeah. It’s not like most folks c’n travel ‘round like that. If I hadn’t joined up w’ Khyron, I sure wouldn’t. F’r most of the world, stories’re the only way anybody can get a bit o’ life outside o’ where they were born.

 

“But y’know, I gotta wonder. Where d’ stories come from? I mean, real stories, not th’ ones that’re made up for fun. You’d have to travel to Lycia, or Nabata, or wherever to write about ‘em. So that means somebody actually _did_ travel t’ all those places. And when y’ think about it, isn’t that what we’re doin’ now, Lisse? Sure, this war’s been horrible. But we’ve been all across Etruria ‘cause of it. A few years ago, did ya ever think you’d see Aquleia? I know I sure didn’t. Even now, I can’t help but wonder if that big ol’ city was just a dream! And then we took you to Caerleon, to th’ Bingham Bridge, and then we’ll be takin’ you all th’ way t’ Nerinheit. Even if y’ can’t listen to Renault’s stories any more, seems like y’ can make a few of y’r own, right? Least when it comes to Etruria!”

 

She looked at Apolli curiously, smiling as she took in his words. She was apparently found them quite convincing. “You…you know, I think you’re right. I was born and raised in Etruria, but I never once set foot outside of Thagaste. I never realized how beautiful my country was. But now I’ve seen Aquleia, the green fields of Caerleon, the great Bingham Bridge…I’ve got to see for myself all things Renault told me about!”

 

She looked down. “Well, some of them, at least. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to see the world outside of Etruria. Sacae, Bern…well, maybe not Bern, ‘cause I don’t think they like Etrurians very much. But Lycia? I can’t imagine what it’s like to run a group of cantons, like Renault said they do. How’d I’d like to see it someday…”

 

“Now that’s a mighty fine dream, miss,” came a man’s cheery voice from behind them. “Etruria’s great and all, but Lycia’s the best. Most beautiful land on Elibe, in my view!”

 

Both Apolli and Lisse gasped, startled, and turned back to look at who was talking. To their relief, they found it was only Harvery.

 

“Whoops! Didn’t mean to scare you,” he laughed self-deprecatingly as he ran a hand through his scruffy brown hair. “I guess I’m just good at surprising people, y’know? If I wasn’t, I’d be a hell of a poor Assassin!” He chuckled again, but this time it was forced, and the expression on his friends’ faces told him his joke had fell extremely flat.

 

“Um…yeah. So, anyways, I was just putterin’ around the armory when I smelled something real delicious and decided to see what was up. Sorry if I was, uh, eavesdroppin’ on you or anything.”

 

“Nah, it’s okay,” said Apolli, inviting him to take a seat next to them. “Y’ were talkin’ about Lycia. Did ya live there?”

 

“Sure did. For a while, at least. As a, uh, information-gatherer for the Crown, they sent me to the country to keep tabs on its internal politics. ‘s how I met Great General Henken, don’tcha know! And while I earned my keep, honestly, it was like a vacation for me, in a lotta ways.”

 

“I c’n see why,” said Apolli. “I remember the view from the mountains when we went t’ fight Barbarossa. That sunset sure was beautiful…”

 

“Yep. The rest of Lycia’s like that too. Nothing in the world’s like the sea breeze you can get on a beach in Badon. You’d have to see the flowers of Cornwell in the springtime if you wanted to believe ‘em. The forests of Ostia and Araphen are like portals to the land of the fairies we hear about in those plays! Being such a good, uh, friend of the marquess of Cornwell sure had its perks. They were the ones who showed me all that while I was, um, guest in their canton.

 

“And that’s another thing. The people of Lycia were the finest I ever knew. That is a country which takes freedom seriously! It’s hard for us to understand, livin’ under a king and all, but even though they follow Ostia in times of war, when it’s peaceful you can’t believe how fiercely each individual canton guards its distinctiveness and its right to do things however it wants. The Lycians don’t bow down to anybody—as they always say, “only a man of Roland’s caliber is worthy to rule over all of us!” They’re mostly Eliminean, but they let anyone worship what they please so long as they keep the peace. They don’t believe in huge armies to keep a boot on the people’s back, and they’re not interested in these imperialistic games like Bern and Etruria are.

 

“And they know how to have fun! And I mean, _really_ have fun. Lemme tell you, Apolli, you’ve never been with a woman till you’ve been with a _Lycian_ woman. Wow-ee! “Wild” doesn’t even come near to describin’ it. There was this one milkmaid in Cornwell named Meris—she was a redhead, and they have a lot of superstitions in Lycia, like how a girl with fiery hair will give you fiery children or something—and I don’t know about all that, but she had a personality to go with her looks. I mean, it wasn’t just that she had one of the nicest chests I’d ever seen—and I’ve seen a few in my time—but that laugh! She loved to sing, she loved to dance, and every time she did so she’d be laughin’ with me, and even in the dead of winter it seemed like it was spring. And rest assured, it was hotter’n summer when we went to the hay—“

 

“H-Harvery!” stammered Apolli, as both he and Lisse looked at him incredulously with beet-red faces.

 

“Oh, yeah. Too much information, I guess? Whoops.” He grew a bit sadder now, and not because of his faux pas. “It’s not as if it really matters much now, anyways. The civil war probably got her.” He shook his head and then looked back to his friends. “But enough o’ that. You know what’s one thing they really like in Lycia? Music! I heard you talkin’ about that harvest festival in Sorveno. They have things like that in all the cantons back in Lycia, too, with dancing and singing and all that. I could play you a tune if you want?”  


“Oh…uh, sure,” said Lisse, still a bit red. “It’s not…dirty, is it?”

 

“Nah, nah, nah! You can’t get very dirty on one of these!” With a swift movement he brought a hand to his belt and unlimbered what Apolli initially thought was one of his daggers. When Harvery stopped to show it to them, however, he realized it was something much more innocuous—a small reed pipe.

 

“Just listen!” Tapping his foot on the ground, Harvery brought the instrument to his lips and began to blow. It was a short, sprightly song, with a quick an upbeat tempo. Lasting just barely a minute, its quick notes and sharp pitch evoked, at least for a short while, the image of a group of people dancing happily in a meadow in the minds of its listeners.  


When it had ended, both Apolli and Lisse smiled and clapped, at which Harvery stood up and made a small but theatrical bow. “Like that? It’s called a “tarantella.” Real popular for couples to dance to in Ostia.”

 

“Nice,” said Apolli. “Y…Yulia woulda loved it.”

 

“Yeah, real nice,” said Harvery, and once again his voice was tinged with a bit of sadness. “Y’know, it was the Marquess’ son who taught me how to play this. Char of Cornwell. Not that he’s around anymore, heh. But he also taught Br—I mean, Maxim of Ostia how to play, though he was never any good at it. The moment he put a pipe to his lips it sounded like a cat was dying! But still…” he sighed. “The three of us had some real good times together.”

 

“I c’n imagine y’ did,” said Apolli, feeling more than a bit of sympathy for the man.

 

“Ah, well, no point dwellin’ on the past. But hey, that reminds me,” said Harvery, “Speakin’ of Lycians, where’s Braddock? I bet he’s hungry by now. So’s everyone else. We don’t want all this to get too cold, do we?”

 

“R-right!”

 

“I think I know where Braddock is,” said Lisse. “He was ascending the stairs to the second floor the last time I saw him. Maybe he’s in the library, or if not, he might’ve gone up to the castle balcony. The stars are beautiful this time of night and I remember Renault telling me Lycians believed in astrology or something…”

 

Harvery nodded. “Could be. Let’s see if we can find ‘em!”

 

Their plan now set, the trio dashed off for the stairwells, leaving their meal to cool.

 

-X-

 

Braddock wished Renault could be beside him at the moment—neither of them had much interest in the festival, after all (he didn’t mind his friend being called “The Impervious,” but wasn’t sure how he felt about hearing “The Blue Comet” whispered behind his back all night), but it was a beautiful night out anyways. They could have enjoyed watching the stars together. But the swordsman mentioned he’d wanted to spend some time in the library, and since Braddock knew who he wanted to spend that time with, he knew better than to insist on anything too heavily. Thus, he ascended to the open roof of Castle Nerinheit alone, expecting to spend an evening stargazing alone.

 

When he climbed the stairs to the castle’s top level and exited out onto its roof, however, he was surprised to see an indeterminate shape in front of him, next to the ballistae. It had long hair which was blowing in the night wind. Was it Rosamia? “Hey, who’s there?” he called out, just a bit suspiciously—mercenaries had to be wary of being attacked at any time, after all. However, much to his relief, when the figure turned and he moved a bit closer, he saw that it was indeed his friend Rosamia.

 

“Hey!” he smiled, and she smiled back. “I wasn’t expecting you to be up here. Enjoying the view, huh?”

 

“Indeed I am,” she said, and then looked downwards at the vista beneath her, sighing somewhat mournfully. “Just look at it down there.” Though Braddock had been more interested in stargazing, he walked up to his friend and peered over the roof. Beneath them, tiny points of light flickered all over Caerleon, piercing the darkness of the night—Braddock realized they were the torches of the revelers. The brightest of these was an orange bonfire so large he could see individual licks of flame emanating from it even from where he was. It was the festival’s central attraction—he could hear happy voices and joyful singing coming from where it was. Traveling bards had already come up with songs extolling the virtues of the people of Caerleon and their epic triumph over Vinland (carefully omitting any mention of the team which had actually killed him, Braddock gathered from what he could hear. Though he couldn’t see them clearly in the darkness, he could just make out moving shapes around the bonfire—couples dancing to the songs, he realized. After all, what festival would be complete without dance?

 

He looked at the woman next to him and saw that she was leaning on one of the castle’s ballistae, gazing downwards at the tiny dancing celebrants with a singularly wistful expression on her face.

 

“Wish you could join ‘em, huh?” Braddock asked sympathetically.

 

She blinked, then smiled at him. “Perceptive as usual, my dear Braddock. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have come over to our side in the end, right?”

 

It wasn’t a malicious joke, and both of them shared a chuckle at it—she had apparently more than forgiven him for initially betraying her side at the beginning of the war. It was a chuckle that soon turned into another wistful sigh from Rosamia as she looked back down. “But yes, you’re right. I’d like nothing more than to join them down there.”

 

“And you can’t, for the same reason me, Renault, and the rest of us can’t.” Braddock let out a sigh of his own. “Seems like we can never catch a break, huh?”

 

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it.” Braddock had intended that to be just an off-hand comment, but it had apparently affected the woman greatly, much to his surprise. “H-hey…” he stammered when he noticed the change that had come over her. She was now standing ramrod-straight, her hands clenched at her sides, looking with a great deal of focus at the stone of the rooftop below her feet.

 

She drew a deep breath, and it sounded like she was choking back a sob. She took another deep breath, though, and that seemed to be enough for her to compose herself. Steadying herself on her feet, she quickly wiped at her eyes. “Ah…I’m sorry. It’s…nothing. Sorry.”

 

“Hey, Rosamia, you know you don’t have to put on airs with me. I mean, uh,” and Braddock scratched his head nervously, “it’s not ‘cause I think you’re weak or anything. Don’t get that idea! I know how much your pride means to you. But, I mean, you’re my comrade. Hell, you’re my friend. When you’re not on the battlefield—and that’s a rare thing these days—you don’t have to be strong every minute of every hour, right? So…uh…look, I’m just saying, I’m not gonna condemn you if you want to talk about your feelings a bit. Not that I’d be much good with that sort of thing, but hell, I’d be better at it than Khyron, right?”

 

At this, she couldn’t help but break into a very amused giggle, and for a moment a smile spread across her troubled face. “Well, there’s certainly no arguing with that. Thank you, Braddock. It’s not something I’m used to doing, though. I’m a member of the Mage Corps, and my gender’s no excuse for showing weakness.”

 

“Heh, well, like I said, only if you want to. Far be it from me to force you or anything! I just thought…who knows, maybe talkin’ about it would make you feel better. I don’t have anything better to do than lend a sympathetic ear, and aside from fighting I’m not good at a whole lot else.”

 

“Well…” She looked up at him, pondering his handsome face. As she locked her eyes with his, he realized how… _tired_ hers seemed to be. “Alright, Braddock. At the very least, maybe getting this off my chest will keep me from getting distracted during battle later on.”

 

She turned back towards the festivities below, leaning on the balustrade of the roof, and gazed down contemplatively. “Braddock…have you ever wished you were just…normal?”

 

“Well…I wish I could answer, but I’m not really sure what you mean. Normal in what sense?”

 

“I mean…maybe ‘normal’ wasn’t the right word. But have you ever wished that everything would just end? Or at least just pause for a little bit?”

 

“End? Pause?”

 

“It’s…” She sighed, and hung her head over the balustrade. Her long, beautiful green hair cascaded over her forehead and her shoulders, and close up, even in the darkness Braddock could see how disheveled it was. Much like his own long blue hair—none of them really had time to take care of it until fairly recently, and even then, the stress they were under wasn’t doing much for their appearances.

 

“Braddock, it just seems like bad things happen to us, over and over again, one after the other, without the slightest reprieve. First there was the debacle with Barbarossa, then the Reaper’s Labyrinth, then the Battle for Aquleia. Then we faced Yurt at Thagaste, and then the tragedy of Elram’s Citadel..Vyrleena’s horrible death, and all those innocent people dying. And even after that, even after we managed to survive everything, even after we managed to save Caerleon…my master’s reputation has been ruined. _My_ reputation has been ruined. _Our_ reputation has been ruined. We finally have a small break…except it’s not a real rest at all. Yes, we aren’t fighting, but it’s as if we’re in enemy territory, even though we’re residing within the city we saved with our own hands. It’s as if we’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time. At Scirocco, at Elram’s Citadel…

 

“I pray to God every night I can, and I don’t want to believe He doesn’t hear me. But even so…” She sniffled and wiped her eyes again. “Braddock, I’m not a coward. I’m going to see this war through to the end. But God help me, I just want to _rest!”_ In a rare burst of emotion, she slammed her fists on the railing. “It’s been like this my whole life, Braddock! I’ve always been fighting…fighting against _something_. When I first joined the Mage Corps, my classmates looked down on me, not only because of my gender but because my parents weren’t great nobles like they were.

 

“I could never enjoy festivals like this when I was a child. My classmates would snipe at me behind my back, and I couldn’t endure the nobles doing the same with each other. So I just watched them dance, and satisfied myself with creating dancers of my own, out of water or wind…and as the years passed, I found I didn’t mind so much. But now look at me. The people of this city are down there enjoying themselves, and we…despite the fact that _we_ saved their city…here we are, trapped in the castle, distrusted and reviled by the people we saved. It’s as if…as if nothing’s changed at all since I was just a raw recruit at the Academy.

 

“Is this all there is, Braddock? Is this the only thing I have to look forward to? Risking my life in battle after terrifying battle, for the sake of people who don’t understand me? Who distrust me, who despise me? I…I won’t say I can’t bear it, because I can. I’m strong enough to bear it. But why do I have to? I haven’t seen or heard from my parents since I left them at Aquleia. Is this what they wanted for me? Mama…Papa…”

 

Her shoulders rose and fell, as if she was stifling another sob. Hesitantly, Braddock reached out and put a hand on her back, and much to his relief, she didn’t jerk away or become angry. So he took the opportunity to take the initiative.

 

“I think it’s a good question, Rosamia. And the longer this war drags on, the more I start to feel the same way. But you know the saying—no matter how cold the winter, spring comes ever after.

 

“We’re _winning_ this war. Vinland’s dead and the Rebel forces are growing weaker and weaker every day. It’s not gonna last forever. In fact, it’s gonna be over soon. You just need to have faith—I guess it’s strange to hear from an irreligious guy like me, but it’s the truth. Once we kill Paptimus, there won’t be any more battles. When the war ends, even if it takes years to repair the damage is done, the people will see who you really are eventually. They’ll realize how Paptimus and Trunicht and all those other scumbags were lying to them, even if it takes a long time. Someday you’ll get all the rest you want, Rosamia. Hell, I believe that you’ll get the reward you deserve someday, too. So until then…you just have to hold out.”

 

“Hold out…” She sighed. “It’s as if I’ve been “holding out” for something my whole life.”

 

“Well, that’s not a very long time, is it? You’ve still got a lot of life ahead of you. Who knows if things won’t get better next year? The year after that? There’s no way this war will last even that long. Why not wait and see what it has in store for you? At the very least, you’ll be able to deal with whatever the future holds. You’ve more than proven that you’re strong enough already.”

 

“Have I?” She looked up at him and her lips turned upwards in a smile, making her look just a little less tired than she’d been before. “Well, who am I to disagree with the assessment of an expert mercenary? I suppose you’re right, Sir Braddock,” and at this, the Ostian couldn’t help but break out into a silly smile of his own. “I just can’t understand you, sometimes. For a big lunk of a two-timing mercenary, you always manage to make me feel better.”

 

“H-hey, don’t be mean,” said Braddock, blushing visibly. “But, uh, y’know, that reminds me.  You really wanted to dance, right? Wouldn’t that make you feel a lot better? Well, if the folks down there won’t have you, screw ‘em.” He raised his arms to gesture to the roof around them. “We don’t have a bad dance floor right here. Wanna give it a try?”

 

She tried to hide it, but her eyes verily lit up at the suggestion. Braddock took that as a ‘yes,’ and the dance was on. He quickly bowed, and she quickly curtsied, and then he took her hands in his and they were off. Together they stepped back, together they stepped forwards, Braddock twirled her around, once, twice, thrice, and then hastily reached out to grab her when it seemed she might topple over. The move apparently went much more smoothly than he thought, because she didn’t seem the least bit perturbed at either of their clumsiness. Instead, she just held on to Braddock and laughed, the loudest and most sincere he’d heard her laugh in a very long time. Needless to say, this little slip-up didn’t stop them from continuing their attempts. They sashayed to and fro across the entire roof, slipping up every now and then (especially since she hadn’t danced in a very, very long time—their meeting in Aquleia several years ago being the last) but still having a great deal of fun. They were having so much fun, in fact, that they scarcely noticed when a couple of visitors arrived.

 

“WHOOOO! NICE GOIN’, BRADDOCK!”

 

“W-what the hell?”

 

Braddock was just in the middle of giving his friend another twirl when he heard the loud voice calling out from the stairwell behind him. He would have dropped her, tripped over himself, and falling right on top of her in a _very_ compromising position had his warrior’s instincts not taken over—he quickly stopped his feet and pivoted, keeping a firm grip on Rosamia’s hand, and then gently but quickly and surely shifting her body (she was too surprised to resist) away from the source of the voice, on the other side of her partner’s body. When he glared back to see who his unexpected visitor was, though, he remembered that the voice wasn’t at all unfamiliar—and thus, neither was the man standing in the door to the stairs, with a pair of giggling faces behind him.

 

“H-Harvery!” yelled Braddock. “What the hell’re you doin’ up here?”

 

“I dunno,” said the spy innocently, “I think I could ask _you_ the same question!”

 

“E-eh?” Braddock paused for a moment, and then looked at Rosamia, realizing that it seemed as if he was holding her in a somewhat ‘intimate’ grip. “G-GAH!” Both of them released each other within a moment, flushing brightly.

 

“It-it was nothing illicit!” said Rosamia. “Please, don’t blame him for anything. He…he was just teaching me how to dance!”

 

“Dance?” Harvery looked distinctly quizzical.

 

“Y-yes. The people of Caerleon below seemed to be having so much fun, so…”

 

“Ah, I understand.” Now the Assassin looked more sympathetic than mischevious—at least for a moment, until the twinkle of mischief reappeared in his eyes. “Well, isn’t that convenient? I was just teachin’ a couple of kids a little about music myself. Apolli, Lisse, get out here!” As swiftly as one would expect of him, he hopped backwards and in the same movement shoved the two other eavesdroppers out of the stairwell and into the clear view of the clearly amused Braddock and Rosamia.

 

“Uh—ah!” grunted Apolli. “Hey, what’d we do t’ deserve that?”

 

“It’s time for you two to do some learnin’, lad! Don’t your legs still work? Hey, Braddock! D’you still remember the steps of the Tarantella?”

 

“Tarantella?” A cloud passed over his face, and Rosamia thought she just barely heard him say, “That was Pamela’s favorite…” After this, however, he looked straight back at Harvery, determination in his eyes, and said, “I sure as hell do!”

 

“Well then, why not teach it to Lisse and Apolli, huh? Your friend can help you, and I’ve got the music!” With that mischevious expression, he whipped out his trusty reed pipe.

 

“You’ve still got that,” said Braddock in astonishment, “I can’t believe it!”

 

“What can I say? I always hang on to things like this—never know when they may prove to be useful. So, c’mon! Let’s dance!”

 

He brought the pipe to his lips and began playing the same jaunty tune Apolli and Lisse had enjoyed just minutes earlier. This time, however, they had a dance to go along with the song. “I’ll show you how to do it, it’s not hard at all!” said Braddock excitedly. Hopping up and down, one leg after the other and clapping his hands, he motioned for Rosamia to do the same, and she couldn’t deny his request. Following his lead, she did her best to copy his movements. They hopped apart, then closer back together, then apart, then together again, and Braddock reached out and twined his arm with hers,and they spun around clockwise, and then counterclockwise, all the while laughing with the happy tune Harvery was playing.

 

“Hey, Apolli! Come join us!” called Braddock as he danced, and the younger Sniper couldn’t help himself. He looked at Lisse, who still seemed a bit unsure, and then decided to take a risk and just grabbed her. Letting out a small gasp of surprise, the smaller, frailer girl offered little resistance and soon enough, the two of them were hopping and twirling just like their taller friends, all to the upbeat tempo of Harvery’s reed pipe.

 

The five of them were having so much fun that they could very well have stayed up there all night. Of course, that was only until Apolli remembered that they’d forgotten why they’d come up here in the first place—spurred on by his rumbling stomach.

 

“I think we’re startin’ to get tired,” laughed Harvery after several minutes of this. “You wanna—“

 

“Aw, hell!” Apolli said, turning pale and suddenly stopping his twirling with Lisse. “I remembered why we came up here?”

 

“Huh?” Braddock and Rosamia had stopped their own dancing as well, along with Harvery’s music.   


“Dinner’s ready! We wanted to come get you!”

 

“Oh, right!” said Harvery, quite embarrassed. “Hell, it’s cold by now! Let’s hurry down!”

 

And just as hastily, though not with their good cheer forgotten, the five friends rushed down the stairwell and to the castle’s Great Hall.

 

-X-

 

“Bout time you showed up!”

 

Renault laughed as he saw Braddock, Rosamia, Harvery, Lisse, and Apolli burst into the Great Hall, breathing heavily. He’d taken his place at the table several minutes ago with Kelitha after they’d got her sister, and the sullen, quiet Roberto had found his way down here not long after. He’d promptly started digging in, though Renault and the Pegasus Sisters wanted to wait for their friends. They couldn’t wait forever, though, and when Khyron showed up, looking disgruntled as usual, they just shrugged their shoulders and started. The former Mage General, for his part, just looked at them, the food, and back again, and then took a seat at the far end of the massive table and began his own meal. The Great Hall was intended to accommodate a large group of people, not just the Autonomous Company, so there was more than enough room for Khyron to enjoy the repast by himself at the other end even after the other members of the Company made their entrance.

 

It was because of this that his underlings thought they’d be able to have an interesting conversation about him without his knowledge. It wouldn’t go quite as they expected.

 

“Hey, where’ve you guys been?” Renault nudged Braddock as the latter took his seat beside him.

 

“Ah, just havin’ a bit of fun,” he grinned.

 

“Without me?”

 

He glanced at Kelitha and winked. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you,” he said quietly.

 

Chuckling, Renault let it drop at that and continued plowing into his own plate—he was almost halfway done already, but knew Braddock would catch up to him soon.

 

“I gotta wonder,” said Renault contemplatively, “Apolli cooked and served all this, right? But where’re all the other servants?”

 

“Out partying. Khyron gave ‘em the day off.”

 

“Really? Wouldn’t expect that from him.”

 

“Guess he’s so happy about beating Vinland that he’s giving everybody a little breather, not just us.”

 

“Maybe. But that makes me wonder. The servants, Landez and everybody…they’re the only people Caerleon has?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, Exedol was the count, wasn’t he? Didn’t he leave behind anybody? A widow, any kids?”

 

“Haven’t seen ‘em if he did. Rosamia,” Braddock asked, turning to his other friend sitting next to him, “Did Exedol have a wife or anything? Any bastards, even?”

 

At this, the woman blushed slightly, telling her audience that there was something more to the story. “Er…no. Trust me, he didn’t. He…uh…wasn’t that kind of man.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Uh, don’t worry about it. Just rest assured he didn’t have a wife, legitimate children, or any children at all. It’s up to Khyron to continue the family line,” and at this, she scrunched her nose a bit, “and while I think he might have a bit more success, I’m not placing all my hopes on it.”

 

“Huh. Well, whatever.” Braddock and Renault glanced at her, then each other, then shrugged. “I really would like to know more about that guy, though,” continued the Ostian, munching contemplatively on a slice of the finely-cooked meat. “From what gathered, he’s part of the reason we had this rebellion in the first place. I remember when we were still with the rebels that Count Nerinheit was _pissed_ at him for some reason. Never figured out why; he still hated Exedol even after Paptimus killed him. Maybe Paptimus played them off each other or something?

 

“It…it’s more complicated than that, Braddock,” said Harvery, looking very serious and sad. “Real sordid story, and honestly, there aren’t any villains in it, neither Exedol or Nerinheit.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Braddock’s interest was now distinctly piqued, as was Renault’s, and indeed the rest of the Autonomous Company, now eagerly listening in to Harvery’s quiet words. The only exception was Khyron, who _seemed_ more occupied with his own meal. “Well, tell it to us. Couldn’t hurt to know, right?”

 

Harvery thought about it for a moment, and then sighed and nodded. “It’s kinda weird for me to be telling this, since guys like me are supposed to guard state secrets with our lives. But I guess it’s not so much of a state secret than a personal one…

 

“Now, I don’t have any personal involvement with this story. The only reason I know much about it is ‘cause I’m a spy—it’s my job to gain and hold on to a lot of information, even seedy stuff like this. I just keep my ear close to the wall and see what I can hear. So here’s what I’ve heard…

 

“It involves five unhappy people. Malonda of Baringen—she’s the woman we saw in the King’s bed when we rescued him back in Aquleia. Then there’s the King himself, then there’s Exedol, then Nerinheit, and finally, the last player in the whole damn drama is count Barim of Reglay—yeah, Renault, I know how your Tassar hated him. Just listen.

 

“See, Exedol and Malonda grew up with—well, more like under—King Galahad. Their families were some of the King’s closest personal friends, and he looked upon them almost like favored little siblings. He was especially close to Malonda, though…and I mean _especially_ close. He loved that girl more than life itself, and she reciprocated his affections. She idolized him. King Galahad meant more to her than her own family, her own flesh and blood, did! The only person who was almost as close to her was Exedol of Caerleon. They both shared an interest in the history and literature of Elibe before the scouring—it was one of their passions in life, and Exedol’s other close friend, Count Reglay, shared it.

 

“But Exedol and Malonda weren’t meant for each other—nah, it was Galahad and Malonda. As they got older, everyone assumed the King would make her his Queen, and good times would be had by all. But it wouldn’t be that easy.

 

“You see, the houses of Baringen and Nerinheit had been feuding for generations. Galahad, to his credit, had finally managed to get them to sit down and hash out their problems without sending assassins at each other. But there was a big problem To cement the deal, a marriage between the two houses was in order, to cement their goodwill. And House Baringen only had one marriageable daughter…Lady Malonda. And Nerinheit had left only one son—Glaesal.

 

“It was quite a conundrum. King Galahad _had_ to marry her off to Count Glaesal, despite how fervently he and Malonda loved each other. Politically, it was a good decision, as the feud between the houses died down entirely soon afterwards. Personally, though? It was worse than the Scouring! Malonda and Glaesal _hated_ each other. They were entirely incompatible. If they had to live under the same roof, they probably would have killed each other eventually. And Galahad was miserable—he literally couldn’t live without his Malonda. He was so depressed that people grew concerned for the King’s health. Malonda took as many trips to Aquleia—by herself, always to her husband’s dismay—as she could, but it wasn’t enough for her and Galahad.

 

“But then an opportunity came. The previous Mage General, Count Breetai of Verelecht, was retiring, and a tournament of magic was held to determine who his successor would be. Count Glaesal desperately wanted the position…but Lady Malonda desperately wanted him to fail. If he became Mage General, he would have to spend most of his time in Aquleia, which meant that he would be able to keep an eye on her very easily, and he would detect any attempt she made to spend personal time with King Galahad. Thus, she crafted a plan. On the day of the tournament, she sabotaged all of Glaesal’s spellbooks. The moment he tried to cast a spell in the opening rounds, his Fire tome simply fizzled and disappeared into ash! It was the most humiliating moment of his life, and it was as if the entire city was laughing at him. And in the end, while he sat on the sidelines stewing in his humiliation, Exedol won the tournament with ease—none could match his skill with magic. And as he stepped up before Galahad to accept the sigil of the Mage General, Lady Malonda rushed up to him to give him one of her favors—a beautiful wreath of rare flowers.”

 

“I think I’m startin’ to understand,” said Braddock thoughtfully. So that’s why Nerinheit hated Exedol so much. He thought Malonda had betrayed him for Exedol…”

 

“Yeah. He knew that Malonda and Exedol were childhood friends, so when he saw that his books had been sabotaged and he’d been robbed of his chance to become Mage General, and when he saw Malonda rushing up to give Exedol that wreath…well, his mind did most of the hard work. He assumed Malonda had been having an affair with Exedol. No-one believed him, of course…for reasons I’ll get to later. He angrily denounced Exedol, claiming he was a cheat, and angrily denounced Malonda, claiming her to be a harlot. But the rest of the nobility simply laughed at him—they knew that Malonda only had eyes for Galahad, and that the new Mage General…wouldn’t want to have relations with Malonda in any sense. Exedol, however, was careful to keep completely silent when Glaesal was accusing him. He didn’t admit to wrongdoing, but he didn’t deny it, either. He simply kept his lips shut as Glaesal ranted and raved.

 

“When it was clear nobody was taking him seriously, Glaesal declared he’d had enough. “From this day forwards, Exedol is my sworn enemy!” he shouted, and left Aquleia. Ever since then, he rejected more and more of the trappings of the nobility. He did not divorce Malonda—he couldn’t, otherwise the feud between their houses might have sprung up again—but he did exile her from Castle Nerinheit, which brought her no end of joy. Now she could spend as much time as she wanted in Aquleia with her beloved Galahad, after all. Nerinheit visited Aquleia only when the king held court, and made it a point to avoid Malonda, and always tried to pick fights with Exedol whenever he could.”

 

“R’minds me of the first time we got up ‘fore that King,” grunted Roberto, who’d previously been almost entirely concerned with his food.

 

“Exactly,” nodded Harvery. “Good memory. I guess you guys must’ve been wondering for years why Exedol and Nerinheit were going at each other back then. Well, that’s your answer. Malonda and Galahad, though, didn’t mind a bit. They were finally happy…finally able to be together without worrying about Nerinheit. And Exedol, for his part, was now the Mage General.” He sighed. “It seemed everything worked out—sort of—at the time. Yes, Nerinheit was livid, and there was a grudge between him and Exedol, but it was better than the alternatives. Malonda and Galahad needed each other, but even the King of Etruria couldn’t simply claim another man’s wife as his own. Even if he alienated Nerinheit, it was better than tarnishing his reputation like that in the eyes of the people and the aristocracy. And he knew that if he made his bias against Nerinheit explicit and simply forbid him from becoming the Mage General, the aristocrats would grow afraid of him abusing his power. Thus, he and Malonda essentially framed Exedol for adultery. Thanks to Malonda giving him that wreath, the nobles and the people would suspect Caerleon of being a bastard-maker, not the King himself. Galahad could be with his beloved while the sanctity of the Crown itself would be maintained.”

 

“Khyron never really accepted it,” said Rosamia. “His resentment of Malonda is part of the reason I’ve had to deal with his resentment of women over the years. But I don’t think anyone in this story was a villain…Exedol just wanted his friends to live happily together, Malonda and Galahad loved each other intensely, and Nerinheit never wanted to be married to her either. I guess none of them ever thought things would turn out this way in the end…”

 

“But wait,” said Renault, “I don’t understand what Exedol thought about this whole thing. He and Malonda were “just friends?” If they weren’t having an affair, why’d she give him that wreath?”

 

“Well, it’s the sad thing,” said Harvery. “Glaesal…Glaesal was entirely wrong. He thought that Malonda was committing adultery with Exedol, but for his entire life, Exedol only had eyes for one person…one _man_. His friend, Barim Reglay. He liked Malonda, but his body…” Harvery fumbled for words. “I…Barim was the only person he wanted to share it with, let’s leave it at that. Barim’s wife hated it, of course—but Barim only married her because he needed an heir. His wife—her name’s Elicia, I think—never complained, because the life of a rich noble is nice and he did manage to give her some kids, even though it was always clear she brought him no pleasure—only Exedol did. Exedol, for his part, thought he could leave getting an heir to Khyron.”

 

“W…wait…” said Apolli, uncomprehendingly. “Y’mean…Exedol and Barim…two guys…were…”

 

“Uh-huh,” said Braddock nonchalantly. “It’s pretty common back in Lycia. A lot of noblemen had those sorts of relationships with each other before they got married. Most of the time it’s just considered a part of their maturation. Since marriage for political reasons rather than romantic ones are so common, the nobles allow themselves to have trysts with the people they actually do love before settling down. Since the only thing Lycian custom requires is that you not sire any bastards—it’s hell for inheritances, after all—many men find comfort in the arms of their brothers.” He shrugged. “Not that I ever knew anything about that sort of thing. The only real companion I ever had back in Ostia was my axe.”

 

“Yeah,” agreed Renault. “It’s the same thing in this country. Some members of the church sort of disapprove of it, but for the most part nobody cares. Apolli, you’ve never heard of this before?”

 

“N…no…” stammered the Sniper with a red face.

 

“It’s not his fault,” Lisse piped up in his defense. “It’s just that he’s from the country, that’s all. If he lived in the city like we do he’d be a lot more familiar with this sort of thing!”

 

“Well, now he knows,” said Harvery, “and it’s _that_ sort of “relationship” that Exedol and Barim shared. So he _couldn’t_ have been having an affair with Malonda, or a ménage a trois between him, her, and Galahad. He simply wasn’t that sort of man.”

 

“That makes even less sense, though,” said Renault. “If he wasn’t even interested in the woman, why would he just stand there and passively take the blame for the king?”

 

“BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT THE NOBILITY DOES!!”

 

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing (in Keith’s case, spitting out the piece of tart she’d been munching on) and gazed at the other end of the table in absolute shock.

 

Khyron had stood up and slammed his hands hard on the table, not caring that the shock sent pieces of his meal flying everywhere. His face was red and his mouth twisted in an angry scowl, as angry as they had ever seen him. He was actually trembling. Apparently, his hearing was much more acute than his soldiers had previously thought.

 

“None of you can understand, can you? Not even Rosamia. You’re all just a bunch of freebooters! None of you knows what true loyalty means! Do you have any idea what it was like for my brother? The humiliation he went through? How his name was slandered all across the country? How his colleagues laughed about him behind his back? And yet he never once complained, not in all the time he was alive. He never once even minded! And do you know _why?_ BECAUSE HE WAS LOYAL TO THE KING!!

 

“Our liege is _everything_ to us! He is the light of Etruria! The hope of our people! His pain is our pain! His joy is our joy! Therefore, it is the responsibility of every noble to protect his happiness— _no matter the personal cost!_ King Galahad needed to be with his Malonda. My brother was willing to do anything to make that happen—including soiling his own name and reputation. Being accused of adultery, of a crime he didn’t commit, was of no concern to him as long as his King was allowed to be happy!”

 

“Sounds real nice of him,” came Braddock’s sarcastic retort. “But then again, he _was_ the Mage General. The only thing you nobles think of is yourselves. How do we know Exedol was so selfless? Maybe he wanted to become Mage General by any means necessary and Malonda was just around to let him play dirty.”

 

Khyron seemed to grow even more enraged at this—he was _definitely_ the angriest they’d ever seen him. But he still managed to keep a measure of control. “Of course _you’d_ say something like that, you mercenary traitor. There’s nothing you people can understand besides money, is there? Nothing beyond power! Of course you wouldn’t be able to understand my brother. You fool,” he growled, “EXEDOL NEVER EVEN WANTED TO BE THE MAGE GENERAL!”

 

Braddock, Renault, and the rest of them aside from Rosamia and Harvery were taken aback. “What?”

 

“There was only one thing my brother ever wanted to be: A scholar. Don’t you remember the Reaper’s Labyrinth? Didn’t I tell you how happy my brother would be if he discovered what we found? The only thing he ever wanted out of life was to plumb the mysteries of the past. Spending the rest of his life beside his companion Barim, immersing himself in the greatest literature of a bygone age…he would have been the happiest man on Elibe! But he realized that his own personal desires were dwarfed by his duty to his King. He never wanted to fight, to kill, or to be involved with the political nonsense the Mage General has to deal with! But despite all that, he struggled with all his strength to become the Mage General. Did he sabotage Glaesal’s book? No! If he did, he would have sabotaged those of all the other contenders. But he didn’t, and even then he STILL won the right to be the Mage General, based on nothing but his own skill and determination! Glaesal couldn’t have matched him even if he tried—my brother’s skill with magic was too great. And yet the only thing he ever wanted to put that skill to use for was exploring our country’s past!

 

“He gave up that opportunity…he devoted his entire being to pursuing a position that he hated…all for the sake of our King. As the Mage General, _he_ would be the object of all the evil rumors swirling about, leaving King Galahad untouched by it all, allowing him his happiness with Malonda. You freebooting scum think we nobles are selfish? YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! We give our dreams and aspirations for the sake of the Crown! That was how my brother lived! And that was how he died! That is the reason I followed in his footsteps! My brother’s responsibility is my own! If my brother became a soldier, I had to become one as well! My ambitions were no more valuable than his—I gave them up to honor his example, and after he died, to honor his memory!

 

“That’s why I’ll fight, and keep fighting until my last breath! My brother gave everything for the King. And so will I!”

 

“I…it’s true,” said Rosamia. “Exedol…he was a good man. I valued his companionship at Caerleon. He…he never really wanted anything so different from what I did.”

 

“Rosamia…Exedol…” Kelitha sniffled a bit. “He…I feel for him too. A life like that’s all I wanted too, and he couldn’t have it either. I..I’m so sorry for him…”

 

“I…damn.” Renault was speechless. He never imagined that Khyron had that sort of story behind him.

 

Silence reigned for another few moments, punctuated only by the sound of Khyron’s heavy breathing. Telling that story—and shouting it—had apparently taken a great deal out of him, understandably so. This quiet lasted until Braddock finally broke it.

 

“Hey, Khyron.”

 

“W…what?” The former Mage General was still red-faced.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Renault wasn’t expecting this any more than Khyron was, along with the rest of the room. Khyron had to use one of his hands to steady himself on the table to keep from falling over, while Braddock’s friends all exchanged curious glances between themselves.

 

“I’m sorry, Khyron,” he continued. “I was wrong. Look, I’ll admit I never had much respect for you before. I don’t think many of us did. We mocked you behind your back, we thought you were incompetent, and we cursed you when we could.”

 

“And you think I didn’t know?” His lip curled up in an angry sneer. “Your lack of perception—“

 

“Well, it’s the truth, Khyron. And I wanted to say I was wrong about it. I can’t speak for anybody else, but I know my hatred of the nobles always colored my perception of you. I always thought you were a bunch of selfish knaves. And many of you are. But Khyron…you know what? After hearing this story, I have to admit that your brother wasn’t. I may not agree with being so devoted to a king—I’m Lycian, remember?—but I can respect the loyalty, the self-sacrifice that your brother showed. I’m not gonna get in bed with all the nobles, now, but after this story, I can admit that your brother wasn’t a bad guy.

 

“And you know what else? I can say the same about you. You may not be the greatest tactician, Lord Khyron,” and everyone noted it was the first time he used the title without sarcasm, “but you definitely aren’t a coward. Ever since Scirocco, you’ve been right beside us every battle. You’ve never shied away from any risks, and you’ve always put your life on the line, just like the rest of us. You even risked your own life to save Renault’s! We’ll always owe you for that. So…as far as I’m concerned, you’re one of us. And I’m proud to serve under you.”

 

To say that Khyron hadn’t been expecting this would also be an understatement. The redness and anger had drained from his face, replaced by something that seemed to be a cross between confusion, disdain, and gratitude.

 

“There’s one more thing I want to say, though. Let me guess, Khyron. You were gonna say something along the lines of ‘Stupid Ostian Freebooter’ or something like that, right?”

 

“W-what? What devilry is this? You can’t read my mind!” the Sage sputtered.

 

“Look, I’ve known you for years. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know you’d spout off something along those lines. Before you get mad at me for insulting you or undermining your position, though, just hear me out.

 

“You’ve risked your life for the King, for what you believe in. And I respect that. But all of us here—ALL OF US—have done the exact same thing. Did me and Renault betray you at first? Yeah, I’ll admit we did. But we came back to you, didn’t we? We realized the error of our ways. That’s more than you can say for _actual_ nobles. Nerinheit’s got more noble blood in him than me, Renault, and the rest of us put together. But he’s still fighting against you, even while the rest of us are shedding blood, sweat, and tears for your King—even though I’m Lycian and Keith and Kelitha are Ilian.

 

“We’ve stood by you all this time, Khyron, and if you want us to respect your brother’s sacrifices—and yours—you’ve got to respect ours. Did we abandon you when we faced off against Barbarossa? Against Vyrleena? Against Vinland? We’ve been beside you every step of the way.”

 

“And why should I expect anything less?” retorted Khyron. “You’re doing your jobs, mercenaries. It’s what’s expected of me, so it’s what’s expected of you!”

 

“I’m not tellin’ you to ‘expect’ anything. I just want you to treat us with some more respect. You’re our commander, yeah. But are we worthless to you?  Your brother served the King of Etruria with everything he had, and you expect us—and everybody else, including your fellow nobles—to respect his sacrifice. Can’t you respect ours? At this point, we’re as close to brothers and sisters as anything you have right now. The only people in all of Elibe who’ve shared the experiences you’ve been through are sitting here at this table. Doesn’t that count for something? Even if we are a bunch of freebooters, we’re _your_ freebooters.”

 

Khyron didn’t respond to this immediately—so many emotions seemed to be warring inside of his mind. Disbelief, confusion, affection, appreciation…for another long moment the entire Great Hall was quiet as Khyron digested what Braddock had told him. Finally, he spoke.

 

“You’re right, Os—I mean, Braddock. Nerinheit was a noble like me, but he betrayed me and the King! As did Vinland, and Padstow, and Verelecht! As far as I’m concerned, anyone who was willing to face down Barbarossa for the sake of my King is more of a noble than any of those men, even if they’re a commoner or a foreigner!” He gritted his teeth. “And as much as it pains me to admit it, I must concede your point, Warlord. Kasha and the other members of the Shrike Team died for me…and I have not forgotten their sacrifices. Apolli and Gafgarion have served me for years, loyally and well. And seeing Rosamia become a Sage…” he grimaced, “that was one of the proudest moments of my life.” This was enough to cause his apprentice’s eyes to widen and her jaw to drop.

 

“Perhaps I’m too soft. It’s a weakness I will excise, then! But…but for now, I will say,” and his voice cracked, indicating how difficult this was for him, “I…I value your contributions. And I have…even…become…fond, of all of you. Even the Ilians, and even you turncoats!” He looked at Renault and Braddock.

 

“I am…I am willing to call you my comrades. Not my underlings, but my comrades. BUT! Only so long as you continue to fight! Only as long as you give your all for my liege, just as I do! Is this acceptable?”

 

One more pause. Then Braddock held out his hand. “Fine with me, boss.”

 

“Master Khyron,” said Rosamia. “Th…thank you.”

 

“You’ve really grown up,” said Harvery appreciatively.

 

“I’m happy t’ serve you, Lord Khyron! Y’ c’n count on me! And Lisse, too, right?” Apolli looked at his friend, who nodded happily.

 

“I…I’m glad to have an employer like you,” said Kelitha, and her sister backed her up with an enthusiastic “Yeah!”

 

Renault, for his part, voiced his approval in a much more lackadaisical manner. “If Braddock’s okay with you, you’re okay with me,” he shrugged. “I’m ready for your next orders, boss.”

 

That was everyone, except, of course, for Roberto, but nobody expected him to do anything else. He simply shrugged, glared at Khyron, and grunted.

 

“Good!” said Khyron. And he reached out and accepted Braddock’s proffered hand with his own.

 

“As for your first orders? Get all your equipment and supplies ready as soon as possible. We depart early tomorrow morning for Thagaste with Gafgarion’s troops. And be sure to get as much rest as you can! I won’t have my comrades sullying their pride by slowing down our rendezvous with the main force! Well? What’re you waiting for? You’re done eating dinner, get to it!”

 

“Aw, man,” grumbled Renault as he followed Braddock and the rest of his compatriots out the Great Hall’s doors and up to pack their belongings. “I was thinkin’ things were gonna be different, but now it seems like he’s just gonna be working us even harder!”

 

“Well, you’ve never had a problem earning your keep before, right?”

 

Renault could do nothing but laugh, the spring in his step belying his criticism of his commander. The war was far from over, but if Khyron’s attitude kept up, Renault thought, their chances of living through it had just gone up more than a little.

 

-X-

 

It was the last day—the last few hours, actually—of their vacation, and the Autonomous Company very much intended to make the most of it.

 

The morning sun rose quietly over Caerleon, and with it rose the Autonomous Company. As their leader had ordered, they were ready to move out, but as they did so, Khyron gave them one last surprise.

 

“Wait a moment,” he told them as they exited the halls of the castle. “Gafgarion still needs some extra time to organize the cavalry before moving them out. Before he does, I want you to follow me!”

 

This quite confused his soldiers, but by this point they trusted him—so they followed him. He led them some distance away from the castle towards a large but beautiful section of field closed off by a picturesque wooden fence. The grass was a lovely shade of green, enhanced by a gentle morning breeze making the light of the rising sun seem to shimmer over it, but most striking of all were the many trees within its bounds. Tall and strong, from all of them were growing great spots of red which the Company could see even before they got close. They were huge, juicy apples, some of the largest Renault had ever seen.  


In front of the trees was the castle’s steward—Landez, Renault recalled. He was examining their fruit very intently, and started when Khyron and his companions walked up behind him.

 

“A-ah, Lord Khyron!” said Landez, _very_ clearly not expecting them. “I was just inspecting my lord’s beautiful orchards. Last night’s festivities required so many apple tarts that—“

 

“Understood, Landez. Tell me, are there any to spare?”

 

“Oh, yes, more than enough—“

 

“Then the Autonomous Company shall have a breakfast taken from the finest apple trees of my brother’s countship. We need as much energy as possible before the journey, after all, and the finest apples in the region should suffice quite nicely!”

 

“Wow, really?” Keith seemed to have almost exploded with delight. “I…I’ve never had anything like this before! Thank you so much, Lord Khyron!”

 

“Hmph! Silly Ilian!” He couldn’t mask the smile on his face, though. “In any case, though, we haven’t much time and I don’t want you to overeat. Finish quickly!”

 

The Autonomous Company didn’t waste a moment in getting to work, while Khyron himself whispered something in Landez’s ear, at which the steward looked a bit surprised, and then shrugged, nodded, and rushed off. He wouldn’t reappear for several more minutes, and none of the Company gave it much thought. They happily descended upon the closest, largest tree and plucked the fruit from it where they could—Roberto was tall enough to reach them easily, and in a somewhat surprising gesture, after grabbing one for himself, he looked coldly at his friends, and then grabbed several more and tossed them to Apolli, Lisse, and Harvery, respectively. Khyron wasn’t eating yet—he was waiting for Landez to come back. On the other hand, Rosamia, Renault, Braddock, and the Pegasus sisters had their own concerns.

 

“Er…um…” Keith looked up at one of the lower-hanging fruits pleadingly, while Renault and Kelitha took a seat next to each other nearby, watching with amusement. The young girl licked her lips and reached out to grab one. She was too short. As her onlookers laughed, she jumped up, trying to reach one, but missed.

 

“You’ve never had fresh fruit right off the tree, have you, Keith?” Braddock asked.

 

“N…no…Ilia doesn’t have anything like these. They’re so beautiful…”

 

“Hah! Well, I don’t think anybody should live their life without enjoying fresh apples at least once,” he chuckled, walking over to her. “Here, lemme give you a hand!”

 

“A…ah!” Just as Renault had done last night, the big Ostian put her up on his shoulders, and once she recovered from her surprise, she found she could reach the fruits very easily. “Wow, this is great! What a view!” Braddock laughed again. “T-Thank you, Sir—I mean, Braddock!”

 

“No problem. Just give some to our friends, since you’re already up here.”

 

She followed his order without hesitation—her quick, skillful hands easily yanked a trio of apples in quick succession from their branches and launched them at Renault, Kelitha, and Rosamia respectively, each of whom caught the projectiles with ease. She then took one more pair of apples—one for her, one for Braddock, who was still smiling widely as he set her down, and as the two of them took seats on the ground next to Kelitha and Renault.

 

“WOW! This is wonderful!” gushed Keith as she took a big bite out of the scrumptious apple. “I…I’ve never had anything like this before! This is the best fruit I’ve ever tasted! It’s nothing like that dried, preserved stuff we have back in Ilia! This is amazing!” She quickly took another bite, and then another, tearing into the apple voraciously, not caring a bit about the juice she’d managed to spray all over her face. “K-Keith,” admonished her sister, “mind your manners!”

 

Rosamia couldn’t help but giggle at the sight. “Let her enjoy herself. The reputation of Caerleon’s orchards is well-deserved, after all.”

 

Renault and Braddock were both munching on their own picks, and both of them nodded in total agreement with Rosamia’s assessment. Kelitha couldn’t argue with that, and simply shrugged, smiled, and began to work on her own meal.

 

“I always knew Khyron wasn’t such a bad guy,” said Keith between another bite of her apple, reclining in her sister’s lap as she watched the Sage at last pick one for himself. Landez had returned, it seemed, and this time with some strange apparatus—a white board and a brush which seemed like he might have been painting or sketching or something—and for whatever reason, Khyron felt like it was finally time to start enjoying himself with the rest of his troops while Landez sat down in front of them, observing them very carefully. “It makes me proud to be an Ilian! We’re fighting for a just cause, aren’t we! Khyron won’t lead us wrong!”

 

“K…Keith…” said Kelitha uneasily, but it was Renault and Braddock who set her straight.

 

“That’s kind of a dangerous way of thinking, Keith. Especially for a mercenary,” he said somberly.

 

“Huh? Why?”

 

“Remember, mercenaries don’t fight for justice, or peace, or any of that stuff. We’re loyal to only one thing: Coin. For you Ilians it’s a little different—your loyalty to your employers is absolute—but in that case, you’re just fighting for your masters, not “justice” or anything like that. As long as you’re in this business, you won’t always be on the right side. Just keep that in mind.”

 

“Is…is that how it is now?” said Keith, sounding both shocked and disillusioned. Kelitha didn’t say anything, just stroked her hair in an attempt to calm her, but to no avail.

 

“No…not really. If you ask me, we’re in the right. But it’s not as black and white as you were making it out to be, girl. The Rebels have some legitimate grievances, and the Crown’s done some bad things. But not as many bad things are the rebels have done. And after Khyron’s speech last night, I’m more confident in the Crown’s ability to correct themselves than I am in the rebels. So if you ask me, we’re the good guys at the moment. Just remember that it won’t always be so, not necessarily. That’s what it means to be an Ilian…no, to be a mercenary, period.”

 

“I…I see…”

 

“Keith,” murmured Kelitha quietly, looking to her and then back to Renault.

 

The younger girl shook her head, her apple momentarily forgotten. “No…no…it’s okay. It’s alright. I understand.” She then looked back up at Renault, and he was taken aback momentarily by the blazing determination in her eyes. “But…but if that’s the case, then I won’t fight just for my contract. I know I’m an Ilian, and I know I can never betray my employers. But I have to fight for the honor of Ilia, too! I won’t give people an excuse to call us vultures! I’ll never do anything to tarnish our reputation! So I’ll never fight for a dishonorable cause, no matter what! I’ll never help anyone who’s unjust! If I have to take a contract like that, then I’ll pass it up and choose a different one! And if that doesn’t make enough money, then I’ll take _two_ different ones! However many I need to feed my countrymen without giving up on what I believe in!”

 

Renault blinked in astonishment at this admission, then glanced at Braddock. Both the men cracked wide, appreciative smiles. “Damn, that’s some good principles you got there, girl,” the Ostian whistled appreciatively. “Just promise me you’ll never lose that, alright?”

 

She nodded. “Mm! I promise! I’ll make my sister proud, and I’ll make you and Renault proud too! I promise that I’ll always fight for the sake of the people! I promise that I’ll never use what you and Braddock taught me for evil! And I’ll keep that promise for as long as I live!”

 

“I…aw, hell,” said Renault, blushing slightly. “You really ought to be careful of making promises like that, especially to us. Remember, we’re mercenaries too. We could end up on opposite sides of the battlefield someday.”

 

This prospect absolutely horrified Keith. “N…no!” she stammered, her eyes wide. “That…that can’t be, right?”

 

“Renault,” said Kelitha, somewhat sadly and disapprovingly, and Braddock echoed her sentiments. “Hey, we really shouldn’t be talking about that right now, right?”

 

“But it’s true,” Renault persisted. “We can’t lie to her, can we? She needs to know this sort of thing. Naïve mercenaries don’t usually live very long.” He turned back to his young friend. “It’s just the nature of a sellsword’s life. Like I said, we’re loyal only to coin. Not justice, and not anyone we meet, either. If someone pays us for one job and someone else pays you for another…well, it is what it is. I mean, me and Braddock are used to this sort of thing. Back in Sacae, sometimes we’d fight mercs who were our allies yesterday. In this war alone, we’re fighting a lot of the friends we made in the Revolutionary army. Friendships are transitory for a mercenary. You just have to accept that.”

 

“That…that’s so cruel,” said Keith, casting her eyes downwards, clearly heartbroken. “Fight against you? Or Braddock? Renault, me an’ Kelitha could never do that! Not in a million years!”

 

The sheer pathos of the young girl’s expression got to Renault, along with disapproving glances from Braddock and Kelitha. “Aw, hell, you’re right, Keith, And y’know what? I probably couldn’t either.”

 

“Hm? What do you mean?”

 

“If me and Braddock found ourselves as your enemies in some campaign or another, we wouldn’t be able to draw arms against you. No way. We may be mercenaries, but I guess we have a ways to go before we become _real_ mercenaries. We’re just too attached to you too, huh?”

 

“R…really?” Keith’s expression had rapidly shifted from heartbroken to admiring and hopeful.

 

“Yeah. In fact, if we ever had to go to war with you girls, we’d probably betray our employers and join you!”

 

“R…Renault!” said Kelitha, quite incredulous. “That’s…you shouldn’t say such things so lightly! What about your reputation!”

 

He laughed. “Don’t worry, Kelitha. Remember, we already betrayed one employer—the rebels. If we do it again, it’s no big deal, especially if its for you. I mean, you’re an Ilian, so I guess you’re honor-bound to your contract, but we’re not. We’re just an Etrurian scoundrel and a Lycian good-for-nothing! If we skip out on our jobs, it’ll be no big deal. So if we ever find ourselves as your enemies on the battlefield, we’ll just switch sides. How’s that sound?”

 

“R…really, Renault?” Keith seemed as surprised at this proposal as her sister did. “You…you’d do that for us?”

 

“Hell yeah! Me and Braddock like you girls, right?” He looked at his friend, and the Warlord nodded easily, continuing to munch on his apple. “We left the revolutionaries ‘cause we didn’t like ‘em, so it follows that we’d join up with you since we like you. So don’t you ever worry about being our enemies. Where you go, we go, even if it means tearing up our contracts!”

 

“Wow!” said Keith, her eyes wide, and to her sister’s surprise she jumped out of her arms and leapt to give Renault a big hug. “You’re the best, Renault! You’re a true hero!”

 

“H-hey! Didn’t I just say…never mind,” he chuckled, enjoying the girl’s embrace and bringing up a hand to ruffle her hair. He looked at Braddock, who was now standing next to Rosamia as both of them chuckled at Keith’s antics, back to his other comrades nearby, occupied with their own conversations, then to Khyron, who seemed to be busy keeping as absolutely still as possible for whatever it was Landez was frantically sketching, and then finally to Kelitha. Kelitha, who was looking at him with the warmest, most peaceful expression he’d ever received from any woman in a long, long time.

 

He knew they’d have to get up and leave, soon—Landez had apparently finished up whatever Khyron had asked him to do, and the former Mage General was polishing off the last bits of his apple, meaning that he’d be ordering them to stop loitering and get moving momentarily. But for now…Renault could just sit with his friends all around him—Braddock and Kelitha next to him, and Keitha joyfully hugging him—and enjoy the cool morning breeze on his face as well as the beautiful sun bathing the old apple tree they were all sitting under in its gold-and-orange halo. It was one of the most pleasing things Renault had ever experienced up to this point in his life.

 

It would also be the very last time in his long, long life that he would ever be truly happy.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

This chapter ended up being much larger than I originally anticipated, and late because of it.

 

Couple notes:

 

1: “Renault the Impervious” comes from his supports with Wallace.

 

2: The Tarantella is a real dance from Italy, which is why I associated it with Ostia in this fic. Look up “tarantella” on Youtube, and the tune Harvery was playing is this one specifically:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXXuw8KTHcQ

 

3: To better understand Trunicht’s dialogue with Dougram, look up “utilitarianism” if you don’t know what it is.

 

4: The thing about Exedol and Barim: I hope it’s not *too* controversial, but there’s historical precedent for it—I remember reading it in one of my European History textbooks on the Renaissance; in the Mediterranean and in Renaissance Italy at least men often had these sorts of relationships. I based it off that. It’s the first time I actually portrayed homosexuality in a “realistic” light—the first time I wrote it at all was when I wrote a Lucius x Raven fic for a friend of mine after losing a bet (XD) and the second time was back when a friend of mine was making fun of a yaoi series (Gravitation) on Encyclopedia Dramatica and stuff. XD XD So I figured I might as well try to actually “be serious” and write a homosexual character in a way that would be (at least kind of) respectful to the gay bros I’ve known, like Scottrossi and my other gay LJ friends. Whether or not I’ve succeeded is up for debate, of course…XD

 

Also, you can see a pic of the Autonomous Company together here, drawn by the excellent databunny at databunny.tumblr.com:

 

http://imgur.com/i58CDUe

 

Finally, a quick note: As you might be able to tell by the very end of this chapter, things are gonna go into dark territory real soon. L Just prepare yourself, my friends…;_;


	36. Falling Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Autonomous Company returns to Thagaste, where the Royalist forces are gathering to prepare for a final assault to the north. Paptimus, however, has his own plans...

 

36: Falling Stars

 

“You know, it’s ironic. I became a mercenary thinking I’d never have to see this city again. But this is the third time I’ve been back here since the war started.”

 

Renault said this to Kelitha as the two friends left the forge of a man named Goddard. He was Count Hallard’s personal blacksmith, known across the entire region for his skill in repairing magical artifacts. Renault had left his mystic armor in the man’s supposedly-capable hands, and while Goddard had said he’d worked with similarly complex pieces before, Renault had his doubts. Still, Harvery himself had recommended him and the Assassin hadn’t led them wrong before. Kelitha, for her part, had purchased a new Silver Spear from the man, which seemed to be perfectly crafted, so she, at least, was in quite a good mood.

 

Thus, she giggled upon hearing Renault’s grumbling. “It’s not that bad, is it? I mean, this city has several wonderful libraries. I hear Count Hallard’s collection is even bigger than Exedol’s!”

 

Her friend grinned. “Yeah, that’s right.”  His face suddenly grew a bit more solemn, though. “Oh, hey, Kelitha, that reminds me. I, uh, wanted to ask you something…”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Well…it’s about how long you Pegasus Knights have to fight. I remember you sayin’ that around 30’s the age you can retire. And that’s still pretty far off for you and Keith, right?”

 

“Um…yes.”

 

“Is there any way you girls can get out earlier than that?”

 

“It’s possible, but very, _very_ difficult. If a Pegasus Knight can acquire five hundred thousand gold one way or another and gives it to the Union, they’ll free her from her obligations for the rest of her life.”

 

“So, for both you and your sister, that’d be a million total, right?”

 

“I believe so.” She stared at him curiously. “Why are you asking?”

 

Renault blushed slightly. “I…well…I mean, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but remember a couple of weeks ago, back at Caerleon, I told you it was too soon to start thinking of…you know, that sort of stuff?”

 

“Er…um…yes, I remember that…”

 

“Well…it seems like this war’s gonna be ending soon, right? After we take the Fortress of Spears, the rebels are pretty much done. So while I still stand by what I said, I was just…well, running things through my head and stuff, and…aw, hell.” He sighed. “Lemme just come out and say it. Kelitha, when this war finishes, I was thinking of paying off you and your sister’s debt to the Ilian nation.” His face became a bit more red. “I mean…you wouldn’t have to, obviously, but if we got together that 1 million gold you and your sister would be free, right? So then maybe I could take you back to Etruria or something. There are a lot of big libraries in this country, especially in Aquleia, and you’d probably…well…you know…” His voice trailed off.

 

Kelitha continued to stare at him for a few moments longer, her face reddening a bit as well. “Renault, are you saying…?”

 

“Uh-huh. I mean, like I said, only if you want to…maybe you like the whole mercenary business better than I thought, but if not…just an idea, right?”

 

“R…Renault, that’s…but how would you get that much money?”

 

“Hey, me and Braddock are famous mercenaries. We’ve probably earned over three hundred thousand gold, easily. And Khyron, Reglay, and Hallard owe you a few favors, don’t they? We can ask them for some extra gold. And if even that’s not enough, well, me and Braddock can sell off that…that heavy armor we wear. From what Goddard told me, it’s really, really rare…our armor alone would be enough to pay off your debts! So when this is finished, I don’t think we’d have any problems, uh, easing you into civilian life, know what I’m sayin’?”

 

Her eyes widened. “You…you’d do this for me? For…us?”

 

“H-hmph! Don’t get ahead of yourself, lady!” Renault looked away, scratching the back of his head. “This is all just an idea! Who knows if it’ll work out or not! But…well, you and Keith are…hell, I don’t need to say it, you know how it is. More important to me than a suit of armor, at least! So if that money’s what it’d take to…”

 

“Oh, Renault…thank you. Thank so much. I never thought…nobody’s ever offered me anything like that before. Never. I never thought someone who isn’t Ilian would show us this kindness, but…”

 

With an expression on her face and a look in her eyes he’d never seen before, she strode right up to him, causing him to take a step back in surprise. Goddard’s forge was in a busy section of town, and the two of them were already getting looks, partially due to their notoriety and partially due to the fact that Ilians weren’t a common sight in Thagaste. Kelitha didn’t care, though. Before Renault could react, she took his hands in his, stood up on the tips of her toes, and gave him a kiss on the lips.

 

“I…um…”

 

He very desperately wanted to say something, but at the moment he was simply too taken aback to form a coherent sentence, or even notice—or care—that he was now the object of attention from several more passerby.

 

“That’s all you get for now, Renault,” she grinned mischievously as she stepped back from him. “After all, we don’t have time for more at the moment, right? But once we live through this war, you just may get it…assuming you keep your promise, that is!”

 

With another pleased laugh, she turned and skipped away from him, the smile on her face seemingly happier than any she’d ever worn. Not that it registered to Renault, either. The only thing this battle-hardened Mercenary Lord was capable of doing at the moment was stand dumbly outside of Goddard’s forge, the crowd of people staring at him growing larger by the moment, so that he could ponder the import of what was his very first kiss.

 

-X-

 

“Are you worried about him, Meris?”

 

“Ah?” The redhead was jolted out of her unhappy thoughts by the voice coming from the bed behind her. She turned in her chair to see Glaesal staring at her, propped up by his pillows as he had been for the past several days.

 

He coughed—a harsh, phlegm-filled sound that made it seem as if he had the flu, though that was very odd at this time of year. “You—gah! Excuse me! From the way you were staring out the window, I thought…”

 

Meris smiled, getting up and moving over to the bedridden man to place a comforting hand on his hot forehead. “You know me too well, Glaesal. Yes, I was worried about him…he’s never done anything like this before. It’s so unlike him.”

 

“Y-yes, I thought the same thing.” Glaesal let out another series of hacking coughs, at which Meris hastily brought him a glass of water. “Ah, t-thank you, dear,” he said, downing it hastily. “But what was I—ah, yes. I understand your feelings, and shared them myself at first. But when all is said and done, Paptimus has done more for our cause than anyone else. I believe in him…it’s not as if we can do anything else, at the moment.”

 

“Ah…indeed.” Meris wiped his sweaty forehead with a clean piece of cloth. “Especially in your condition,” she muttered to herself, too quietly for him to hear. It was a very strange thing. Just a few days ago, Glaesal had been the very picture of health, at least for an older man. But almost without warning, after his last conversation with Paptimus and Meris, he had suddenly fallen sick like this.

 

“It’s the stress,” Meris said to herself, again too quietly for him to hear—not that it would have mattered, for with a yawn he seemed to have fallen asleep. “It has to be.”

 

But in the recesses of her mind, she couldn’t quite shake the conviction that there was something more sinister behind her friend’s sudden illness.

 

-X-

 

“You are certain Maxim will be there, Revolutionary?”

 

“Very certain,” said Paptimus, standing with Yurt, Trunicht, Yazan, and a dozen of the Revolutionary Army’s best assassins underneath the streets of Thagaste. The sewers certainly lived up to their name in terms of their smell (indeed, Yazan’s wyvern seemed on the verge of collapsing due to the stench) but it was an inconvenience the infiltrators were more than happy to live with—after all, they provided the easiest way to sneak into Thagaste without being detected.

 

“I wouldn’t have called for you if I wasn’t sure your target was here,” smirked the Black Knight. “The entire Royalist army is gathering here, including the Ostian.”

 

“Then I will focus on him. Your concern with this Great General is not mine.”

 

“Yes, yes, we understand. But if you happen to run into Char, you will help us kill him, won’t you? We’ll make it very worth your time…”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

Those were the Assassin’s last words as he disappeared into his characteristic puff of black, oily smoke, leaving the rest of the Revolutionaries alone in the dank sewers.

 

“Ugh,” shuddered Yazan, laying a comforting hand on Hambrabi’s head as the beast growled suspiciously, “I’ve seen a lot of creepy things in my time, but the Silent Chief is the creepiest of all. What the hell is up with that guy?”

 

Trunicht shrugs. “I’ve heard some of his story, but even I’m not entirely sure. In any case, does it even really matter?”

 

“Guess not,” acknowledged the Bernite.

 

“In any case, we must keep moving,” said Paptimus. “Captain Varm and his ships will probably be making their presence known in the docks very soon. We’ll have to take out the Great General while his forces are distracted with them. Let us proceed!”

 

-X-

 

 _Dearest Ethlea_ , the letter began, _As always, yor your letters are a relief for my tired mind. To answer your question, I am doing fine, I have not been ij injured, though many of my comrades have not been so lucky. Fortunately though the war effort is proceeding very well the rebel army is on the verge of collapse and perhaps even before winter falls I will be able to see you again_

 

Jerid paused for a moment, looking over these lines in the privacy of his candlelit room. See her again? What did that mean? Yes, it was true these past few months had been very trying for him, and yes, it was true that the letters from Ethlea in Aquleia had often been the few bright spots of his life as of late. Hell, if it wasn’t for her encouragement and concern for him (it couldn’t have been easy for her to write to him so much, given how busy she must be—he guessed she was very serious about not letting him fall out of contact again), he probably would have fallen back to drinking again. Still, “Dearest Ethlea?” Well, since her last missive to him had been addressed to “Dearest Jerid,” he guessed it was simply fair, but…

 

“Ah, well, what does it matter? Let’s just see how things go.” Jerid shrugged his burly shoulders—all that time lugging that heavy Knight’s armor around had been good for his physique—and continued his letter. Once he finished it—a few paragraphs on how well the Royalist forces were doing, how high their morale was, and again, how much he wanted to see her again, he signed the sheaf of paper and placed it on his desk, confident he’d be able to send it off tomorrow. Sighing in satisfaction, he got up and walked over to the window of his small but reasonably well-furnished room, opening it in the hopes of catching some clean night air as well as a good view of the moonlit sky of Thagaste, a view which had always brought him much comfort in the past. His room in Hallard’s castle also faced south, allowing him a decent view of the beautiful tributaries of the Tiber—his city was situated at its mouth and the city’s docks were a source of pride for him and the rest of his fellow citizens.

 

However, even in the darkness he could tell that something was…off, about the docks this night. Under the moon, he could make out the shapes of four large, tri-masted sailing ships making their way to the docks. It seemed as if they were coming from the tributary which led to the Shield of Durbans, but that was strange. A few weeks earlier, Count Hallard had received a letter stating that five trading vessels from one of the merchant clans of the Western Isles would be heading towards Thagaste, hoping to sell some weapons before the war ended. However, these massive ships looked much sturdier than merchant ships, even the larger galleons. He couldn’t make out the emblem on their sails, either. All in all, these ships seemed much less like part of an ordinary trading fleet and more like something dangerous.

 

His suspicions were confirmed when the boats moored, and soon after, spots of orange began piercing the darkness around the area of the docks—flames.

 

“A pirate attack? Now?” he spat, though nobody was close enough to hear him. “What the hell could they be thinking?” Not that it mattered—his responsibility was to defend the city. Remaining calm, he walked over to the armor stand kept in a corner of his room—he’d long ago learned the value of keeping his equipment within easy reach. He didn’t have time to put on all his armor, but he slapped on his boots, gauntlets, helmet, and distinctive Knight’s chestpiece before grabbing his spear and rushing out the door as fast as he could. “Tell everyone we’re under attack!” he called to a stunned servant as he rushed by. “I’m gonna get Lord Henken!”

 

As he ran up towards the Great General’s quarters, however, he would end up being less than pleased at what he saw.

 

-X-X-X-

 

_“Hey, Maxim. Look at this.”_

_“Um…yes, sir?”_

_“That’s right, you better call me ‘sir!’ Now, look at this.”_

_“Hey, isn’t that a reed pipe?”_

_“Uh-huh. You know how to play?”_

_“Uh…not really…”_

_“Don’t you know anything? What my sister sees in you, I have no idea. Well, just watch.”_

_He placed the instrument to his mouth and began to blow, playing the tarantella Pamela enjoyed so much. The blue-haired youth who had his eyes on her grinned cheerfully, saying “Hey, she loves that song! When she comes, can you play it for us? It’d be great to dance to!”_

_“Why don’t you learn to play?” He tossed the pipe to Maxim, who, to his credit, managed to catch it. “You saw me, didn’t you? Just put your fingers over the holes to make different notes…”_

_“I’ll try…” Again, to his credit, he made a valiant attempt, but the noises he managed to produce were anything but melodic._

_“At least you tried,” he grunted under his breath, but he made it a point not to allow Maxim to hear him. Rather, he started laying into the young man. “Even for a first time, that’s terrible! Do you have two left hands or something? I—“_

_“Hey, leave him alone, Char!” Pamela’s stern voice echoed from across the tree underneath which they were sitting—she was followed by Harvery, with the spy wearing his typical silly grin. “Plenty of people aren’t very good with instruments. I’m one of them, remember?”_

_Maxim looked at his beloved with an immensely grateful expression on his face, but before Char could lay into the lad, Harvery piped up with “what’s the point of even teachin’ him? He’ll never be as good as I am. Just listen!”_

_With a single deft movement, the spy brought out his own trusty pipe and began playing the same tune Char had been, at which Maxim and Pamela, big, guileless smiles on both their faces, took the cue and took each other hand in hand, dancing and swaying around while her older brother looked on. But at seeing her so happy, even he couldn’t stay displeased at her companion for long, and in a short time he’d started clapping to Harvery’s beat, unable to keep a grin off his own face as he watched Pamela and Maxim dance the afternoon away, looking as if they didn’t have a care in the world…_

“Ugh…did I nod off? Sloppy.”

 

The Great General blinked as he sat up in his chair, the fragments of that happy memory rapidly giving way to the reality of his personal chambers—utterly dark except for the small candle on his desk. It served to give him enough light to write down the next set of orders for his army—he’d been doing that all day and night, since the upcoming offensive would hopefully be the push which finally ended the war. Perhaps it was getting to him—he’d always stressed to his soldiers the importance of knowing their limits and realizing when they had to take a rest before their performance started to decline, so he resolved to follow his own advice. He blew out the candle and made his way over to his modest bed in the corner of the room, preparing to lay himself to sleep, until he felt something very strange. And very dangerous.

 

He stopped, standing straight and still. His cold grey eyes scanned the darkness, seeing nothing amiss. He could _feel_ it, though. It was the stench of magic—dark magic. A certain heaviness in the air, a tingling across his skin…he didn’t have much experience with this sort of magic, but he’d encountered a bit of it in the battles at Aquleia and Thagaste, and that was all he needed to recognize it. Even so, this was different than anything he’d felt in either of those battles. The eldritch aura was _much_ stronger, so oppressive that it was almost like a physical presence in the room. Then again, as he’d quickly find out, perhaps it wasn’t the only one.

 

“Your reputation is well-deserved, great general,” a voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. “You’ve managed to sense my presence already? A pity I have to kill you…you would have made an excellent mage.”

 

Henken didn’t even register the compliment. Instead, he ducked and darted forwards just in time to avoid a globe of purple-limned energy materializing in the air where his chest would have been. His room was, of course, too small to permit any kind of more elaborate evasion, but that was fine with him—his opponent would have to make do with the same limitations, after all. He quickly spun and turned to the door. He could see the darkness in front of it…shimmering, almost. _Shifting_. After a moment, it coalesced into the shape of a huge, armored figure, the moonlight from the window reflecting off of his ebony plate mail as well as the blood-red pauldron on his right shoulder.

 

Henken didn’t need to guess twice to know who this was. “Paptimus,” he said, his voice not betraying even a hint of emotion.

 

“Very good,” came the voice, this time coming clearly from the armored man. “You…yes, I thought it might be you. Char, of Cornwell. How you managed to escape from that Ostian prison, I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter, now…”

 

“You killed Pamela, didn’t you?” Still his voice held no trace of emotion.

 

“Ah…I’d try to deny it, but it wouldn’t work on you, would it? Well, there’s no point. Indeed I did, Char. It was necessary…necessary for the good of my plans, and thus for the good of Elibe. But you won’t listen, will you? Oh well. I can at least send you to join your sister!”

 

The armored man held out his hand and sent out another burst of dark energy, which Henken again managed to dodge with a quick sidestep. It wasn’t aimed at him, though—rather, it sent the armor stand behind him topping to the floor, sending his enchanted raiment, including his magic axe, far out of easy reach.

 

Henken knew that any attempt to reach his weapon would be foiled. So he didn’t try. Surprising his foe, almost too fast for the eye to see he dashed forwards, keeping his body low to the ground, and slammed into Paptimus’ legs, the force of his slam enough to send even the almost eight-foot-tall Dark General straight to the ground. Henken intended to tear off his helmet and go straight for his eyes, but another orb of darkness materializing just over Paptimus’ prone form forced him to halt his assault and back off.

 

“I’ll kill you,” said Henken, his voice now trembling. “You’ll pay for what you did to her, Paptimus. There’s no escape, now.”

 

“Heh.” Despite his new position on the floor, it seemed the turncoat was smiling underneath his helmet. “You’re quite wrong about that, Char!” As the Great General leapt on him, intending to rip his head from shoulders with his bare hands, Paptimus simply _melted_ into the floor, disappearing into the inky blackness before rematerializing behind his opponent.

 

As he did so, he raised a hand towards the room’s window, over which appeared a strange purple sigil, very large and bright, visible across the entire city. Henken had no idea what it was supposed to signify, and he didn’t want to find out, either.

 

Not that he had a choice. “I was taught this little trick by your _own_ soldiers, Char!” Paptimus laughed. “I hope you enjoy it!” The Great General leapt at him again, and once again the Dark General faded into the shadows, but this time his essence seemed to coalesce _around_ Henken, and when he fully rematerialized his large arms were wrapped around the smaller man. Henken could have easily escaped from such a grip, of course, but it would have taken him a moment—and a moment was all the Revolutionary needed.

 

A white light enveloped both of them, spiriting them away to a location not very far off…

 

-X-  


“Renault, wake up! We got a problem! A big problem!”

 

“Aw, what the hell?”

 

Despite his grumbling, it didn’t take Renault more than a moment to up and collect himself as he rose from his bed at…Jerid’s insistence? Across from him, Braddock was already blinking away the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes—a testament to their growth as mercenaries that they were prepared to fight even after being awoken so rudely.

 

“What the hell, Jerid? Is it rebels?”

 

“Maybe, but they’re comin from the sea! A bunch of pirate ships’ve moored in the docks and they’re causin’ a hell of a lot of trouble! Now move!”

 

“Shit!” Renault looked at his friend. “Our armors’re at Goddard’s, aren’t they?”

 

“Doesn’t matter. You haven’t forgotten how to fight with just a sword, have you?”

 

“Hah! Like hell I did!”

 

“I got some spare pieces of armor for you in case something like this happened,” said Jerid. “They’re in this room’s chests! Not as good as your normal stuff, but they’re better than nothing. Now get moving! Head to the docks as soon as you can!”

 

“Wait,” said Renault suspiciously, “Where the hell’s Henken? Shouldn’t he be giving us orders?”

 

“I wouldn’t be givin’ ‘em if I knew where he was!” yelled Jerid in frustration. “He’s not in his room, nobody’s seen him, and nobody knows where the hell he is! So until we find him, GET MOVING!”

 

“Alright!” The two men hastily opened the large chests at the foot of their respective beds and took out worn but serviceable sets of leather armor and traveling boots and gloves, not perfectly fitted for them but close enough. Renault grabbed his Silver Sword and Braddock grabbed a small buckler shield and his Basilikos, eager to try it out in battle himself. The two of them rushed out the door to their room and down the stairs leading to the first floor, and they were quickly joined by their commander and the rest of the Autonomous Company. All of them had already been informed of what was going on, so there was no need to brief any of them. Following Khyron the moment they saw him, all of the Company (except for Keith and Kelitha, who were running to the castle’s stables to ready their mounts) simply followed him without hesitation into the city’s chaotic streets.

 

Already, those streets were milling with soldiers and guardsmen, the civilians having already locked themselves inside their homes—by this point, the people of the city were more than passingly familiar with the sounds of battle in front of their homes. A small group of Soldiers were taking the main road to the docks, and the Autonomous Company followed them.

 

“Just who’re we fighting?” Renault asked Braddock as he ran by his side. They were nearing the docks, and the buildings around them already gave evidence of being ransacked by a particularly cruel and merciless enemy. The screams of women emanated from several windows, and flames were belching smoke from others.

 

To answer Renault’s question, as they rounded the corner they came across a small band of the culprits. Half a dozen burly men in ratty, banged-up clothing, smelling of salt and rotten fish, were standing near what had once been a baker’s shop. They all had white bandanas wrapped around their heads, and three of them carried bows tipped with flaming arrows, which they were loosing into any open window they could find with loud laughs. The other three were laughing as they emerged from the doorway of the shop with their mouths stuffed with its goods, their hands occupied by nasty-looking twin axes. Renault had heard of these types of warriors before—Corsairs, ruthless pirate warriors who could fight on both land and sea.

 

“Oy, look sharp, lads!” said one of the Corsairs as he noticed the Soldiers approaching. “Let’s give these landlubbers a warm welcome!”

 

“Wait!” yelled Braddock as their allies charged into battle with a scream, but to no avail. As the soldiers ran forwards, the invaders responded with a trick of their own. With a surprising amount of coordination for a band of outlaws, as one the Corsairs swept their weapons horizontally, the mass of their axes combined with their burly frames succeeding in batting aside the spears of their enemies and breaking the charge. Just as quickly they ducked, allowing the Archers behind them to draw a bead on the Royalists and fletch each one of them cleanly, sending them all collapsing to the ground with arrows in their foreheads.

 

“Har, har, har!” said one of the Corsairs. “Nice one, boys! I—“

 

He didn’t have time to finish his question before he was literally blown to pieces.

 

With a loud, enraged scream, Braddock had made a charge of his own, a sudden burst of speed from his strong legs propelling him first in front of his comrades, then into the air with a jump. The Basilikos glowed bright blue as he raised it over his head, and when it came slamming down, enhanced by the force of his leap, the closest Corsair was blasted apart before he knew what hit him, the massive axe cleaving his body entirely in two before the gusts of wind which were its enchantment scattered the pieces all across the surrounding area. With a speed that belied his large frame, but with an amazing strength that suited it well, the moment he landed Braddock twisted his right wrist, flipping the gigantic axe horizontally with only one hand, and then swept it around himself in a great circular cut. The great blade’s size along with its magic winds were enough to reduce the other two Corsairs into bloody chunks of flesh flying through the air as well. The remaining Archers were too shocked to do anything but gape, and this resulted in them meeting the exact same fate. With a step forward and one more powerful sweep of the Basilikos, the pirate archers were gruesomely dispatched in the same fashion.

 

For the moment, the battle seemed to have ended—there were no more pirates in the immediate vicinity, though the sounds of battle were coming from inside the buildings and across the street, and there weren’t any more allies around either, though the shouts and tramping boots of panicked Royalist soldiers could be heard as well. Thus, Braddock was allowed a moment to look at the carnage he had wrought.

 

“W…wow,” he said out loud, slightly astonished at his own handiwork. Judging by how all his friends had themselves stopped to gawk at the scene (with Apolli distinctly looking a bit queasy), he was not alone in his reaction. “This axe really _does_ deserve its reputation!”

 

“Aw, man. What I would do for a sword with that kind of power,” replied Renault with just a tinge of jealously.

 

As he would soon find out, he was far from the only one.

 

“It’s indeed a mighty fine axe ye got there, landlubber,” came a gravelly, coarse voice from within the darkened confines of the bakery. “Methinks I be takin’ it fer meself!”

 

“The hell?” Immediately snapped out of their shock, the Autonomous Company readied their weapons and turned to the shop’s entrance. From the shadows emerged one of the largest men they’d ever seen—slightly taller than Braddock, almost as tall as Paptimus, so large and heavy was his frame that he had to stoop to exit the average-sized doorway. He also had to carefully keep his massive weapon low to the ground so that it didn’t get caught, either. And massive was just the right word for it. The huge man held in his right hand a huge, vicious-looking Iron Axe that seemed as if it didn’t weigh much less than Braddock’s Basilikos—and what it may have lacked in enchantment it made up for in nastiness, judging by the many notches on its blade and the blood staining almost every inch of it. The man himself didn’t disappoint, either—he was clad in virtually no armor, but still managed to look incredibly intimidating. He wore only a loose, ragged pair of red pants and a horned metal helmet—only two dimly glowing red dots could be seen from within the darkness of its visor. His chest was completely bare, though the moonlight highlighted the scars crisscrossing his leathery, tanned skin.

 

“Who the hell are you,” asked Braddock, “and why the hell are you talking like somebody who’s had more than blood knocked out of their head?”

 

This elicited a loud, wild laugh from the Berserker. “An attitude! Ye’d ‘ve made a damn fine pirate, lad. Pity I ‘ave t’ skewer ye. But t’ answer yer question, I be Captain Varg, th’ most notorious pirate lord of the Western Isles!”

 

“Varg?” repeated Khyron incredulously. “Why would an outlaw like you ally yourself with a man like Paptimus, especially in such a brazen attack? You’re giving up everything! Surely you know you can’t succeed in taking this city with only five ships!”

 

“Aye, that be true,” acknowledged the Captain. “But here’s the thing, mateys. I _hate_ you Etrurians. I’m more’n willin’ t’ throw away th’ lives of me an’ my men if it means layin’ that King of yours low! And Master Paptimus, well, ‘e has a plan that’ll do just that!”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Think it matters? I may die, but I’ll be takin’ more’n a few o’ you scalawags with me! AT ‘EM, BOYS!”

 

Suddenly, the street corner which had been almost deserted before was now bustling with activity. It seemed as if the entire pirate fleet had been hiding in these buildings—Archers popped out of the windows of both the bakery’s second floor and the neighboring shops, training their bows on the Autonomous Company below them, and Corsairs burst out of the doors of every building in the vicinity. To make matters worse, there was a large sewer grate just behind Renault and his friends, and the moment Captain Varg made his proclamation, it burst open, and several Corsairs armed with axes and skinnier pirates armed with knives crawled out from its depths. The Autonomous Company was completely surrounded.

 

“Now,” said Varg, “Time to—“

 

He was interrupted by a loud commotion from behind him, right where the Corsairs had emerged from the sewer grate.

 

“Commander! We’ve been looking for you!”

 

The sewer Corsairs, previously so eager for a fight, were reduced to screams and pained gurgles within a moment as a pair of white flashes descended upon them. In a single swoop, Kelitha unsheathed her sword and swung it down at the Corsairs several times, leaving all of them with gashes across their throats. Her sister fell on the knife and dagger-wielding pirates, her spear jabbing and thrusting with blinding speed, skewering all of them before they could even raise their weapons in defense.

 

This was all the time the rest of the Company needed. “You think you rabble stand a chance against _us_?” declared Khyron incredulously as he and Rosamia raised their arms, sending waves of fire crashing into the windows of the baker’s shop and those next to it, roasting the surprised pirate archers within. Apolli had unlimbered his bow and sent arrows flying into the windows of the buildings on the other side of the street, sending each archer standing in them tumbling out and down to the ground with arrows in their eyes and throats.  In the same moment, Renault and Harvery had dashed forwards, dealing with the Corsairs on street level. Running towards the open door of the bakery, Renault swept his sword to the side, spinning as he did so, cleanly removing the heads of the trio of axemen closest to him, then delivering a swift kick to the midsection of the headless corpse standing in the doorway, sending it toppling backwards and knocking over the Corsairs behind it. Harvery backed him up, the Assassin dashing around the Mercenary Lord faster than the eye could see, leaving the surrounding axemen and knife-wielders with bloody throats and empty holes where their eyes had once been. Roberto, for his part, was much less graceful but no less destructive—with an angry roar, the eyepatched Warrior charged into the group of pirates on the other side of the street, swinging his axe wildly, his size and strength breaking bodies and morale, sending the survivors scurrying away from their Captain Varg. Finally, Braddock concentrated on the Captain himself. He cut the Basilikos across in another horizontal arc, slicing through the Corsairs who had marched forwards to defend Varg, then took another step forwards and cut chopped downwards, intending to bisect the captain. Varg, however, was too experienced a warrior, quickly hopping to the side to avoid the cut. The rushing winds of the axe prevented him from being able to launch a counterattack of his own, but he took advantage of how they pushed him back, stumbling too far away to allow Braddock to catch him with another swing.

 

The damage had been done, however. The Autonomous Company had been surrounded by dozens of battle-hardened pirates just a few moments ago. Now, their only enemy still alive was once again no-one but Captain Varg.

 

“D…dammit!” stuttered the pirate in astonishment. “Ye ain’t human, ye’re devils!”

 

“We get that a lot,” said Braddock, the Basilikos slung casually over his shoulder. “Now, why don’t you surrender peacefully? We might let you live if you tell us just what Paptimus’ “plan” is.”

 

“Haw! Nothin’ doin, landlubber! I wouldn’t be a real pirate if I didn’t have a few tricks up my sleeve, y’hear? Later!”

 

While he spoke, the pirate captain had surreptitiously edged his left hand towards the pocket of his pants. He quickly reached into it and took out a small bag of powder, throwing it on the ground before anyone could stop him. There was a bright flash of light and a large puff of smoke, enough to make the Company stagger back and cover their mouths and eyes. When they looked up, as could be expected, Varg had disappeared.

 

“Damn trickery,” yelled Khyron indignantly as he coughed. “I’ll hunt him down and—“

 

“No time to worry about him,” said Harvery. “More of ‘em are comin’!”

 

He was right—it seemed as if all the remaining pirates had realized the captain of their fleet was in trouble and were bearing down the road towards Khyron and his soldiers. More than a hundred, it seemed, and with more joining them.

 

“That’s not all!” exclaimed Kelitha. “Lord Khyron, on our way here we saw something suspicious at Zodian’s Rest. We sensed magic, and there were flashes of light that made it seem like a battle was going on. We didn’t want to engage without reporting to you, first!”

 

“Damn, could that be that “plan?” But what if it’s a distraction?”

 

“I got an idea,” said Braddock. “Khyron, me and Renault will head over to Zodian’s rest with Keith and Kelitha while the rest of you try to hunt down Varg. If it’s just a distraction, we’ll rendezvous with you, and if not, we’ll delay ‘em enough to allow you to back us up when you’ve dealt with the pirates!”

 

Khyron nodded. “Admirable initiative, Ostian! Don’t waste any more time talking! Go!”

 

With that, he and Rosamia raised their arms over their heads to send a pair of Elfire spells at the first of the oncoming pirates, with the rest of the comrades readying the weapons and preparing to deal with the rest of them. Renault and Braddock, on the other hand, hastily jumped onto the backs of Kelitha and Keith’s Pegasi, who swiftly ascended into the night skies of Thagaste, towards the great cathedral which had seen so much bloodshed and was about to see much more.

 

-X-

 

Henken felt disoriented and woozy when the white light left him and he found himself on an familiar stone floor in an area that seemed strangely enough even higher above the ground of Thagaste than his room in the castle. He didn’t allow it distract him long enough for his foes to kill him—he rolled to the side just in time to avoid a blast of ice which would have frozen him solid. He got to his feet, keeping his body low to the ground, and cautiously glanced at his surroundings.

 

He recognized this place—it was the very top floor of Zodian’s Rest. Though he wasn’t a member of Monica’s flock, during his time as a stoneworker he’d made enough repairs to it to recognize its top floor. The entire cathedral still hadn’t been repaired and the fire damage from Renault and Tassar’s last fight was still evident in many places, but the top floor hadn’t been too badly damaged, except of course for the fact that it was missing its bells. This was also a very dangerous arena to fight in, given how there were no walls or railings to prevent anyone from falling over the floor’s edge; the roof was held above him by pillars. It wouldn’t be a problem for his enemies, who could use Warp magic, but it certainly would be for him. Paptimus had apparently chosen their battlefield quite well.

 

He had also thought ahead—when Henken glanced behind, he noticed that the entrance to the lower floor had been assiduously blocked away by a mass of burnt furniture they must have moved from the lower floors before they Warped—or more accurately, Rescued--him here to fight. And “they” were nearly a dozen men. Before him stood the armored figure of Paptimus of Scirocco, arms crossed over his massive chest arrogantly, and next to him was a sinister-looking man in ebony riding armor and holding a Rescue staff which marked him as a Black Knight. In a circle surrounding Henken there stood six more men—all clad in pitch-black robes and holding nasty twin daggers in each hand. Assasins, just like Harvery.

 

“This cathedral will be your grave, Char,” gloated Paptimus. “Now, Assassins! Carve him up!”

 

Paptimus had spared no expense in selecting the soldiers he’d taken along with him for this covert mission—they were the best Assassins the rebel army had available to them. But even an unarmed Henken was more than a match for them. As the Assassin in front of him leapt towards him, Henken made a leap of his own, and when they met in midair, the Assassin was forced to let go of both his blades with a surprised, “OOF!” as the Great General slammed into his midsection and brought him to the floor. Henken rolled off of him just in time to allow a cloud of darkness to materialize over his body, then disappear with a purple flash—leaving nothing of the unfortunate assassin but a cloud of red-tinged dust. Paptimus had little care for the lives of his men—he wanted Henken, and he would do anything to get him.

 

Of course, the Great General wouldn’t make it easy for him. Faster than a General ought to ever be, even without armor (Henken was clad only in his casual sleeping clothes), he again hopped to the side, keeping his body low to the ground, avoiding another spell from Trunicht this time. The remaining five Assassins quickly moved to surround him, but all of them were quickly sent to the floor again—Henken steadied himself with his hands and then spun his entire body around in a sweeping kick. One might have mistaken him for an exotic Sacaen dancer if the roundhouse sweep hadn’t been so effective. He capitalized on this success by hopping right over to one of the Assassins, before the man could get to his feet, and jamming his hands straight into his eye sockets. The unfortunate killer screamed as his eyes were reduced to bloody pulps within a second, and Henken didn’t stop there. As the remaining four got to their feet, he quickly reached out and grabbed one of them by the neck. The almost superhuman strength contained within the Great General’s unassuming frame was enough to crush the man’s throat with one hand. However, by this point, Paptimus and Trunicht had moved forwards and the remaining three Assassins were closing in. Henken may have been able to deal with their knives, but in his position he almost certainly wouldn’t have been able to dodge the spells of both Trunicht and Paptimus.

 

Neither he nor his assassins expected the Autonomous Company to lend a bit of assistance.

 

“The hell?” came a voice from behind Paptimus that Henken recognized as his former apprentices’. “Who’re these people? What’s going on?”

 

A pair of Pegasus riders soared deftly between the pillars and landed under the fourth floor’s roof, depositing their passengers—Renault and Braddock. The two men readied their weapons and stared at the scene before them, not yet entirely sure of what they were looking at.

 

“H-Henken,” called Braddock—at this height, the moon provided enough light for him to make out the Great General’s recognizable form. “Why are you--“ He then looked at the huge, armored figure on Henken’s other side. “PAPTIMUS?!”

 

The Dark General laughed. “So we meet again, Ostian? I should’ve killed you personally before the Civil War started. Your death and Char’s will make this a more productive outing than I ever imagined!”

 

This was all the provocation Braddock needed to re-start the battle.

 

**“PAPTIMUS!! I’M GONNA RIP YOU APART!!”**

With a blood-curdling scream that seemed to echo across the entire city, the Warlord hefted his Basilikos and launched himself straight at his hated enemy. Renault wanted to call for him to wait, but the moment he realized that Paptimus himself had decided to participate in this assassination attempt he knew nothing he could say would get through to his friend—the only thing he could do was hope that Braddock was strong enough to live for more than a few moments.  Instead, he concentrated on rescuing his former master. He charged straight at the two Assassins in front of Henken, forcing them to jump away or get sliced up through their backs. The other one was behind Henken and tried to drive a knife into his back, but the Great General was too quick. He spun around and landed a punch as strong as a blow from a knight’s mace to the killer’s face, crushing it to a pulp and sending him literally flying off the edge of the floor. Trunicht, for his part, thought he saw an opening and readied his Luna tome, knowing it would bypass Henken’s sizable resistance to magic, but his attempt was foiled as he was forced to meld into the shadows beneath him with a curse—Keith and Kelitha were charging towards him, not being able to maneuver well under a roof, but still fast enough to keep him occupied.

 

Braddock, though, seemed to be in trouble—at first. As he leapt towards Paptimus, the former Prime Minister held out a hand and froze the big Warlord in the air, paralyzing his entire body. The visor of his helmet glowed red, and it was easy to tell he was grinning beneath it. “It’s more important to kill Char, but I can spare just a bit of time to get of you.”

 

To his great surprise, however, he felt a sort of resistance he’d never encountered before. He could only let out a surprised “What?!” as the fingers of his hand twitched, then began to tremble, before he finally had to break his spell, stumbling back with an echo of Trunicht’s curse and shaking his entire arm, now numb. As he was held in the air, Braddock had let out a low, animalistic growl, his eyes rolling to the back of his head and a line of drool making its way from the corner of his mouth as he focused every single bit of his mental energy on breaking the invisible chains Paptimus had wrapped around him. His mind’s fortitude had been greatly increased by both the power of the Earth Seal as well as his experiences over the course of the war, and Paptimus could no longer simply pin him down with nothing more than his own magical energy. Braddock’s paralysis was completely shattered, and he landed cleanly on his feet, ready to continue his attack.

 

“Not as weak as I used to be, right?” he spat. “Lemme show you another trick I learned!”

 

He again raised the Basilikos, and this time a small, miniature tornado materialized around the massive blade. He swung it down with all his strength, and with a loud BOOM a shockwave blasted its way straight towards Paptimus.

 

The Dark General wouldn’t prove to be easy prey either, though. “Hah!” With his other hand he held open his Gespenst tome  towards the approaching shockwave, summoning a purple cloud of dark energy right in front of him which absorbed the blast with a flash of purple light.

  
His companions weren’t having an easy time of it either. Trunicht was fading in and out of the darkness, too occupied with avoiding the charges from Keith and Kelitha to assist. The other two Assassins attempted to mount a final,desperate suicide attack on Henken. “FOR THE REVOLUTION! FOR THE RED SHOULDERS!” one of them screamed, and both of them twirled their daggers in the air, each of them seeming to split into three figures momentarily. Henken, however, had spent too much time near Harvery to be caught by this deadly technique. Grunting, he again crouched to the floor and picked up a dagger dropped by one of the dead Assassins, then hurled it at the third afterimage of the Assassin to his right. The afterimages disappeared as he staggered backwards with the dagger buried in his gut. The remaining Assassin disappeared completely and the area around them darkened, as if the moon had vanished for a moment. It seemed like he might have been the one to finally take down the Great General, but Renault foiled his plans with a typically graceless move—he simply ran right up to Henken and slammed into him with his body. Around him came a series of red flashes and a series of cuts and slashes, but these landed on the Mercenary Lord’s arms and leather armor rather than Henken’s face and throat. Renault groaned in pain, and he’d taken a particularly serious gash on his left shoulder, but the important thing was that his General still lived.

 

“Good to see you’re making yourself useful,” said Henken calmly as the two of them quickly extricated themselves from each other and got to their feet. The Assassin had reappeared behind the two of them, preparing for another attempt, but Renault, now angry at him, wouldn’t give him the chance. “Go to hell,” he snarled, whirling around and stabbing his Silver Sword forwards. As he anticipated, the Assassin dodged the attack easily, leaping into the air over his head and aiming a slash at his head. Renault ducked, allowing his momentum to carry him forward and turn his stab into a tumble. The surprised Assassin made a clean landing on the ground behind him, but this allowed Henken to dash up and grab him around the neck. With another quick twist of his arms, the last Assassin joined his companions in death with a broken neck.

 

“This is getting out of hand!” yelled Paptimus, “He’s already taken out our Assassins! Call in the reinforcements!”

 

“GLAD TO HELP!”

 

All the participants in the fray, on both sides, had to stop what they were doing in order to survive the entrance of the newest entrant on the battlefield. With a wild, crazy laugh, the flapping of leathery wings, and a wild gust of hurricane-force winds, Yazan bolted under the roof of the belltower, the Rex Hasta leading his way. His wyvern had been clinging onto the wall of the tower’s south side, waiting specifically for Paptimus to give this call. Hambrabi had detached from the wall, soared into the air some distance away, then banked and descended as quickly as a Wyvern possibly could.

 

“WATCH OUT!”

 

Paptimus and Trunicht melted into the shadows while Keith and Kelitha instinctively spurred their mounts to gallop off the edges of the floor on the north side and into the air, ascending to safety above the icon of Saint Elimine on the very top of the roof. Renault and Braddock both had to dive to the ground, covering their heads as they were buffeted by both the wind from Hambrabi’s wings as well as the mini-gales from the Rex Hasta. The only person who couldn’t avoid the attack was Braddock, still recovering from the shockwave he had launched—so he didn’t even try. “God DAMMIT!” he screamed, the force of his will causing the Basilikos to glow blue and summoning another small tornado around its blade. He twisted his body and swung the blade across, and just in time it met the tip of the Rex Hasta. The result was an explosion louder than any Renault had ever heard since the death of Barbarossa, and a shockwave that would have blown both him and Henken clear off the cathedral’s top floor if Renault hadn’t jammed his sword downwards and gripped it with all his might and if Henken hadn’t driven his bare fingers into the stone.

 

The wielders of the two mighty weapons had been affected similarly by their collision. “Graaah!” Braddock nearly lost his grip on the Basilikos as he was blown back, but he grit his teeth and managed to keep both a hold on it and on his feet as he tensed his legs and slammed it back into the ground, stopping him before he could fall right off the edge but carving a deep cleft in front of him. Yazan managed to keep from getting hurled right off Hambrabi’s saddle, but both he and the Wyvern had been sent past the south edge of the floor, though the wyvern managed to twist in the air and return to flight, circling around the tower as Yazan laughed. “Ah, hah hah hah! That was great! Haven’t had a fight like this in months!”

 

“Yazan indeed has his uses,” chuckled Trunicht, as he rematerialized behind Henken and Renault, who was getting to their feet. The Luna spell he was readying would have killed Henken if he hadn’t been foiled yet again by the Pegasus Sisters—he spun to the side with a grunt of pain to avoid being skewered by a Javelin tossed by Keith, but not quickly enough to avoid it completely; it clipped the red pauldron on his right shoulder and sent him tumbling gracelessly away. Kelitha swooped past both of them towards Yazan, unlimbering her Silver Lance to harass the Wyvern Knight, taking advantage of her superior speed to offset the benefit of his much more powerful weapon. This left Braddock, Henken, and Renault free to concentrate on Paptimus.

 

“How stupid are you, Paptimus?” laughed Braddock as he, his best friend, and the Great General readied themselves to gang up on the mastermind behind the rebellion. “We’ve been waiting for an opportunity to get you alone like this, and you just drop it into our laps!”

 

“Hah. A good tactician knows when to take certain risks, fool. And this one’s a bit more calculated than you give it credit for!”

 

To illustrate his point, a gravelly, corpselike voice seemed to echo across the belltower, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, just like Paptimus’ had.

 

“The Ostian is MINE!”

 

Tendrils of noxious gas even blacker than the night around them filtered from the windows of the lower floors of the cathedrals, streaming through the air with great speed. They surrounded Braddock in a slimy, filthy caress, and the Warlord knew all too well who they heralded.

 

“Shit! YURT!”

 

The Silent Chief appeared in the air above his prey, bringing his shotel and dagger to bear. Braddock didn’t try to raise his buckler in defense, knowing that the small shield would be of little use against the curved weapon, especially when he wasn’t wearing much armor. Instead, as quickly as he could he swept the Basilikos up into the air, relying on the wind the weapon produced to stave off Yurt’s dive. He succeded—the Assassin was forced to twist in the air as the wind diverted the arc of his attack, but he landed on his feet and behind Braddock. Renault, however, wouldn’t allow him to spend much time on his friend.

 

“Don’t you ever give up!?” he yelled, his Silver Sword flashing in the moonlight as he charged at Yurt and swung it at the Assassin’s head. Yurt twirled and ducked, crouching down and preparing to stab his dagger into Renault’s belly, but once again had to dodge to the side as Braddock turned and smashed his axe into the ground, missing the Silent Chief but producing enough force to send him off-balance, stopping him from following through.

 

However, this provided an opening that Paptimus exploited. Yurt’s distraction had given him enough time to make full use of his Gespenst magic, summoning a black cloud around Braddock just as Yurt stumbled away. “No!” yelled Renault, realizing what the spell would do to his friend, but as he reeled back to avoid the orbs of darkness produced by Trunicht’s Luna spell as well as another slice from Yurt’s shotel, he realized he could do nothing but hope his friend was strong enough to survive a blast from the magic.

 

Braddock was, but only barely. “GYAAAAAH!” he screamed as a flash of purple light sent waves of destructive energy rolling through his body. Only the resistance to magic he had built up over the course of his journey and his own fortitude saved his life—he felt pieces of him _disintegrate_ from the inside, as if both body and soul were violated by the most loathsome predator imaginable, and it seemed as if his lungs would fill up with a combination of blood and dust, for his ribs felt like they were on the verge of collapsing in on themselves. He sank to the ground, fighting the urge to retch (and failing, vomit rising in his throat), and the Basilikos fell from his grip.

 

“I finally have you, Maxim!” crowed Yurt in satisfaction, seeing his quarry dropping his Basilikos and keeling over on the floor. Renault moved to stop him, but the Assassin was just too quick. He leapt right over the Mercenary Lord and towards the injured Braddock. However, he would find out that the Warlord wasn’t entirely out of the battle yet.

 

“Y-you’re not getting me, you slimy son of a bitch!” he spat through gritted, vomit-stained teeth, and with as much strength as he could muster he managed to get off his knees and lash out with a bash from his buckler. It was nowhere near as strong a blow as he would have been able to unleash in better conditions, but it was still enough to completely surprise the shadowy Assassin. Yurt let out a cold, rage-filled shout of pain as the buckler connected with his strange helmet and sent him flying backwards—

 

Right where Renault was waiting for him.

 

With a vicious smile on his face, the Mercenary Lord gripped his Silver Sword with both hands as strongly as he could and jumped in the air, right at Yurt, flying backwards as a result of the shield bash to his head. The disoriented Silent Chief tried to dodge as best as he could, but it was in vain.

 

“GAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

 

He twisted to the side as Renault slashed down, but not quickly enough. The Silver Sword connected with his outstretched left arm, which held his dagger. The powerful blade cut straight through the armor, through the skin, and through the bone, cleanly severing the limb in one perfect strike.

 

Streams of black smoke surrounded Yurt—it seemed he was losing control of his powers as he flew past Renault and over the edge of the belltower with a blood-chilling scream, loud, low, and cold, as if it were coming from a male version of the Banshees from the terrifying stories Renault’s father had told him as a youth.

 

Henken, for his part, saw an opening and took it. “Should’ve kept your eyes on the prize, Paptimus,” he spat, only the tremble in his voice providing evidence of his sheer, burning hatred of the Dark General. “Now it’s time for you to pay for what you did to my sister!” He reached to the ground to pick up a dagger dropped by one of the Assassins and hurled himself at Paptimus, who was preparing for another spell.

 

However, this seemed to be just what the Dark General was waiting for. “You’ve let your emotions get the better of you, Char! For the first time in your life…and for the last!” Laughing, he disappeared into the shadows—he had been standing near the edge of the floor, and expected Henken’s insane charge to carry him off of it entirely.

 

It almost did—but the cunning Red Comet had a trick up his sleeve. As he tumbled off the edge while Paptimus re-materialized behind him, he quickly reached out his free hand and gripped it before he fell too far away from it. In the split-second afterwards, he pumped his arm and propelled himself back up over the precipice—one hand was all he needed to send his entire body back into the air. He was again flying straight at Paptimus, and this time hit the dark magician squarely on the chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

 

Henken kept his grip on the much larger man’s body, wrapping his free arm around the man’s left shoulder, and with his right hand twirled the pilfered dagger and jabbed it down. It was aimed for Paptimus’ neck, past the steel gorget of his armor, and only a split-second, instinctual decision to jerk his head to the side and divert the dagger by knocking his helmet into it saved his life. Instead, the blade bounced off his right shoulder’s red pauldron.

 

The Great General wouldn’t be deterred by something like this, though. He let go of the dagger and then gripped Paptimus’ left arm, covered in its gauntlet and chain mail, with both hands.

 

Then, with a quick jerk of his own hands, and with his burning desire for vengeance on the man who’d destroyed his country and killed his sister, _he_ _simply tore it right out of its socket._

 

The Revolutionary leader could only shriek in horror and astonishment as his limb went flying through the air, followed by the sounds of twisting metal and bits of chain mail following the stream of blood it left in its wake. He continued to reel backwards, gaping at the man who had given him such a grievous wound. The Great General’s normally cold grey eyes now seemed to be burning with raw hatred, and the sight and smell of his enemy’s blood only spurred him onwards.

 

But it would be this bloodlust which would prove to be his undoing.

 

Paptimus had not survived in the fighting pits of Etruria because he had little tolerance for pain, and he had not become as skilled with dark magic as he was because he had little discipline. Even as blood poured from the ragged socket, he realized he could still win this fight. With a loud, aggressive roar that came from his time as a gladiator rather his present position as a proud master of dark magics, he unleashed a charge of his own, barreling straight towards Henken, who had tossed away the limb and was actually preparing for another rush, not expecting his wounded adversary to again take the offensive.

 

The Dark General’s mass was more than enough to send both of them flying clear off the edge of the belltower, down to the ground below.

 

“S-shit!” spat Braddock, who was again on his knees, “we gotta help him!” Renault agreed, but since he was currently kneeling by his friend, trying to help him to stand, he knew neither of them would get there in time. “What the hell do you think we can do? We can’t fly!”

 

It would have done no good for the Great General. “You want to kill me?” he spat at Paptimus as they plummeted down towards the ground. “I don’t mind, so long as you join me!”

 

“My dear Char,” replied Paptimus, gritting his teeth and attempting to ignore the pain of his amputated arm, “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you!”

 

In his remaining right hand he held his Gespenst tome open, and he began chanting as if he were casting one of its normal spells. This time, however, the words were different, as was its effect. The strange dark cloud wasn’t the only effect a master of darkness such as Paptimus could draw from the tome. The letters of the book glowed purple, and from its pages poured tendrils of pitch-black energy, cracking with purple electricity. The tendrils worked their way from the pages of the Gespenst tome to the stump of Paptimus’ left arm. There, it seemed as if they were forming…another arm.

 

No, not quite. Aside from the obvious fact that it was formed out of pure darkness, the shape was different. After the elbow, the dark appendage terminated in what seemed to be a vicious, curved blade somewhat similar to that of a scythe’s.

 

And all this had taken place in the span of a few seconds. “NOW DIE!” yelled Paptimus, stabbing the blade of shadow directly through Henken’s chest as the two of them fell. There was simply no way for him to dodge, and the dark blade punched through him as easily as a sword of steel would have done—no, even more effectively, for it utterly disintegrated the flesh it came into contact with. When Paptimus retracted it, it left a large, gaping hole in the center of Henken’s chest.

 

The burning light in his grey eyes faded into nothingness. Henken didn’t make a sound as Paptimus lifted a foot to kick away from him as the Gespenst tome stopped glowing. Moments before they hit the ground, in a desperate move, Paptimus brought the tome up to his mouth and chomped down on it to hold it in his teeth. With his free right hand, he quickly reached to his back and unlimbered his Warp staff, disappearing in a flash of white light just as Henken’s body smashed onto the ground.

 

And Henken’s would not be the only death that terrible night. Keith and Kelitha had both attempted to save him, and both had failed miserably. “No! Lord Henken!” Keith yelled—she had previously been busy sending Javelin after Javelin at Trunicht, keeping him too distracted to cast his magic, but her Great General’s plight distracted _her_ long enough for Trunicht to knock her out of the fight. He popped out of the shadows right in front of where she was hovering and held out a hand to her as he chanted, and she wailed in pain as a purple sigil appeared over her and sent six orbs of darkness crashing into her small young frame, completely bypassing the resistance to hostile magics the mystic Pegasi conferred onto their riders. Trunicht hadn’t had enough time to properly focus his spell, so she was allowed to slump in the saddle, feeling a deep, burning ache in every corner of her body as she clung to consciousness, her mount realizing its rider’s plight and veering away from the belltower to the safety of the roof of a nearby house below.

 

Kelitha was the only one who’d had a chance to save him. “No! Lord Henken!” she yelled, veering her Pegasus away from Yazan, ascending just far enough to avoid a diving jab from the Rex Hasta, and then spurred her mount to zip as fast as possible around the cathedral’s tower on the north side, preparing to descend and catch Henken before he hit the ground.

 

But Trunicht wouldn’t let her do that. “My apologies, countrywoman, but I can’t allow you to ruin this opportunity!” He darted to the edge of the floor, closed his eyes, and crossed both arms over his chest as a white sigil appeared beneath his feet, sending sparks of white light into the air around him. Renault realized what he was doing—summoning up all his reserves of energy to deliver a killing blow. “Crap! If only I had my hand axe!” yelled Braddock, still unsteady on his feet and leaning on his Basilikos for support, but Renault, who wasn’t as wounded, saw no reason he couldn’t stop the spell Trunicht was preparing.

 

“You ain’t helpin’ her!” yelled Yazan, spurring his Wyvern in a charge at Braddock and Renault now that he wasn’t occupied by Kelitha. Renault had to push his larger friend away from him, to the side, to keep both of them from being skewered by the Rex Hasta, but the winds from the powerful lance pinned both of them to the ground as Yazan swooped by. Now, there was nothing stopping Trunicht from carrying through with his attack.

 

“NO! KELITHA! **KELITHA! NOOOOOO!!!** ”

 

It was too late. The Black Knight uncrossed his arms, causing the field beneath him to disappear, leaving only a white aura around his body. He then pointed a finger right at the section of air Kelitha was passing through, catching her right in the middle of the purple sigil Renault knew was a Luna spell. He could only watch in absolute horror as those six baleful orbs slammed directly into her body, with far more force than they’d hit her sister.

 

The young woman—Renault’s friend, the one who’d given him his very first kiss—simply fell apart in the air.

 

It would have been more merciful for him had it been too dark to see anything—but alas, the purple sigil glowed, producing enough evil light that Renault could see her death in gruesome, vivid detail. The moment the orbs slammed into her chest, she didn’t even have the strength to keep on her mount—she was gone, just like that. Her legs slipped from around her mount as if they were nothing but strips of cloth, sending her body falling down. And the _way_ it fell was the worst thing. It separated first into two halves, and then into multiple parts. Her entire torso had disintegrated into a cloud of dust from the dark power of Trunicht’s magic, leaving her lower body, arms, and decapitated head to disappear beneath the edge of the belltower’s top floor.

 

Before her head disappeared, though, Renault managed to catch one last glimpse of her face. And for as long as he lived, he would not forget the expression of pain and horror etched on it. And one more thing—perhaps a figment of his imagination—

 

It seemed as if she had been mouthing his name as she died.

 

“A job well done!” gloated Trunicht. “My, that was almost perfect timing. I really should use this spell more, it’s—“

 

He was interrupted by the piercing scream of the man who was now his mortal enemy.

 

**“TRUUUUNNNIIIICCCHHTTTT!!!!!”**

 

This scream contained every last bit of hatred Renault had summoned up over the course of his life—even his best friend, standing beside him and watching with utter dismay at the death of their Ilian comrade, was surprised by the sheer venom in the Mercenary Lord’s voice. It was easily as intense as his own hatred of Paptimus.

 

Renault was gripping his Silver Sword so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His eyes burned like coals in his hate-filled face. With another rage-filled scream from the very depths of his being, he charged straight at the Black Knight.

 

But Trunicht, rather than afraid, was still grinning. “Was that girl “special” to you? Sorry to have to kill her, but it’s just business. And I don’t have any more time to spend on you tonight! Farewell!”

 

Trunicht casually hopped backwards, straight off the edge of the belltower, just as Renault reached him. He let out another yell full of rage and frustration as his blade cut through empty air…and then looked up to see Trunicht flying away from him on the back of Yazan’s Wyvern. The Bernite, following his charge, had not continued his attack but hovered right below the edge of the tower’s top floor for this very reason.

 

Keith, recovering from her injuries on the roof of the nearby house, could only watch the entire scene unfold with wide, horror-struck eyes. Braddock could do nothing but try to limp over to his friend, an expression of utmost dismay plastered on his pale face, and Renault could do nothing more but hurl invectives at the disappearing Black Knight and Wyvern Rider.

 

And above all of them, piercing the sky above, were two streaks of light—one red, one blue. A pair of falling stars, they crossed over in the sky, flaring brightly—then disappeared over the horizon.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say here, except that the Civil War will indeed be ending soon, my friends.

 


	37. Fortress of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault's friend Kelitha has fallen, but neither he nor the Autonomous Company has any time to mourn. They set off for Nerinheit Castle, now the Fortress of Spears, to crush the last real bastion of Rebel strength. However, something evil awaits, and not all will survive the night...

 

37: Fortress of Death

 

Khyron couldn’t understand why the pirate captain was laughing, so loudly, maniacally, and unreservedly, especially since they had just cornered him after a chase that had lasted far longer than it should have.

 

After Renault and Braddock had accompanied Keith and Kelitha to check out what was happening at Zodian’s Rest, the rest of the Autonomous Company had promptly begun mopping up the remaining pirates. It wasn’t a difficult job at all, but they were really interested in catching Varg, who had disappeared in a puff of smoke. He might have gotten away, but as luck would have it a different contingent of soldiers had spotted him running away to the docks, which Khyron overheard, and had rushed his men there. They’d managed to corner him before he could get to the piers, surrounding him and pushing him up against the wall of one of the shops, specifically that of a fish vendor who made his living buying from the ships which put to port here. And this time, it seemed that Varg no longer had any tricks up his sleeve.

 

The Berserker backed up against the wall, his hands on his axe. He didn’t seem frightened but instead had a wide, wild smile plastered on his face.

 

“G’on! Kill me, ye dogs! Won’t do ye any good! Paptimus’s already succeeded! Th’ Great General’s maggot food, now!”

 

“What the devil are you talking about?” said Khyron as behind him, the Autonomous Company and the soldiers who had come to assist them collectively gasped in shock.

 

“Don’t believe me? Why don’t ye go to that lil’ cathedral over yonder and check! Doesn’t matter, though. Ain’t getting a word from me! All tha’ matters izzat y’r country won’t be able to do spit without that General! Th’ Western Isles will rise again!”

 

With that, he leveled the blade of his axe at his own throat. Before anyone could react, he jerked his head forwards and slammed his neck into the blade, the smile still on his face as his legs buckled, then gave way entirely.

 

At the moment, though, his death was the least of their concerns. They couldn’t tell whether he was simply lying to them or not, but they figured they should see for themselves. As one, the Autonomous Company left Varg’s corpse to rot as they rushed off to Zodian’s Rest.

-x-

 

For the past few hours, Renault hadn’t noticed much. The arrival of his comrades was enough to get his attention…but just barely.

 

There had been a small crowd that first gathered a few hours ago, and it had grown larger and larger around the back side of Zodian’s Rest. The terrified, demoralized soldiers and citizens of Thagaste had gathered around a blasted, bloody corpse lying on the ground—that of Great General Henken, a gaping hole through his chest and his body horribly broken by his fall.

 

However, he wasn’t the object of Renault’s concern. No, the Mercenary Lord, along with his friends, Braddock and Keith, were busy mourning over a body not a great distance away. Kelitha’s corpse—what remained of it, anyways—was, of course, ignored by the larger crowd, partially because she was just an Ilian mercenary rather than the Great General, but also because there wasn’t a whole lot left to mourn. The pieces of her body had fallen scattered around the area, leaving her confused Pegasus to land and wander around aimlessly as it had been doing since her death, not able to understand what had happened to her. If they wished to give her a proper funeral, they’d have to collect the pieces of her first.

 

Renault, for his part, hadn’t moved much since he’d managed to make his way down—he had simply hacked his way through the furniture blocking the exit and rushed downstairs, followed by Braddock, still barely able to walk due to the wound Paptimus had inflicted on him. By then, the pirates had already been routed and the battle had already started to wind down, so a few confused, frightened soldiers and citizens were already making their way towards the site of all the strange flashes and noises they’d been hearing. Renault had stopped to spare a glance at the body of the man who had once been his mentor, unsure of what he should feel—and then almost forgot about him entirely as he turned to regard the corpse of the woman who’d given him his first kiss.

 

He didn’t kneel to mourn. Indeed, he didn’t even cast away his weapon—quite the contrary, his grip on his Silver Sword tightened, so hard his knuckles went white. He stood and stared at her lower body, its innards spilled out on the ground, and the other broken pieces of her strewn around the area. He had stood and stared, not grieving, not crying, but thinking of one thing, and one thing only: How much he hated Trunicht, and how painfully the man would die when he got his hands on him. He lived in this fantasy world until the arrival of Khyron snapped him out of it.

 

Braddock and Keith, for their parts, were much less reserved. Kelitha’s younger sister, the moment her Pegasus had recovered, had swooped down to where her body had fell, refusing to believe what she’d just saw. But she couldn’t deny it. She had let out a great cry that seemed as if it could be heard from one end of the city to the other, and had leapt off of her mount, collapsing to the ground in front of her sister’s lower body and breaking out into uncontrollable, heaving sobs. Her voice couldn’t keep out forever, of course—by this point it had been exhausted, and she could do no more than take long, heavy breaths as her tears continued to flow. Braddock had managed to make his way down behind Renault—almost exhausting himself in the process—and when he saw the remains of Kelitha’s body, the most dismayed expression since the affair at Scirocco crossed his face. He did the only thing he knew how to do—he hobbled up to Keith and embraced her, something she seemed to be very grateful for. She buried her face in his stomach as she continued to make those heavy, breathless sobs. This was all they could do until their friends arrived.

 

Rushing towards them, Khyron and the rest of the Company slowed down as they saw the crowd around the back side of the cathedral—and they were the only ones who took specific note of Braddock, Renault, and Keith. Those three were their first target.

 

“B-Braddock,” sputtered Khyron in shock as he rushed over to him, taking note of the body parts scattered around the area but still not fully aware of what they meant, “What happened here?”

 

Renault spared an angry, hateful glance at Khyron, but otherwise said nothing, simply continuing to stare at Kelitha’s remains with his blade in the same ceaseless grip. Keith was still too busy crying, or attempting to cry, so it fell to Braddock to respond. He looked up at his commander with tired, half-lidded eyes, both from the weight of his injuries and his sadness.

 

“Ch…H…the Great General’s dead. Kelitha too. Paptimus…Paptimus warped ‘em over here somehow. Trunicht, Yazan, Yurt, and a bunch of assassins were waiting for ‘em. We tried, but we couldn’t…”

 

The former Mage General’s face turned pale as he realized what the larger crowd was gathered around, and what the pieces of flesh Renault was staring at so angrily indicated. Rosamia gasped and hid her face in her hands, the look of dismay on Harvery’s face matched that of Braddock’s, Apolli turned pale and seemed as if he had become nauseous, and strangest of all, Roberto didn’t even offer his customary, uncaring grunt. He just looked at Renault, the typical anger in his eyes…had not disappeared, exactly, but it was as if they recognized a mirror of that anger.

 

Count Caerleon, to his credit, realized they didn’t have any time to waste. “STOP GAWKING!” he screamed at the crowd. “THIS IS NO TIME FOR YOUR NONSENSE! ALL OF YOU, GET BACK TO YOUR DUTIES! WE CAN’T AFFORD ANY SLACK!” He raised a hand in the air and summoned a fireball which exploded above them, scattering the assembled onlookers and sending them away in every direction. For a moment, the Autonomous Company was left alone with the remains of their Great General as well as their friend.

 

Khyron’s gaze shifted from Henken’s corpse to what Renault was looking at, a lump forming in his throat as his face contorted with anger. To his credit, though, he didn’t allow his emotions to rage out of control. “Kelitha…she fell in defense of the Great General, and died a soldier of the Crown,” he said quietly. “Ilian or not, she was one of us, and she WILL be honored. Harvery, Apolli, Roberto, and I will prepare Lord Henken’s body for a funeral in state. The rest of you, Kelitha…her remains will be interred in the Cathedral’s catacombs, where the soldiers of Thagaste have typically been laid to rest.”

 

He turned to Renault. “I trust you’ll have no difficulty carrying out this order?” Despite its delivery in Khyron’s typically imperious tone, it was as close to showing sympathy as anyone could imagine coming from their commander, and fortunately, Renault understood that.

 

For the first time since Kelitha’s death, he turned his angry, hate-filled eyes away from her remains, and also spoke—quietly, but with the firmness of steel in his voice—his first words since her passing.

 

“I’ll do it, Khyron. Alone. It’s what I owe her, ‘cause I’m gonna be sending Trunicht to meet her real soon.”

 

If anyone wanted to argue with that, they didn’t have the strength. Rosamia moved towards Braddock, brandishing her Heal staff, both to mend his wounds and comfort Keith, while the other members of the Company tended to Henken’s body—they knew they’d have to inter it as quickly as possible, and Khyron was determined to give the Great General a proper funeral as soon as they were able.

 

They left Renault alone to gather up the pieces of his friend, and he did so quietly and without complaint. It might have seemed like he didn’t feel anything at all if one couldn’t see the hatred burning in his eyes as he finished his grisly collection and set off for the entrance to the catacombs.

 

-x-

 

It was a harder job than he’d initially thought, but far from impossible. Renault brushed a sheen of sweat away from his forehead as he shut the lid over the heavy stone sarcophagus which now contained the remains of his friend. The only light in the dreary catacombs below Zodian’s Rest came from the small torches hung on the walls that he had lit while carrying Kelitha’s remains in a leather sack strapped on his back. He hadn’t expected to find a suitable resting place for her, but as luck would have it, one of the great stone coffins was empty for some reason—maybe it was never used, maybe it was pillaged, but whatever the case was, Renault didn’t care. All that mattered was that his friend could rest.

 

Renault stared at the now-closed coffin for another moment, memories running through his head with the speed and force of a rushing river. The first time he’d seen Kelitha, giving him that horrified look when Kasha told her he killed their mother…then fighting alongside her in Lycia, at Aquleia, at Caerleon…and then, finally, that kiss she’d given him just yesterday. Just yesterday, when everything seemed to be going so well…

 

“Shit…SHIT!”

 

Renault shut his eyes, feeling them burn a little, and spat on the ground before the coffin. “Think I’m gonna mourn for you, Kelitha? No. No way! I’m gonna give you something better. I’m gonna fight. And fight. And keep on fighting, until Trunicht, Paptimus, and everyone else responsible for your death is dead! You’d like that a lot better than some useless prayer…right?”

 

No response came from the coffin, of course. Not that Renault cared. His words made him feel better, at least. And that was good enough…at least until he heard the sounds of footsteps echoing from behind him.

 

He turned back to see, to his surprise, Braddock and Keith walking up behind him. Braddock seemed to be doing much better, able to stand on his feet easily; it was apparent Rosamia had done good work on him with her staff. Keith, for her part, seemed as if she had stopped crying, but it was evident from her face that she had far from recovered. She was pale, and her expression was almost completely blank, just like her eyes, which seemed glassy and unseeing. Braddock had led her here, for she was holding on to his hand very tightly, as if she was just a little girl—which she was, in some ways.

 

“Uh…Renault?” said Braddock, with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I…um…I’m sorry for coming down here. I just thought that…that maybe Keith would like to say goodbye, or…”

 

Renault nodded, the anger in his eyes receding for a moment. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He stepped aside and gestured to the coffin. “She’s there, Keith. Say what you want to say.”

 

The girl nodded, and quietly stepped up to the stone sarcophagus, placing her hand on the lid.

 

“Sister…big sister,” she said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, and the tears returned to her eyes. “I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. If only I was stronger, if—“

 

“Keith, remember what I told you,” said Renault in remonstrance. “There’s only one person to blame for this, and it’s Trunicht. Not you.”

 

“I…oh…Yes, Sir Renault.” She nodded obediently, and Renault noted with a bit of concern that she was calling him “sir” again. But he said nothing, as Keith continued her farewell.

 

“K…Kelitha…big sister…I promise I’ll be a great Pegasus Knight. I promise I’ll grow stronger. I’ll make you and Mother proud…please, just…please watch over me.”

 

She placed her head down, and for a few moments the catacombs were almost entirely silent, except for the sound of her sobs and the tears wetting the lid of Kelitha’s coffin.

 

But only for a few moments. After a few more sniffles, as Braddock placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, she blinked away the last of her tears and looked up at Renault. “S…Sir Renault…I’m sorry. I…I knew this day would c-come…someday. We…we were both Ilians, and we…we knew we m-might have to give up our lives for our country someday. So…so I’m happy my sister…Kelitha w-went away like this. And…and to honor her memory…I’ll make you proud, Sir Renault! You too, Sir Braddock! These…I’m sorry for being so weak. These’ll be the last tears I shed, I promise! From now on, I’ll fight my hardest for you! I’ll protect you, just like Big Sister would’ve wanted!”

 

Renault appreciated the sentiment, but he could tell just by looking at her that Keith’s ability to actually back those words up was questionable. But for now, it really was the thought that counted.

 

“That’s fine, Keith. I’m glad to hear that.”

 

He turned to his best friend. “Well, come on. Let’s go back. This war’s not gonna end itself.”

 

Braddock nodded, and again taking Keith’s hand in his, he followed Renault through the twisting passageways of the catacombs which led back to the surface. The three of them left Kelitha behind them—she was part of their past, now, but not forgotten. The responsibility of honoring her sacrifice lay to the future.

 

-X-

 

“What the hell do we do now?”

 

Khyron said this as he stood with Jerid and Gafgarion in the room which had once been Henken’s. It wasn’t the funeral they were concerned about—Reglay had already begun preparations, and Henken’s body would be ready for a formal interment in the catacombs by tomorrow—but rather, what they would do afterwards. It was easy to discern the miasma of gloom and despair which hung over Thagaste, and by extension all of the royalists of Etruria—the three men shared it, after all. They had all assumed that Henken would lead them to victory—now that he was gone, they weren’t sure what they had to do, which was what Paptimus had been counting on. Despite all this, though, they made their best efforts.

 

“Well, we can’t stop th’ war,” said Gafgarion. “But who’s gonna lead th’ army? Do we get a new Great General? What ‘bout you, m’lord? You gonna be the Mage General again?” The old Cavalier’s voice trembled just a bit, and his voice seemed as tired as it had ever been, an indication of how much these events were weighing on him.

 

“One way ‘r the other, this army needs a leader,” said Jerid, sounding just as exhausted. One of his hands reached down to his waist as if to grab at a bottle of whisky, but it grasped nothing but thin air. “Khyron, I guess you’re the best—“

 

“W-wait!” came a slurred voice from the doorway to Henken’s room. The three men turned to see a fourth—Harvery, his eyes wet from crying leaning on a wall, obviously somewhat drunk.

 

“Harvery,” Khyron sputtered in disbelief, “How dare you present yourself to me in this condition! At this point, Etruria can’t afford to have her soldiers—“

 

“P-please, L’rd Khyron,” the Assassin sniffled, “J-just hear me out f’r a sec.  You need t’ see something! I need t’ show you somefin’!”

 

“We don’t have time to waste on a drunkard’s ramblings. Now—“

 

“PLEASE!”

 

“Lord Khyron, Harvery _was_ Lord Henken’s close friend, and hell, at this point I can’t blame him for losin’ it. I could go for a drink m’self,” said Jerid unhappily. “I don’t think he’d lead us wrong, even in this state. That said,” he turned to give a disapproving eye to the drunk Assassin, “Khyron’s right. I know how it feels to lose a friend, but there’s one thing Henken taught me, and that’s losin’ yourself in drink isn’t gonna help anybody. If you’re too drunk to tell us anything we need to know, then get out now.”

 

Harvery sniffled. “N-no…no…I may be drunk outta my mind, but I wouldn’t f’rget this! J…Just look!”

 

He staggered over to Henken’s desk and reached into one of the drawers, pulling out what seemed to be a small, miniature treasure chest.

 

The Assassin gulped as he looked at it, tears seeming to fill his eyes again, then reached into his pocket to find a small golden key. With a trembling hand (he almost dropped it, but even as drunk as he was he managed to keep a hold of the small piece of metal) he inserted it into the small chest’s keyhole and opened it up to show…

 

Two magical artifacts that Khyron realized were Knight Seals along with a piece of parchment.

 

“He…he told me,” Harvery sniffled, “He told me that if…if somethin’ happened to him to open this chest. He trusted this key to me. I didn’t know what was in it ‘till now. So…so see…”

 

“Very well.” Khyron stepped over and took the chest from Harvery’s hand, placing it on the desk. He took the parchment from underneath the two seals and began to read.

 

_If you’re reading this, I’m dead, and Harvery has followed my last command. At this point in the war, even my death shouldn’t matter. The rebels are out of money, out of men, and out of time. Even so, I realize how much the Royal army has relied on my leadership. To fill this vacuum, I want the position of Great General to be replaced in this way:_

_If Jerid is still alive, appoint him as the next Great General. If not, appoint his highest-ranked subordinate, regardless of nobility. The Great General will lead the armored men of the King’s army, and this Knight Seal will be proof of his status. This will also remain the highest position of the Etrurian military. Jerid is not only an honorable man but a capable leader and a quick thinker. This is exactly what the country needs to make its final triumph over Paptimus. The Great General will be in charge of overall strategy and deployment, and will make his decisions in tandem with the other three Generals—which I will describe—as well as the Prime Minister, when this war is over and peace has come again to the land._

_Second, I appoint Gafgarion to a new position—that of Knight General. He or his highest ranking subordinate (again, regardless of noble status) will command the army’s mounted soldiers. Gafgarion has proven his skill as both a Cavalier and a leader of Cavaliers. This Knight Seal, too, represents an acknowledgment of his ability._

_Finally, Khyron will regain his position as Mage General, commander of this country’s magical forces. He may have been an incompetent, foolish leader before, but he has seen the Autonomous Company through every trial and every battle I have ordered them into. That is sufficient proof for me to deem him worthy of his former position._

_This will accomplish several things. First, the former army of Etruria was reliant almost entirely on the Mage Corps, and the fruits of that could be seen in its annihilation at the hands of dark magic users. The new Etrurian army will now be a well-balanced force that is capable of dealing with a wider variety of situations. Secondly, the dispersal of power among three Generals rather than a single Prime Minister will mean that no single man will be able to manipulate the King and steer the country in the wrong direction, as Paptimus did._

_As for the war effort, capturing the Fortress of Spears remains our top priority. That is the last truly defensible bastion the rebels have available to them, and more importantly, it is the last symbol of their power. When it falls, their capability and will to resist will fall as well—their armies will crumble and their people will abandon them; the only thing left to do will be the subjugation of Nerinheit City and the capitals of the other rebel countships along with the mopping up of the Red Shoulder remnants and any other remaining resistance. I have already discussed outlines of plans for the siege with Jerid and Gafgarion. It falls to them, or their successors, to effect those plans. If their previous accomplishments are any indication, they will not disappoint._

_If my death means anything to you at all, there’s only one thing you need to do to avenge it. Kill Paptimus._

 

Khyron fell silent as he read this, taking it all in—and still not entirely believing of what he’d just recited.

 

“Y’ can tell it’s his handwriting,” Harvery sniffled. “It’s genuine. It’s what he woulda wanted. ‘Zactly what Char would’ve wanted…”

 

“Char? Did you say Char?” Khyron’s eyes narrowed. “I recognize that name. The General from Cornwell?”

 

This was enough to penetrate the fog of Harvery’s drunkenness—he knew he had made a big mistake. And even worse, in his state, he didn’t care.

 

“I…I…” Harvery couldn’t take anymore. He broke down completely. “YES! YES! IT WAS CHAR! IT WAS CHAR!

 

“Char was m…my best friend f’r years, ever since Etruria sent me as a spy to Cornwell. Even when he found me out, he didn’t sell me out…we…we helped each other. In return f’r keepin’ me clued in I taught ‘im all about politics and policy and all tha’ stuff. When th’ war came to Lycia th’ King told me t’ spirit him away to Etruria, EXACTLY for a time like this, where his leadership would be needed! And now he’s dead! He’s dead!” Harvery couldn’t stop crying now, and he slumped down to the floor, tears streaming down his face. “He loved this country, Khyron! He really did! He w’s happy here! He didn’t have to fight, or kill…even though he was a Lycian, he finally found a place he could rest after the war. But what did he get out of it? What did I get out of it? What did we all get out of it? Nothin’! He’s dead! Dead! Dead cause of those God damned rebels! It’s…”

 

He couldn’t continue. He simply turned his head down and continued to cry for his dead friend. Jerid and Gafgarion could only stare at him incredulously. First they’d heard the unbelievable news of their promotions, and then this…

 

“This doesn’t change anything,” said Khyron, so quietly that almost no-one could hear him. “Not one thing.”

 

“K-Khyron?” said Jerid, still not fully understanding what was going on, not fully sure of how he should have reacted. “Are you…”

 

“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” yelled Khyron and slammed his fist down on the table. “IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT HE WAS LYCIAN! IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT HE WAS THE COUNT, OR MARQUESS, OR WHATEVER OF CORNWELL! HE COULD BE THE DAMNED KING OF BERN FOR ALL I CARE! ALL THAT MATTERS IS WE CARRY OUT HIS ORDERS!”

 

“K…what?” The Mage General’s outburst had actually managed to stem the Assassin’s crying.

 

“I hated that man,” said Khyron, his voice quiet again. “He was a foreigner! He took away my position! He humiliated me! More than anything, I wanted to see him dead!

 

“But he…he was also a strong warrior. One of the strongest I ever saw. He was a good leader. He protected my king. And as much as I hate to admit it, he saved my country!

 

“And for all this, he paid the ultimate price. Just like I am willing to do. Just like I expect my Autonomous Company to do. Just like several of us already have—like the brave Kelitha, the Ilian who fought Barbarossa, fought Vinland, and fought Paptimus himself without complaining, and gave her life for the honor of her country and for the sake of mine.

 

“Commoner? Foreigner? It doesn’t matter. We live in a world where the King’s own nobles can betray him, like Vinland and Verelecht did! We live in a world where a Count like Nerinheit, given his power and status by the king, can spit all over the sacrifices and pain men like my brother have endured! If this Char gave his life to stand against scum like Nerinheit, then he died a true Etrurian. And…and I…I can’t hate a true Etrurian!

 

“So I, at least, will honor his sacrifice and follow his orders—because they will lead us to victory over this rebel scum, and ensure my King will enjoy the happiness my brother suffered so much for! I will acknowledge you as my superior and my equal, Jerid and Gafgarion, if that is what Henken thought would lead us to victory. Gafgarion, you have served me loyally and well in all my days at Caerleon. Jerid, as much as I may have chafed at your treatment of my men when I first came to this city, it was fair and far-sighted. When even nobles have betrayed my King, I don’t care if you’re commoners. As long as you’re willing to make the sacrifices my brother made, I will respect you!”

 

He took a deep breath. “I owe much to many people. If a son of Cornwell has done so much for my King, then Cornwell will have the friendship of Caerleon forever more. But I will pay that debt _after_ this war is over. For now, though, I am your Mage General, Jerid, and Gafgarion will be your Knight General. Together, the three of us will lead the King’s forces to victory!”

 

He turned a cold eye towards Harvery. “But before we do, one more thing. You will tell _no-one_ of what we have spoken of here. No-one will know Henken’s true identity, at least until the war is over, and no-one will know that we know. And you will _never_ act so shamefully again, at least while you are under my command. I expect one thing from anyone, commoner or noble, native Etrurian or foreigner, and that is their best. If you can’t give me that, I will treat you as the slackful, incompetent freebooter that you are!”

 

Harvery nodded frantically. He didn’t need to be told twice.

 

“Understood? Good. Now we turn to the question of our mobilization. Jerid, what’s the status of our forces?”

 

“I…uh…”

 

“Well? Are you worthy of the position of Great General or not?”

 

That was enough to snap him out of it. “Yeah…yeah, I am, Khyron. And to answer your question? I was with Henken when he was getting’ everything organized—he kept me close by for a reason, ‘specially since I knew this city. If he hadn’t died, we could’ve started our march the day after tomorrow. Now, it’ll be a little harder, but even if the people are demoralized, we ought to be able to move within a fortnight.”

 

“Good.”

 

“A…about the morale,” said Gafgarion, still uneasy about his new status as Knight General but getting used to it already, “Henken’s funeral tomorrow might be th’ best way of gettin’ it back up I c’n think of. We can’t hide it from th’ people. What we should do is _use_ it—tell ‘em that though th’ Great General’s dead, his cause lives on.”

 

“Good. And what of the Fortress of Spears?”

 

“Well…that’s the hard part. What we know of it comes from what Renault n’ Braddock told us when they first defected, but that was when it wasn’t even fully built yet. I’d wager they still have all those ballistae that gave us so much trouble when we first tried to take it, but they might have added in some new tricks too. I would recommend scoutin’ it out when our army nears it before finalizing any battle plans.”

 

“Not the most courageous course of action, but if sacrificing my pride gives the King victory, I will do so. In that case, I will be retaining my command of the Autonomous Company.”

 

“L-Lord Khyron? Henken’s orders—“

 

“Yes, I know what they are. However, it would be a disservice to his memory to delude ourselves. I…I know why he demoted me, as much as it galls me to admit it. But facing the truth is what the King needs! And the truth is, I’ve little success with commanding large forces. On the other hand, I _know_ my Company. I know their strengths, weaknesses, and how to utilize them most effectively. I’ll leave handling the logistics of the Mage Corps to Count Reglay, because he has the most experience with matters like that. In the upcoming battle, the Mage General’s responsibility will be to ensure that the Autonomous Company exerts as much influence there as it did in the defense of Caerleon. Not only that,” and at this Khyron’s tone grew markedly more bitter, “but both the men and the citizenry distrust me and my Company. For now, even if I am the Mage General, my ideal role would be to continue to command the Autonomous Company, while someone with less of a…reputation…commands the larger Mage Corps. Any objections?”

 

Jerid shook his head. “I gotta be honest, Khyron, I never expected to be sayin’ this to you, but…you’re making a hell of a lot of sense. You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

 

It seemed as if Khyron had to keep himself from snapping at the former jailor, but he succeeded, restraining himself to a scowl. “Whatever you may think of me doesn’t matter. Let us prepare for the funeral and then get a good night’s sleep. Especially you, Harvery!”

 

The distraught Assassin nodded, picked himself off, and staggered away. The three newly-minted Generals, for their part, soon followed. Though as each of them laid themselves to bed in their individual quarters, the dreams that haunted them for the rest of the night made them much more sympathetic towards Harvery by the time they woke up in the morning.

 

-x-

 

Jerid stood at the very top of the tower of Zodian’s Rest, fidgeting in his heavy armor as he watched the funeral procession below him. That Knight Seal was really something—the moment after he felt that bolt of magical energy run through him, he felt better than he had in weeks. And that wasn’t even mentioning the new suit of armor he had, nor the big shield and massive axe. Despite all that, though, neither he nor Gafgarion, standing beside him and Khyron and also wearing a new suit of Paladin’s armor, could feel too good about themselves. The black-clad mourners lining the streets of the main road along with the pallbearers carrying the great wood coffin (like Monica’s had been, it was emblazoned with the symbol of Elimine, even though Henken had never been the most pious of souls) reminded them that their promotions had come at a very great cost.

 

It also reminded them, however, that they had a duty to their country and their people. As Henken’s coffin disappeared into the depths of Zodian’s Rest, Jerid cleared his throat and looked at Khyron. “You ready?”

 

Khyron nodded and chanted, casting the voice-enhancing spell so beloved by leaders and speech-makers all over Elibe. Knowing the entire city would hear his words, Jerid stepped up to the edge of the top floor and began to speak.

 

“I…People of Thagaste. People of Etruria. I’m not so good at speeches—a lot of you’ll know me as Jerid, one of this city’s former jailors. Like so many of you, I was pressed into service to fight the rebels, and like all of you, I was proud to serve my King under Henken, the Great General.

 

“I’m not gonna lie to you. Henken is dead. What you just saw was his coffin. He was killed last night in a Rebel sneak attack, along with many other of our soldiers and friends. I’m not gonna waste a lot of time telling all of you what the leaders of the army discussed last night—because I bet you’ll be able to guess anyways. I want you to know that while Henken may be gone, his will lives on. As of today, I’ve assumed the mantle of Great General. Gafgarion of Sorveno will now be known as the Knight General, and Khyron of Caerleon will regain his post as Mage General. Together, the three of us will continue to lead the King’s army in Henken’s stead.

 

“I know what most of you are probably thinkin’. “Who’s Jerid? Who’s Gafgarion? And why do they deserve to be leaders?” Well, I’ll admit one thing: Neither me nor Gafgarion ever wanted these positions. We didn’t take them out of a lust for power, but because we had to, because Henken wanted us to have them. Hell, we didn’t even want this war in the first place. But I’ll tell you why Henken chose us: Because there’s no doubt we’re gonna end it. Me and Gafgarion have fought besides your fathers, brothers, and sons every last inch of this war, and we’re not gonna leave you now and make all of your sacrifices—not just Henken’s—meaningless. No, we’re gonna keep on fighting, and we’re not gonna stop till we’ve won!

 

“And make no mistake, we _are_ winning. I know what some of you are thinkin’, and again, I’m not gonna lie to you. “Henken was the great general! He saved Aquleia! He was the strongest warrior in our army! Now that he’s gone, doesn’t it mean we’re gonna lose?

 

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

 

He seemed to stand up straighter in his armor—even though not many could see him all the way up at the top of the cathedral, everyone could hear his voice.

 

“Henken’s assasination doesn’t mean the rebels are winnin’. No, it means they’re almost defeated. This was an act of desperation—pure, sheer, undiluted desperation. Paptimus knows he’s running out of men, money, and time. Meanwhile, our army’s getting stronger and stronger each day. We have recruits flowing in from all over the country, while his mercenaries are leavin’ the ship they know is sinking, like the rats they are. The people in the North have been starved and abused for the entire length of this war, and they’ve just about had enough. Great General Henken’s death really does mark the end of this war—for them, not us. Paptimus thinks that we’re nothing without Henken, that without his leadership, the Rebels’ll be able to get back on their feet.

 

“Well, he’s wrong. So wrong that it’s hard to believe a fool like him ever became a Prime Minister in the first place. We have more on our side than just Henken’s leadership. We have the strength of the people of Etruria behind us. We have the determination of the soldiers, the blessings of the Church, and the support of the rest of Elibe, since the whole damn world can see our cause is just, and that God is with us!

 

“So that’s the only thing I want to tell you today, citizens of Thagaste—no, no, I mean of all Etruria! Don’t give up now! That’s just what Paptimus wants us to do! Early next morning the three of us are gonna lead the King’s army straight to the Fortress of Spears, and then we’re gonna smash it wide open, and then go straight to Nerinheit! There’s no stoppin’ us now! Henken’s death hasn’t made us weak, it’s given us just the kick in the pants we needed to really get serious about this war!” He raised his axe in the air, and his voice along with it. “PEOPLE OF ETRURIA! YOUR STRUGGLE’S ALMOST OVER! I ONLY NEED TO ASK YOU FOR ONE MORE THING: LET’S AVENGE THE GREAT GENERAL’S DEATH! GIVE US YOUR STRENGTH FOR ONE LAST PUSH!”

 

The sorrow of the people had been converted into hatred—the once quiet, solemn mourners lining the sides of the roads broke out into wild cheers. “Revenge for the Great General!” “Death to the Rebels!”

 

This was exactly the reaction Jerid had been hoping for. He took a deep breath and was thankful no-one could see him up here—he was swaying slightly, and might have fallen straight off the edge if Gafgarion and Khyron hadn’t moved to steady him! They didn’t give him any trouble over it, though—they realized such a speech must have taken a lot out of him, especially since he’d never given anything like it before.

 

But even for an amateur effort, it more than served its purpose. The people of Etruria were behind him all the way.

 

-X-

 

“You need to eat, Keith.”

 

It was the third day of the army’s trek towards the Fortress of Spears, and they’d set up camp. As usual, the Company was given a wide berth by the rest of the soldiers—even now, they still didn’t quite trust their Mage General. Not that it was anything they didn’t expect by this point, of course. And as such, they were eating alone—Lisse and Apolli had prepared a nice pot of rabbit stew for all of them, though even the quality of the food couldn’t outweigh the gloom they all felt over Kelitha’s death. However, it was Keith who felt that gloom most palpably. She had barely spoken a word since Kelitha had been laid to rest in the catacombs, she had barely been eating, and it seemed as if she hadn’t been sleeping well, either. The rest of the Company could plainly see the emotional distress she was in, but none of them knew how to help her, so they didn’t make the attempt. Thus, it fell to Renault and Braddock, which was why they were sitting next to her, and why Renault attempted to coax her into taking at least a few bites of her meal.

 

“Keith. _Keith!”_

Renault raised his voice slightly, and this was enough to get the girl’s attention, finally. Ever since her sister’s death it seemed as if she’d been cast away into her own world, her glazed eyes looking at something nobody else could see. Finally, some spark of recognition seemed to light up within them, and she glanced up at the man she so admired.

 

“Y-yes, Sir Renault?”

 

He seemed to grow just a little angry for a moment, but that quickly faded into resignation and sadness, and he sighed. “Look.” Carefully, he took his own spoon, dipped it into Keith’s bowl, and raised it to her lips. She blinked, and then obediently took a sip, realizing what Renault wanted her to do.

 

“There’s a good girl,” said Renault gently, raising a hand to stroke her hair. Beside him, Braddock smiled, also for the first time in days—despite Rosamia’s ministrations, it still felt like the damage from Paptimus’ Gespenst spell hadn’t entirely left him.

 

However, they were soon interrupted by one of their other friends.

 

“Renault!” said Lisse, bounding up to him. “How do you like the stew? Apolli said this sort of thing’s your favorite!”

 

He grunted, more concerned with ensuring that Keith was continuing to eat. “Yeah, it’s great, Lisse.”

 

“I’ve got more if you want. Would you like to eat with me and Apolli?”

 

Renault just ignored this, noticing that Keith had put her spoon down. He carefully placed it into her hand and lifted it up to her lips again.

 

“I…oh.” Upon seeing this, Lisse’s eyes fell. “I…um…I’m sorry about Kelitha…”

 

Keith didn’t seem to respond to this, or even seem to hear it. Renault did, however, and he didn’t take it well.

 

“Look, Lisse,” he grimaced quietly, “you think you could leave us alone?”

 

This apparently hurt her feelings more than Renault intended and more than she let on. She stepped back, and it seemed like her eyes had grown a little wet, and without a further word she simply nodded and ran off into the growing darkness of the evening.

 

“R…Renault,” said Braddock in consternation, but when he looked at his best friend’s sad, tired eyes, his reproach died in his throat. Renault just shook his head and continued to watch over Keith, ensuring that she continued to eat her stew.

 

Across from him, however, Apolli wouldn’t take it so easily. “Renault, what th’ hell was that about?” he said indignantly as the rest of the Company simply looked on. “She was jus’ tryin’ to…she didn’t…”

 

Defense for the Mercenary Lord would come from a most unexpected source. “’Nough, Apolli,” grunted Roberto, who then took another slurp of his stew. “’E wants t’ be left alone, leave ‘im alone.”

 

This was definitely something Apolli didn’t expect—and nobody else, either. It was another first for the night—the first time Roberto had said something other than an angry, dismissive insult or a grunt that anyone could remember in a long time. But his next words made clear why he suddenly felt so sympathetic.

 

“I saw ‘is eyes when ‘e was gatherin’ up that Ilian. They looked like mine…mine, when I sent Yulia away.”

 

Nobody could argue with that. Renault simply nodded gratefully and went back to his own meal while the rest of the team remained silent for another moment, until Roberto finally said something more in keeping with his usual behavior:

 

“If y’ care so much, Apolli, make y’rself useful and talk to the girl. She likes you, eh?”

 

The young man blinked, decided that he could find nothing to contest with his former best friend’s advice, and put down his meal to pursue the Company’s transporter.

 

-x-

 

Lisse stood beneath the tree, sniffling. It was a sufficient distance away from the rest of her Company to give her the privacy she desired, and even though it was a bit closer than she would have liked to another group of camping Royal soldiers, they didn’t pay any attention to her, so it was good enough for her purposes. She closed her eyes and wiped away the tears which were rapidly forming, despite her attempts to rationalize them away.

 

“S-stupid me…I-I should’ve known better than to annoy him anyways. I-it’s not like my cooking’s so great, either…I—“

 

“Lisse, that’s not right. Your cookin’s great.”

 

“H-huh?” She blinked away a few more tears and looked up to see Apolli, walking up to her with a concerned expression on his face.

 

“A…Apolli? You followed me here?”

 

“Uh…yeah.” He put a hand behind his head, a little nervously, and tried to give her a smile. “It’s just that…well, I didn’t agree w’ how Renault treated you, ‘sall.”

 

“I-It’s not his fault,” she sniffled. “I-I understand why he’d feel this way. B-but…I just don’t know why I’m never good enough for him! I try so hard…I’ve always tried so hard. To make him happy! To do everything I could for him! But he j-just left me back in Thagaste. A-and now he’s telling me to just leave him alone! I…I don’t know what I’m doing wrong! Am I not smart enough? Do I do too little? Why…why doesn’t he like me? For years I’ve tried my best, but…but…”

 

She couldn’t continue, and she broke down, crying openly. What she didn’t expect, though, was to be held in someone’s arms and for her tears to wet someone’s chesr.

 

“Lisse…sshh. Shhhh,” said Apolli comfortingly, running a hand through her blue hair. “I told ya t’ stop talkin’ like that. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with ya. Far as I’m concerned, y’r as smart and good as any guy c’d want. ‘N beautiful, too.”

 

She didn’t notice that last part. At least not at the moment. “So…so then…why? Why doesn’t he…”

 

Apolli sighed. “Lisse…Lisse, what d’ya want outta life?”

 

Her tears stopped momentarily as she lifted her eyes to regard him curiously. “H-huh? What kind of question is that?”

 

“I know it seems kinda weird, but just hear me out. What d’ya want outta life?”

 

“I…nothing! Nothing much! I just want to live in peace…3 good meals a day, decent business for my inn, and to make Renault happy. That’s all…”

 

“That’s th’ thing, dearie. I don’t think that’s what Renault wants.”

 

“H…huh?”

 

“I…look. He’s my comrade, an’ I respect ‘im. But when y’ get right down to it, Lisse…well, maybe I’m just goin’ off on what I don’t know again, but it seems t’ me y’ live in different worlds. Renault…I’ve fought by ‘is side in Scirocco, and through all this war, and it seems t’ me like…this is where he belongs. Th’ battlefield, I mean. He doesn’t wanna live a quiet life like you do, Lisse. Inside his armor, sword an’ dagger killin’ enemies left and right, an’ most importantly, right by that Ostian friend o’ his…that’s what he’s all about. If…if there’s such a thing as destiny—and I sure as hell ain’t sure there is, but I’m just sayin’, if there was—I think that’d be his.

 

“You can’t give that to ‘im, Lisse. So no matter what ya do, no matter how good y’ are, it’ll _never_ be good enough for him. Doesn’t mean you’re bad. Doesn’t even mean he’s bad, either. But men like him an’ women like you just weren’t meant for each other.”

 

She gave him the most heartbroken look he could ever imagine seeing. “A…Apolli, you can’t—“

 

“Lisse, I know I must sound like a helluva nasty guy. But I’m just tellin’ ya the truth. You’ve seen ‘im on the battlefield. You know how he’s like. Do y’ think you could ever make him happy? More importantly, could _he_ ever make _you_ happy? Y’re a sweet, sensitive girl, Lisse, and I think y’r a beautiful one too. Renault’s a brave warrior, and I’m glad t’ fight b’side him, but he’s just not the kinda guy who’d know how t’ treat someone like you.

 

“I…hell, if ya don’t wanna talk t’ me or listen t’ me anymore after this, I’ll understand. But I gotta say what I think is the truth. Y’ shouldn’t be so hard on him, Lisse—I don’t think he’s tryin’ t’ be cruel to you, he’s just in a bad place after losin’ Kelitha, just like me an Roberto were after losin’ Yulia. But th’ thing is, y’ can’t be pushin’ yourself so hard to make y’rself good for ‘im, cause it’s never gonna happen. It’s best for both of ya if y’ learn to go your own ways, y’know?”

 

“B-but Apolli…he was my best friend. M-my only friend. Without him, I…I’m—“

 

“Alone? Well, Lisse, I can’t speak for anybody else,” and at this determination could clearly be heard in his voice, “but I’ll say this: As long as I’m ‘round, you’ll never be alone. I may not be the smartest guy on Elibe, maybe not the strongest, but I’ll be damned if I leave you. Y’r my friend, Lisse, and…and…I…I care for ya. A whole lot. It’s not much, but…if y’ll accept it, I’ll give it.”

 

“C…care? For me?”

 

Apolli nodded.

 

Lisse offered no words in response. Instead, she simply flung her arms around the young man, wrapping him up in the tightest grip she could muster. And for once, Apolli didn’t hesitate—or he barely did, anyways. He returned her embrace, and together they stood under the trees, under the stars, for a long time.

 

-X-

 

“That same God-damn dream.”

 

Braddock had been having it more often, recently—perhaps it was because the army was more than halfway to the Fortress of Spears, which meant that he was more than halfway to his next battle, and that the war itself was much more than halfway over. It wouldn’t be long before he’d get his chance to avenge Pamela’s death…which meant that the circumstances of her death kept replaying inside his mind over and over. It was the tenth—or was it the twelfth?—time he’d heard Volker’s panicked screams echoing inside his head while he slept, but this time it was a little different. The sight of the purple-haired clergyman’s head being smashed under his hands morphed into that of a green-haired woman’s just before he woke up, and it was almost as if he could still hear Kelitha’s voice even though the dream was over.

 

He sighed and looked to his side—Renault was still there on his blanket, sleeping peacefully. Braddock could’ve used someone to talk to, but he didn’t want to wake his friend up. Thus, he figured a little walk would be just what he needed to clear his head.

 

Etruria was known for its clear skies, and tonight was no exception; the moon and stars were clearly visible and gave him enough light to be able to take a stroll without fear of tripping over anything (or anyone). Sighing, he meandered away from where his Company was gathered to sleep, even away from the tents of the other Royalist soldiers, and towards a small copse of trees—he recognized it, for Apolli had managed to trap a couple of rabbits in that copse at dinnertime. However, as he neared it, he was accosted by a noise he wasn’t at all unfamiliar with, but something he wasn’t expecting.

 

A woman crying.

 

He wasn’t quite sure who it was, but it was enough to make him suspicious—he almost wished he’d brought his axe with him. His curiosity piqued, he attempted to sneak closer to the source of the sound, but stealth wasn’t his strong suit—he stepped on a twig, and the noise was enough to alert the crying woman to his presence. The soft sobbing stopped, replaced by a sharp “W-who’s there?!”

 

 _Now_ Braddock recognized that voice. “R…Rosamia?”

 

The shape in front of one of the trees got up and moved closer to him, and when Braddock squinted, even in the darkness he could tell it really was her.

 

“Braddock?! W-what’re you doing here?”

 

“Sorry! Sorry! Aw, hell, I’m sorry!” The Ostian backed away, holding his hands in front of himself apologetically. “I…I just couldn’t sleep and thought I’d take a walk, I didn’t mean to, uh…hell, I’ll go now. I’m sorry, I—“

 

“It’s too late now,” replied Rosamia, somewhat bitterly. “Hah…how shameful. I-I’m sorry you have to see something like this. You must think I’m s-such a weakling…”

 

“I…Rosamia, that’s not it at all. Lemme guess, it’s because of Kelitha’s death, right?”

 

She nodded miserably.

 

“Yeah, well, it’s the same here. We weren’t that close, but I still saw her death right before my eyes. Renault’s even more shaken up about it—you probably knew that, right? But right after I got hit by Paptimus’ spell, I saw her take the full brunt of Trunicht’s Luna magic. I’ve seen a lot of nasty stuff during my time as a mercenary, but that…” he shuddered. “Why d’you think I couldn’t get to sleep tonight? I kept having nightmares about what I saw. So if anybody’s gonna be calling you “weak” or anything like that, it’s not gonna be me, alright?”

 

“Ah…I see. T-thank you.” She nodded her head gratefully at Braddock, who smiled in response. Then she took her seat in front of the small tree she’d been resting under previously, and this time, she invited Braddock to join her.

 

“Still, I…I can’t help feeling a little guilty,” she sniffled. “Keith…it was her sister, after all. As bad as I feel, she’s got to be…”

 

“Yeah,” agreed Braddock sadly. “She…she’s not doing so well. Not as bad as could be expected—I mean, she’s started to eat again and stuff. But I’m not sure if she’s ready for combat…I don’t think she’s been sleeping properly.” He shook his head. “I was the same way after…ah, never mind. I just hope time’ll be able to heal those wounds, too. But for you to grieve over her death, that’s not a sign of weakness, Rosamia. Aside from Renault and Keith, you were the one closest to her, weren’t you? I know she liked your magic or something, right?”

 

“Y-yes, that’s true. She probably would have been a good mage if she wasn’t born in Ilia. It was so nice to find another woman who shared my interest in magic…I…I never really had any friends like that back at the Academy.” She lowered her head and began to sob again. “B…but now she’s dead. And for what? And for what, Braddock?  I listened to Jerid’s speech yesterday, and he said the war’s almost over, but…but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like it’s been going on forever, and that it’ll go on forever more. She…Kelitha wasn’t so different than I am. Will I be next? What about Apolli? Or what a-about you, Braddock?

 

“I…it just seems so meaningless. Why all this f-fighting? Why all this death? What’s it all for? Even if this war ends soon…what then? I-it won’t bring our friends back, or all the other people who died. I’m just…I’m just so tired. So tired of death, so tired of this endless fighting…I just can’t see…what’s the point?”

 

Braddock blinked, taking in everything she’d just said—not condemning her, but not saying anything else, either. The silence seemed to stretch on for much longer than it actually did, and Rosamia had to ask,

 

“B..Braddock, I’m sorry. Th-this sort of reasoning must sound almost treasonous, right? I’m sorry, these doubts, I—“

 

“No, Rosamia, it’s fine.” He looked at her calmly. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with what you’ve said. It’s a legitimate question. Hell, I think the world would be a better place if more people asked that. I’m not gonna call you a coward or anything for having these doubts. But…hell, I dunno. I’m not a philosopher, but I can try to answer your question. Mind if I give a shot?”

 

“N…no. Not at all.”

 

“Well…I’m not sure if you’ll find this convincing but…me? I…I’m fighting for a better world.”

 

“A…ah?” Rosamia seemed to be genuinely confused by this answer. “A better…what do you mean?”

 

This elicited a chuckle from Braddock. “Hah, hah! I guess that must sound weird coming from me, right?”

 

“I admit…yes, that’s true.”

 

“Well, I’ll be honest with you. When I first re-joined your side all those months ago, ‘a better world’ was the last thing on my mind. There was only one thing, one thing in all the world I cared about, and that was revenge. Paptimus…he was responsible for…well, let’s just say he took a lot away from me. A lot. Not just at Scirocco, I mean. The only thing I wanted was to see him dead. That was all. And for that reason alone—no principles, no guilt, no higher causes—that was why I joined back with you.

 

“I know, I know—I can tell from your face. That sounds pretty bad, right? Not exactly honorable. And it’s still true, to an extent. I still want my revenge on that piece of filth. I want to make him pay for what he did to me, and how he manipulated me and Renault as well. I want to kill ‘im, and that more than anything else is keeping me going forward.

 

“But, Rosamia…it’s not the only thing. Fighting besides Renault…and the rest of the Company…and _you_ has made me realize that. Revenge…I’m no saint, and I’m not able to “love my enemies” like the Elimineans say to do. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to forgive Paptimus, no matter what. But I can give them credit for one thing—there has to be something more than revenge to justify fighting like we’ve been. And I think you, Renault, and all our other friends have helped me realize that.

 

“Most of you hate Paptimus just as much as I do, and for equally legitimate reasons, too. But is that all we are? Enemies of Paptimus? No. No, we’re something more than that. We _have_ to be something more than that. Renault’s been beside me through thick and thin. You’ve been a strong, honorable woman for all the time I’ve known you. Khyron…even Khyron is a better man than I thought he was at first. There’s so much more to each of us than just the hatred of this one man who’s caused us harm.

 

“And that made me wonder…what if there was something more to the Rebels? Not Paptimus—he’s scum, through and through—but not everyone in his army is necessarily evil either. I mean, me and Renault were following him for a while. He mislead us, and if it wasn’t for dumb luck, we probably would have served him blindly for the course of the whole war. How many other Rebels are the same way? It hasn’t made me any less willing to fight them, of course—war’s a tough thing, and a lot of the people you kill don’t deserve it. But there were other good people we met in the army too—Renault had a lil’ friend back in Nerinheit named Dina, and Dougram was a genuinely honorable man. Some of the rebels aren’t so different from you and me.

 

“And that made me wonder…what if their cause itself wasn’t entirely bad, even if their leader is? Volk…I mean, back in Lycia, I met lots of corrupt nobles and corrupt priests. I’m sorry if this offends you, Rosamia, but I have to admit you can legitimately hate the nobility and the Eliminean religion. Renault does, after all. And by the same token, Paptimus and his rebels do raise some legitimate points. I mean, isn’t reason a good thing? When we say someone’s unreasonable—I mean, totally lacking in it—we’re saying they’re a lunatic. If we can’t use reason to make sense of the world around us, what else can we rely on?

 

“But that’s the thing, Rosamia.” His friend watched him, her expression almost rapt, as his face hardened with determination, his gaze rising to the sky, at something she couldn’t see. “That’s why I’m fighting against Paptimus, and against his rebels—because despite what they say, they’re not truly reasonable. He murdered my—I mean, he’s killed thousands of people in this Civil War in Etruria, he’s betrayed his friends, and he’s blasted this beautiful land. Even more than that, I’ve seen what he did in the lands he conquered. He didn’t fight against Eliminism with arguments, or logic, or anything remotely resembling reason. He crushed the church by force. With his shadow-spies keeping tabs on everyone, sending anyone who disagreed with him to a labor camp, or just executing them publicly…he didn’t stand for reason. He stood for violence and coercion.

 

“He’s not entirely wrong, Rosamia. King Galahad and his nobles were truly doing a poor job of running this country. Same with the church, with all its crimes and excesses. But after everything I’ve experienced, I know one thing. What Etruria, what this whole world needs, is reform, not revolution. There are times when violence is justified, yeah. Sometimes you have to take up arms against an oppressor. But Paptimus isn’t doing that. What he’s doing is just wild slaughter, trying to force everyone else under his tyranny. And that’s not the path to true change.

 

“Me, I don’t know what that path is. I’m no statesman, I’m just a warrior. I do have some ideas, though. Educating the people. Getting good men and women—genuinely good men and women, who actually believe what they preach—into the clergy. Showing the nobles the lives of the people who serve under them, so they can actually understand some empathy. And encouraging both the citizenry and the rulers to be vigilant against incompetency and corruption. Maybe this path would take longer than Paptimus’ way of simply destroying everything through revolution. But I’m sure it would be more effective in the end. You can’t fight for reason through unreason. You can’t make people rational through fear and violence.

 

“So that’s why I’m fighting, Rosamia, and that’s why I’m fighting alongside you. It’s not just because I hate Paptimus—though I still do, still hate him more than anyone else. But more than that, I’m also fighting for what I believe in. For all my problems with the king and his nobles like Khyron, I think there’s a way we can change this country—hell, all of Elibe—without spilling their blood and destroying everything they ever did and ever could stand for. I mean, look at Khryon! I always thought he was just a fool, that he’d never learn. But through his experiences…after fighting besides me, and besides Kelitha, and besides the rest of us, look at him now. He’s no longer a stupid, immature popinjay. He’s still got a ways to go, but he’s definitely on his way to becoming a real leader.”

 

He looked back down at her. “A world like that…that’s the one I’d like to live in. That’s what I mean by a ‘better world.’ A world where people like Khyron can learn from their mistakes, not die because of them. A world in which injustice is rectified by determination, hope, and _real_ reason, not the violence Paptimus thinks is reason, not the force and fear the Rebels use.” He fell silent for a moment, then blushed as he realized how pretentious he must have sounded. “Uh…aw, hell! Like I said, I’m no philosopher or statesman. I’m sorry for talkin’ your ear off like that, Rosamia. But…well, maybe what I said made you feel a little better. Even if just a little, it’s not all bad, right?”

 

“B…Braddock.” She smiled gratefully at him, wiping her eyes—her tears seemed to have subsided entirely. “Not at all, my dear friend. Not at all. Th…thank you. I…” Now it was her turn to blush. “I…I’m so glad to have you by my side. This…this isn’t the first time your words have eased my doubts, but this…this is really…th-thank you so much.”

 

“Rosamia…” Braddock felt his own face redden. “W…well, look. If I’ve gone this far, I might as well say one thing more. Rosamia, there’s…there’s something I want you to do for me.”

 

“W…what?”

 

“Rosamia…I want you to live.”

 

“Live?”

 

“Yeah. I want you to live through this war…I want you to live to see Paptimus’ death, and then keep on living. Survive this war, and then live a good, long life as a noblewoman of Etruria…no, not just that, as a woman of Elibe.

 

“Because…remember what I was just talking about? How, in the better world I’m fighting for, people would fight injustice with reason—real reason, not Revolutionary terror—and hope? Well, _you’re_ that hope, Rosamia. You, and people like you. I know I’ve badmouthed nobles so many times before, but you’re not like them. You’re brave, you’re strong, and you’re honorable. If people like you didn’t exist, then Paptimus’ way of violence really would be the only path to change. But as long as you’re alive…you can use your strength to rebuild Etruria. Maybe rebuild this whole continent. Not by yourself, of course, but it’s not gonna happen without the strength of people like you. And not just rebuild it, but build it into something _better_. Me and Renault…we’re just fighters. We can’t do much more than break things and kill people. But someone like you…someone like you can lead the people of this country, this whole continent, to a brighter future.

 

“So…so that’s why.” He took his hand in hers, looking straight into her eyes. “I dunno what’s gonna happen from here on out, but there’s one thing I’m sure of. Please, Rosamia…you have to live. If you really wanna thank me for all I said tonight, that’s the only way you can really repay me.”

 

“B…Braddock.” Her grasp on his hands grew firmer. “I…I promise. I won’t throw my life away. I’ll do my best to survive this war! But…but I want you to do the same. Because after it’s all over, I…”

 

“Y…yeah. I understand.”

 

Neither of them was as given to displays of emotion as their friend Apolli had been, just a few nights before. Yet their feelings were no less genuine. They sat there, under the trees, under the stars, holding each others’ hands for a stretch of time that seemed to yawn as long as it did for Apolli and Lisse.

 

-X-

 

They’d reach the Fortress of Spears by tomorrow morning, and Renault knew that heading to a battle without enough sleep was a very bad idea. However, he also knew that going to battle while one was unprepared was an even worse idea. Thus, even after much of the rest of the Royalist army had sent themselves to bed, Renault was still up in the transporter’s tent, checking up on his weapons and armor. Lisse had allowed him to do it—he’d apologized (at Braddock’s behest) for snapping at her a few days ago, but she still seemed to be avoiding him, or at least wasn’t as enthusiastic as she used to be to see him. He noticed she was spending much more time with Apolli. Something deep within him felt a pang of sadness at this fact, but the rest of him didn’t care—as long as she kept his equipment well maintained, that was all that mattered. And fortunately, she did. He had his swords (including his Runesword, though it seemed to him its enchantment would run out sooner rather than later) in good condition and even more importantly, his enchanted armor seemed to have been excellently refurbished. It wasn’t quite as good as new, but Goddard had clearly done a good job on it—the chain-dagger mechanism in both pauldrons worked well enough. After helping himself to a couple of spare Vulneraries from storage, Renault sighed in satisfaction, deciding that he was as prepared as he’d ever be for the battle tomorrow. Thus, it was time for him to finally get to sleep.

 

Before he did, though, he wanted to check up on Keith.

 

He cautiously made his way past the many tents and sleeping soldiers on the ground, careful not to wake them. He neared the out-of-the-way spot where his comrades were sleeping, and then came to Keith’s position. He knelt down to check her breathing, satisfied that she was lying down on her blanket, at least, but then he reached out to lay a hand on her head, he noticed her tense up slightly.

 

“Dammit, Keith,” he growled, mildly irritated, “you’re not asleep, are you?”

 

The girl winced again, realizing she couldn’t fool Renault. She sat up, looking at him with the red, listless eyes so different from those she used to have, but which Renault was unhappily very used to now. “I…I’m sorry, Sir Renault. I-I’ll try…”

 

Renault sighed. “Look, I…I know how you must be feeling. I don’t wanna pressure you. But Keith, I have to be honest. We _need_ you. The Fortress of Spears is a hell of a tough nut to crack, and right now you’re the only flight-capable soldier we have. I wish we could let you sit this next battle out, but I don’t think we’ll be able to. The Autonomous Company can’t afford any more losses.

 

“You need to sleep, Keith. I know you haven’t been getting much of it since your sister died, and…I can’t blame you. But this is gonna start affecting your performance in battle, and we can’t have that.”

 

“I-I know, Sir Renault! I remember what you told me! I-I’ll try to get to sleep, I promise!”

 

“Promises are great, but doing’s more important, Keith.”

 

“I…I know.” She looked down. “I’ll…try.”

 

Renault sighed again. “Yeah, well, tryin’s easier than succeeding, too.  Let me guess…you’ve been having nasty nightmares all the time, right?”

 

“H…how’d you know?”

 

“Braddock’s been having more of ‘em recently too, from what he’s told me.”

 

“Braddock? But he’s so brave…”

 

“Dark magic can have that effect on even the bravest men. Getting hit by a spell like Gespenst and then watching Kelitha get blasted by Luna…I can’t blame him if he’s sort of disturbed by that. So by the same token, I sure as hell can’t blame you if you’re feeling like this. You’re not a coward or anything, you’re just a human being.

 

“But it’s something you’ve got to overcome either way. If you want to honor your sister and avenge her death…”

 

“But…but…” Her eyes seemed to grow wet. “It’s…every time I close my eyes, I see her…I hear her…screaming. And I’m the only one. I…I feel so alone, Renault. When I sleep, it’s as if that dark magic…it’ll come for me again. Every night, I…I feel as if it’s coming for me…as if what happened to Kelitha will happen to me. I…I don’t want to be alone, Renault, I—“

 

Renault sighed again. “So that’s it, huh? Well, guess there’s no complaining. Here, stay still.”

 

“A-ah?”

 

Before she could react, Renault scooped her up in his arms and began carrying her away, towards the spot of ground he shared with Braddock. “This’s just as well. There’s something from your sister I need you to see.”

 

He knelt down and deposited her on the blanket, an action which was enough to stir Braddock. “Huh…wha? Renault? Wha--?”

 

“Heh,” Renault laughed nervously as Keith continued to stare up at him curiously. “Sorry, Braddock. Is it okay if we have a bedmate for the night?”

 

This piqued the Ostian’s attention, further rousing him from his sleep. “Who…Keith?” As he blinked and took a good look at the girl, he smiled sympathetically. “Ah, I understand. Don’t worry, Keith, I don’t mind a bit. Probably having trouble sleeping, huh? Same here. The three of us oughta do a better job of fending off nightmares than any of us alone. Strength in numbers and all.”

 

Keith’s expression turned from unsure to hopeful. “R…really? You mean that, Sir Braddock?”

 

“He sure does,” said Renault, settling in next to her. “And there’s one more thing, too. Check this out.” Renault reached a hand out to the pouch of his belongings he kept in front of his blanket, next to his Silver Sword. He fished around in it for a moment, then removed something from its depths and showed it proudly to Keith.

 

Keith’s eyes seemed to go so wide Renault thought they’d pop out of her head. “An Elysian Whip! Renault, where’d you—“

 

“I found it in your sister’s belongings,” he said. “I…I dunno where she found it, or how long she’d been keeping it. So I won’t be pretentious and say what she intended it for. But…I dunno. It just feels to me like she meant for _you_ to have it. Like she was saving it for her little sister. And either way, it’d be a waste to just leave it there unused. So, for tomorrow’s battle…

 

“I…I understand, Renault!” Another happy development—the spark of determination now burned in her previously listless eyes. “This…this whip…it represents my sister’s hopes for me! I won’t let her down! Or you! I promise!”

 

Renault laughed. “Glad to hear that, but like I said, promising is easier than doing. Think you can try getting some sleep with us, Keith?”

 

“Mm!”

 

She snuggled down next to Renault, as Braddock laid himself back down to sleep, much to everyone’s mutual satisfaction. And to further expand on the night’s victories, with another sigh that sounded much more belabored than he actually felt, he laid a hand on Keith’s head and began stroking her hair. Once again, she winced a bit in surprise, but it seemed to be outweighed by the comfort she obviously felt.

 

“This is what your sister used to do, right? I’ve done it before and you didn’t think it was half bad, though I guess it’s still no replacement…”

 

“I…it’s fine, Renault, really.”

 

“Heh. Renault always finds a way to be useful,” grinned Braddock, lying on his side and looking at the two of them. “So…hey, Keith, listen…”

 

“Um…yes?”

 

“D…don’t worry, alright? We…we’ll protect you. Me and Renault. Your sister’s not coming back, and we can’t replace her. But…but for now, th…think of us as your brothers, alright?”

 

“My…brothers?”

 

“Yeah. We’ll protect you. We’ll do everything we can for you. So…so don’t give up, okay? Just keep carrying on. We’ll be beside you all the way.”

 

“Hey, I didn’t agree to this!” grumped Renault. “But still…” he looked at Keith. “Your sister’s not here anymore, so we can’t rely on her. It’s all up to you now. We’ll be your brothers, and we’ll look after you. So don’t let us down! Look after us, too!”

 

“Hey, Renault!” Braddock blurted, rather embarrassed, “that’s---“

 

“I…I understand!” said Keith, who had no problems whatsoever with the arrangement. “It’s just what my sister would’ve wanted. I’ll do my best, Big Brother Renault! I’ll protect you! I won’t let any of ‘em get you, I promise! I promise!”

 

“First it was ‘Brother,’ then ‘Sir,’ and now it’s ‘Big Brother?’” Renault grumbled under his breath, though there wasn’t the slightest genuine trace of consternation. “Man, I just keep digging myself deeper. Well, it doesn’t matter. If we wanna protect each other, we gotta get a good night’s sleep. So that’s your big brother’s first request of you, Keith!”

 

It was something she was more than happy to fulfill. She snuggled up against Renault again, and after a few minutes of his continued stroking of her hair, her breathing had fallen back to a steady tempo, and her eyes were closed. Her expression still seemed troubled, but not nearly to the extent it had been on previous nights. “Job well done,” Renault grinned to himself, and looked at Braddock for confirmation—and found that the big Ostian had already fallen back to sleep.

 

With another small chuckle to himself, Renault laid his head down and did the same.

 

-X-

 

“Hey, Yazan! When the hell’re we gonna get paid?”

 

“The King’s whole damn army is at our doorstep! You said the war’d end when you killed Henken!”

 

“I’m not fightin’ all o’ them on an empty stomach!”

 

The Wyvern Lord grimaced as he stood under the outer wall of the Fortress of Spears, listening to Dougram and his men complain about the horrible conditions. He had to admit, they had a point—the Revolution was running out of money, and only the most experienced mercenaries and most loyal Red Shoulders were getting their salaries. This hadn’t been much of a problem for him, since he’d made so much money off of looting Sorveno’s coffers,

 

“I’ve had enough of you and your Revolution, Yazan,” sneered Dougram. “It’s not just me. _We’ve_ had enough, right, men?”

 

This was met with a resounding cheer from Dougram’s soldiers, who were all occupying the outer walls and manning the ballistae—Yazan and Trunicht intended them to take the brunt of the coming enemy attack, but now the Bernite was reconsidering the wisdom of that move; given how they were now training their weapons on _him_.

 

“The last time I saw my uncle was when he was bein’ carted off to a labor camp,” called one soldier. “I’m not fightin’ for a Revolution that treats its own people like that!”

 

“You Red Shoulders treat us like garbage! I thought we were all supposed to be equal!” called another.

 

Standing atop the outer wall’s gate, Dougram unsheathed his sword and leveled it at Yazan. His friend Serapino was standing next to him, the mendicant looking utterly confused as to what was going on. “I’m not the only one who’s sick and tired of bending to your twisted will, Yazan. It’s finally over! My men and I are severing our connection to the Revolutionary Army! We’re taking a stand against you and your unjust ways!”

 

“Hah! You idiot! What do you think’s gonna happen to you!?” Yazan retorted. “The Royalists don’t take too well to traitors. We may not be paying you well, but at least we’re not gonna kill ya. You think their new Great General is gonna be that merciful?”

 

“We’ll take his mercy over yours. After all, Braddock and Renault went off to join them, and last I heard they were doing pretty well on the Royalist side. Remember Caerleon? And besides, at this point we certainly do have a decent bargaining chip on our side—these ballistae! We’re no longer isolated in the middle of nowhere. If we let them take the castle, that’ll be enough leverage for us to demand some leniency!”

 

“I hate the Royalists,” called another of Dougram’s men, a ballistician this time, “but this damned Revolution’s promised me everything and given me nothing! I’m thinkin’ I oughta give the King another shot!”

 

This was met with another series of cheers from the men manning the wall, one of whom sent a ballista bolt flying at Yazan. “Shit!” he yelled, giving a spur to his Wyvern and rushing it back to the castle. Fortunately, the loyal Red Shoulders had firm control of the castle itself, and the ballisticians on the roof laid down their own covering fire to keep the pressure off their retreating commander.

 

With the massive Royalist army approaching, though, Yazan was very sure it wouldn’t be enough.

 

-x-

 

“Mutiny! There’s a mutiny at the Fortress of Spears!”

 

This wild cry from Harvery was enough to pique Renault’s interest, and especially those of Jerid, Gafgarion, and Khyron. The Autonomous Company along with the Generals had been taking up the head of the Royal Army’s formation as it marched towards the Fortress, but Harvery had been sent ahead some time ago to scout it out. He had returned much sooner than expected to bear this news.

 

“What’s going on over there?” Khyron demanded, interrogating the very excited Assassin. He seemed to be stone-cold sober, which was a relief to everyone watching, given how depressed he seemed to be after Henken’s death—but apparently, the Generals had done a very good job of ensuring he didn’t fall off the wagon. However, rather than drunk he seemed to be very panicked, which wasn’t exactly relieving either.

 

“T-there’re two factions in that fortress, as far as I can tell,” he gasped. “One is the Red Shoulders—a while ago, they incorporated the most battle-hardened veterans into that brigade to make up for their losses; it’s no longer just Druids and Black Knights. Yazan and Trunicht are leadin’ ‘em, so I hear. But on the other side there’s a regiment led by a mercenary named Dougram. Apparently, he and his men haven’t been paid for a while, and he personally hates the Red Shoulders, from what I hear. His men completely control the outer wall, where all the ballistae are, and they’ve pinned the Red Shoulders inside the castle itself! This is the perfect time to strike, guys!”

 

Jerid seemed to agree with that assessment. “If this’s some kind of trap, it’s the strangest damned one I’ve ever heard of. I say we strike while we still have the chance!”

 

Braddock chimed in with his support. “I remember Dougram—he was one of the first mercenaries we made friends with. He always struck me as a genuinely upright man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finally got wise to how corrupt the Rebel cause really was.” He turned and grinned at Keith, who was riding her Pegasus behind them, in front of some of Gafgarion’s Cavaliers. She was now carrying a fine sword at her hip in addition to her spear, along with a sturdy chestplate Lisse had managed to find for her and some barding for her mount donated by one of Gafgarion’s Paladins. “Guess you might not have needed that Elysian Whip after all, Keith!”

 

“Hey, don’t say that,” retorted Renault. “Every time we think we have it easy it’s always gotten worse. Who says this battle’s gonna be any different?” He turned back to Khyron. “In any case, though, Dougram’s our friend. We might be able to get him over to our side entirely. I’m with Jerid,” and at this, he paused and looked at the Great General, realizing how odd those words must have sounded from him, “we oughta take this chance while we still have it.”

 

“That settles it, then!” Khyron waved his hands and ensorcelled his voice, allowing it to carry to every last soldier behind him. “THE FORTRESS OF SPEARS IS IN CHAOS! MANY OF ITS SOLDIERS HAVE REALIZED THE ERROR OF THEIR WAYS AND REJECTED THE REBEL CAUSE! LET US TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY AND SEIZE IT FOR THE KING!!”

 

The army behind him let out a rousing cheer, raising their weapons in the air, and with the Three Generals and the Autonomous Company at their head, their steady march became more of an excited charge.

 

Of course, if any of them knew what was waiting for them there, they would have been much less enthusiastic.

 

-x-

 

“So, Dougram’s finally made his move, has he?”

 

“Uh-huh,” said Yazan unhappily as he and Trunicht stood atop of what had previously been the balcony of Castle Nerinheit, watching their loyal ballisticians fire shots at the traitorous soldiers below. It didn’t have much effect besides scaring them, though—for the most part, the loyal rebels and the turncoats were at a stalemate. The Red Shoulders were better trained, armed, and armored, but they were trapped inside the castle, since Dougram’s men on the walls could pick them off easily with ballistae on bows. On the other hand, Dougram’s forces weren’t nearly strong enough to take the castle itself. That would change if they linked up with the rapidly approaching Royalists, though.

 

The Black Knight simply chuckled. “Well, that’s a problem, but not too much of a problem. I knew Dougram and I would part ways ever since he gave me that moralizing lecture after Solgrenne. How fortunate it is I have a little surprise for just this occasion.”

 

“Oh, yeah? Wanna tell me what it is?”

 

“Of course! Follow me, Brother Yazan.”

 

With a dramatic sweep of his cape, the dark magician turned and headed back down, his curious friend in tow. He descended from the balcony into the stairwell which led down…and down…and down.

 

“Hey, I know where we’re going. The dungeons! But why—“

 

“Wait and see, comrade, wait and see.”

 

Together, the two of them made their way into the dank, torchlit depths of the basement of the Fortress of Spears. Virtually all of the cells were occupied—the reconstruction of old Castle Nerinheit had been one of the jobs to which “reactionaries” and “subversives” had been sentenced to labor, after all. However, Trunicht passed by each one of these cells, ignoring the groaning and curses shot at him by their occupants. He headed straight to the very last one at the farthest corner of the dungeon, which was larger than the rest…and eerily silent.

 

Reaching into a pouch at his belt, Trunicht pulled out a small silver key and inserted it into the cell door’s lock. It opened, but there still wasn’t enough light to see who, exactly, it contained. Another strange thing—most of the other cells seemed to be filled to the brim with the unfortunate condemned, but this one seemed downright spacious.

 

“It’s been a while, brother,” grinned Trunicht. “Are you happy to see me?”

 

“G…go…to…hell…” rasped a pained voice from darkness, and Yazan was surprised to hear it seemed somewhat…familiar. He couldn’t quite place it, though.

 

With a chuckle, Trunicht drew closer, Yazan following him. He held out a hand, in which appeared a ball of purple flame which gave off just enough light of the same color to illuminate the occupant.

 

There was a man chained to the wall. As could be expected, his hair was both long and extremely filthy, matted with so much blood and dust that Yazan could barely tell it had once been blond. His body seemed as if it had once been strong, but his imprisonment had turned it into an emaciated husk of its former shell. It was covered in scars, some old, some new. His head was down, so Yazan couldn’t see his face clearly, but as Trunicht drew closer, the man raised it to spit at the Black Knight.

 

As he did so, Yazan got a good look at his eyes, and his own widened in utter surprise, for he recognized them. They were his old friend Tassar’s.

 

“Yes, that’s Tassar, all right,” laughed Trunicht gaily as he hopped back to dodge the wad of spit. The unfortunate Tassar simply continued to glare at him. “You can tell we haven’t been taking very good care of him, but Paptimus made clear not to lavish luxuries on failures.

 

“You see, Tassar didn’t die at the battle for Thagaste. When his former underling tossed him off that cathedral, as good fortune would have it, I happened to be nearby, my trusty Rescue staff at the ready.  Of course, given how many times Tassar had failed—first, in letting Renault and Braddock turn traitor in the first place, second in failing to keep control of Thagaste, and third in not even managing to kill Renault, Paptimus was not pleased with him at all. He stripped him of his position and condemned him to rot in this dungeon. I suppose that should be a lesson for both of us, yes? Well, not that it matters at this point in the war, anyways…”

 

“You…son of a…bitch,” Tassar rasped, continuing to stare at Trunicht with raw hatred.

 

“Hah. I can understand why you hate me, Tassar. Like I said, I haven’t treated you well. However, let me ask you this. Who do you hate more? Me or Renault?”

 

At the mention of this name, the smoldering cinders of hatred that seemed to be lying in Tassar’s eyes burst into an outright flame. He strained against the chains which bound him as foamy drool dripped from his contorted mouth and a low growl rose in his throat.

 

“Renault…kill…KILL! THAT PIECE OF SHIT, I’LL KILL HIM!”

 

He groaned and tried again to break the chains pinning him to the wall, and much to Yazan’s surprise, even in his miserable state the metal seemed to creak—just mentioning the name of his former protégée was enough to give him that much energy.

 

This elicited another laugh from Trunicht. “Well, that certainly answers my question, doesn’t it? Just what I hoped, too. For you see, Yazan, there’s one more reason we kept Tassar alive. We wanted to give him one last opportunity to make up for his failures.” The black knight slipped towards Tassar, putting his face next to his and languidly cupping his pale fingers around the Hero’s chin. “Brother Tassar, do you know that Renault is heading towards this fortress _as we speak_? He’s part of a very big Royalist army. Going to be a very tough battle. Why, we may not even win without all the help we can get. As much as you hate me, my friend, would you call it even if I were to allow you to help us? Surely you can’t pass up an opportunity for revenge on that traitor, right?”

 

“Renault…Renault…I’ll kill…Renault…”

 

“So enthusiastic! And I bet you’ll be even more enthusiastic when you see this!”

 

Trunicht raised a hand and cast another small purple flame to the cell’s left wall, and this time it illuminated the massive weapon leaning in the corner there.

 

It was a huge blue sword, its blade almost as big as a man in both height and width. A bright white gem was set in the center of its hilt, and as Trunicht’s purple flame neared, it responded with what seemed to be some magic of its own, a soft blue glow illuminating the area around it.

 

“Oh, hell! Is that the Regal Blade?” Yazan was gaping in astonishment. “That’s supposed to be one of the most famous weapons of this country’s royal family! Trunicht, where do you _get_ all this stuff?”

 

“I simply have…sticky fingers, shall we say. The Holy Royal Palace of Aquleia doesn’t guard its treasures nearly as well as it should…well, at least not when it’s being sacked, anyways.” He turned back to Tassar. “I know you’d so love to wield that great blade, right? Especially against your hated enemy Renault, yes?”

 

The only response Tassar gave was another low, angry growl.

 

“Ah, but how could I possibly do any good in my wretched condition? That’s what you’re surely asking yourself, right? Well, today’s your lucky day, Brother! I have just the medicine you need.”

 

With another dramatic flick of his hand, the purple flame near the sword disappeared, to be replaced by a cloud of thick, inky black smoke which suddenly appeared out of nowhere and seemed to fill the entire cell.

 

“W-what the hell, Trunicht?!” Yazan coughed, feeling the incredibly vile substance sear his lungs—but then, just as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared, allowing Yazan to recover enough to raise his eyes and see what was now standing in front of the prisoner.

 

Yet another familiar face—well, helmet. That strange metal, those bizarre, otherworldly curves and contours, and most of all, the aura of dread that seemed to be almost a physical presence within that empty, waiting suit of armor—Yazan knew very well what it was.

 

“Tassar,” said Trunicht, and this time there was no humor in his voice. “The Armor of the Berserk will give you the power you need to triumph over Renault and his friends. It will come, however, at the cost of your life and your soul itself. Is this a sacrifice you’re willing to make?”

 

The Hero hesitated for a moment—but only a moment. Glaring at Trunicht with all the hatred he could muster, he rasped out one more word.

 

“Yes.”

 

As he watched what happened next with a grim, perverse sort of pleasure, Yazan could only think of one thing:

 

This was gonna be fun, all right.  


-X-X-X- _The Second Battle of the Fortress of Spears_ -X-X-X-

 

As Renault expected, but still derived a great deal of satisfaction from, the front gate of the outer wall of the Fortress of Spears was wide open, allowing the Royalist army easy entry. The ballistae on the battlements, which had devastated Khyron’s army once before, were now trained at the castle rather than the Royalists. The ballisticians on the roof of the fortress itself were still loyal to the rebel cause, but they didn’t bother firing, since the traitor-held ballistae below them were considerably more numerous. Or was that the reason?

 

None of the Royalists were sure, so the approaching army slowed down momentarily to allow its leaders a chance to parley with Dougram’s men. Khyron, Jerid, and Gafgarion rushed forwards (Jerid panting heavily due to the exertion of running in his heavy armor) to the front gate, while the blond-haired Nabatan looked down on them.

 

“Look,” he called, “I don’t like you. I never did. But my men and I are sick and tired of being part and parcel to Revolutionary atrocities. If you show us leniency, we…we’ll aid your cause.” There was a brown-cassocked young man standing next to the mercenary who looked as if he was overjoyed by the announcement, but for the moment the Generals didn’t wonder why an Eliminean would be with the rebels. They were more concerned with responding to Dougram’s offer.

 

“Faithless traitors,” growled Khyron, “Why, I’ll—“

 

He was cut by Jerid. “I’ve heard your story, Dougram. We can iron out the details later, but from what I heard, you and your men hate the Red Shoulders which are cooped up in the castle proper. If you’ll help us root ‘em out, I, as the Great General, will assure you that your soldiers will not be punished. I don’t want to waste any more lives than I absolutely have to.”

 

“Really? W…wow. What’s your name again, Great General? Jerid or something, I heard? You seem to be a man of justice as well. You don’t think we’re trying to trick you or anything?”

 

“Renault an’ Braddock vouched for ya,” called Gafgarion. “’Sides, at this point there aren’t many tricks you Rebels could pull that would make much of a difference.”

 

He had no idea how wrong he would be proven within a few moments.

 

“Alright, we’ve got a deal. Send your army in! Men, aim your ballistae at the castle’s walls! The Royalists are our allies now!”

 

“B-um, Dougram,” they heard the cassocked monk ponder above them, “shouldn’t we give them a chance to surrender?”

 

“Yazan’s not that type of man, Serapino. You know that.” This reminded him of a warning he had to give, though. “Great General, be careful. Yazan and Trunicht are both in there, and they’re both ruthless men. I don’t think they’ll make this easy for you, no matter how much the odds are stacked against you.”

 

“Yes, we’re already all too familiar with Trunicht’s tricks,” spat Khyron. He looked at Jerid, who nodded, and the Mage General cast the familiar voice-enhancing spell.

 

“Everyone, the outer gate is open to us! The men manning it are our allies! Follow us and the Autonomous Company to the castle itself!”

 

And with one more loud cheer and the clatter of weapons being raised from the Royalist army behind them, the second battle for the Fortress of Spears had begun.

 

-x-

 

Renault rushed forwards along with his friends, his labored breathing due more to his excitement than the exertion, even in his heavy armor. The din and clamor of battle—this was what he truly lived for. That, and the chance to slaughter some of the Rebels who served Trunicht, the scum responsible for Kelitha’s death. However, even as eager as he was to fight, he didn’t allow that to cloud his judgment. And he could tell that something strange was going on.

 

The Red Shoulders weren’t responding, for one. No bolts were coming from the ballistae at the building’s roof, nor any arrows or spells from the murder holes, machicolations, or other defensive positions the Fortress possessed.

 

Instead, the only reaction from the defenders seemed to be…an opening of the castle’s portcullis. That alone would have been enough to give the Royalists pause, since only a madman would let the enemy right into his castle without a fight. But the moment he saw that strange white fog seep out of the open doorway, Renault knew that a fight was definitely what they were going to get.

 

“D-dammit,” yelled Khyron frantically, “I know that fog! HOLD! EVERYONE HOLD! DAMMIT, DON’T ADVANCE ANY FURTHER!”

 

The Royal Army, by this point, was no longer a ragtag bunch of conscripts but an experienced fighting force, honed by its victories at Aquleia, Thagaste, and across the rest of the countries. Without complaint and with a minimum of confusion, the soldiers turned their charge at the castle into a steady stream intended to maintain control of the area around the walls and in front of the castle. They surrounded their leaders in a defensive formation, now sharing the apprehension of the Autonomous Company as they stared at the suspicious open portcullis and the fog which spewed from it.

 

Renault and Braddock, standing in front of Khyron, was the closest to the mist-shadowed doorway and were therefore the first to feel it. A crushing, ominous sense of evil so strong it was almost palpable, a malevolent presence which made their throats clench and their limbs tremble. And worst of all, they remembered it—it was the same force they had felt back at Elram’s citadel.

 

“S-shit,” stammered Renault, “tell me this is a joke…”

 

Following the surge of that evil energy came the sound of a man’s heavy, eager breathing. The strange, otherworldly noise wasn’t loud on its own, but seemed to carry across the entire battlefield anyways. It was accompanied by the distinctive clanking of strong, armor-clad boots slamming with some inexorable purpose on the ground beneath them. After a few moments of this, the owner of that terrible armor made his appearance.

 

Renault had faced off against it only once before, but he could never forget it. The Armor of the Berserk seemed to shimmer and meld as its wearer stepped out of the shadow and fog which had previously concealed him, almost as if it were crying out in pain at being forced into the early morning sunlight. Strapped to the man’s back was a sword larger than any Renault had ever seen, its glowing blue blade almost as large as its wielder himself. But the most frightening thing—the thing that might have made him flee in terror if he hadn’t already been through so much—was that the enemy before him was _familiar_. The Armor of the Berserk hadn’t yet enclosed his face with its evil helmet, allowing everyone a good view of his blond hair and rage-filled eyes.

 

“N…no…NO! TASSAR, IT CAN’T BE YOU!”

 

“Renault…Braddock…” growled their former master, “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this. You backstabbing sons of whores…I’m going to make you _suffer_ before I slaughter your army!”

 

Renault had no idea whatsoever as to why the man he’d sent flying off the top floor of Zodian’s Rest was now standing before him wearing that horrible armor. But he wouldn’t have much time to ponder that question.

 

With a growl that turned into a pained scream over time, Tassar staggered back and hunched over. His eyes widened, and then _changed_ —first his pupils turned blood-red, and then the rest of his eyes as well. Tendrils of darkness arched across his contorted face like veins, and the metal on his back and gorget began to shift and change. It expanded and flowed across his head and face, leaving only his glowing red eyes visible. With one final, terrible scream he suddenly jerked, snapped upwards, perfectly erect, allowing his foes a good look at what he had finally become.

 

The noxious black metal of the armor had created a terrible helmet with a pointed, elongated pair of jaws for a visor topped with a pair of sharp horns pointing straight up.  The metal jaws shifted and moved with Tassar’s breathing, as if they were part of a real animal’s mouth. The appearance it gave was that of a shadowy wolf, or perhaps some sort of hellhound.

 

The Autonomous Company could only shudder in fear and stumble backwards, along with both Gafgarion and Jerid, as Tassar continued to stride towards them, raising his right hand to the hilt of his giant sword and hefting it as easily as if it were nothing more than a small dagger. Thinking quickly, even as panicked as he was by the reappearance of Tassar—in the Berserker’s Armor, no less!-- Khyron didn’t waste any time when he noticed that the warrior had now stepped into the open.

 

“FIRE! FIRE!” he screamed behind, at the ballisticians manning the walls. “IF YOU’RE SERIOUS ABOUT ABJURING THE REBEL CAUSE, SKEWER THAT SWORDSMAN!”

 

“Do it!” yelled Dougram. “I don’t know what the hell Trunicht’s planning, but it’s no good for us, either!”

 

At the urging of their commander, the ballistae on the walls all simultaneously launched their bolts at a single target—the advancing Tassar. It was almost impossible to hear anything but the loud WHIZZ of dozens of huge metal arrows flying through the air straight at him.

 

However, even such a massive barrage was completely useless in the face of that terrible armor. With a bestial snarl, Tassar simply swept his massive blade over his head. The blue glow strengthened, and a small gale formed around it, indicating its magic was as strong as that of the Basilikos or the Rex Hasta. The power of the blade combined with the force of the winds around it swatted away every single one of the heavy bolts as if they were nothing but toys.

 

Lesser soldiers might have panicked, but Khyron and his Autonomous Company had faced this terrible armor before and knew they had to at least minimize the amount of men sacrificed to it. “JERID, GAFGARION,” he yelled, enhancing his own voice, “FALL BACK, AND TELL THE REST OF THE MEN TO DO THE SAME! CONCENTRATE ON KEEPING THE CASTLE’S DEFENDERS FROM OFFERING TOO MUCH SUPPORT! THE AUTONOMOUS COMPANY WILL TAKE CARE OF TASSAR!”

 

“What’re you—“ Jerid began, but Tassar’s next move would rapidly convince him of the wisdom of this course of action.

 

The “jaws” of the loathsome helmet opened further, letting out a wailing, screeching keen that sounded as if it came from Hell’s mouth as much as Tassar’s. Glaring at Renault with those burning red eyes, he stepped forwards and swung his sword down, despite being much too far away from the Company. From those gales he summoned, though, they knew what was coming. All of them dove to the left and right, Braddock slamming into Jerid and knocking him out of the way, while Gafgarion’s mount, on instinct, galloped and leapt away just in time. As the great blade arced through the air, it produced a shockwave which would have pulverized everything in its path, including the men and women of the Company, if they had not dodged out of the way. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the soldiers behind them, and the moment they looked back they saw the blood-stained grass and blasted corpses of the Knights who had followed them inside.

 

“JUST DO WHAT I SAY!” screamed Khyron, and after seeing the results of Tassar’s attack, that was all the soldiers needed to make a full retreat. Jerid and Gafgarion led the falling-back, but despite their training and experience, it was easier said than done, many of their men jamming the central gate of the outer wall in their attempt to get as far away from Tassar as possible. Making matters worse, now the Red Shoulders had begun their attack, sending spells, arrows, and ballista bolts raining down on the Royalists and Dougram’s men alike. If Tassar had chosen to focus on them, the entire army might have been annihilated. Fortunately, however, he was much more occupied with hunting down the men he wanted than winning the battle for his side.

 

Renault and Braddock were the only combatants he had his eyes on. “I made you into what you are today,” he growled in his otherworldly voice, “and you repaid me with nothing but betrayal! DIE!”

 

He launched another shockwave right at Renault, who managed to dodge it, and then leapt straight into the air over the Mercenary Lord, descending with his magic blade leading. Renault didn’t even try to block, knowing it was useless—he relied on his reflexes yet again, scampering out of the way just in time to avoid being skewered. Even so, he was still blown back by the force of Tassar’s landing, the giant sword blasting a small _crater_ into the ground as it impacted. Tassar didn’t miss a beat—he spun and slashed downwards, forcing his foe to sidestep again, and then swung his sword to the side, forcing Renault to throw himself to the ground, only his armor protecting him from the winds that buffeted his body. Just like it did for Vyrleena, the Armor of the Berserk had greatly enhanced Tassar’s strength and speed as well as defense, meaning he could wield that gigantic weapon with far more ease than any normal human could ever hope to. Lying on the ground as he was, Renault would have died if his friends hadn’t come to his rescue. Both Apolli and Roberto were shooting arrows at Tassar (while dodging those that came down on them) to no avail, while Keith’s recently-gained abilities came in very handy for her—she avoided arrows, bolts, and spells which would have otherwise killed her with ease in the skies above, but she was also too occupied to help Renault. Harvery was lurking behind his friend Apolli, watching how Tassar moved to see if there was any chink in the Berserker’s Armor which would allow him to score a killing blow, True salvation came instead from Khyron and Rosamia, who simultaneously sent a pair of Elfire spells slamming into the Hero. The magic couldn’t even begin to penetrate the eldritch armor, but their force was enough to cause the man to stumble, breaking his attack and allowing Renault to get back to his feet.

 

“Gyyyaah! Don’t interfere!” Tassar turned towards Khyron and prepared to leap at him, but he was blown away once again, this time by a shockwave not at all dissimilar to the ones he himself summoned. Even such a powerful attack wasn’t enough to do much damage to him, but it did knock him back too far away to slice up the Mage General. He flipped in the air and landed cleanly on his feet, his burning red eyes focusing on his newest foe.

 

“Don’t you owe me something too, Tassar?” said Braddock grimly, both the blade of his great axe and the visor of his helmet glowing in response to his emotional state.

 

“I saved your life, wretch. But you’re just as ungrateful as Renault. You can’t imagine…can’t imagine the ecstasy I’ll feel when I’m covered in your blood!”

 

With a wild, keening scream he launched himself at the Warlord, slashing down as he flew through the air. The huge Basilikos was thankfully a weapon capable of standing up to Tassar’s. Braddock realized his shield would be useless and cast it aside, instead holding up the flat of the Basilikos in front of him with both hands. The blue of the Regal Blade crashed into that of the great axe with a huge sonic boom that flattened the grass around both combatants.

 

It took every ounce of strength for Braddock to stay on his feet, for Tassar was viciously pushing the Regal Blade against the Basilikos with his own demonically-enhanced power, threatening to smash right through Braddock’s guard. However, as it turned out, he didn’t even need to. Taking one hand off of the Regal Blade’s grip, the jaws of Tassar’s wolf-helmed visage seemed to twist into a terrible, mocking smile as he drew back a fist and slammed it under the Basilikos’ blade, into Braddock’s midsection. A blow which might have punched straight through flesh was thankfully deflected just enough by the chain mail to allow the Ostian to survive, but he was still taken right off his feet and blown backwards, barely managing to hold on to his weapon.

 

Tassar again readied his blade to launch another shockwave at Braddock’s wounded form, but just in time, Harvery leapt over him, draping his cloak over his horned wolf’s head. Unfortunately, this tactic didn’t work nearly as well as it did on Vyrleena—Tassar was not resisting the armor, but had given himself to it entirely, meaning he had greater control over his mental reactions. He merely caught the piece of cloth in his helmet’s jaws and cast it away with a snarl and a flip of his head.

 

This did, however, give Dougram’s ballisticians just enough time to draw a bead on him. Several more bolts descended on his location, and this time they hit. The huge bolts were very powerful, and Renault and Braddock, the former helping the latter back to his feet, hoped they would be enough to still Tassar’s rage.

 

Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. A pair of the huge bolts pierced through the armor and managed to embed themselves into Tassar’s shoulder and left thigh, respectively. He grunted in pain, but then arched backwards, and with another terrifying scream his armor jerked, shifted, and then expanded outwards, sending the bolts flying away and apparently healing his wounds. The only thing the ballisticians had succeeded in doing was getting his attention.

 

“Annoying _FLIES!_ ”

 

Tassar crouched and then leapt into the air, but this time far higher and longer than any jump he’d previously made. As both friend and foe watched in astonishment and horror, he landed cleanly on the gate of the outer wall, very close to Dougram and Serapino. The Nabatan had seen enough to realize that the only thing to do was get as far away from the raging warrior as possible. He grabbed the mendicant and hastily pushed him straight off the wall, where he was caught by a Royalist soldier just in time, and then jumped straight off the battlement himself.

 

The ballisticians were not so lucky. Tassar raised the Regal Blade, flipped it over his head, and then jammed it down into the stone of the wall, sending a shockwave coursing through the entire section. The archers and ballisticians caught in its wave were either blasted to bloody pieces immediately or blown straight off the fortification to their deaths.

 

“Oh, hell! This is insane!” Renault knew that there wouldn’t be an army left to take control of the castle if Tassar kept up his attack. “Keith! Come get me!”

 

“I’ll be right there, Big Brother!” Obviously, he didn’t bother to correct her—if she thought she was really their sister, it meant she’d be fighting alongside them instead of continuing to mourn for her real sibling. Indeed, her flying was as good as it had ever been, not just because of the Elysian Whip’s power but because of her burning desire not to let Renault down. Expertly dodging another wave of bolts from the men on the castle’s roof, she descended and landed next to Renault. He immediately clambered on and they took off, just in time to avoid yet another barrage.

 

“Where’re we going?”

 

“East! West! Anywhere! Just get the hell out of here!”

 

“W-what?! We can’t run away!”

 

“We’re not, we’re getting Tassar the hell away from here! Just MOVE!”

 

Despite her doubts, her faith in Renault was total, and she spurred her mount forwards to pick up speed and head east as quickly as possible, past the walls, past her allied soldiers, and out of the range of the enemy’s ballistae, to the southeast.

 

And as Renault expected, it was just the bait Tassar needed. “You damn coward,” he hissed, “you’re not getting away!” Another pump of his legs sent him flying far above the wall, over the soldiers below, and onto the ground on the east section. The ballisticians there trained their weapons on him again, but before they could fire he started running—and with his demonic speed, they didn’t have a chance of hitting him.

 

“Hell, speed up!” yelled Renault, looking behind him and seeing Tassar begin the chase.

 

“He’s already going as fast as he can!” yelled Keith in response.

 

It wouldn’t be nearly fast enough. Keeping his eyes on their pursuer, Renault’s face went stark-white beneath his helmet as he saw Tassar undergo a hideous transformation. He strapped the Regal Blad back to his back and crouched down on all fours as he ran. Renault’s stomach turned as he watched the man’s legs _shift_ , his knees bending in on themselves backwards so they resembled a dog’s—or more specifically, a wolf’s. His former master truly was nothing more than a beast entirely consumed by the armor’s magic, now. The twisted creature’s gait was even faster at this point, galloping ever closer behind Renault and Keith, even faster than her Pegasus could fly.

 

With an unnatural, metallic roar, the transformed Tassar jumped into the air, the force of his transformed hind legs sending him over and beyond Keith. She had to descend rapidly to avoid being hit by his flying body, but as he soared past them, his back legs again shifted and returned to their normal human shape, and he flipped in the air so that he was facing them. He reached for his sword and launched from it another shockwave. Keith wasn’t expecting this, and she spurred her mount downwards almost too late—almost. Renault felt it whizz just above his head…and unfortunately, the force was enough to knock him off his friend’s Pegasus.

 

“Damn!” Thankfully, she had been forced to descend so far that he fell only a few feet, but it was still enough to give him more than a few bruises. Not that he spent even a moment dwelling on his pain—the moment he hit the ground he rolled, taking him out of the way of a leaping stab from Tassar with less than a second to spare. Keith, for her part, knew she had to give her “brother” a little bit of breathing room—she veered around, leveled her Silver Spear (given to her after her sister’s death) and swept down in a great charge. Tassar didn’t try to dodge, but after watching how he fought she expected what he’d do—he simply stood there and accepted the blow on his shoulder, and if Keith hadn’t let go of her weapon she would have been tossed off her Pegasus. She did, however, and swooped away, leaving the spear embedded in the pauldron of the dark armor. Tassar grabbed it and tossed it away with a guttural snarl, but by then Renault had managed to pick himself up.

 

Remembering what had happened at Elram’s Citadel, Renault thought he’d try something different—negotiation. “TASSAR!” he screamed. “Damn it, I know you hate me, but this isn’t worth it! Do you have any idea what that armor is going to do to you?! It’ll steal your soul, you fool! It’ll reduce you to nothing more than a drained corpse!”

 

The possessed man stopped for a moment, doing nothing but stare at Renault with red eyes that seemed to have more curiosity in them than hatred.

 

Then he threw his head back and let out a terrible howl of a laugh.

 

“YOU THINK I CARE?”

 

 _So much for that_ , thought Renault unhappily as he prepared himself for another series of attacks from Tassar—hopping and ducking side to side to avoid the barrage of shockwaves the insane Hero was now producing. He was rapidly growing tired—his armor wasn’t weightless, after all—but his reflexes combined with sheer desperation were enough to keep him alive. Sooner rather than later, however, he knew he’d slip up.

 

And to make matters infinitely worse, they had a visitor.

 

“AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!” screamed a low, guttural voice from behind them. “I’VE BEEN LOOKIN’ FOR YOU, KEITH! GLAD I FOUND YOU!”

 

Renault was too experienced to let this distract him, but as he ducked under another shockwave, he groaned to himself, “what now?”

 

Keith, on the other hand, was much more surprised, but still too alert to allow herself to be hit by the Javelin flying at her. “W-who?”

 

“Your two sisters are dead, Keith!” Yazan screamed as he spurred Hambrabi straight towards the girl with a maniac light in his eyes. “You’re the only one left! I gotta send you to join ‘em. I owe it to Kasha!!!”

 

“W-what’re you doing here?” she called back as he zipped by her. “You were following us?! Don’t you care about your castle?!

 

“Hah! The Fortress of Spears is as good as gone without Tassar. No point defending it! You and Renault sure were smart to lure him away!” This was punctuated by another toss of a Javelin. “But you really weren’t expectin’ me to let you get away with it, were you? The moment I saw you runnin’ I sent Hambrabi after you while those ballisticians were distracted with shooting Tassar.” He unlimbered the Rex Hasta and leveled it at the girl with a vicious smile. “Kasha asked me to take care of her sisters. Now that Kelitha’s dead, you’re the only one left. After I kill you, my ol’ friend will _finally_ be happy!” Yazan leered at her with the most insane, vicious expression Keith had ever seen on anyone’s face. “GET READY, KID! **I’M GONNA VIOLATE YOU!** ”

 

 

“Damn!” Renault didn’t have any time to pay attention to how his friend was doing—Tassar growled in frustration after another missed shockwave, lowered his sword, and then charged with it straight at Renault. Once again he ducked and sidestepped, this time using the Regal Blade’s gales to his advantage—they pushed him away a little further than he otherwise would have gone. However, as he spared a moment to glance above him, he noticed that Keith and Yazan’s mid-air duel was taking them further away from him.

 

And he couldn’t fight off the sinking feeling in his stomach that one way or the other, that boded very ill.

 

-x-

 

“You…you monster!” cried Keith, tears forming in her eyes. “I’ll make you pay for that! In Kelitha’s name, in my mother’s name, in Ilia’s name, I won’t let you get away!”

 

“Hah hah! Just what I like to hear!” Hambrabi spread out his wings and sped at Keith with a loud roar, but the newly-minted Falcoknight zipped over and behind him easily, fast enough to dodge even the shockwaves the Rex Hasta produced. Out of the corner of his eye, Yazan saw her descend as she dodged and quickly veered Hambrabi to the left, thinking she was aiming to get at his vulnerable belly from below. However, he noticed a shadow from above and quickly banked back to the right just in time to avoid a downward charge which might have otherwise ended with him skewered at the point of a Silver Spear. Her Pegasus had been so fast that he’d veered right and ascended in a flash the moment Keith saw what Yazan expected her to do.

 

“Shit!” he grunted to himself. “Hell, you’ve improved, girl…but not enough!”  Twirling the Rex Hasta above his head, he gave Hambrabi a kick and most notably, spit on his back. This was the signal he’d trained his mount to recognize as an order to pull off one of the most daring, dangerous tricks in their repertoire.

 

Hambrabi simply flipped over in the air, forcing Yazan to hang on with only the strength of his legs, held his wings close to his body, and then angled his body downwards and began a straight free-fall.

 

“You’re insane!” was the only thing Keith had time to yell before Yazan’s charge made contact. Once again, Keith attempted to evade, but with gravity boosting Hambrabi’s dive, even the Falcoknight’s speed wasn’t quite enough.  


The Rex Hasta gave off a bright blue glow as Yazan summoned a great burst of wind from it, and though it scored only a glancing hit on the Pegasus’ right wing, it was still enough to tear the appendage straight from the noble beast’s shoulder.

 

‘HAHAHA! YES! YES! I DID IT! DID YOU SEE THAT, KASHA?! HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY!!” Yazan crowed in triumph as he watched the Pegasus fall to the ground amidst a spray of bright red blood. However, he noticed something very strange, and his keen eyes narrowed as he watched it descend.

 

Its rider was missing.

 

Was Keith tossed off? Did she fall off? All of a sudden, Yazan found this question answered when he felt something resist his attempt to bring Hambrabi out of his dive. A little bit of added weight…and when the Wyvern finally managed to right himself, straining his wings and nearly dislocating them as he spread them out and twisted his body before he slammed head-first into another small batch of trees they’d been flying over, Yazan looked below him to see the source of the un-needed ballast.

 

“W-what the hell?!”

 

It was Keith, gripping Hambrabi’s right hind leg and glaring at Yazan with far more hatred than he thought a cute girl could ever muster up. She had discarded her Silver Spear and  was hanging on with her left hand, for in her right she held a humble but effective Iron Sword. She wasted no time putting it to good use, plunging it into the Wyvern’s upper thigh to give her just the leverage she needed to clamber up onto his back, ignoring the beating of his wings and getting into perfect position behind Yazan. He realized she must have unlimbered herself from her mount’s saddle when she realized she couldn’t dodge his dive, and leapt away from him and made a grab at the wyvern in a desperate attempt to survive.

 

It had succeeded. Both Yazan and Hambrabi tried their equally desperate best to shake her off. Hambrabi twisted, turned, and even flipped over in the air again—she clenched with he legs and grabbed at his leathery wings again. Yazan tried to slam the butt of the Rex Hasta into her face, but she was small enough to duck under the blow by holding herself close to Hambrabi’s back.

 

“This is for my sister! This is for my Pegasus! AND FOR EVERY LAST PERSON YOU’VE KILLED!” screamed Keith, tears flowing freely from her eyes. From her low position, she brought up her sword, and stabbed it upwards into the middle of Yazan’s back, underneath his Wyvern Knight’s cuirass. He screamed as the blade embedded itself in his guts. “GYYYAH! Y-YOU’VE KILLED US BOTH! AND YOU THINK I’M CRAZY?!

 

She didn’t care, and it didn’t matter. Braving her opponent’s flailing, she withdrew her blade and stabbed it upwards again, this time scoring a vicious stab on one of his unprotected armpits, where neither his pauldrons nor his armguards provided protection. Yazan couldn’t keep control of his wounded mount, and man, woman, and Wyvern began their uncontrolled descent to the small copse of trees below them.

  
-x-

 

 _Gotta keep my distance,_ Renault thought to himself. Those crazy shockwaves that weapon produced, combined with its great size, made staying away much less effective than compared with normal weapons. However, up close he’d have to deal with Tassar’s punches and bites along with the sword itself, and taking advantage of the wind the weapon produced to help him dodge meant it’d help him last longer than he would if he got up close.

 

Because, after all, he was well-aware that outlasting Tassar was his only hope. None of his weapons could even scratch the Armor of the Berserk—hoping that Tassar’s body gave out before he could score a kill was his only chance.

 

It seemed Tassar knew this as well, though, for his attacks were growing more and more frenzied and desperate. With another hideous, demonic wail, he swept his sword upwards, launching another shockwave at Renault, who dodged it by ducking and allowing it to pass over his head. However, Tassar didn’t follow it up with another one, or a charge—instead, much to Renault’s surprise, he followed through with the motion of that two-handed swing to re-attach his weapon to the sword belt at his back. He ducked like Renault, going down on all fours, and once again his knees bent backwards to become like those of a dog. The Mercenary Lord barely had time to put his arms over his face before Tassar jumped and slammed into him, bowling him over.

 

The armor-beast growled and snapped his jaws, and despite the fact that he wasn’t much bigger than Renault, his enchanted raiment seemed to make him unnaturally heavy. He chomped down on Renault’s right arm, and his former student screamed in pain and horror as the black teeth fastened on his gauntlet and tore it right off. Renault knew that a second bite would take off his arm itself. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the chain-dagger in his left hand and stabbed it upwards, right into one of Tassar’s burning eyes. With a screech that made Renault’s ears ring, the beast abandoned his attack, and Renault withdrew the dagger and shoved him off.

 

Even that attack didn’t stop Tassar, though. As Renault got to his feet and scurried away, Tassar did the same, his legs returning to normal as he stood up. He held his hands over the eye-socket Renault had stabbed, but when he removed them with a low growl, the flame was burning within its depths once again, as if nothing had happened.

 

“S…shit,” moaned Renault in exhaustion. He was just out of energy, while Tassar hadn’t given the slightest indication of slowing down. The jaw of his armor seemed to twist into a warped smile as he cocked his head to examine Renault staggering to his feet. Both of them knew that the next attack would be the last.

 

“Yyyeessss….” hissed Tassar as he unlimbered the Regal Blade once again. “Fiiinalllyy…”

 

He gripped the weapon with both hands and tensed his leg, preparing for once final leap. Renault could barely keep on his feet—he was way too exhausted to dodge the next attack. He gritted his teeth, preparing for the end…

 

But then he noticed something strange through the visor of his helmet. A strange, soft glow he recognized as the aura of magic. And that suspicion was verified when, all of a sudden, there came a bright flash of light from above the two of them.

 

“SHIT! RENAULT, HANG ON!”

 

“GGGGYYYAAAAA **AAARRRGGGHH!!!!!!”**

Renault had no idea whether he’d just been condemned or saved. But when he looked up, he knew it was the latter.

 

Braddock had somehow materialized in the air right above Tassar, his Basilikos glowing furiously. Even the Hero, with his strength and reflexes enhanced by his nightmarish armor, couldn’t react fast enough to parry the Ostian’s coming attack. Braddock swung his great axe down with all his might, and even the raw power of the Armor of the Berserk was unable to resist the blow.

 

Braddock landed on the ground amidst a gale-force gust of wind strong enough to flatten the ground beneath him into a crater, just as Tassar had done a little while ago. And of Tassar himself? The answer to that question could be found in the two dark shapes falling to the ground on either side of Braddock. As they descended through the air they lost their shape, almost as if they were dissolving—which they were, in a way. Before they hit the ground, they suddenly ascended, forming two inky balls in the air. Something still hit the grass, though—precisely two sets of bones. Tassar’s body had been cleaved entirely in half, almost perfectly, by the force of Braddock’s strike, and the two halves had been blown away by the force of his landing. The armor wouldn’t heal something like that, so it had simply consumed Tassar instead—entirely. All that was left of him was a bisected skeleton lying scattered around the area.

 

The Armor of the Berserk, now in its new form as a pair of inky sphere of darkness, descended again, but this time towards the Regal Blade, lying discarded near Braddock. Before either he or Renault could react, the spheres fell upon the sword, enveloping it into a single pitch-black mass. That mass rose into the air, and then soared off into the sky, towards some unknown destination, just as it had done with Vyrleena.

 

The two men looked at the gruesome spectacle of Tassar’s death, and then back to each other. Neither of them said anything at first, both just breathing heavily, evidently on the verge of just falling over. It was Renault who first broke their silence.

 

“B…Braddock…what the hell? What just…how’d you…”

 

“It…it was Khyron,” he said, taking a deep, tired breath. “You did a real good thing dragging Tassar away like that. Without him, the Red Shoulders didn’t stand a chance, though they put up a hell of a fight. Trunicht was nowhere to be found…guess he must’ve skipped the castle when his little armor-wearer ran chasing after you.  After we secured the Great Hall, I told Khyron you needed help, at least if you weren’t already dead. He closed his eyes real right—said that when the Armor of the Berserk was activated, it gave off some kind of aura that magic-users can feel for miles away—then held out his Warp staff and teleported me over to where he felt it. Guess he sent me to just the right place, huh?”

 

“Damn right,” smiled Renault. “Looks…looks like we won.” He stared back at the bones on the ground. “Never thought I’d meet Tassar again…and especially not like _that_.”

 

“Well, he’s dead for good,” grinned Braddock. After a moment, though, that grin turned more contemplative. “Hey, you came here with Keith, didn’t you? Where is she?”

 

“Shit!” Renault pointed to the north. “Yazan chased her out here and the last time I saw them they were goin’ that way.”

 

“Yazan? Damn, you _really_ can’t catch a break, Renault. Still, who the hell knows what’ll happen to her if she spends too long against that lunatic! Let’s go find her!”

 

Renault didn’t offer a word of protest—this long day wasn’t over yet. The two friends immediately set off in the direction Renault had last seen her traveling.  

 

-x-

 

“Uuuh…”

 

The first thing Keith felt when she opened her eyes was pain. A dull ache all over her body, but a moment after that, a searing pain in her right leg. It was so great when it hit her that she couldn’t help but let out a anguished yelp. When she turned her watery eyes downwards, she saw that she was sitting on the grassy ground of the small copse of trees they’d landed in—and that her leg was bent at a very strange, un-natural angle. She let out another cry as she tried to move, which sent more waves of agony traveling up the shattered limb.

 

Even so, the girl’s determination won out. “Ah…ah…I have…I have to…get back to…Renault…” She placed her hands on a thick but low-hanging branch of a nearby tree and pulled herself up by using it, keeping her weight off her bad leg.

 

“Heh, heh…Hah hah hah!”

 

Horrified, she turned to look behind her to see where that hideous laughter was coming from. Her eyes fell upon Hambrabi, the black wyvern’s body lying motionless in front of its master. Yazan was lying against the trunk of another nearby tree, completely covered in blood. He was definitely dying.

 

“S…shit, kid. That was some great flyin’…got me real good. Never thought someone half my age’d take me down…”

 

“Th…that’s what you get!” she screamed at him. “You’re a murderer! A villain! A death like this is better than you deserve!”

 

This elicited a weak but genuine laugh. “Better’n I deserve? Funny, c…cause this is exactly the kinda death I always wanted! Fightin’ ‘gainst you like this was the most fun I’ve had since I fought Kasha back at Thagaste! Better to die on the battlefield instead of shit-stained sickbed! And to be done in by my rival’s littlest sister! So damn ironic I gotta laugh, and there’s nothin’ better than dying with a smile on my face!

 

“Only thing I regret…is that I didn’t manage to take you with me. But…I don’t think…it matters so much…hah…hahahahHAHAHA!”

 

Yazan twitched, and grimaced momentarily before a huge, satisfied smile spread across his face. Then he slumped down even further, leaving a wide streak of blood across the trunk behind him—and after that, stopped moving entirely.

 

Keith stood there for a few minutes longer, momentarily forgetting the pain of her destroyed leg. “C…crazy…he…he was crazy. How…how can people like him live?”

 

Another spasm of pain flared from her leg, and she almost keeled over, fighting to keep from throwing up. She still held on, and even though she let go of the branch and collapsed to the ground, she didn’t stop—on her hands and single good knee, she gritted her teeth and began crawling in the direction she thought Renault would be.

 

She froze in terror, however, when she heard heavy breathing coming from behind her. She looked back when she heard a heavy growl and saw Yazan’s Wyvern moving.

 

The beast was wounded, but he had outlived his master. Limping, keeping his weight off the leg she had damaged, and spreading one broken wing away from his body, Hambrabi turned his scaly head to Keith and glared at her with dumb, inhuman hatred in his dark eyes. The Ilian knew there was only one thing on his mind: revenge for his master.

 

She shrieked and desperately turned back away, scrabbling along the ground as fast as she could in an attempt to escape, but a wyvern with a broken leg was still faster than a human with the same. Keith could only let out one last scream as Hambrabi’s shadow fell upon her, followed by his teeth and claws.

 

-X-

 

“Shit! This isn’t good!”

 

Renault and Braddock, hobbling along to the south, had come across the one-winged corpse of Keith’s Pegasus. The moment he saw its bloodied form, Renault’s stomach sunk deeper than he ever thought it could—but then his spirits rose when he noticed Keith’s body couldn’t be found.

 

“She might still be alive,” said Braddock, looking around. “And come to think of it, I don’t see Yazan either. Where could they have—“

 

“Hey, that’s the copse of trees we passed by last night,” Renault pointed out. “Maybe she ended up there somehow? It would’ve made a good hiding spot if you were bein’ chased by a Wyvern rider…”

 

“Makes sense. Let’s check it out!”

 

They rushed over, as quickly as they could, anyways—they were both still very tired. The moment they got past the first few trees, though, their suspicions were confirmed. They could see broken branches and marks on the soil that indicated a scuffle had occurred, and most notably, they saw Yazan’s Rex Hasta lying on the ground as if it had been carelessly discarded—or just tossed away.

 

“Dammit! Keith! KEITH!”

 

Their worry for their friend giving them a momentary burst of energy, they stormed forwards through the trees, weapons at the ready, ‘till they came across Yazan’s bloody corpse.

 

“YES! She got him!” Renault cheered when he saw the man’s dead body. Of course, neither he nor Braddock concerned themselves with why he had died smiling. “But where is she?”

 

At this, both of them became aware of a loud snuffling, growling, and snorting coming from a distance to the side, accompanied by the sound of what seemed to be tearing flesh. They spared each other a single glance and headed towards it.

 

They were greeted by the sight of Yazan’s black Wyvern, his wing broken and one of his hind legs bloody, viciously ripping into something, taking huge, gore-filled bites of some unidentified animal he had apparently found. He heard the steps coming from behind him, and turned his head to lock his hateful, rage-filled gaze at his two new guests, blood and gore dripping from his teeth and claws. With a loud roar, he lunged towards them, clearly maddened beyond repair by the loss of the master he had bonded with.

 

Even in his exhausted state, though, Renault was more than a match for a single crazed Wyvern. “Stupid lizard,” he grunted as he ducked to the side slightly, avoiding the lunge and letting the Wyvern’s front claws graze his pauldron, ensuring that Hambrabi’s lame wing passed over him. He immediately got back up, and when the beast turned, slowly and awkwardly due to his wounds, Renault rushed up and planted his Silver Sword straight into the Wyvern’s skull. Hambrabi let out one pained, grief-filled whimper—almost as if he was mourning his master’s loss—before he went limp and his scaly eyelids closed forever.

 

“God damn. That lizard’s almost as annoying as his master,” said Renault as he wiped Hambrabi’s blood and brains off of his sword. He then turned back to examine what he had been eating. Before the two of them had interrupted them, Hambrabi had been savaging some animal—or something—so brutally that it was virtually unrecognizable. Had it been a deer? Renault had no idea—it was just a red lump on the ground, with blood, intestines, and other entrails strewn haphazardly all over the area. Wyverns were most definitely messy eaters.

 

However, as the two of them further surveyed the carnage, their eyes happened on a single piece of flesh that imported unto them the full extent of the horror which had taken place here.

 

It was a hand—a girl’s hand, pale-skinned—clutching an Iron Sword a short distance away from the red lump Hambrabi had been feasting upon. From the ragged wound that indicated it had been torn away from its arm, it was evident rows of sharp, jagged teeth had dug into it.

 

Renault’s blood went ice-cold when he saw this, and he turned his eyes back to all the scattered viscera on the gore-soaked ground. He looked closer, much closer. A few scraps of blue and white mingled in with the red. A scrap of leather so saturated with blood he thought it was another piece of flesh at first glance. Some familiar strands of green, just a bit lighter than the grass, scattered here and there. And then, when he peered down at the largest lump of meat, he saw a very familiar cuirass nestled beneath the disgusting mass.

 

“No…Keith…” he said, eyes glassy, unable to fully accept or comprehend what he was looking at. “No…”

 

Upon realizing just what, exactly, the gore before him indicated, Braddock could only gaze at all of it with an expression of the utmost dismay exceeding even that he’d worn when Kelitha died.

 

“A…aw, hell, Renault. Aw, _hell._ ”

 

The Ostian dropped his Basilikos and fell to his knees, tears forming in his eyes. Before he could lower his head in grief, though, he would find that emotion overwhelmed momentarily by shock and fear.

 

“NO! _NO! **NOOOOOOOO!!!”**_

 

The visor of Renault’s helmet glowed the brightest red Braddock had ever seen before Renault ripped it from his head and threw it as hard as he could at the closest tree. The man who had been on the verge of falling over just a few minutes before was now infused with so much hateful, manic energy that Braddock thought he’d been possessed by the armor Tassar had been wearing.

 

“You fucking, stupid _LIZARD!_ ”

 

With a guttural howl Renault brandished his Silver Sword and rushed up to Hambrabi’s corpse. As Braddock watched, frozen by shock, the blade flashed over the Wyvern time and time again, for what seemed like an eternity to the terrified, grief-stricken Ostian. He couldn’t tell how long Renault spent venting his rage and sorrow on the scaly body. The only thing he realized was that by the time Renault had spent all his strength, so utterly exhausted that his blade fell from his trembling hands, the big Wyvern had been reduced to an indeterminate lump of flesh—just as he had done to Kasha.

 

“Hhh…hhhaah….f…ffuck…hhhaahhh…you…p-piece of…” Renault’s armored shoulders rose and fell, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his legs shaking so badly it seemed like he’d fall straight over.

 

“R…Renault,” Braddock sobbed, “p…please…that’s enough. Please, stop. Let…let’s aty least tend to her. Please…”

 

“T…tend to who? Keith?” He turned to shoot his friend a venom-filled glare. “Look around you! What the hell’re we gonna do, bury her? There’s not enough left of her! We can’t bury _THIS!_ ” He gestured wildly to the pieces of their friend scattered all around the area.

 

“I…then, God damn it, Renault! Just mourn, or pray, or something! Just…just, please, stop! Stop this! Just…”

 

The Ostian had taken off his own helmet, and now Renault could clearly see his tear-stained face. This was enough to still his rage…to an extent, at least. He stood there on trembling legs, staring at Braddock with an utterly unfathomable expression.

 

“You’re not dying, Braddock.”

 

The Ostian had no words to respond to that. He knew there wasn’t anything he could say to heal the pain his friend was undoubtedly feeling—as sad as he was over Keith’s death, and as much as he considered the girl a friend, a _sister_ , he knew that Renault was feeling the loss even worse. But the expression on his friend’s face, the timbre of his voice…this was an entirely new level, even for a grieving man. For the first time in his entire life, Braddock almost felt afraid of his friend.

 

“Keith…Kelitha…” Renault let out another hate-choked sob. “Their deaths…so fucking meaningless. So fucking _unnecessary_.  And what the hell’s gonna bring ‘em back? Mourning? Praying? Hell no. There’s only one thing to do, Braddock. Kill. _Kill_. The only thing we live for is ending this war. The only thing we’re gonna do is slaughter every last fucking Rebel on Elibe. We’re gonna kill, and kill, and keep on killing until the blood we’ve spilled makes up for the blood my friends have shed.”

 

His tear-and-snot-streaked face was contorted in an ungodly mix of hatred, grief, agony, and…obsession. His eyes seemed to be glowing with a fury that matched the rage in the eyes of the Armor of the Berserk. But more than anything else, Braddock could see _himself_ reflected in those eyes. All the negative emotions on Renault’s countenance paled before one thing: the wailing, weeping _desperation_ so evident in his tortured gaze. He was staring at his best friend as if he was the only man in the entire world, the only man who had ever existed who mattered.

 

“And…and there’s one more thing. We’re gonna kill, but we’re not gonna die. Neither of us. _Never!_ Braddock…this war’s taken so much from me. It took from me my reputation…Trunicht…that piece of shit labeled me a killer. It took away my family…my mother. It took away my…m…K…Kelitha. And now it…it’s taken away my…my God-damn…s…little…Keith. B-but…it hasn’t taken everything from me, Braddock. No…no…I still have you.

 

“And I’ll always—ALWAYS—have you. Nothing— _nothing—NOTHING_ is going to happen to you. Not now. Not ever. This war isn’t gonna take you away from me. Nobody’s gonna take you away from me! NOBODY! YOU HEAR ME?!” He was screaming now, but not at Braddock—he was now staring wildly up at the sky, shouting epithets at God, at fate, at the Rebels, at the world, at everything he didn’t believe in and everything he did, at everything and nothing at all.

 

But even he couldn’t keep it up. His voice couldn’t withstand the duress he was placing on it, and he was reduced to barely mouthing his stream of profanities in a desiccated whisper.

 

“I…I couldn’t protect ‘em. I mean…I mean, what the hell, they were just…just Ilians, but…but….th…they were…my friends…n-not gonna mourn…not gonna pray…f-fight…r-revenge…all I need…r-revenge…”

 

“Renault…Renault, that…that’s enough.” Braddock’s own grief, along with his concern for his friend, prevented him from giving words of denial or remonstrance rather than acknowledgment and support. If he had, the trajectory of his friend’s long life might have turned out very differently.

 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to.

 

Instead, as he watched Renault’s shaking grow even more fervid, he got up to his feet. He took a step towards Renault, and then another, and then another. The teal-haired man looked up at him, his own face now streaked with tears.

 

“B…Braddock…”

 

He couldn’t say anymore. His eyes closed, the closest thing to peace he would know at the moment, and he fell forwards, unconscious. And Braddock was there for him, as he’d always been. He embraced his friend, his tears flowing freely again, wetting that teal hair.  But he didn’t let go.

 

He intended to fulfill Renault’s desperate plea. No matter what, he wouldn’t let go.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

The next chapter is gonna be REALLY big and important. It’s the final battle with Paptimus, so it offers a conclusion to this story arc and a ‘happy ending.’ After that, chapter 39 will be a brief detailing of the aftermath of the war. And following that, chapter 40 will be…

 

;_;

 

Well, y’all know the fate of Renault’s best friend, and chapter 40 will depict that fate, along with close the first half of this story.

 

Thus, the next 3 chappies are gonna be VERY significant. All I can say is that you should look forward to **Chapter 38: War’s End**! Thanks for your patience and for all your support!!


	38. War's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Keith and Kelitha have been taken by the war, leaving Renault with no-one but his best friend, Braddock. He's not discouraged, though--to the contrary, he now has a single-minded determination to kill as many Rebels as he can. And he'll soon get his chance, because the Rebel leader, Paptimus, has figured his cause is hopeless and attempts to flee, abandoning the Revolution. Thanks to a betrayal, however, the Autonomous Company manages to catch up with him, just as he attempts to Warp away to safety. In the process, he takes Braddock with him, leaving both of them stranded on an island off the northern coast--with no other companions except their burning hatred for each other.
> 
> It's the long-awaited moment: The final showdown between Braddock and Paptimus! Only the victor will survive, and the victor will be determined by the most bare-knuckle, knock-down, drag-out man to man brawl Elibe has ever seen!

 

Chapter 38: War’s End

 

(Quick Author’s Note: I keep saying I’ll upload an OST or something, and I’ll do it *someday* but for now: There are several songs that fit the ‘big battle’ of this chapter—you’ll know it when you see it ;) Go to Youtube and try to play “Eternal Loneliness” from Tekkaman Blade, “Masquerade” from Tekkaman Blade, or “To Make the End of Battle” from the YS II soundtrack [arranged or PSP version]. For the very last part of the fic, the very last section, “Dry your tears,” the Hokuto no Ken ED, works well. It’s what I was listening to as I wrote this, and I think you’ll find it’s worth it. Also, prepare for the LONGEST chapter of Wayward Son!  Since this is kind of the “climactic battle” of this chapter, I had to put a lot of stuff in…I probably should have put some of it in previous chapters, but they’re already written so I went with what I had, sorry. I know I’m asking a lot of you, but I really hope the payout is worth it for this. ;) )

 

Meris felt his large hand on her forehead, as she often did when they were in bed together. The difference tonight, however, was that her eyes were closed to feign sleep, not because she was actually sleeping. As usual, Paptimus’ hand was cold, not warm. His hands had never been warm, not as long as Meris could remember—the more one sunk one’s self into the dark arts, the more it told on one’s body; she knew she would likely be the same one day. Yet despite that, they had always been comforting—until now.

 

As she kept her eyes closed, making sure to keep her breathing as steady as possible in the hopes that the father of her child didn’t notice what she was doing, she wondered whether or not his recent wound had been what changed things. She had broken down crying when she saw the stump where his left arm had once been. There was no hope at all of restoring it, even with magic—he had sacrificed it to the darkness in the battle where he’d lost it. Not that he seemed particularly concerned—he was elated that he’d managed to kill the Royalist’s Great General. And though she didn’t dare tell him, Meris would have much rather he kept his arm than his enemy’s life. She could feel her child growing inside her body, but if what he told her was true, the war would not end—not until the child was born, and perhaps not even after.

 

At this point, after seeing so many people die, after seeing what it had cost Paptimus, and especially at seeing Glaesal’s continually worsening health, Meris would have gladly accepted their defeat if it meant she and Paptimus could live in at least some approximation of peace. And, of course, that was very much what the most likely prospect seemed to be. They had just been brought word of the fall of the Fortress of Spears last night. It had been the very last stronghold which was capable of putting up any meaningful resistance besides Nerinheit City itself, and to make matters worse, they had heard that Dougram and all of his men had defected! The morale of the Rebel forces was at rock bottom, Paptimus’ personal coffers were completely dry, the remaining Counts who had joined them, such as Verelecht, were planning to surrender, and desertions and mutinies were sapping the remaining strength of their army every day. Only the remnants of Trunicht’s Red Shoulders were capable of putting up a fight, and they were no match for a Royalist army which outnumbered them nearly twenty to one.

 

Making matters worse, Glaesal’s health was growing weaker by the day—he could no longer even leave his bed. That, however, was precisely why Meris was putting on the act she was now.

 

Before Paptimus had set out for Thagaste, Meris had noted how ill Glaesal was becoming, and how suddenly his illness seemed to have took, especially for this time of year. But now she had heard he was vomiting up blood. _Blood_. It seemed like consumption, but…

 

Perhaps she was simply going crazy due to the stress of both the war and her pregnancy. Perhaps it was absolutely natural, and she was a fool to suspect any foul play. But she remembered one more affliction, not a disease, which caused those who had it to vomit up blood.

 

One which had taken away the citizens of Scirocco and their defenders.

 

She knew he would be meeting with Glaesal at some point to discuss their plans now that the Fortress of Spears had fallen. He had also told her it would have to be a most secret meeting, one in which even she wouldn’t be allowed to participate, for fears of spies or anyone else hearing them—their “last resorts,” as he said. Thus, she had lain in bed after they’d gotten in together, waiting for him to rise as she knew he’d do, and only pretending to sleep until she’d heard the door close softly behind him and knew he was heading towards Glaesal’s room.

 

Of course, this wasn’t enough—she also knew that he might have left pieces of his own dark essence behind him. She furrowed her brow, concentrating on the air around her, trying to feel if there were any magical auras indicating she was being spied on. Thankfully, there weren’t, and now certain that she was safe, she breathed a sigh of relief and sat up on the bed. Now it was time for her to cast some of her own magic.

 

Holding out a hand in front of her, she quietly breathed a few words that were a variant of an incantation one could often find in most Dark grimoires. A small black sphere appeared before her, darker even than its surroundings, lit by just a bit of starlight streaming through the open window. Two small points of golden light appeared in its depths, and it let out a small squeak, indicating it was ready for its mistress’ commands.

 

“Go to Glaesal’s room,” she cooed to it softly. “Your eyes and ears are now mine.”

 

With another squeak it disappeared from the air and rematerialized on the floor, a small black spot zipping under the room’s door and away to what Meris knew would be Glaesal’s quarters. She sighed in satisfaction, leaned back on her pillow, and closed her eyes again, but with the intent to complete the spell, not sleep. As her eyes shut, she saw not blackness but the bottom of a bed in a candlelit room—she was watching Glaesal from the perspective of her tiny familiar. A small mental nudge convinced it to scurry towards and up a wall, keeping close to the shadows where it would not be noticed. Now she could get a clear view of everything, including the participants of the coming discussion.

 

Glaesal lay on the comfortable double-bed, his old face looking pained and very tired. Before him stood the tall, strong form of Paptimus, holding a bottle of wine in his right hand. In more favorable circumstances he might have sensed the slight aura of magic Meris’ familiar produced, but given the expression on his face, he was too intent on what he and Glaesal would be discussing to notice such a tiny thing.

 

“P…Paptimus,” he said, with a wild, hacking cough. “I…I know why you’re here. Did we really have…have to meet this late at night? I need sleep, not—“

 

“My friend, it’s of the utmost importance to the war effort. We—“

 

“War effort? What war effort? The war is over, Paptimus! We—gah! We’ve lost! There’s no way—no way!—we can defend this city with our numbers. The Fortress of Spears was our best hope for blunting the Royalist assault, and now that it’s fallen—with a defection from one of our best mercenaries, in addition!—we have no hope! There’s no point in w…ah! Wasting a single life more on a struggle th…that’s already been lost. We tried our best, but…”

 

Paptimus regarded him for a moment with a cold, unreadable expression. “Then I assume you propose we surrender?”

 

“Yes, of course!”

 

The Dark General shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Glaesal. And neither can you.”

 

Another long silence stretched between the two men for a moment, and it was apparent Glaesal couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “Wh…what are you talking about, Paptimus?”

 

“Yes, Glaesal, this effort may have been a failure. But what about the next? If we escape with our lives, we’ll be able to carry on our struggle elsewhere. I’ve already made preparations to send the remaining Red Shoulders to the Western Isles, and soon, Meris and I will follow them. There, we will be able to use the Isles as a base of operations, uniting the clans and pirates behind us to strike out at the Royalists. I have, of course, planned accommodations for you. We’ll need to leave soon to escape the Royalists, though. I know you don’t want to abandon your city, but…”

 

“W…what?” Glaesal’s eyes bulged so much that Meris thought they’d pop right out of his head. “P…Paptimus, what is this? I…I never authorized this! You’ve told me nothing!”

 

“Of course! I didn’t want Royalist spies to overhear and interfere with our plans. Now, are you coming with us or not?”

 

“What?! No! Paptimus, this is insanity!” Glaesal hacked and coughed again. “After all this…after so much death…you want to start it up all again? I…I can’t countenance that! For the good of this country’s people, we have to end this war. The pain the Royalist misgovernance has caused is terrible, but this war has been even worse. As bad as things might have been under Galahad, these circumstances are even more unbearable. We have to—“

 

“No, Glaesal, precisely the opposite.” Paptimus’ voice had not changed considerably, but underneath his cordial tone was a current as icy as his hand had felt on Meris’ forehead. “You must think in the long term. Compared to all the lives we’ll save in the future, compared to rescuing this continent from its miasma of superstition and oppression, how significant are the lives our present war has sacrificed? And how significant will be the lives we sacrifice in future wars? They will be lamentable sacrifices, but worth it for our greater goal.”

 

For the first time, something like realization dawned on Glaesal’s face. “P…Paptimus…th…this is inhuman. That logic…it’s inhuman! But…but now I…Paptimus…how long…how long have you thought like this? I never saw it before, b…but now…I realize…everything…your twisted ‘reason’…you can justify anything with it, can’t you? Even…have you been manipulating me? Even me? How long…You’ve always been like this, but…but you were like a son to me, I never thought…”

 

“So I presume your answer is a “no?”

 

“Th…that’s right!” Glaesal sat up in his bed, his eyes blazing. “Even in my state, you can’t manipulate me any more, Paptimus! I’m ending this war! I’ll hand myself over to the Royalists, even to Khyron, and tell them…” his voice trailed off as he realized that the man standing in front of him would not let him do that.

 

“I thought you’d be unreasonable like this,” said Paptimus, quietly and sadly. “That is, of course, why I took measures to prepare for this. Your illness was sudden, was it not, Glaesal?” He gave the rapidly-paling Count of Nerinheit a sympathetic look. “Well, it’s not simply bad luck. I’ve been poisoning your drinks and meals, you see. Bit by bit, no more. Just enough to damage your health and make you unable to cause any serious problems. I started when you first brought up the prospect of surrender. And as much as it pains me to do it, now I suppose I’ll have to finish the job.

 

“You’ll die here tonight, my friend. And tomorrow, as soon as possible, Meris and I will leave for the Western Isles. Rumors will follow us, of course, given the suddenness of our departure, but they won’t be able to prove anything more than your death of sudden illness. And by that time, of course, we will be long gone. You will not be able to leak my plans to the Royalists or ruin things in any other way, Glaesal.”

 

“P…P…Paptimus…” said Glaesal numbly, “After everything I’ve done for you…I…I’ve been like a father to you…Why…”

 

“Emotions and personal sentiments must not get in the way of saving Elibe. Believe me, Glaesal, this hurts me as much as anything I’ve ever done. But…but…” Tears appeared in Paptimus’ eyes. “For the future…for the people of Elibe…I must do some hard things. I’d ask for your forgiveness, but I know you won’t give it. So instead, I’ll just make this as painless for you as possible.”

 

He placed the bottle of wine he’d brought with him on a nearby table, popped it open with a bit of magic, set it down, and then reached into his robes and produced a small vial Meris recognized all too well. He poured the contents—all of it—into the bottle, swished it around, picked it up, and carried it over to Glaesal. “This is the same poison I used at Scirocco,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “It works as well in small doses as it does in large ones, as you know…well, now know. There’s so much I haven’t told you, yes? I was behind Scirocco…I was behind the war in Lycia…and you’ll go to your grave not knowing half of it. Again, I’m sorry. But it was all for the greater good…as this will be, too.”

 

He focused his eyes on the unfortunate Glaesal, now half-delirious with pain, betrayal, and despair. The man’s head was snapped back by the force of Paptimus’ will, and he strode up to him, putting the bottle to his lips and forcing him to take a great swig. He coughed and sputtered, but as much liquid went into his stomach as into his burning lungs.

 

“There, now. That should be enough. This was your favorite vintage, Glaesal. I…I didn’t want you to go to your grave without tasting your best wine one last time.” Paptimus set down the bottle on the nearby bedstand and then waved a hand over the coughing, hacking, dying Nerinheit. Glaesal gave him one final look—full of hatred, rage, but also disbelief and sadness, as if he was _pleading_ —and then his eyes closed and he descended, peacefully, back to the embrace of his bed, breathing steadily as he’d be in the most peaceful sleep. He continued this way for a few moments more—and then his chest shuddered, his eyes flew open a final time, and then shut again. When his head turned to the side, his chest no longer moved, and a trickle of blood came from his mouth and joined the red wine he’d spattered a few drops of on his blankets and pillow.

 

Paptimus stood over this scene, watching it for a few moments more, as Meris did—though it was obvious his emotions weren’t the same as the unadulterated horror she felt. He lowered his head, and she could see him sobbing, the tears falling from his face and spattering on the floor. But this only occupied him for a few moments. With another sigh and a great, heaving sob he raised his head and turned back towards the door, beginning his journey back to Meris’ room.

 

And like a bolt of lightning, the horrified observer realized that her life was in danger as well. If Paptimus realized she had been spying on him…

_I can’t let him see me like this_ , she thought to herself, that crystal-clear realization enough to cut through the haze of her sense of betrayal, despair, and emotional distress. _If he realizes that I know…_ She was caught with a fierce sense of horror for both her own fate and that of her unborn child if she did not plan her next moves very, very carefully. _Can’t let him know. Have to make it seem like I’m still asleep. Have to…_

 

Ironically enough, for someone now filled with fear of the man who had once been her mentor, her savior, and the love of her life, it was the most basic lessons he taught her which ended up saving her.

 

She remembered when she was first starting to study dark magic with him, so long ago. Just a short time after he’d rescued her from that Lycian brothel, he had introduced her to one of his Flux tomes. She had recoiled at first—every Lycian, no matter who they were, had heard stories of the horror those tomes were capable of producing. But he whispered to her, kindly, gently, telling her that there was nothing to be afraid of, that such tomes could bring joy rather than pain, power rather than death, and all she had to do was learn how to use them—trust him, trust he who had saved her from such a horrible life. And she did so, happily, without reservation, and as that memory from so long ago echoed in her mind, so too did the words he had given her:

 

_“The first step to mastering the darkness, my dear, is to master yourself. Yes, these tomes can bring great power, but if you lack the requisite discipline to use them, you’ll find the horror stories you were told to have more than a small basis in the truth. Before I even let you touch this tome, I’ll show you some techniques all mages—not just Dark ones—use to control their body and state of mind. Look at me closely, and watch how I breath…”_

She had burned that lesson into her heart, and it served her well.  As Paptimus’ steps echoed closer and closer, she cleared her mind, emptied it of all thoughts, and in a display of mental rigor more than worthy of the apprentice of the Dark General, managed to drive away even her feelings of betrayal and sorrow for Glaesal. All that was left was her single, clear desire to feign sleep as perfectly as possible. And within a few moments, her breathing steadied, her body had stopped trembling, and the sheen of sweat on her forehead had disappeared.

 

By the time Paptimus returned to her bedside, pausing over her silent form and placing a cold hand on her forehead for the second time that night, she was as still and calm as if she really was sleeping.

It took everything she had not to recoil from his touch.

 

Perhaps it was a testament to her skill, or perhaps Paptimus, in his damaged emotional state, wasn’t perceptive enough to pry deeper. In any case, he was fooled. Sighing, he disrobed, got into his sleeping clothes, and slid into bed next to her.

 

And it wasn’t until he was asleep—that she was certain, beyond any doubt, that he was asleep—that she allowed a single tear to trickle down her face, to commemorate the passing of her friend, Glaesal Nerinheit.

 

-X-

 

Of all the visitors he might have received, Archbishop Gosterro wasn’t expecting Trunicht again, considering the harsh words they had exchanged the last time they’d met. However, given what he knew of the Black Knight’s personality, he wasn’t entirely surprised, either. Thus, when he felt the magical emanations of a Warp spell from behind him along with that distinctive scent of ozone, he didn’t panic, or even act particularly out of place. He simply edged a hand over to the Lighting tome he now kept within easy reach of his work desk as stated, quietly, “your audacity in returning to me is astounding, Trunicht. It will be the last time. I—“

 

The Black Knight chuckled as he emerged from the white haze his Warp staff had produced. “Come now, despite our previous differences, is there a need to be so hostile? We once had a productive relationship, after all. Wouldn’t you want to rekindle that?”

 

“You take me for a fool? Your Revolution is a failure! You’ve lost! You’re in absolutely no position to request anything of me! You have nothing to offer!”

 

“Ah, but you see, Gosterro, it’s no longer _my_ revolution.”

 

This gave Gosterro pause. “Explain.”

 

Trunicht sighed. “I will be frank, Your Excellency. You know the type of man I am—not so different from you. I don’t believe in any real causes, and my loyalty to the Revolution went as far as it seemed profitable to me. Now, of course, that’s changed—we’re losing, you’re winning. So I want to throw my lot in with you.” With another dramatic flourish, he knelt before the incredulous Archbishop. “God, my Lord, I have sinned,” he began in a perfect repetition of the Rite of Contrition, “and now I repent. I’ve transgressed against my fellow man, and ask for Your forgiveness as well as theirs.

 

“I served an unjust, ungodly cause, and indeed, I have lived an unjust, ungodly life. I have rebelled against Your holy words, denied Your existence, and fought against Your ordained church. But I have seen the light! Truly, the Rebel loss in this war proves the truth of the Church’s teachings. And do they not preach forgiveness? Thus, both to you, O great Creator above, and to Your Excellency, Holy Archbishop Gosterro, I, the humble Job Trunicht, renounce my former sinful ways and beg forgiveness for my previous sins. Please accept my servitude in the hopes that you will find Elimine’s compassion and allow me to tread a new path in her (and your) service.”

 

Gosterro couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “Y…you…this is blasphemy! You profane the teachings of my Church!”

 

“Really? I thought I was very convincing.”

 

“T-that’s not the point!”

 

“Have I profaned it any more than you, Your Excellency? Considering how eager you were to treat with me when the Rebels were winning. This is not to moralize or condemn you, of course—it is to point out that you don’t care about profanity any more than I do. So why not listen to my proposal? Men like us care above all for ourselves, and you will find that I am much, much more useful to you alive and under your protection than dead.”

 

“But what of Lady Monica? One of _my_ Bishops? You Revolutionaries were responsible for her death. Why should I trust an anti-clericalist like you? You’re simply going to stab me in the back!”

 

“You wound me, Your Excellency! Like I always said, I was never responsible for her death, it was the fault of that fool Tassar—and rest assured, he is very much dead; suitably punished for his failure. And in any case, Holy Gosterro, If I was planning to betray you, why would I give you these?” With a flourish, he reached to his cape and brought out a piece of parchment, holding it out to the Archbishop. Gosterro regarded it suspiciously for a moment, holding a hand towards it and reaching out with his mind, trying to ascertain any nefarious auras which indicated it might have been cursed or otherwise trapped. When he saw it was safe, he took it and read it, his eyes widening as he realized what it was.

 

“Yes, Archbishop. That is a map of the Western Isles, marked with all the hiding places I’ve instructed my Red Shoulders to retreat to. Paptimus realized the war was lost weeks ago, and set into motion a contingency plan to continue the struggle even after Nerinheit fell. My Red Shoulders were to have retreated to the Western Isles and joined forces with whatever pirates, natives, and Bernese settlers they could find, in order to continue to press against the Etrurian crown. Paptimus himself has fled Nerinheit—where, I don’t know. He will probably join the Red Shoulders somewhere on these isles, but he didn’t tell me exactly where. I don’t even know if he’ll be landing in Caledonia or Fibernia. He didn’t tell me, because, of course, he didn’t trust me; understandably, as you can see. However, it is I, not he, who commands the Red Shoulders. They are mine, not his. I, personally, have little desire to see the war continue—I’ve grown quite bored of it, and it’s not profitable anymore. Thus, I freely give to you the lives of the remaining Red Shoulders. Since they pledged themselves to me, I can give them away if I wish, after all. With this information, the Etrurian forces will be able to crush them with little difficulty. The crucial role the Church played in the effort, of course, will result in it being all the more powerful and influential…along with you, of course.”

 

“True,” mused Gosterro. “But what do you get out of it?”

 

“Your protection, of course. There are undoubtedly many people who’d like me dead, a warrior named Renault foremost among them. If you could shelter me in some out-of-the-way outpost of your faith for a few years, until the people forget about me, I would be most obliged. A monastery of some sort would do the trick, especially considering the other present I have for you.”

 

“And what would that be?”

 

A mischievous smile spread over Trunicht’s face. “The Armor of the Berserk!” With another cheerful flourish of his hands, Gosterro’s room was filled with thick, inky-black smoke, and the Archbishop frantically grasped his Lightning tome, thinking that the Black Knight actually was after his life. However, the smoke didn’t harm him—it coagulated in the center of the room, forming into a distinctive shape. Those strange, greaved gauntlets, that odd, unsettling metal, and of course, that helmet shaped like some sort of demonic wolf’s head…

 

“You’ve heard the stories of this armor,” Trunicht said. “You know how powerful it is, what it can do. Wouldn’t having control of this—just in case—make the Church, and your personal position, of course, that much stronger? And besides, now that the Revolution has failed, who better to maintain stewardship of such a horrible artifact than the Eliminean Church? I’m sure you’ll keep it from falling into the wrong hands…”

 

“B…Bringing such an evil artifact into my personal quarters?!” Gosterro sputtered incredulously. “What kind of deal are you trying to make, Trunicht? Are you trying to kill me?”

 

“Your Excellency, a man of the cloth such as yourself, especially given your stature and magical prowess, would be more than able to restrain the energies of even a terrifying relic such as this. That, after all, is why I brought it to you. And only a man of unsurpassed virtue such as yourself is worthy of having it. Of course, I know you’ll destroy it with haste, being the holy man you are. But just seeing it might give you some interesting ideas, you know? Even a man as great as yourself has acquired a few enemies. Villains and evildoers, I’m sure! This evil suit of armor might be put to a ‘good’ cause against them someday…it certainly couldn’t hurt to have on hand, yes?”

 

“Hm…Perhaps not.” Gosterro stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “You’ve given me much, Black Knight. I will admit that we’ve had a…productive relationship in the past. Your tithe of these plans along with this…armor have convinced me of your…sincerity, shall we say.

 

“Very well. I’ll offer you refuge…for now. While I acknowledge your potential usefulness, I’m not fool enough to trust you. I’ll be putting you under strict surveillance, Trunicht, and if you don’t like it, you won’t be leaving this cathedral alive.”

 

“I accept whatever you deem fit, Your Excellency.”

 

“There is a small monastery on the southern coast of Bern headed by a monk I know personally—Abbot Grigorius. He has never liked me, but his loyalty to the Church itself is unwavering, and he will obey my commands out of a sense of personal duty, even if he despises them. He is interesting, you see, for his sizable experience with dark magic, fell artifacts, and black sorcerers. Before he chose a cenobitic vocation, he was almost an exorcist—of some renown in the region, as well.

 

“I can think of no-one better suited to both serve as a steward for this accursed…but powerful…armor as well as a monitor for your good behavior, Black Knight. I will draft a letter ordering Grigorious to treat you as a guest in his monastery, and I shall call for a company of monks and priests to escort you and the Armor to the monastery _immediately_. If you try to pull any sort of trick, they will smite you without question. Remember, our Light magic banishes the darkness you wield quite easily. Accept this offer, and we may have a productive relationship again in the future. If not, however…”

 

“You need say no more, Archbishop.” Trunicht smiled and bowed again. “Your generous offer is more than a wretch such as myself deserves. You are truly a shining exemplar of the Saint’s forgiveness!”

 

“Hah,” laughed Gosterro as he walked to the window of his room and rang a small bell outside of it. This bell could be found near the personal quarters of any of the eight Archbishops. All of their massive cathedrals were staffed by a group of monks who had been dedicated by the Church hierarchy to serve its leaders. If that bell rang at any time, it would summon a group of the cenobitic servants (whether they were sleeping or not) to attend the Archbishop. “Well, your escort will be arriving for you soon. In the meantime, do you have any more of that wine? A bit of it might go a bit further towards earning God’s forgiveness, you know…”

 

“My dear Gosterro, I thought you’d never ask!” Once again he reached into his cape, pulling out a very old bottle of the stuff. “I managed to pilfer this from Nerinheit’s wine cellar last night. Just as well, since he won’t be able to enjoy it anymore. Not his best vintage, but it is over one hundred years old.”

 

“Good enough,” said Gosterro, walking over to a cabinet and taking out a pair of glasses he kept for situations just like these. Together, the two men made a toast to their repaired and hopefully long-lasting friendship, their laughter echoing loudly into Aquleia’s night.

 

-X-

 “We leave tonight, Meris.”

 

“Y…Yes, Master Paptimus.”

 

He gave her a strange, sidelong glance at this, and Meris averted her eyes, looking down. She kept her hands clasped over her swollen belly and bit her lip, trying her best to avoid his gaze. She did not pray—she had never had belief and still did not—but she hoped, fervently, as strongly as possible, that the Dark General had not caught on to her plans. And perhaps because there was someone looking after her, or perhaps, as she thought, it was a combination of good luck and the fact that Paptimus, for all his cunning and ruthlessness, still couldn’t see her as a threat in even the most remote possibilities, he gave whatever was running through his mind no more heed. “Meris, you’re still…you haven’t taken Glaesal’s death well, have you?”

 

She closed her eyes, silently thanking her luck. “I…you know me too well, M-Master.”

 

He sighed. “I’d tell you not to call me that, but at this point…it doesn’t matter.” He ran a hand through his purple hair, which was now a bit more stringy and disheveled than it had ever been, and with a few noticeable streaks of grey running through it. The stress was indeed getting to him. That small measure of his humanity was enough to rend Meris’ heart with guilt over what she was planning to do—but at the same time, the vision of Glaesal’s death mask, filled with pain and despair as it was, wouldn’t allow her to do anything less.

 

“Meris, my dear, please, listen to me. I know this must seem heartless, and in any other circumstances I would be even more distraught than you are now. But you’ve already cried over Glaesal’s death, though, to your credit, you controlled yourself better when I informed you of his passing than I thought you would. You spent all morning crying over him, and that’s already more time than we can afford. The servants are already growing suspicious, and if we don’t leave _soon_ they’ll find out he’s dead before we leave. That would lend itself to quite a few problems. Why, they might even suspect us of killing him rather than his fever!”

 

Meris noted how coldly and utterly without remorse he lied, and with another pang of guilt and regret, wondered if every attestation of love he’d ever given her was as much of a cold, calculated lie. But, once again, using the same mental tricks he had taught her, she remained silent. She merely nodded.

 

“This…this has been an utter horror, Meris, and rest assured, I never wanted things to turn out so badly. But we can’t let this be the end of our dream. Even if the revolution fails here, today, we must keep its flame alive. It’s what Glaesal would have wanted.”

 

 _No,_ she thought to herself, _that’s not it at all, and you know it_.

 

But once again, she took a page from Paptimus’ book. “I understand,” she lied.

 

“Do you? Then you know why it’s so important that we escape without anyone knowing, including our allies. If we’re caught by the Royalists, we die and the Revolution dies with us. As much as the people of Nerinheit might like to help, they’ll insist we take leadership if they find out Glaesal is dead, assuming they don’t accuse us. That will lead to the same outcome. Again, as much as it pains me to leave things in such a state, if we can reach the Isles, and contact with my associates there, we’ll be able to formulate a new plan, and meet with success at a later date.”

 

“I…I understand. But…but what of Trunicht? I haven’t…”

 

“Seen him? Yes, well, that man was always out for himself, first, last, and above all. He was never truly interested in my cause, but he made himself useful anyways. Now that the tide has turned against us, though, he’s probably trying to make himself useful to the victors. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s turned himself into Khyron’s…no, not Khyron, the Mage General would never forgive him. Gosterro, that’s who. He’s turned himself into the care of the Eliminean church, likely by offering to feed them information on our soldiers who’ve retreated to the Western Isles.” At this, however, Paptimus grinned. “Knowing Trunicht, though, he’s playing both sides—that’s why he’s so useful. He won’t betray our path or future location, Meris, if that’s what you’re worried about.  He wouldn’t dare cross me, not when he knows my power, and even less, since he knows I’m more useful to him alive than dead. But yes, even so, I’d be a fool to trust him…which is why I never told him of my plans for escape in case things went awry. Rest easy, Meris. You have nothing to fear.”

 

“I…I’m glad to hear that, M…Paptimus. But still…”

 

“ _What?!”_ Though he tried to keep it out of his voice, it was evident that Paptimus was growing angry with her—indeed, it was testament to how stressed he was that he had allowed such anger to seep into his words; he had never before raised his voice to her in all the time they had known each other.

 

“I…please, Master! May I have just a little more time here? I…I have so many memories of this room, where we spent so long with each other…together…I…I know we don’t have much time, but…but…please…not yet. Let me stay just a little longer…”

 

“I…” Paptimus’ gaze softened at this. “Very well. We can spare a few more minutes. But no more.”

 

“Th…thank you, M…Paptimus,” she said, looking up at him with grief-filled eyes—that were grieving for a different reason than he believed. “C…can I have some time alone? Please…”

 

Paptimus paused, but then nodded his assent. “I ought to get a few more supplies for our journey, anyways. I’ll be back for you in ten minutes.”

 

“Th…thank you!”

 

The moment the door closed behind him, Meris closed her eyes and breathed a great sigh of relief.

 

“ _The war in Lycia…that’s what he said last night. So…so Paptimus…he was responsible for what happened to my homeland? But…why? He took me away from all of it…he was so kind to me…”_

 

She shook her head as the memory of Glaesal’s miserable death came back to the forefront of her mind—that was all the proof she needed that his kindness had been a lie. She couldn’t let anything distract her—not now, at least. Even though Paptimus had left the room, she—and her child—would be in mortal danger if he was still spying on them somehow. She extended her mind to search for any trace of his magic, and physically dashed around the room, searching every nook and cranny to see if any of his shadow spies were watching her. She breathed another heavy sigh of relief when she found there weren’t.

 

Now it was time for her to carry out her plan. She walked over to the room’s desk and took from it a sheaf of Paptimus’ parchments as well as his quill and inkpot. Sitting down, as fast as she possibly could she began writing—she was barely able to keep it legible, but she managed.

 

Time was of the essence, after all. If Paptimus happened to come back before she’d finished, it likely would have meant the end of her life.

 

However, she was fast enough that she completed her missive with some time to spare. Even better.

 

As she’d done last night, as quickly as she could she summoned one of the shadow familiars that Paptimus had taught her how to make. This one, however, was almost three times as large as its predecessor. It was not intended to be a mere spy.

 

She held the letter she’d written out towards it, and the small blob of shadow floating on the desk surged forwards and enveloped it, submerging it within the familiar’s inky black depths. The creature gave a satisfied squeak and looked up at Meris patiently with its golden eyes.

 

“This is an important task, little one,” she cooed to it, stroking it affectionately. “The most important I have ever given to one of your kind.

 

“I want you to go south of here, to the great Fortress of Spears. There…there should be a man named Braddock there. He’s Lycian, like me…though he’s an Ostian. He was one of the men who betrayed us at the outset of this war, and…and I think I understand why. He and his comrades _must_ see this letter. If they don’t, th…this war may never end.”

 

The shadow-creature let out another squeak of acknowledgment.

 

“Make haste, now. Away!”

 

With a last obedient squeak, the familiar slid from her hands to the floor, disappearing into the shadows under the room’s bed. She could feel it slide out a crack in the wall and make its way down through the castle until it had reached the outside, and then proceed to rush as fast as it could south. This was enough to make her sigh in relief and satisfaction.

 

Just in time, too. She heard heavy footsteps tromping up to the door, and soon enough Paptimus threw it open. “Time to go,” he said calmly, in a voice that brooked no dissent. “You’re ready, I presume.”

 

Meris nodded. She was most definitely ready.

 

-X-

 

“Renault, it’s time to eat.”

 

The Mercenary Lord paid no attention to his friend.  He continued to smash his waster into the wooden training dummy in front of him, sweat flying off his bare chest. It was evening, so the training yards of the Fortress of Spears weren’t as hot as they had been earlier in the day, but they were still uncomfortable. Not that he noticed, though. He simply continued to hack and slash, pouring his grief and anger into each strike, and it was up in the air whether his training sword or the dummy would break first; there was already a small pile of both nearby.

 

Braddock shook his head and walked forwards, calling more loudly, “Renault!”

 

No response.

 

He finally reached out to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder when he stopped a moment to take a breath, and Renault jerked and quickly turned around, holding his waster as if it was a real sword and fixing Braddock with a hateful glare. His friend could only take a step back and give Renault a sad look before the light of recognition finally showed up in his eyes. When this happened, he took a deep breath, relaxed his body, and looked at Braddock with an expression now somewhat grateful rather than angry—but still very sad.

 

“B…Braddock? S-sorry. What d’you want?”

 

“They’re settin’ out dinner soon, Renault. Aren’t you hungry?”

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

 

Renault picked up his shirt from the nearby ground and followed his friend back into the depths of the Fortress of Spears, now comfortably within the hands of the Royalist forces. Braddock sighed as he spared a glance back at Renault. Khyron, Gafgarion, and Jerid had decreed the army rest here for three days before advancing to Nerinheit. They had suffered a moderate amount of casualties, but considerably fewer than expected.

 

Since Keith was one of those casualties, it was a very small comfort.

 

Braddock had had quite a lot of trouble sleeping for the past two days he’d spent in this fortress. It wasn’t because it was uncomfortable; the Rebels had furnished it well and apparently hadn’t attempted to destroy any of the supplies within the castle. No, it was because almost every time he closed his eyes, he saw the field of gore that Keith—that lively, loyal, and honorable Ilian—had been reduced to. She was his friend, and now…

 

But Renault had taken it even worse. After he’d finally stopped shouting and raging enough to allow them to leave the copse which had served as Keith’s bloody grave, they had made the long, lonely walk back to the Fortress of Spears. Gafgarion, thoughtfully, had sent riders after them, so it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. But Renault had not spoken a single word for their trip—and the moment he got back to the castle, with the Royalist forces celebrating their victory as the last of the Red Shoulders died, and Khyron, Rosamia, and the rest of their Company eagerly rushing out to greet them, congratulating them on their fantastic work, Renault had said nothing at all. He ignored them, went straight to a room he’d picked out (the one he and Braddock had shared back when they were still with the rebels, in fact), cast off his armor, threw himself on the bed, and slept. It was up to Braddock—and only Braddock—to inform his commander and his comrades why Keith had not returned. Ever since then Renault had spent almost every hour of the last day and most of this one in the Fortress’s training fields, working tirelessly in exercises with the training swords or practicing maneuvers with his dagger-equipped armor. The last time Braddock had asked, Renault had only replied with one gruff, grim sentence:

 

“I need to be as strong as possible to avenge Keith.”

 

The two men entered the Fortress’s Great Hall, where the highest-ranked members of the army were eating. The fortress was not big enough to accommodate an entire army of this size, so many of them men were camped outside and around the area, but it could seat Gafgarion and Jerid’s personal retinues easily, along with a table a bit apart from the rest, where the Autonomous Company could eat. All their friends were there, along with Dougram and Serapino. Though the Royal defectors were stationed outside, since they hadn’t completely proven their trustworthiness, Braddock had spoken up for Dougram to the three generals, assuring them of the Nabatan’s sincerity. Jerid had responded by saying Dougram and his mendicant friend were now under the care of the Autonomous Company.  Dougram didn’t much like being treated this way, but he fully realized it was better than he would have gotten under different leaders.

 

Of course, adding to his bad mood was the gloom that hung over his captors—the faces of the Company as they watched Braddock and Renault take their seats at the table. Khyron looked frustrated more than anything else—Keith was a good soldier, and he did not like losing those, and more than that, despite his racism he had acquired a respect for the Shrike Team after all they did for him. Harvery looked like he’d been drinking once again—the death of a teammate did not sit well with him. Rosamia was just as sad, for she had rather liked the little sister of her friend Kelitha. Apolli and Lisse sat next to each other, and the blue-haired girl looked at Renault like she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it, remembering how he had reacted when Kelitha died. This made her expression fall even farther than it had before, so Apolli stroked her hair gently and whispered something comforting in her ear. They had been growing much closer, Braddock noticed. The only person whose demeanor hadn’t changed much was Roberto. Though he gave Renault another sympathetic look—as much as he could give, which wasn’t saying much, but still said something—it only lasted a moment before he dove back to his dinner, an unadorned but serviceable bowl of stew.

 

Serapino, clueless as he was, was simply happy to see an old acquaintance again. “Renault,” he chirped upon seeing the Mercenary Lord, “I can’t believe you’ve been doing so much good work since I’ve seen you!  I didn’t know much, but—“

 

“Shh.” Dougram put a hand on Serapino’s shoulder, and the mendicant, who now considered the Nabatan to be his closest friend, even above Renault, took his advice, hastily and intently returning to his stew. Just as well—Renault’s emotional state was even worse than it was in the aftermath of Kelitha’s death. Renault shot his old acquaintance an angry look, and then started on his own meal.

 

That was how it went. There was a seat at their table conspicuously absent—a remembrance of sorts, though Braddock wasn’t sure it was intentional, for Keith. Whatever it was, it was enough to keep the thought of her death fresh in all their minds. The Company said nothing, and indeed, continued their meal in sullen silence. After losing two of their members already, the thought that any one of them could be next put quite a great damper on any prospects of happy conversation.

 

After a few minutes, they’d all finished their bowls. Though it wasn’t that late, Renault’s incessant training had sapped most of his energy, so with a full stomach he got up from his seat and headed to his room without a single word to his comrades. None of them begrudged him for this. Indeed, Braddock was feeling pretty tired himself, due to his sleeping problems. Thus, he followed Renault back upstairs, and nobody faulted him for this either. The two friends had no reason to be any more talkative now, either. The moment Renault lay himself out on his modest bed he was fast asleep within moments. His expression didn’t seem like he’d be having pleasant dreams, either. Braddock could only give him another sympathetic look, sigh, and set himself down on his own cot.

 

-x-

 

He woke up in a few hours…which was actually earlier than he expected. He blinked and opened his eyes, looking at his surroundings—it was pitch black, meaning that it was around midnight, not early morning. He raised his groggy head and looked to Renault—still sleeping, albeit not peacefully. So why had he woken up? He blinked, sat up, and then realized he felt a strange sensation at his toes. His first thought was a rat, but it didn’t feel painful—nothing was biting at him or nibbling at him. Rather…it just felt cold. Very cold.

 

“The hell?” His suspicions driving away the linger vestiges of drowsiness, he sat up and squinted his eyes. Everything was dark, almost pitch-black…but by his toes he could see a little patch of darkness that seemed a bit blacker than the rest—in which floated a pair of golden dots.

 

His eyes went wide as he remembered what sort of creatures had eyes like that.

 

“RENAULT, WAKE UP! WE GOT A VISITOR!”

 

“Huh?! What the…” It didn’t take even a moment for Renault to wake himself up as well as Braddock did.  He jumped from his bed and got to his feet, grabbing his Silver Sword he kept nearby. The shadow creature, for its part, realized it had been found. It let out a terrified “Eep!” and then…disappeared.

 

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?!”

 

Braddock saw a dark shape flash across the band of moonlight streaming in from a window, but it was too fast for him to catch. He looked around, but it was nowhere to be found.

 

“Dammit, Braddock, what the hell happened?” growled Renault, very angry at having been woken up. “Why’d you—“

 

“I saw one of Paptimus’ little dark magic spies,” he replied. “I have no idea what it was—“

 

He took a step forward and then felt something crinkle under his foot. “Huh?”

 

He looked down, felt around on the floor, and came up with what seemed to be a sheaf of parchment. It was strangely cold, much colder than it should have been. He held it out to Renault. “This wasn’t here before, was it?”

 

Renault nodded, realizing his friend had been telling the truth. “Let’s light a candle and see what it says.”

 

“Think it could be cursed? Maybe it’s a trap from Paptimus…”

 

“I don’t feel anything coming from it…every time we’ve fought something produced by dark magic, like the Armor of the Berserk, we could feel the aura a long time before we actually saw it. I don’t feel anything from this.”

 

“Well, you’re the expert.” Braddock went over and fished out a candle and some tinder with which to light it from the room’s single desk, and with a source of illumination now in hand the two men examined the writing their little visitor had brought them.

 

Expressions of shock crossed over both their faces as they went along, and by the time they finished the missive neither of them even needed to say anything. They bolted straight out of their room and headed to Khyron’s upstairs. He really, _really_ needed to see this.

 

-x-

 

“It’s a trap! What else could it be?”

 

Khyron stood in front of the large table around which were gathered all of the Autonomous Company, along with the other two Generals, Gafgarion and Jerid, as well as Dougram and Serapino for good measure. They were standing in what had once been Glaesal Nerinheit’s personal bedroom—the large space had been stripped of all its former furnishings except for a great round table, making it now a more than serviceable conference room.

 

Khyron’s response in gathering them all had been admirably quick, given the late hour. When Braddock and Renault had knocked fervently on the door to his personal room (Tassar’s old dwelling, in fact), he’d been just as angry as Renault had initially been. Of course, when he saw the missive, his response had been the same. He’d immediately roused his two fellow Generals, and given the sensitive nature of the document, the rest of the Company as well, since this involved them directly. Finally, Jerid suggested they bring in both Dougram and Serapino, since the former Rebels might have some insight into the letter’s contents.

 

The Mage General gestured angrily to the piece of parchment in front of him. “Written by Paptimus’ whore, brought to us by some dark creature…it has to be a trick! Let’s burn it and pay it not a moment’s thought more!”

 

“Well, hold on a minute, Lord Khyron,” said Harvery thoughtfully. “Let’s think about it a bit more. Can you read it back to us one more time?”

 

“I don’t see the point,” grumbled Khyron, but Braddock took the letter and began.

 

_I dont have much time, and neither do you. I address this letter to the axeman Braddock, who defected from our forces to join Khyron’s._

_My name is Meris. Paptimus is was my master and lover, and I his most trusted confidante. No longer. I can no longer be loyal to him. Last night, he murdered our friend, Glaesal Nerinheit, in cold blood for fear he would fall into your hands. I overheard him when he did so. He told Glaesal that he had been manipulating him for a long time, and that he had also been responsible for “the war in Lycia.” The war that destroyed our homeland, though I am not Ostian like you._

_After this, there is no way I can continue to support him. I admit I have shared many of his sins. I was there at Scirocco, helping the town along to its destruction, lying to them until my master poisoned all of them. And for years I served as a humble maid while lying to everyone around me, including Glaesal, about my master’s true nature. But after this, I can take it no longer. Glaesal was like a father to Paptimus, a man who took him in as if he were his own son. If Paptimus could kill him so coldly, in the name of the “greater good,” what could he do to me? To our children? Paptimus has caused too much death and pain. It rends my very heart to say this, but for the sake of Elibe, for the sake of the child he helped bring into the world, Paptimus must be stopped._

_He plans to flee Nerinheit City and take refuge ni in the Western Isles. If he succeeds, he may never be found, and it will only be a matter of time before he starts another war. However, I will tell you the path he intends to take. Trunicht has disappeared, and we don’t know where he is—perhaps taken refuge in the Church, I don’t know. But our escape route is probably different than his anyways. Nerinheit is a coastal city. He will take a boat along with me and a small retinue of the most highly-trained bodyguards to a small outpost on the eastern coast of Fibernia. It is near the mouth of one of that country’s rivers, and once he reaches it, he’ll be able to use it to travel away anywhere in the country he wants—you won’t be able to catch him. However, the seas around Nerinheit are turbulent at this time of year. The ship will very likely have to stop and dock at a small town on the west coast called Lordsport. It is on any map of this northern region of Etruria. We will be taking a small, two-sailed merchant vessel. You will have to single it out among many when you reach the town—I am sorry, but I cannot help you any further than that._

_You must hurry. As I write this, it is the 6th Sage, and he leaves this very night. I can only hope my servant finds you in time. There is not much of it left._

“The 6th Sage?” mused Harvery as Braddock fell silent. “That was yesterday. That lil’ guy must’ve been pretty quick, huh?”

 

“No matter,” continued Khyron, “He was just trying to trap us! I tell you again, just burn this pitiful ploy and head straight to Nerinheit!”

 

“Hmm…hold on a second, m’lord,” said Gafgarion. “I’m thinkin’ Harvery might have a point. Now, I think you might have a point too—this sure smells funny. But right now, we’ve pretty much won the war. Why would they try to pull somethin’ on us now?”

 

“To divide our forces, of course! To make it even harder for us to capture Nerinheit!”

 

“That’s a possibility,” acknowledged Jerid. “Still, even with half our army we could take the city. From what I’ve heard the Rebel forces are just this side of non-existent. Even if this is a diversion, it won’t mean much. And more importantly, _what if_ it’s right? If we disregard this letter and take Nerinheit, if Paptimus isn’t there, it’ll be like the whole war was for nothin’.”

 

“Lord Jerid,” asked Rosamia, “Even if that’s true, maybe this letter itself is a decoy. Perhaps Paptimus’ true escape route is different?”

 

“It could be,” said Dougram, speaking up for the first time, “but…I dunno. I just have a feeling this is true.”

 

“Oh,” spat Khyron, “what gives you that idea, _traitor?_ ”

 

Dougram seemed as if he would respond angrily to that, but Braddock cooled him down. “Look, Dougram’s with us now, and that’s all that matters. If me and Renault didn’t turn out so bad, maybe he’s the same, right?” He turned back to the Nabatan. “Really, though, Khyron asks a good question. What makes you think this is legit?”

 

“Meris…I don’t know too much about Meris. But I’ve heard a lot about her. Though she kept it pretty quiet, word still got around about her pregnancy and the former Prime Minister’s fatherhood. This war…there’s no way it could be easy on a mother-to-be. And if Paptimus plans to continue it indefinitely…well, there’s a reason I defected, even though I still hate the Royalists,” and at this he shot Khyron an angry glare. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Meris felt the same.

 

“But I could be wrong. In the end, it’s my call, not yours.”

 

The entire room fell silent at this, each one of them digesting both what had just been said and what the letter said.

 

Finally, Jerid spoke up. “Well…I may end up regrettin’ this decision. But even if we’re still not sure if this letter’s true…I think we oughtn’t disregard it completely.

 

“Even though we’re doin’ so well, it’s a bad idea to divert too many of our forces away. However, what we can do is send a very small, elite troop, by itself, to infiltrate the town of Lordsport and see if they can catch Paptimus there.” He gave the assembled Autonomous Company a very grave look. “I don’t need t’ spell out who’s gonna be goin’, right?”

 

“W-wait, just us?” stammered Harvery, very frightened. “L-Lord Jerid, come on! You know what kind of a monster Paptimus is! He killed Ch…the Great General! You think the less-than-a-dozen of us can take him out?”

 

“The only people in the whole army, maybe the whole of Elibe, capable of takin’ him out with just 7 men are you. And besides that, ‘cordin to that letter they left yesterday, right? By ship, even in bad weather, it won’t take ‘em long to reach Kingsport. A large detachment’d take some time to mobilize, but just seven soldiers might be able to reach it before they leave. Gonna need a lot of help, though. Gafgarion, can you spare any horses?”

 

The Knight General nodded. “Y’ll get seven of the fastest coursers my men have. I’ll also give ya some of the spoils we managed t’ take off the corpses of a couple o’ the Druids we fought—a pair o’ Warp staves. They should have enough uses to get everybody there in a week, along with th’ horses. We also managed t’ get a couple o’ hammers off a Warrior we killed. You guys’ll have t’ travel light, though. Lisse won’t be able to accompany ya.”

 

The girl looked disturbed by this, but Apolli put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’tcha worry, Lisse. It…it’s for the best. ‘F Paptimus really does show up…th…that kinda battle…it’ll be more than anything y’ve ever seen. It’s not…not somethin’ you need t’…”

 

“I…I understand.”

 

“U…Um…b…but Sir…um…Lord Jerid,” peeped Serapino, and then fell silent. Everyone in the room looked at him, causing him to tuck his head into his modest cassock’s collar and shut his mouth cleanly.

 

“Speak up, Serapino, or don’t waste our time,” said Renault gruffly. “Go easy on him,” muttered Braddock under his breath, “I mean, he used to be your friend, right?” It didn’t matter, though, as Jerid encouraged him. “We included you in this discussion ‘cause you’ve seen the rebels first hand, lad. Don’t be afraid to make your voice heard.”

 

“W…well…from what Dougram’s told me…from what we saw…the Rebels always seem to have something nasty under their sleeves, like…like what happened at Elram’s Citadel. What if something like that’s waiting for you at Nerinheit? W…will you be able to take care of it without Renault and friends?”

 

This gave Jerid pause. “Good question, lad. Honestly, I don’t know. However, I get the distinct feelin’ that the Rebels are running outta tricks. What could they do? Lay an ambush for us in the Lurkmire Forest? Even if they manage to pull something off, killing our whole army’s something close to impossibility. Not even that Berserker thing we fought last time coulda done that, least not if we pulled our forces back. Maybe they might be able to kill me, Khyron, and Gafgarion, but that still wouldn’t be enough. In the state the rebels are in…they don’t have the money to keep fighting. The people will either rise up or starve.

 

“So all in all, I think this is the best solution. Khyron’s Autonomous Company was created for situations pretty much exactly like this. And when you think about it, it’s a damn good fit.” He gave Renault, Braddock, Apolli, Rosamia, Roberto, Khyron, and Harvery a deep, contemplative, probing look. “Again, when you think about it, you guys were Paptimus’ first victims. Well, that’s not quite right…who knows what he did before, and even if we don’t, the poor people of Scirocco would be his first. But in terms of this civil war, everything started there…and you’re the only ones left alive who witnessed it. Harvery wasn’t there, but he’s still got something against Paptimus. For all of you, every last one of you, this fight’s not just out of duty for the king, or even because you’ve lost something because of this war—a lot of my soldiers have friends or family who’ve died because of this war. But every last one of you wants to kill Paptimus _personally_.

 

“For all of you except Harvery, he ruined your reputations and turned you into pariahs at Scirocco. Apolli and Roberto…and Gafgarion, too. It was because of that you lost Yulia. Khyron, he killed your brother _with his own hands_. And Harvery, same with your best friend.”

 

“He killed someone important to me, too. _Personally_ ,” growled Braddock, and for a moment there was as much hate in his eyes as in Renault’s. “If anyone kills that sack of filth, it’ll be me.”

 

“Well, I won’t pry about it, Braddock,” replied Jerid. “Just proves my point. All in all…I can’t think of any other group of people anywhere on Elibe who oughta hunt down that snake on their own terms. If it turns out he’s not at Lordsport, or you just missed him, or…whatever, we’ll deal with it when we get to it. But if he is there, it’ll be our best chance to put a stop to all this once and for all. Khyron, you still feel differently?”

 

“Hm…well, I will say that I have faith in both you and my loyal steward, Gafgarion. I think you’ve grown enough to be able to survive without me, at least for one battle. Your judgment has served me well before. If you think this may not be a trap or diversion, I’ll trust you. If you’re not right, though, I swear you’ll hear from me!”

 

“I wouldn’t expect anythin’ less, m’lord.”

 

“Don’t call me that! We’re equals now. Such subservience isn’t befitting of a man of your stature, or the nobility to which you now belong. Just get those horses ready! We’ll leave at the first hint of sunlight tomorrow morning. All of you, get what sleep you can! This journey won’t be an easy one if we want to reach Lordsport before Paptimus leaves it…assuming he’ll even be there at all!”

 

It was not the first time Khyron had given that command. But the Autonomous Company, along with the other two Generals as well as the most recent defectors, obeyed it for the very last time.

-X-

 

_Is Paptimus really gonna be there?_

 

Apolli thought this as he sat by himself under the stars, his Company having made camp and settled down to sleep a few hours ago. He found it wasn’t so easy for him, though—partially because he missed Lisse, strange as it seemed for him to say it, and partially because he was so filled with doubt over the present course of his journey. They were more than halfway to Lordsport—the horses were fast, combined with Khyron’s use of the staves, but despite that…

 

_And even if he is, what then? Can we kill him? And if we do, will it end the war? And…Yulia…_

 

His thoughts turned back to his fiancée—despite all the time that had passed since her death, he still couldn’t forget her. He sighed, remembering everything he’d lost. “I dunno if it’ll end the war,” he muttered to himself, “but Paptimus deserves t’ die f’r what he did at Scirocco. I’ll kill ‘im for ya, Yulia. No matter what happens, no matter where th’ war turns, I’ll get ‘im!”

 

“Just what I wanted to hear.”

 

“H-huh?” Apolli turned back, surprised—he thought he’d been talking to no-one but himself. However, behind him he saw Roberto walking up to him. And for the first time for a long, long while, the look in the mercenary’s remaining eye seemed to be…almost peaceful, rather than angry and hateful. “Roberto, y…”

 

“Wanted t’ talk to ya, Apolli. Been a while, ain’t it?”

 

“Y…yeah,” he replied as Roberto took a seat next to him.

 

“Yulia…” began Roberto quietly. This was the only word he said, and for another moment neither of them said anything—then Roberto continued. “Yulia…I’ve been thinkin’ about her a lot lately.

 

“For the longest time, th’ only thing I could think about was her death. How…how she was taken away from me…and from us. From you too, Apolli. But I thought I was the only one in th’ entire world who could understand how I felt…

 

“Thought y’ were a coward, ‘cause you didn’t save her back then. Thought Renault, an’ Khyron, and the rest of ‘em were worthless, too. But now…” It was his turn to sigh. “Apolli…I…not that it’s much good now, anyways. But I’m sorry. M’ dad…Gafgarion w’s right.

 

“I…I had a dream ‘bout her last night, Apolli. I saw her again, an…an’ she didn’t look too happy with me. There was nothin’ else…just her face in a sea o’ darkness. But I could still tell…” He shook his head. “Apolli, I…I can’t blame ya f’r what happened t’ her. Not anymore. I’ve fought b’side you for too long. Y’r as courageous a warrior as anybody I could ever hope to have on my side. Same w’ the others…Renault…Braddock…even Khyron…I always thought if he’d just backed out from Scirocco everything woulda been fine. But after everythin’ I’ve seen…Paptimus woulda gotten her another way.” He looked at Apolli, and hatred was glimmering in his eye once again, though not directed at the Sniper this time. “That’s the only thing, then. F’r Yulia t’ rest in peace, Paptimus has gotta die.”

 

“We’re agreed on that,” said Apolli determinedly.

 

Roberto nodded. “Yeah. But one more thing.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Maybe he’s not there at Lordsport. But I dunno…I…I just get a feelin’ he is. Maybe I’m wrong, and just bein’ stupid. But if I’m right…I’ll say this. His death is the only thing I want. If you can gimme that…well, y’ won’t owe me anythin’ else. Me or Yulia. It…it’s what she woulda wanted. What G…dad always told me she woulda wanted. I don’t have a right t’ ask anythin’ more of ya.”

 

“Roberto, what’re ya—“

 

“Lisse,” he said bluntly. “I’ve seen ya gettin’ closer to each other. Y’re startin’ t’ look at her the same way y’ looked at Yulia.”

 

“I—That’s—“

 

“I ain’t mad at ya, Apolli. I was just a lil’ while ago, but now…now I see things more clearly. Yulia wouldn’t want ya t’ make y’rself miserable…deprive y’rself of love…just because of what the sunova bitch Paptimus did. So that’s all I’m gonna say. Paptimus dies…one way ‘r the other, so long as he dies…y’ can…”

 

“R…Roberto…”

 

The Warrior shook his head. “Nuffa this. Just get some sleep, Apolli. We don’t have a whole lot o’ time t’ waste, anyways.”

 

“I…yeah.”

 

Together, the two of them walked back to the camp, preparing to set down for the night. They may not have been friends like they once were—but it was something more than they’d been.

 

-X-X-X-X-X- _Final Battle_ -X-X-X-X-X-

 

They’d found their quarry—though it was only through the purest luck that they managed to find that out.

 

It had been a most grueling journey. Every member of the Autonomous Company had brought only the barest essentials—Braddock had his armor, Basilikos and a Hand Axe, Renault his armor as well as his Silver Sword and Runeblade, Khyron and Rosamia their staves and a pair of tomes, Apolli had been given a Silver Bow and Longbow, Harvery his trusty Killing Edge and daggers, and Roberto his good steel bow as well as a Hammer found off one of the Warriors killed during the last battle. They had ridden on the King’s fastest horses (all of them had a bit of experience, in Braddock and Renault’s case their escape from the Rebel forces, in Apolli and Roberto’s the time they spent around Gafgarion) for every hour of daylight, and during the night Khyron had Warped every one of them and their mounts as far to the west as he could—it had taken them two nights to burn through both of the Warp staves he’d been given.

 

However, their extreme haste had paid off. Within 5 days they had reached the entrance to Lordsport. Far to the west and just to the north of the Fortress of Spears, it was technically still in Rebel-held territory, but of so little strategic significance that the Revolutionaries saw no point in holding on to it or the surrounding area. Thus, the Company had been able to pass through these lands easily, all of them covered head-to-toe in brown cloaks which made them look like ordinary travelers, and as they passed through the gates, it only took a few hundred gold as a bribe to the guards for all of them to be given trouble-free entry into the port town, no questions asked.

 

Lordsport wasn’t a large sea-farer’s town, but the buildings and shanties were all as dilapidated as one would expect from a poor, pirate-infested Lycian hovel like Badon. People milled around, traders and fishermen from both Etruria and the Western Isles, and all seemed distrustful and suspicious; whether due to the war or simply the nature of the town Renault couldn’t tell. The whole place stank of rotting fish, some buildings more strongly than others. None of the Autonomous Company let that dissuade them, though. They needed a base of operations before they began their search for Paptimus’ ship. Khyron had managed to find a decent-looking (well, less run-down than the others) establishment nearby with a stable for them to keep their horses, and after he’d gotten rooms there the Company set out to the docks after a (very) brief rest. It was time to hunt.

 

“Aw, man…I don’t like this,” stammered Harvery as they neared the town’s docks, looking for an inn or wayhouse in the area. “Maybe we’re too late, and he left already! Maybe we’re too early, and he’s not here yet! Or maybe he never came at all!”

 

“You were the one who recommended we trust that “Meris’” letter, don’t forget,” hissed Khyron in response. “Fine time to have second thoughts about it! Let’s just see what’s there before we give up!”

 

He didn’t try to argue, and nobody else did, either. Keeping their cloaks wrapped tightly around themselves, the group marched purposefully towards the docks, where a wide variety of ships, ranging from simple fisherman’s boats to galleys owned by rich, powerful merchants were moored. Naturally, there were several establishments overlooking those ships which catered to the needs of their sailors—armories, sellers of food and supplies, and whorehouses, but also several large inns for those who needed to rest on dry ground every once in a while.

 

“Damn, even if he is here, finding his boat’s gonna be a challenge,” muttered Renault under his breath.  “Paptimus isn’t dumb enough to take something really conspicuous when he’s trying to hide. Meris said the boat’s just got two sails, but…” He looked out at the docks—though it was evening, there was still enough light to see everything there clearly. “There are dozens of little merchant vessels here with two sails! That design’s not exactly uncommon. Do we have to search all of ‘em?”

 

“’s what we gotta do. I’ll search every damn ship here if it’s what it takes t’ find Paptimus,” growled Roberto.

 

“Agreed,” said Braddock grimly. “I think…” His voice trailed off as something caught his eye, and his expression changed to something resembling shock as he recognized whatever it was he saw.

 

“Something wrong, Braddock?” Renault, and the rest of them, slowed their pace when they noticed how the Ostian had been struck.

 

“Everybody hide,” he hissed. “ _NOW!_ ”

 

Nobody was expecting this, but they trusted their comrade enough to follow his advice without hesitation. All seven of them immediately ducked behind a nearby building, peering out from a corner suspiciously.

 

“W…what’d ya see, Braddock?” asked Apolli. “A trap or somethin’?”

 

“Maybe. Renault, get over here.” The Mercenary Lord obediently got up behind his friend. “Look at that girl. The one standing in front of that merchant ship?”

 

Renault did so. It wasn’t easy to tell she _was_ a girl; she was standing facing away from them, as if she was looking at the two white sails of her ship (one of which had a prominent hole in it). She was dressed in the same sort of attire the Company was wearing—a drab brown cloak that made it seem like she was nothing but a traveler. After a few moments, however, she did turn around, her eyes passing quickly over the corner Renault and Braddock were hiding behind—she didn’t notice them, thankfully. But they definitely noticed her.

 

They could see her purple hair from under her cowl, along with her face. It was different from the last time they’d seen her—a bit thinner, much harder, and her eyes were very cold, now. But they still recognized her.

 

“Shit!” Both of them immediately ducked their heads back behind the corner. “Dina!”

 

“Dina?” asked Rosamia.

 

“She was one of the recruits we trained back at Nerinheit. I don’t know what she’s doing here, but it might mean…”

 

“We can’t be sure,” said Harvery. “It’s a start, though. I’ll ask around, try to get some information on that ship right there. Rosamia, Roberto, and Apolli, you three take turns keeping a watch on it—if it raises anchor, let us know. Khyron, Braddock, and Renault, you three get us rooms at that inn right over there and get your armor on. We may end up needing it.”

 

All of them nodded and began their duties. And though none of them said it out loud, each of them felt, someone deep inside themselves, that the coming night would be an eventful one.

 

-x-

 

“They’re gonna leave soon. If we wanna catch Paptimus, we gotta make a move _now!_ ”

 

Harvery and the rest of his comrades were once again gathered behind the same building they had been earlier in the day, but this time all of them were fully outfitted for battle and it was the earliest morning—the sun had not even started to rise above the horizon, and virtually no-one was around, aside from a few stubborn fishermen trying to get a leg up on their competitors by beginning their duties before anyone else had awoke. It was the perfect time to launch an attack on what they were now sure was Paptimus’ personal vessel.

 

Apolli, Roberto, and Rosamia hadn’t been able to discern much initially except that whoever was on that ship wanted it to be very well guarded—the woman named Dina had gone back inside, and someone else had taken her place. This happened several times—if this had been just an ordinary merchant ship, they must have had some very sensitive cargo to change their guard as many times as they did. Harvery, however, had been asking around many of the stores and shops in the area. The owner of one shop told him that the “merchants” on that boat drank and fought more like pirates. Even more tellingly, a nearby magic shop told him that she’d had a purple-haired customer earlier—the young woman had mentioned her ship would be leaving soon and had a mage on board who needed some tomes. She had perused the selection of standard elemental tomes, but when she found an old Flux tome that had never managed to get sold for years, her eyes lit up and she immediately took it.

 

To call this suspicious would have been an understatement.

 

The members of the Autonomous Company decided to make their move. There were now two guards stationed by the pier Paptimus’ ship was resting at. They were standing under the light of a torchstand, and though both were clad in the same simple cloaks their fellows had been, it was easy to tell by their bearing that they were no simple travelers.

 

“A…are you sure about this?” asked Apolli. “W…what if we’re wrong? I don’t wanna kill innocent people…”

 

“You might have a point,” said Braddock. “That gives me an idea. Khyron, you got a Bolting spell handy?”

 

“Yes. Why?”

 

“Try to take out the masts of that merchant ship we’re looking at. If it’s the wrong one, we’ll pay ‘em back later. But if we’re on target, Paptimus won’t be able to escape!”

 

“Alright!”

 

Immediately, Khyron closed his eyes and extended a hand towards the ship, holding the tome in the other and chanting the words of the spell. It was a clear night, so his magic would give them away, but if his aim was true it wouldn’t matter. “Hey, do you hear something?” asked one of the guards, and he looked around and focused his gaze on the man he saw peering around a corner and muttering something. But it was already too late.

 

A bright streak of yellow-white light fell from the sky and onto one of the sails, blowing it into a thousand little pieces of flaming kindling. The guards, to their credit, didn’t waste a moment in realizing they were under attack.

 

“A Sage cast that spell! Must be the Royalists! Tell Master Paptimus he has to leave.” His voice rose to a scream. “NOW!!”

 

That sentence told the Company beyond any doubt that the final showdown had arrived.

 

Apolli, his previous reservations completely washed away by the scream of the guard, leapt out from his hiding place, Silver Bow at the ready, and sent a pair of arrows almost perfectly between the eyes of both the guards. The rest of the Company immediately rushed into the open and headed for the so-called “merchant ship.” Thanks to the scream of the first guard, the rest of the ship had been alerted to their presence, but they didn’t care—Braddock least of all. “Paptimus,” he growled, a growl that turned into a wild, vengeful scream. “PAPTIMUS! I’VE FINALLY FOUND YOU!”

 

He punched straight through the flimsy, rotten wooden door that led to the ship’s interior and unlimbered his Hand Axe—the Basilikos was too large to be used in such a confined space, but even a humble Hand Axe would do the job if it met Paptimus’ neck. He charged straight in, and the rest of his friends could only follow.

 

-x-

 

 _Ugh, it seems we have a problem,_ thought Paptimus as he heard the explosion coming from above, quickly followed by the sounds of battle. _Have the crewmen managed to anger the guards? Perhaps a magic-user from one of the other pirate ships lost a bet to one of them? Wouldn’t surprise me, coming from those drunken fools_. He sighed—it had partially been because of them that the voyage from Nerinheit City to Lordsport had been so troublesome. Give how much money the war had already cost him, he couldn’t afford a better crew. The pirates he’d managed to hire were competent seamen, but only when they were sober—they seemed more interested in drinking than actually maintaining their ship. It had taken a couple of days longer than expected to navigate the harsh waters around Etruria’s western coast, and the ship had suffered some damage, including a nasty tear to one of its sails. Thus, they’d have to spend a few days longer than truly necessary at dock, because the waters of the Shield of Durbans were even worse and going into them with a damaged ship was not a good idea.

 

He sighed and looked around the quarters he and Meris shared. Once again, given the price he’d paid, it was both reasonable and practical; he’d told the pirates he wanted them to play at being ordinary merchants, so they hadn’t given him a big, luxurious ship. It was just a small room with a small bed, barely big enough for one person, let alone two, and with just enough room for him to keep his armor, staves, and other miscellaneous belongings.

 

“Well, it seems like it was certainly a good idea to bring this along,” he said, looking down at himself. He was clad head-to-foot in his intimidating Dark General’s full plate mail, admittedly refitted to reflect his lost arm. His tomes were all hooked to a chain slung around his great chest, allowing for easier access to each of them with only one hand—almost like it was a baldric, the sort of belt swordsmen slung around their shoulders to hold their weapons, but made for books rather than blades. The moment he’d heard the explosion he told Meris to help him put it on—he obviously hoped he wouldn’t have to fight, but if worst came to worst he’d be more than well-prepared.

 

“Thank you, my dear,” he said as she handed him his helmet—a menacing-looking black piece with a three-pointed crest that rose up from above its blood-red visor. He knew that his foe, Maxim, had a suit of similarly enchanted armor—proof of how effective these magic relics were.

 

As it would turn out, those two suits of armor, imbued with spells that had lasted since the Scouring, would face each other soon enough.

 

“Meris, you seem disturbed,” he said as he gazed down at her—the visor of his helmet glowed softly for a moment. “Yes, we’ve had some troubles over the course of this voyage, and yes, this is one more, but really, things are going better than they could be. The crew’s probably just gotten into a fight with some local ruffians, our Red Shoulders will—“

 

“P…Paptimus,” she replied, and the tone of her voice was the first thing that told him that something was very, very wrong. He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously, thinking to himself, _it couldn’t be…_ until a piercing scream—one he recognized as coming from one of his own Red Shoulders—came from right outside his room.

 

He had just enough time to whirl around before the door was blown straight away. And a man in distinctive blue plate mail charged through the cloud of debris…with a massive, very familiar axe strapped to his back.

 

“Paptimus,” Braddock half-breathed, half-growled. “PAPTIMUS! I’VE FINALLY FOUND YOU!”

 

Behind him, Paptimus could tell, were the other six members of what the people had variously called an entire brigade or battalion—the Bloodsuckers, the Vampires, the Killers of Scirocco, Elram’s Nightmares, and the Saviors of Caerleon—but what he knew had been called the Autonomous Company. It sounded as if they were still fending off his troops—and succeeding easily, meaning he’d find very little support.

 

These definitely weren’t the local ruffians. But why were they here? How’d they manage to find him? Even though things had suddenly turned for the very worst, Paptimus didn’t lose his composure. “This is more than a minor inconvenience,” he said calmly to Braddock, his genteel voice icy-cold. “I take it I owe the pleasure of your company to Trunicht?”

 

Braddock laughed, almost hysterically. “You wish, you worthless son of a whore! Your own lover’s the one who sold you out! Even she can’t stand any more of you, Paptimus!”

 

“What a pathetic lie,” he shot back. “I wouldn’t…” His voice trailed off when he heard no protest or refutation coming from his lover. “N…No…” He looked down on her, even his hyper-rational mind, which he had dedicated to loosing from the chains of sentimentality and emotionalism, supposedly capable of adapting to any contingency, refusing to accept what she had just admitted. “Meris…”

 

“It…it’s true,” she whispered. “It’s…” She broke into tears, crying openly now, far more openly than she had even when Glaesal had died.  “PAPTIMUS, THIS HAS TO STOP! YOU CAN’T KEEP DOING THIS ANYMORE! HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE TO DIE BEFORE YOU CAN FINALLY END THIS?! I DON’T CARE ABOUT THIS “BETTER WORLD!” I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE DAMNED FUTURE! I JUST DON’T WANT MY CHILD TO DIE LIKE…LIKE GLAESAL DID!”

 

She collapsed, sobbing, wrapping her face in her hands. Braddock took a step forward, jeering, but then stopped when he felt something.

 

A wave of dark energy emanating from Paptimus, so strong that even the Warlord felt it, so strong that the battle in the hallway stopped for a moment, as Khyron and the rest of the Company, along with the Red Shoulders and pirate crewmen, stopped for a moment to look back.

 

His visor was glowing brightly now, a blood-red light pouring forth from it as if it was a furnace of Hell. Beneath it, his face was contorted into an expression of the utmost, indescribable wrath. “Meris,” he rasped, stepping towards her, and she could only quail before him in the most hideous fear she had ever felt. “You _betrayed_ me?” For the first time, his voice was wracked by pure emotion—raw, undiluted rage. “After everything I’ve done for you, all the time I’ve spent on you…you _betray_ me?” Faster than either she or Braddock could react, Paptimus lashed out and grabbed her by the neck, lifting her into the air with ease.

 

“Shit!” spat Braddock, but as he readied his weapon he gritted his teeth, he couldn’t make a move. Paptimus was holding Meris in front of him, meaning he’d slice through the woman if he wanted to get to the Dark General. He might have, in different circumstances, so great and blinding was his hate for Paptimus. Yet there was something about that girl that stopped him. Maybe it was because she had helped him find his quarry. It might have also been her red hair—so reminiscent of his beloved Pamela. But even he couldn’t muster the will to kill her along with her former master.

 

And it seemed similar emotions were going through the mind of his hated enemy. Paptimus raised his lover, pregnant with his child, over his head with ease. Keeping her body between himself and Braddock, his visor glowed even brighter as he regarded her with more hatred than she thought a single man could contain. His grip on her neck tightened, and she could only gasp and cough as her vision blackened and more tears ran down her face. A little more and he would have crushed her throat. But as he looked at her, something happened. Even through the haze of his rage, her tear-filled eyes shone bright blue even through the glow of his helmet. And when his eyes met hers…

 

He remembered how they’d first met, his promise to protect her, her excitment at casting her first spell, the admiration and love shining in her eyes whenever she looked at him, how she felt in his arms, curled against his body, her moans of pleasure as they lay together, and most of all, the joy she’d felt upon news that she was pregnant, crying tears of pure happiness as he stroked that lovely hair of hers.

 

His face twisted again, but this time in frustration—for that one look at her eyes had managed to drain the rage from his, replacing it with uncertainty. “Damn it!” he cried, for the first time in his life unable to overcome his emotions. Despite her betrayal, his love for Meris still burned strongly enough to prevent him from taking her life. It had been difficult for him to kill Glaesal, but it was outrightly impossible for him to kill her.

 

Thus, he did the next best thing. “GYAAAH!” With an angry yell he tossed away Meris’ unconscious form, sending the pregnant woman flying roughly straight at Braddock. The Ostian, to his credit, lived up to his chivalrous ideals, managing to catch her (albeit not gracefully) before she hit the ground. However, despite all of his attempts at chivalry, ironically a part of his personality borne from his desire to be different from men like Paptimus, right after he caught her he looked up and dropped her right on the ground unceremoniously.

 

Paptimus was trying to escape.

 

The Dark General had reached to his back and unlimbered his Warp staff. Braddock knew that if he got away now, they’d never catch him. “NOO!!!” he screamed, forgetting all about Meris, not even bothering to unlimber his Basilikos, but just pumping his strong legs with every bit of strength he could muster and leaping straight at Paptimus.

 

“DAMN!” yelled the Dark General, holding the Staff above his head, and he immediately channeled all of his will into activating the magic, but it was just a second too late. At the exact same moment a field of white light enveloped his body, Braddock crashed right into him.

 

And when the light disappeared with a blinding flash, both men were gone.

 

-x-

 

“Gah!”

 

After a few moments in which he felt his mind and body were flying—separately—in an endless expanse of white, Braddock found himself falling on hard, dry, cracked earth with an unceremonious thud. He didn’t have time to get his bearings or figure out where he was, so he didn’t try.  The moment he felt ground beneath him, he rolled to the side and scurried to his feet. Just in time—he raised his shield in front of his face to block the fireball that slammed into it. The sturdy, well-made metal shield warded the blast away with no harm done to its wielder, but the force of the explosion was still enough to send Braddock stumbling backwards, causing him to slam into something tall and hard.

 

Was it a rock? No time to think about it—he dodged to the side, just in time to avoid a Gespenst spell that reduced whatever was behind him to dust. He still wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew one thing—he could see the sky, lit as it was by the first small rays of the rising sun, which meant he was finally in an open space. He looked up to catch a glance at his attacker—Paptimus, standing resplendent in his terrifying ebon armor, the massive, blood-red pauldron on his right shoulder seeming to glow just like the visor of his fell black helmet. He had closed his Elfire tome and picked up his Warp staff, raising it in the hopes of getting away. Braddock wouldn’t let him do that. Grinning, the Warlord unlimbered the Basilikos and in the same movement swung it towards Paptimus, blasting a shockwave right at him. The Dark General immediately dropped his staff and raised a hand in front of himself to create a shield of magic to ward off the attack, but its force was still enough to make him stumble back, just as Braddock had done. Even worse, the blast created by the impact blew the Warp staff far away, smashing it onto a nearby slab of grey rock and breaking the fragile crystal at its tip. Paptimus wouldn’t be able to escape now.

 

The two men were now standing a good distance away from each other, giving them a bit of time to steady themselves on their feet—and also just enough distance that neither of them could reach the other with spells or weaponry, pausing their battle just for a moment.

 

“S…shit,” yelled Braddock, “Paptimus, what the hell are you doing? What is this place?!”

 

“Given that you’ve so carelessly destroyed my Warp staff, you’ve stuck both of us on it,” Paptimus called back, standing tall and seemingly having regained his composure—his voice was now calm and cold, as usual. “But to answer your question, we are on the island directly north of Lordsport. A fitting place for you, Maxim—it is a graveyard!” He gestured around himself, and in the dim light Braddock could see what Paptimus was talking about.

 

The soil all around him was parched and cracked, but out of it jutted dozens of grey tombstones, some just flat, pathetic markers indicating a pauper’s grave, other proper slabs of rock with inscriptions for the better-off. Now he realized what he had bumped up against earlier. The most prominent of these markers was a great edifice nearly twice Braddock’s height—a statue of Saint Elimine, built years ago with the probable intent to watch over these graves, but time and wear had cracked her body and eroded her face away, making her look more like a corpse than a Saint. It was in front of this statue that Paptimus was standing.

 

“I had intended to Warp away and take refuge here until the battle died down, but unfortunately, you seem to have made yourself an uninvited passenger, and you’ve destroyed my means of escape as well.” he continued. “No matter. Once you’re gone, I’ll find another way off this rock. For centuries, the people of Lordsport have used this island to bury their dead. Now, wayward son of Ostia, you’ll join those sleeping beneath this blasted earth!”

 

“Oh, yeah? I think you may be wrong about that.” Braddock let out a low growl, and the green visor of his helmet began glowing. The light that came from it was now _white,_ however—and his next words revealed the true depths of the fury and loathing contained in that burning white light. “You’ve been getting away with your evil for far too long, vermin. Do you have any idea how much destruction you’ve caused? How many lives you’ve destroyed? This entire war, and everything before it, too! Lycia…you shattered my country! You murdered everyone at Scirocco! Renault and Rosamia…you ruined their lives! Kelitha and Keith, my friends…they’re dead because of you! And Pamela…Pamela…my Pamela… _YOU KILLED MY PAMELA!!_ ”

 

Paptimus’ visor began glowing red again, just as brightly as it had when he was choking the life out of Meris. “Yes…yes, Maxim, I’m guilty of every charge. Every last one. The destruction of this country, manipulating your friends like puppets, and killing your wife…I did it all. _BECAUSE IT WAS WORTH IT!”_ The shadow Paptimus cast began to _shift_ beneath him, and arcs of purple-black energy began to crackle in the air around him. The three tomes he had attacked to the chain about his chest—Elfire, Finbulvetr, and Gespenst—began to move, their pages turning of their own volition, and then they suddenly _broke away_ from the chain that served as their impromptu baldric, floating in the air in a circle over Paptimus’ head, like some kind of perverse halo.

 

 “You worthless, stupid fool! You can’t possibly understand!” The Dark General had entirely lost his emotional composure once again, his voice not only trembling with rage, but now shrill with hatred and a touch of insanity. “Everything I did, I did for the future of the entire world! What are a few thousand people compared to that? What are a couple of Pegasus Knights compared to that? What is the life of a single, wretched, privileged princess of Cornwell compared to that?! But you couldn’t understand. You pathetic, short-sighted, simple-minded animal! You could have _helped_ me! Helped me save Elibe! But no, you had to follow that miserable little Dark familiar and hear Tassar blurting out everything like a fool. And even then you could have stayed with my army, and helped crush the oppression of the nobles for all time! But you turned your back on me, lent your strength to the King, and wrecked all of my plans, simply because of your damnable lack of perspective! You ruined everything! EVERYTHING! I WOULD HAVE WON THE WAR IF IT WASN’T FOR YOU! MERIS NEVER WOULD’VE BETRAYED ME IF IT WASN’T FOR YOU! WHY DIDN’T YURT FINISH YOU OFF WHEN HE HAD THE CHANCE?!” At this, Paptimus crouched, seeming as if he might keel over, but then burst out laughing, his visor glowing like a magic red flame, his wild voice echoing across the entire island and beyond, its screeching pitch indicating the former exemplar of rationality had nearly lost himself to his mad, all-consuming hatred of the Warlord he blamed for all of his failures. “IT DOESN’T MATTER! I’LL FINISH THE JOB HERE! _MAXIM! PREPARE TO DIE!_ ”

 

His emotions were matched every last bit by Braddock’s. The Warlord crouched low, his shield in front of him and the massive Basilikos poised over his shoulder, ready to come crashing down at his command. The glow from his visor brightened, the white light pouring from it now almost as bright as the sun’s itself.

 

“You son of a bitch! In the name of every good person you’ve killed…for Kelitha…for Keith…and for Pamela…My beloved Pamela…PAPTIMUS! _I’M GONNA KILL YOU!!!”_

He pumped his legs and launched himself straight into the air, with the full strength of his rage and grief behind him as he brought the Basilikos down. Paptimus held out his one good hand as the Gespenst tome floating above him opened and glowed purple, vomiting forth its distinctive black cloud of destruction, this time powered by the Dark General’s hatred and despair.

 

The two forces met under the worn-away face of Saint Elimine, and the single remaining eye she had would be the only witness to the epic struggle about to begin.

 

-x-

 

“What the hell happened?”

 

Renault and his friends had just finished off the last of the Red Shoulders in the narrow hallway outside of what was apparently Paptimus’ room. It had been difficult fighting in a confined space, but Renault and Harvery were quite good at it, and Khyron and Rosamia were able to provide a bit of magical assistance whenever they found a clear shot—same with Apolli and Roberto’s arrows. This had given Braddock enough time to charge in, but while they did hear his confrontation with Paptimus along with some screaming, everything ended with a flash of bright light. Renault quickly dispatched the last enemy in the area—a dimwitted, dagger-wielding pirate pretending to be a merchant—and rushed in with the rest of his comrades to see what had happened.

 

The room was empty except for a red-haired, pregnant woman lying unconscious on the floor. None of them had time to give her any thought—where were Braddock and Paptimus?

 

“That light might have been Warp magic,” said Khyron. “They’re not on this boat anymore! Let’s get out of here!”

 

The Company immediately did so, especially since they could hear more soldiers coming from the other sailor’s quarters and above decks. Renault led the way, charging out of Paptimus’ room and through the corridors which led back to the upper deck of the ship and the entrance they’d come in through. Another hapless pirate emerged from one of the side storage rooms, carrying a bottle of grog (the whole ship smelled of it); Renault cut him down and passed him without a second thought. The Company emerged onto the top deck, the just-rising sun casting an orange glow on the water below them which would have been beautiful in other circumstances.

 

“Damn it,” yelled Renault, looking around, “Where could they have gone!”

 

“I think—THERE!” yelled Harvery, pointing north. Everyone’s eyes turned in that direction, where they could see a small island in the distance…along with lights and flashes that seemed suspiciously like magic.

 

“We gotta get over there!” Renault exclaimed. However, it naturally wouldn’t be so easy for them.

 

“There they are! Kill them!” cried a female voice from below, and Renault grimaced beneath his helmet when he recognized it. Dina followed them up from her quarters belowdecks, and he noticed with some interest how she was dressed—she still had her hair in that familiar purple braid, but now she was clothed in what seemed to be a somewhat exotic, one-piece suit of black cloth with slits in its side which allowed a good view of her toned, fair-skinned legs. She also had a bright red pauldron on her right shoulder, and carried a Killing Sword with an ease that indicated she had used it many times before. Renault had to take a moment to appreciate how far his former mentee seemed to have come—a thought which would have made him much happier if she hadn’t turned out to be a fanatical Red Shoulder recruit, and one who was flanked by a pair of Generals wielding an axe and a sword, both with the same red pauldrons.

 

Making matters worse, the air suddenly smelled of ozone, and 10 balls of light descended from the sky and fell upon the deck, where they materialized into 5 Druids and 5 Sages. They were arranged in a circle around the Company, and all of them had the look of soldiers who had seen the worst of what the war had to offer. There weren’t many Red Shoulders left, but those who were had accumulated no small amount of battle experience, and these were the best of the best. This wouldn’t be an easy fight.

 

Then again, the Company wasn’t easy prey. “We don’t have time for this,” yelled Renault, and at this all of his comrades broke in different directions, just in time to avoid the maelstrom of magic the newcomers unleashed upon them. Globes of darkness and streams of fire erupted in the space they’d all been gathered a moment before, but each member of Khyron’s team managed to find a way to evade the assault. Khyron and Rosamia both dashed to the starboard and port sides of the ship, careful to stay clear of the Flux spells but accepting hits from the Sage’s Elfire spells, relying on their sizable resistance to magic to protect them. It worked, but the enemy Sages would be just as resistant to their spells too—of course, they predicted that. Both of them countered by dropping and rolling to the Sages on the farthest sides of the ship, near its railings; when they rose, they blasted their foes point-black with their strongest spells. The force of it blew them both back but caused little damage to them or their enemies. However, since the Red Shoulders were standing so close to the edge of the boat, it sent them both flying off into the water. Apolli, quick and small of frame as he was, scuttled forwards just in time to pass under both the dark magic and the anima spells, back towards the aft of the boat, which gave him enough distance and breathing room to ready an arrow and send it flying into a Druid’s chest. Harvery went up rather than down, jumping into the air, over the spells of his foes, and landing next to another Druid, who promptly found himself unable to breathe due to the gash in his throat.

 

Renault and Roberto were left to deal with the physical attackers. The Warrior leapt forwards the moment he felt the enemy’s spells descending on him, clearing their area of effect and taking advantage of the fact that the enemy would be distracted for at least a split second by the light given off by the magic. This paid off—the axe-wielding General was just a second too slow to keep his head from being smashed in. Roberto’s Hammer was made just for enemies like him. Though wielded like an axe, the Hammer didn’t cut, slash, or chop—it crushed. Its wide, heavy head couldn’t poke holes in armor or slice through it, but what it could do was bend and twist heavy armor such as plate mail through the force of its blows. It used a man’s defenses against him; pounding his armor so hard that it cut into his flesh instead of protecting it. This was precisely what happened to the unfortunate General--his helmet collapsed in on itself under the force of Roberto’s strike, taking his head with it.

 

“Damn you!” Dina cried, and she readied her Killing Edge to prepare an attack Renault recognized as a fatal move the Swordmaster Dougram often employed. Thinking quickly, he lashed out with his left hand and sent his chain-dagger flying—not at Dina’s head or body, which she could have avoided easily, but at her legs, tripping her up with a grunt. She really _had_ improved, far better than Renault had thought she could—it took her less than a moment to recover; though she hadn’t expected to be tripped by a chain, in the same movement that she fell to the ground she extricated her feet from it and rolled, getting right back up and regaining her balance. Still, her attempt to attack the distracted Roberto had failed, and Renault was happy for that—at least for a moment, until he staggered clumsily to the side, the other General’s Silver Spear glancing off his left pauldron. Grimacing under his helmet, he spun and slashed down with his sword; the General dodged it easily simply by stepping back.

 

Even worse, Roberto was in a lot of trouble. As soon as she’d regained her footing, Dina had flashed by him faster than the eye could see. Roberto spun around to the side, swinging the Hammer around as he did so, forcing Dina to change her course—even though the weapon wasn’t as effective against unarmored foes, it could still deal a nasty blow. This left the Warrior off-balance, though, and one of the nearby Sages saw an opportunity. Renault shouted, “WATCH OUT!” before ducking from another jab of the General’s spear, and Apolli, seeing his old friend in danger, nocked an arrow and let it fly, but it was a moment too late. One of the remaining Sages pointed at Roberto, two orbs of flame coalescing into a great one over his head. Apolli’s arrow sunk into his arm, causing him to jerk and fall back in pain, but it didn’t stop his spell. His aiming had been disrupted, so it thankfully didn’t hit Roberto head-on, but crashed onto the deck right behind him. With a loud BOOM and a great explosion, the large man was thrown off his feet, and indeed, right off the railing into the water below.

 

“SHIT!” Renault and the rest of the Company all saw what happened, but they were also all far too busy to concern themselves with it. As the Sages and Druids prepared another round of magic, as Dina turned her attention to Renault, and as they all heard the sounds of more soldiers coming up from the lower decks, they could only do the same for Roberto as they were doing for Braddock:

 

Hope he was strong enough to fend for himself.

 

-x-

 

Just as Braddock expected, he felt the familiar tingle of dark magic surrounding him as he soared towards Paptimus. If he didn’t change his course, the effects of the Gespenst spell would turn him to dust. That was what Paptimus expected—but the Ostian didn’t intend to fulfill it.

 

His visor flared brightly white as he grinned viciously beneath it. Braddock twisted in the air and swung the Basilikos in an arc perpendicular to the ground, sending a shockwave straight down. The resulting explosion blew him higher into the air, safely out of the area of effect of the Gespenst spell. Now he was falling down, right over Paptimus, who now seemed to be vulnerable.

 

“DIE!” screamed Braddock in exultation. His huge, magic axe glowed blue as it smashed down on the ground in front of the statue of Elimine, driving up a great cloud of dust and damaging the earth around the edifice so much that the massive thing sunk and leaned over slightly.

 

But something was wrong. Paptimus wasn’t dead—in fact, he wasn’t there entirely. There was no trace of him in the great crater Braddock had just formed, and he knew that was impossible. There should have been blood, armor, something. “The hell,” Braddock grunted as he got back to his feet and steadied himself.

 

“Hah! Where are you looking?”

 

Going off pure instinct, the Warlord threw himself to the side, just in time to avoid the blast of frozen air which turned the statue behind him into an ice sculpture. He glanced behind him to see Paptimus laughing scornfully, his three books floating over his head, completely unhurt. The Elfire tome above him opened wide and the runic letters in its pages glowed, sending a large ball of flame soaring straight at him. He again attempted to dive to the side, but lamentably, his evasion didn’t go off as well as it had previously—with a curse he bumped into one of the larger grave markers, a grey slab of stone with only the word “FATHER” still legible on it. The fireball thus passed barely over his head instead of well clear of it, and he felt the waves of flame from the burning column behind him heating his armor and scorching his back.

 

“Damn tombstones!” Braddock yelled, frustrated and annoyed, and swung the Basilikos around him in a great spinning arc, reducing the graves impeding his movement to dust.  It was a good thing he did this, too, otherwise he might not have been able to dodge the Dark General’s next attack routine.

 

Paptimus pointed a finger at his foe, and the Elfire tome glowed a second time. Now, however, it spewed forth a series of fireballs, not just two—over a dozen blasted out in a rough line in front of Paptimus, and when each one hit the ground a pillar of the distinctive Elfire flame rose in its wake. This display didn’t make Braddock do anything but smirk, however—the pillars of flame coursing towards him were arranged in a perfectly straight line, meaning he could dodge all of them simply by hopping to the side again, which he promptly did. Paptimus had much more in store, though. He closed his hand into a fist and then raised it in the air, and now it was the blue Fimbulvetr tome above his head which opened.

 

Braddock felt a surge of cold wind above him and swore. Over his head was now hanging a crystalline guillotine made of ice, just as he had seen at the execution before he’d left the Rebel forces, so long ago. Out of pure reflex, before it could descend, with all his strength he snapped his right arm upwards, slashing the Basilikos at the sky. The axe was large enough to reach the ice-guillotine easily, shattering it into a million pieces. In the same movement, however, he leaned forwards and adjusted the grip on the Basilikos, allowing its momentum to carry him forward into a roll—he knew Paptimus wasn’t done yet. This saved his life, for the moment the ice-guillotine was destroyed, Paptimus opened the fist he’d made, and his third book, the Gespenst tome, opened and brought forth its magic, surrounding the area Braddock had just been in with purple flames and that distinctive four-spoked wheel and shaking the ground beneath him.

 

Before the dark magician could finish the spell, however, Braddock burst up before him. “HAH!” he shouted in exultation and hacked the Basilikos down, thinking he would score a fatal blow. He didn’t, however—though in the process, he discovered how Paptimus had dodged his initial attack. The Dark General’s body, along with the books above him, turned _black_ —pitch-black, much darker than his ebon armor, so dark that all of its features except for that red-glowing visor were obscured. The Basilikos passed through him without any effect, almost as if he had become as insubstantial as a shadow—which he had. Braddock could only let out another frustrated curse as the inky-black Paptimus seemed to simply _melt_ into the ground. He quickly whirled around, and sure enough, a few feet behind him he saw a strange black oval on the ground, like a shadow—that nothing was casting. Out of that shadow rose a shapeless, pitch black mass that grew and grew until it was about Paptimus’ height—then took his form, and lastly his features, the shadow-stuff melting back into the ground and leaving him behind it. All of this happened within the span of less than a second.

 

“The shadows obey my every command, fool,” gloated Paptimus. “Not even the Basilikos can match the power of Gespenst!” Once again, he pointed a finger at Braddock, his Elfire tome sending a line of eldritch flame erupting towards him. And once again, Braddock dodged it easily by stepping to the side. This time, however, Paptimus didn’t raise his had above his head, but instead simply twisted his wrist so that he was pointing upwards now.

 

Braddock’s reflexes were quick, but not quite quick enough to dodge this entirely. “GAAH!” He felt the _ground_ beneath his feet grow icy-cold, not the air above him, and though he tried to hop backwards to dodge, a massive ice crystal burst from the cracked earth under him—a more normal Finbulvetr spell rather than the flashy ice-guillotine Paptimus liked. It didn’t hit him directly, but the force of it blew him clear off his feet, making him lose his grip on the Basilikos! It flew free, far from his hands, landing behind another tombstone. He didn’t have time to go and get it, though—the moment he landed on the ground he rolled to the side, feeling the strange coldness of the purple flames of Gespenst that had appeared around him. When he got to his feet, he realized that the Basilikos was too far away. Thus, without hesitation he unlimbered a trusty Hand Axe and sent it flying it Paptimus.

 

The Dark General didn’t even bother to dodge—he simply stood there and let the axe slam into his chestplate, bonking away completely ineffectually. “What foolishness! Are you even trying, Maxim? I thought you hated me!” With another mocking laugh he turned into a shadow and disappeared into the ground.

 

“Piece of—“ Braddock dove behind another tombstone as he felt Paptimus materializing behind him again, as well as to avoid another regular Finbulvetr spell bursting from under him. He then felt himself being launched forwards again as an Elfire blast blew his cover to another cloud of stone pieces, and yet _again_ turned this into a roll to avoid yet another Gespenst spell.

 

When he got to his feet, he looked around him and noticed with dismay that he was now even farther away from the Basilikos. Paptimus was ensuring he wouldn’t be able to pick up his main weapon again. _I can’t do shit while he’s casting all those spells,_ Braddock thought to himself. _Gotta shut down that magic somehow…_

 

He got his chance when he whirled around and saw a strange but familiar patch of darkness on the ground behind him. As Paptimus materialized from the shadows, Braddock tossed another Hand Axe towards him…or more specifically, at the area above his head.

 

“Tch! Where are you aiming?” laughed Paptimus as the weapon passed harmlessly over him, not even hitting him. He pointed a finger at the Warlord, preparing a third Elfire spell. “Have you— _what?!_ ”

 

He noticed that nothing was happening while he pointed, and the reason for this was the pieces of dried parchment falling down around him like snow. Braddock hadn’t been aiming for his nigh-invulnerable, armor-clad body, but for the vulnerable tomes above him, and had succeeded in ripping up the Elfire spellbook.

 

“Clever,” spat Paptimus, hopping back a small distance, enough to bring him out of the axe’s effective throwing range. “You’re an annoying little roach, Maxim. I understand now why Yurt had such a difficult time squashing you.” The two remaining tomes floating above him descended slightly, moving behind him—Braddock wouldn’t be able to reach them again. “Even so, you merely delay the inevitable!” The Finbulvetr tome behind him glowed and flipped through several more pages, sending generating a small tornado of freezing cold wind and ice crystals around Paptimus. He may not have had his Elfire tome anymore, but he still had many more tricks up his sleeve. The tornado shifted and seemed to coalesce around Paptimus’ hand, and with a flash of blue light it disappeared entirely, leaving behind a huge lance made out of ice in his right hand. The Dark General crouched low to the ground, spreading his legs to give himself the best amount of balance. Behind him, the Gespenst tome began to glow as well, but rather than sending out a direct offensive spell at Braddock, it had a different effect. Below him, the shadow Paptimus cast began to shift, rising up from the ground in flickering, dancing waves as if it were a pitch-black fire. Arcs of purple electricity began to crackle around this flame and Paptimus’ body as well, and he leveled his ice-lance at Braddock in preparation for a charge.

 

“YAAAAH!” Paptimus leaned forwards and began to _glide_ on the ground, the Gespenst tome behind him billowing out waves of purple-black flame almost as if it had given him wings of darkness, and the shadow below him shifting wildly, blowing backwards as if it was also a flame burning against the wind, serving as his sled.

 

“Shit!” Braddock didn’t even bother to try and block the attack, instead ducking and rolling to the ground as Paptimus passed him by. The Dark General had picked up an immense amount of speed in a very short time; such a charge would have been more devastating than a similar attack even from a Paladin. And it seemed the strange shadow-sled he was on was even more maneuverable than a Paladin’s horse. The flames billowing from Paptimus’ back receded slightly, slowing him down, and he turned as he glided forward, stopping entirely as if he was one of those Ilians who skated on their frozen lakes and rivers with bladed boots—only the “ice” beneath him was his shadow-sled. He crouched again, and with another brutal yell the dark flames erupted from his back, propelling him right back at the Ostian with another charge. Still recovering from his previous dive, Braddock could only stumble away to the left. He managed to avoid getting impaled, but didn’t clear the charge entirely, the huge ice lance clipped him on his right shoulder, and the force of that glancing blow alone was enough to tear his pauldron straight off, causing him to cry out in pain.

 

He collapsed to the ground as Paptimus passed by, laughing sadistically and turning around once again for another charge. In a desperate gambit, Braddock, while lying on the ground, let go of his shield and axe and raised both his hands. They found purchase on something hard—another tombstone. With all his strength, he pushed down, dragging himself up quickly, and then he vaulted right over the grave marker, feeling the wind rush by him as Paptimus just barely missed smashing that lance through his chest. Now it was the Dark General’s turn to feel frustrated; he let out a low growl as he banked one more time.

 

Braddock was ready for him. The visor of the Ostian’s helmet continued to glow with rage as memories flowed through his head—of Kelitha, of Keith, of all the good times he had back in Lycia with Char and Pamela—and then the sight of Pamela’s broken, violated body, murdered at the hands of Paptimus. This stoked his fury, and that fury gave him more than enough strength for his next move.

 

As Paptimus turned, Braddock gripped the headstone he’d just tumbled over as hard as he could—the result of which was his fingers _digging into_ the hard granite. Paptimus, charging straight at him, saw what was happening, but before he could act, the rage-powered Ostian ripped the stone _right out of the ground_ , hoisted it over his head, and then, with a primal scream so loud it could be heard on the mainland, he threw it right at Paptimus.

 

Even his magic shadow-sled wasn’t fast enough to dodge the big chunk of rock at this distance. The Dark General, in an admirable display of quick reflexes, raised his ice-lance and stabbed it into the air at the stone—an action which resulted in both being blasted into a fine rain of ice crystals and granite dust. However, he wasn’t quick enough to dodge what came next—the massive, blue-armored form smashing into him and taking him right off the shadow-skimmer. Braddock had followed up the stone he’d tossed with his own body, leaping at Paptimus in a wild tackle.

 

“GYUH!” Braddock wrapped up Paptimus’ midsection in his tightest grip as both of them went flying through the air for a moment. The impact had wrecked even Paptimus’ concentration and undid all of his spells—the Fimbulvetr and Gespenst tomes went flying away, the flames from the Dark General’s back disappeared, and the riderless shadow-skimmer continued to glide forwards for a few moments before blinking out of existence.

 

Paptimus hit the ground with a great clanking of armor along with a heavy THUD. But the moment he tried to get up and back to his feet, he saw a blue-gauntleted fist racing right at him.

 

Round two had begun.

-x-

 

Carlos _knew_ it had been a bad idea to take his ship out this early in the morning. Sure, it was nice to be able to fish leisurely without being crowded out by bigger, tougher boats (and fishermen), and sure, the morning sun looked absolutely lovely at this time of day. However, the moment he saw thunder and lightning crashing down on that funny merchant ship when the skies were perfectly clear, and the moment he heard screams and the sounds of fighting coming from that ship, he knew that the morning’s outing would not be a fun one.

 

His troubles were compounded when he heard loud splashing coming from the waters nearby. He had been floating not far from the besieged ship, trawling his net through the waters, and he really should have headed back to the docks much earlier—but he had been entranced by the purple lights and massive flames erupting on the deck of the larger vessel. Now he regretted wasting so much time. He screamed in terror (and wet himself) when he noticed a hand rising up out of the water.

 

Gripping the side of the small fishing boat, a bedraggled man with orange hair and beard along with an eyepatch dragged himself aboard. His single good eye was blazing with a terrifying spark of hatred, and he carried a very nasty-looking warhammer in his other hand, along with a bow strapped to his back.

 

Even if it was a bad idea to go fishing in the morning, it didn’t mean Carlos deserved to die for it…right?

 

However, his death apparently wasn’t what the man was after. “I-I’ll give you anything you want!” stammered the fisherman. “All my fish! All my money! ANYTHING! PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!”

 

The only thing he said in response was, “Get me t’ that island.”

 

“W…what?!”

He raised the warhammer like he’d smash it right into the fisherman’s head. “GET ME T’ THAT DAMN ISLAND! _NOW!_ ”

 

Without so much as thinking, Carlos did as he asked.

 

-x-

 

Paptimus jerked his head to the side, just in time to avoid a punch that left a small crater in the dry earth. He immediately raised his hand and planted it on his assailant’s chest—he might not have had any of his magic tomes, but he could still utilize some of his own personal power. A brief expansion of his will sent Braddock flying off him and backwards with a loud, “Oof!”

 

The Ostian landed on his feet, though, and wouldn’t let Paptimus get a hold of his spellbooks.  The Finbulvetr tome was lying on the ground between them, but it was just a bit closer to Braddock. The Dark General lunged for it, but the Ostian was quicker, scooping it up, gripping it, and then tearing it half with a wild laugh.

 

Paptimus reeled back, looking back and forth for his single remaining tome, the Gespenst. Braddock, however, didn’t waste time looking for his own weapon.  While Paptimus was momentarily distracted, he rushed up and planted a gauntlet straight into his foe’s chainmail-clad stomach. Paptimus felt bile rise up in his throat as Braddock’s raw strength pounded a dent into the armor of his midsection—the man’s gauntleted hands were almost as strong as an actual Hammer. He keeled over, but Braddock straightened him up with a vicious uppercut that landed on his helmet’s chinguard. With one more blow, a powerful left hook to the side of his head, Braddock sent Paptimus stumbling almost drunkenly away, now with a sizable crack in the glass visor of his helmet.

 

“What…what kind of fighting is this?” he slurred. “You don’t even have a weapon!”

 

“Come on, Paptimus,” jeered Braddock. “Didn’t you use to be a gladiator? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to fight like one!”

 

As it turned out, he very much hadn’t. Paptimus lurched to the left, making it seem like he was still trying to get at his Gespenst tome. Braddock eagerly took the opportunity, drawing back his right fist and loosing another punch aimed at Paptimus’ head, hoping to stun him. The Dark General was expecting this, though, and deftly ducked down and to the side, allowing the strike to pass by harmlessly. He then rose, leading with his own fist, and it was Braddock’s turn to feel the urge to vomit; Paptimus’ hand was now buried in his stomach, smashing the Ostian’s own chain mail into his flesh in the same way Braddock had done earlier.

 

Even through his terrible pain, however, the Warlord didn’t lose his self-control. As Paptimus withdrew his fist, Braddock didn’t bend over but instead dropped right to the ground, surprising his opponent. From his low position, he burst forwards, slamming his body into Paptimus’ legs and taking them both to the ground again.

 

Quickly clambering atop his opponent, Braddock took advantage of the wound Paptimus had suffered while fighting Henken. Keeping his foe’s body pinned down with his own weight, Braddock gripped Paptimus’ right hand and held it down to the ground—and the Dark General didn’t have a left arm to keep Braddock’s off of him. The Warlord gripped the top of Paptimus’ helmet with his left hand, crumpling the metal slightly under his fingers, and the red glow of its visor immediately winked out of existence as he yanked it right off of Paptimus’s head. He then curled his left hand into a fist and raised it above that now-unprotected head, preparing to bring it down in a terrible smash with enough strength to splatter the Dark General’s brains all over the ground.

 

Neverthless, Paptimus may have had only one arm, but his magical abilities were enough to make up for the lack of his other one. As Braddock’s fist descended it suddenly stopped in the air just inches from his adversary’s face. The Ostian growled in frustration as he tried to break the power of Paptimus’ will; the dark energy freezing him in its grip even without a tome like Gespenst to channel it into a spell.

 

Paptimus prevailed for the moment, though. Braddock felt his hand being forced farther and farther back until he finally had to give up, jerking backwards and tumbling off Paptimus’ supine form. As the two men scrambled back to their feet, this time Paptimus was the quicker. Before Braddock could raise a hand to block, Paptimus lashed out with a powerful right hook, fierce enough to make him see stars and stun him for a moment. He whipped his hand back, reversing the arc of the blow to deliver an equally powerful backhand. This caused Braddock to stumble back a step, keeping his head down, and leaving him open for Paptimus’ final blow. The Dark General drew back his fist to unleash an uppercut of his own, catching Braddock squarely on the front of his helmet and lifting him off his feet and into the air for a moment. The force of the hit was enough to crack Braddock’s visor even worse than he’d damaged Paptimus’, and it stunned him completely as well; he would have collapsed to the ground entirely if his enemy hadn’t grabbed him. Paptimus wrapped a hand around the front of his head and lifted him up into the air with a one-handed strength aided by his magic power as well as the sheer force of his own hatred. A maniacal grin twisted his sweat-stained face as he turned—the two combatants grappling with each other had brought themselves back in front of the huge stone statue of Elimine. He then charged forward, Braddock vainly trying to break his grip, and slammed the Ostian up against the face of the edifice.

 

Braddock couldn’t move—he brought his hands up to Paptimus’ arm but couldn’t budge it, and when he tried to raise his legs to kick at his foe he found they were also pinned by the same invisible force his enemy had used earlier. Laughing in triumph, Paptimus tightened his grip, and Braddock felt the stone crack behind his head, along with the metal of his helmet groaning around him. He shut his eyes as the visor of his helmet cracked even further, and realized that Paptimus was using his magic to strengthen his grip—he was on the verge of crushing Braddock’s head entirely.

 

All of a sudden, however, the Warlord heard the distinctive TWANG of a bow, a curse from Paptimus, and the force around his head disappearing, allowing him to drop cleanly on the ground. Astonished, he looked up to see something he’d never expected.

 

Paptimus’ back was turned to him; the man was glaring at the newcomer who’d interrupted their battle. In the distance Braddock could see what seemed to be a small fishing boat—why it was here, he couldn’t fathom, but it had apparently deposited a passenger. Roberto was advancing towards them, the fact that he was soaking wet only adding to the aura of insane hatred he seemed to be generating around himself as he held his bow, notched another arrow, and let fly.

 

“PAPTIMUS! FINALLY FOUND YA! Y’LL PAY F’R WHAT HAPPENED T’ YULIA!”

 

With another curse, Paptimus ducked to dodge the missile and then dashed away, to the side. Roberto sent a third arrow at him, but it hit his red pauldron, doing no damage, and by the time Braddock got to his feet and collected his bearings, Paptimus had already reached his goal—his Gespenst tome, lying behind another gravestone where it had fallen after flying away from him.

 

“Damn,” Braddock cursed, but the distraction of Roberto’s arrival had given him a bit of time as well. One more arrow from the Warrior missed as Paptimus ducked again; now that he no longer had his helmet he was very careful to keep any of Roberto’s projectiles from coming too close to his vulnerable eyes or throat. However, his dodge cost him the few moments he needed to prepare a spell from the tome, and that was all Braddock required to rush from Elimine’s statue, past the newly-armed Paptimus, and to his discarded Basilikos. His helmet was ruined, now—he realized this when he picked up his axe and could barely make it out as anything but a blue mass in front of him. It didn’t give him pause—as he picked up his axe with his right hand, he simply unclasped his helm with his left and tossed it away.

 

Realizing his steel bow wouldn’t be that useful, Roberto cast it aside and unlimbered his large, heavy Hammer, closing the ground between him and Paptimus with great, loping strides. The Dark general turned towards him, brandishing the Gespenst tome threateningly, forcing him to slow down and back up, meaning he was now standing right beside Braddock amidst a forest of gravestones, many of which were now damaged, broken, and toppled.

 

“Wasn’t expecting you,” grinned Braddock. “Good thing that bastard over there wasn’t, either!”

 

“Yulia’s dead because of ‘im,” growled Roberto, the hatred in his voice when he spoke of Paptimus every bit as palpable as Braddock’s. “He might as well’ve killed ‘er with his own hands! Y’r crazy if y’ think I’d let ‘im get away with it!”

 

“Your sister?” asked Paptimus incredulously. “Who…ah, now I remember you. You were that lunkheaded axeman Khyron brought with him to Scirocco. I do regret your sister’s death—someone with her ability might have made a good Red Shoulder. You were also a useful asset to our cause, before you abandoned us at Thagaste. But the truth is, you simple-minded fool, her death was necessary. Every bit as necessary as the death of this Ostian’s wife. Anyone who opposes my plans, the salvation of Elibe, _deserves_ to die! And if I get the opportunity to kill two of my foes rather than just one, I WON’T COMPLAIN!”

 

The Gespenst tome opened in his hand, the runic letters inscribed on its pages glowing purple, and spewed forth tendrils of dark energy. These black tendrils, currents of purple electricity crackling around them as well as Paptimus’ body, streamed from the book in his right hand over to his left shoulder, where they coalesced into a huge black mass. It pulsed and throbbed like it was a living thing, and then extended, twisting and shifting until it had taken a shape that roughly approximated Paptimus’ former left arm. Aside from its pitch-black color, however, this limb was also different from the one it replaced by the fact that it terminated not in a hand but a blade—a long, vicious thing curved like the one found on a scythe. It was the same kind of shadowy weapon that had taken Char’s life back at Thagaste.

 

Paptimus slashed it through the air, once, twice, and judging from the way he smiled when sparks of purple electricity scattered from it as he did so, the dark blade was more than ready to start cutting something up.

 

Braddock and Roberto didn’t even blink at this display. They just steadied themselves on their feet and brought up their weapons, preparing themselves for Paptimus’ next move.

 

All of them knew that the next clash would be the last.

 

-x-

 

“God damn it, Dina! Stop it!”

 

Renault said this as he lifted his Silver Sword to parry another slice from the woman’s Killing Edge. Her blows weren’t very strong—he could block them easily—but more worrisome was how swiftly they came. Just as he blocked that slash, Dina had launched another one at his midsection almost faster than he could see, and he was only just able to bring his dagger up in time to keep it from finding a vulnerable chink in his armor. Battle was raging all around him, and though his friends were doing well, Renault fully realized that the intent of the Red Shoulders was not to stop them but to delay them. The more time they spent on Paptimus’ underlings, the better chance he had of getting away entirely. Harvery and Apolli had managed to just finish off the last of the Sages, but Khyron and Rosamia were having a bit more trouble with the Druids, who summoned shields of shadow to block their Anima magic, and hid themselves away within the shadows whenever Harvery tried to get behind one of them. Apolli would have helped, but he was too busy sending arrows down at the entrance to the deck, keeping the remaining Red Shoulders and pirates from joining in.

 

Thus, it was just Renault versus Dina, along with the remaining Red Shoulder General. Renault ducked and weaved to the side, allowing another jab from the General’s spear to pass by him, and he kept his upper body low so another pair of slices from Dina were blocked by his pauldrons.

 

“Stupid fool,” grunted Renault to the General, “get the hell out of my way!” He had completely ignored Dina’s attacks to focus on her annoying friend, and as the Red Shoulder prepared another thrust, Renault burst forwards much faster than he anticipated, twisting the Silver Sword in his right hand upwards and deftly jabbing it into the General’s exposed armpit, protected only by chain mail which the blade could easily slice through. The General screamed in pain and dropped his spear. From behind him, Renault heard Dina yell, “NO!” and felt the rush of air as she charged and leapt at him to avenge her friend, but he immediately extricated his blade and ducked past the General. This meant that as Dina spun through the air, her slash whizzed harmlessly over Renault’s head, and also that Renault was now in a good position to put the General out of his misery—the unfortunate man was on his knees, holding his left hand to his bleeding armpit; Renault swiftly ended his pain by shoving his dagger into his exposed neck.

 

Dina didn’t pay much attention to her comrade’s death. “I’ll never let you get your hands on Master Paptimus!” she screamed, lashing out with a trio of slashes that sent Renault reeling. He could only block one by raising his Silver Sword, another by knocking it away with his chain-dagger, but Dina was so fast that she landed another on his upper thigh. Even though it clattered harmlessly against his armor, Renault could tell that for now, she was just testing it—Dina realized she wasn’t strong enough to just bash through his plate, so she was probing its defenses, watching how he moved and looking at his armor for any weak spots. Once she found those, she’d go in for the kill.

 

He had to stop her before that happened, especially since he didn’t want to kill her. “Dina, stop! Don’t you remember me? Don’t you recognize my voice?”

 

“Eh?” She paused for a moment as the battle raged around her—Khyron, Harvery, and Rosamia dueling with the Druids (finally succeeding in piercing the defenses of one, sending him screaming off the edge of the boat, wreathed in flames, and finding an opening in another, sending him collapsing to the deck with daggers in his back) and Apolli starting to run out of arrows as the corpses piled up at the entrance to the deck. Renault knew this would be his chance.

 

“Dina, I’m Renault! Your teacher, remember? Don’t tell me you’re actually serious about fighting me?!”

 

It didn’t go as well as he’d hoped—her face twisted in anger. “Renault! You’re the scum who betrayed our Revolution! My friends are all dead because of you! I was a fool to trust you and Braddock!”

 

“No, you were a fool to trust Paptimus! Listen to me! He’s been manipulating you and the rebels for this entire war! The moment you’re not useful to him anymore, he’ll throw your life away like you were nothing more than a tool! Do you want to serve someone like that?!”

 

“I don’t have time for your lies! Master Paptimus is everything to us! Everything to _me!_ He’s the reason I’ve fought so hard and so long! You and Braddock deserve nothing but death for abandoning him! And after I’m done with you, I’ll show that blackhearted Ostian what happens to traitors!”

 

In Renault’s state, this was exactly the wrong thing to say.

 

Dina didn’t realize that—not yet. She surged forwards, aiming her Killing Edge at what she thought was a vulnerable spot in the chain mail of Renault’s midsection (a few rings which he hadn’t gotten properly repaired). With a vicious slash of his Silver Sword that surprised her with its ferocity and strength, however, he both deflected her attack and forced her back. To her credit, she didn’t let go of her weapon—she was too disciplined for that now. She allowed the force of his parry to carry her away from him, backstepping rather than stumbling, and then crouched, to leap in the air and land behind him. He immediately turned, but with a burst of incredible speed, the fruit of all the training she’d done, she darted around him and back behind him again, smiling triumphantly as she prepared to sink her blade into another vulnerable spot she’d noticed on the mail covering his back.

 

The smile disappeared, however, when an armored elbow smashed into her forehead.

 

Renault had anticipated she’d try a trick like that, taking advantage of her speed to make up for her lack of strength. The moment he’d turned, he’d prepared for an attack from behind, and though she was too fast for him to see, he heard her step behind him, and immediately jerked his arm back to bash her. It wasn’t a particularly brutal blow, but it did knock her off-balance for a moment. And that was all Renault needed.

 

Renault pivoted and brought the hilt of the dagger in his left hand flying towards Dina’s forehead. It connected with a sickening crack, sending her tumbling to the ground. Before she could react, she felt a great weight on her, pinning her down helplessly to the floor of the upper deck.

 

Renault loomed over her, and when she looked up, she noticed, with a tremor of pure fear running through her, that the visor of his white helmet was now glowing blood-red.

 

“You fucking bitch,” he growled, a combination of hatred, fury, and what she thought was just a bit of insanity dripping from his trembling voice. “Nobody’s gonna take Braddock away from me. Not you, not Paptimus, _NOBODY!_ And if you’re dumb enough to try, then it doesn’t matter that I used to be your teacher. You’re not taking him away from me! _NEVER!!_ ”

 

Renault screamed that last word. He didn’t even notice that his comrades were staring at him—Apolli had managed to fletch almost all of the troops pouring out from below and Rosamia, Khyron, and Harvery had finished off the last of the Druids. There was only one thing he was concerned about—eliminating the woman who had been a threat to Braddock.

 

He took his Silver Sword and plunged it straight into her chest.

 

She jerked beneath him, let out a small cry, and then opened her eyes wide for a moment, staring straight into that terrible, glowing visor of his. Renault wasn’t sure what was there—shock? Betrayal? Regret?—and for a moment, he felt the same uncertainty. He remembered his pride at watching her progress back at Nerinheit City, and the affection he’d felt when she cooked him a meal, poor as it was.

 

Then he remembered her threat to that “blackhearted Ostian.” And any trace of compassion he had for her was washed away. With an angry snarl, he pushed the blade in deeper and twisted it. Dina jerked and raised a hand weakly. It then fell to the floor, and she lay still in a pool of her own blood.

 

“Aaah…” Renault sighed in…not satisfaction, exactly, but in relief. He stood up and turned away from the corpse of his former student, regarding his allies coldly. “What the hell’re we waiting for? We have to find Braddock and Paptimus. We can’t waste any more time!”

 

His friends hesitated for a moment—all of them were still taken aback by the ease and viciousness with which he’d killed someone he once knew, as well as by the tone of his voice. After Keith’s death, they had all observed how he seemed to be dealing with it the same way as Roberto did Yulia’s, but this…this was different. The intensity of his feelings, hatred for his enemies and desire to protect Braddock, was something they hadn’t seen before.

 

“Come on! Let’s _move!_ ”

 

Despite their reservations, though, they knew that Renault was correct. “We all heard the noises and saw th’ light from that island,” said Apolli, “and I saw a boat goin’ over there a little while ago…maybe Roberto was on it, and if he was, that’s where Paptimus and Braddock might be!”

 

It was a reasonable guess. Immediately, all the remaining members of the Company followed Khyron’s lead as he set out to find a way to that island. Of what they would find there, they could only hope for the best.

 

-x-

 

“RRRAAAAAHHH!”

 

Paptimus dashed forwards, punching out with his blade-arm. Braddock and Roberto jumped to the left and right, respectively, but though they were now on both sides of their opponent, neither of them could find an opportunity to attack. Paptimus immediately twirled his body around, holding out his shadowy arm, and that had the effect of a great circular slash. Both Braddock and Roberto had to duck to avoid it, but Braddock was almost too slow—he jerked his head back to keep the blade from carving a deep cleft into it, but still grimaced in pain as he felt a strange, cold, tingling sensation—it had still managed to graze him, disintegrating a bit of his skin, which had the same effect as a physical blade slicing a thin line of blood at the top of his forehead.

 

Braddock collapsed to one knee, and Paptimus saw another opportunity. He immediately stopped his spin, withdrew his pitch-black left arm, and then punched it at the kneeling Ostian’s face. Desperately, he raised the Basilikos, hoping to block the attack with the flat of its head. He was well aware that the shadow-blade would just disintegrate ordinary metal (this was why he hadn’t bothered picking up his shield again), but hoped the enchantment of the Basilikos would do something to protect him.

 

His gamble paid off. The axe glowed blue, and Paptimus let out a frustrated snarl as he found his dark weapon unable to penetrate it—the black blade deformed as it hit the blue one, squashing impotently against it almost as the same way as a sword made out of clay would, and letting out sparks of purple electricity as it fruitlessly tried to cut through the powerful enchantment of the Basilikos.

 

While he was distracted, Roberto had gotten behind him. With a wild scream he brought his Hammer down, hoping to smash Paptimus’ unprotected head in. Unfortunately, the warhammer just whizzed through empty air. Paptimus’ entire body had turned as black as his left arm, and he melted into the ground.

 

“Damn! Roberto, duck!” Braddock yelled, and the Warrior trusted his comrade enough to follow his commands unhesitatingly. Just in time, too—as he crouched down, a black blade passed over his head with a crackle of purple electricity and a loud, almost howling sound. By instinct, Roberto kicked out behind him, managing to hit Paptimus in the shin and causing him to stumble back. He immediately scrambled to the side, allowing his comrade to follow up with another attack. Braddock had regained his footing, and while Paptimus was reeling from Roberto’s kick, he had gripped the Basilikos with both hands and was now charging at Paptimus with a mighty downwards chop that would have split the Dark General cleanly in two.

 

Paptimus didn’t have time to shadow-meld away as he so loved doing. Instead, he raised his left arm, and the shadowy substance changed shape, turning from a scythe-like blade into a claw, somewhat similar in form to that of a crab’s. He managed to catch the Basilikos between its pincers, though just barely—his face twisted with the exertion of holding the axe blade at bay, and the dry ground beneath his feet cracked and caved in slightly because of the force. He still had enough strength to keep his defense from collapsing, though, and even more, he pushed forwards and started pushing Braddock back. Finally, making matters much worse, the Ostian’s eyes widened in pure fear when he realized that Paptimus could still cast other kinds of spells from the tome in his right hand.

 

“I’VE WON!” he screamed, holding the Gespenst book forwards as he continued to grip the Basilikos in his left arm’s shadow-claw. Braddock felt a surge of panic as purple blue flames appeared in the air around him, along with that damnable four-wheeled sigil. Even if he let go of his axe and tried to get away, it wouldn’t be in time for him to avoid the spell.

 

A moment later, however, the flames and sigils disappeared, along with the dark aura entirely. With a loud curse Paptimus slumped forwards, grimacing in pain. While he had been occupied with Braddock, Roberto had gotten up and sneaked behind him again, striking again with his Hammer—and now he succeeded. When he heard the man approach, Paptimus let go of the Basilikos with his claw and pushed forwards—Braddock held on to his axe, but he stumbled away. Paptimus then quickly shifted, turning right—this was just in time to keep Roberto’s blow from falling on his head; it landed on his huge red pauldron instead. Even that hurt quite a bit, though—the Hammer was made for pounding through armored opponents, which made the thick metal of the pauldron a drawback rather than an asset. The huge dent in its red surface indicated that the metal had been pushed down into the flesh, and it was all Paptimus could do to keep a hold of the Gespenst tome as a wave of pain crashed from his right shoulder to the rest of his arm.

 

Despite how badly he had been hurt, Paptimus didn’t let that stop him. “You annoying FLY!” he shouted in rage, and as he did so the claw of his left arm shifted and lengthened, turning into a long black tentacle seething with fell magical power. This tentacle squirmed and shot out past Paptimus’ head at Roberto behind him, passing over the Dark General’s shoulder and past the Hammer embedded in its pauldron. Not at all expecting this, Roberto let go of his weapon entirely (it fell to the ground when Paptimus gave a shake of his body) and reeled back, jerking his body to avoid the shadowy whip lashing out at him.

 

This put him off-balance for a moment, and it was just the opening Paptimus needed.

 

The dark tentacle retracted and reformed, back into its original scythe blade-like shape. The former Prime Minister whirled around, punching upwards with that terrible blade.

 

Roberto just wasn’t quick enough to dodge it. He could only pause for a moment as his belly suddenly felt very strange and cold, and then look down in shock to see a pitch-black mass of writhing shadow protruding from his abdomen.

 

“Tch,” Paptimus grunted in satisfaction, watching Roberto’s face twist in agony, “this is what you get for opposing me, fool.”

 

However, Paptimus then noticed something very strange. Roberto’s face was indeed twisting, and it was obvious he was in an immense amount of pain. The strange thing was that the Warrior’s expression was twisting into a _smile._

 

He didn’t try to get away; instead, he brought himself _closer_ to Paptimus. Roberto lifted his thick, strong arms and wrapped his hands around the Dark General’s neck. Paptimus could only gape in shock as Roberto pulled himself closer, embedding the dark blade even _deeper_ into himself—it was now sticking very prominently out of his back. The grip on his neck tightened— _Is that fool trying to strangle me?_ Paptimus thought. _He’ll die long before he does!_

 

But that wasn’t Roberto’s intent. Paptimus only realized this when he heard the Warrior’s very last words.

 

“BRADDOCK! NOW! _KILL ‘IM NOW!!!”_

The distraction Roberto had provided had allowed the Ostian to regain his balance, and Braddock had watched in horror as Paptimus had impaled and gutted his comrade. But on hearing Roberto’s last request, fury replaced despair in the Warlord’s eyes. Paptimus may have scored one last kill, but it would be the very last.

 

“THAT’S THE LAST LIFE YOU’RE EVER GONNA TAKE, PAPTIMUS! **_DIE!!!_** ”

 

“No! NO! _NOOOO!!!_ ” Paptimus immediately sliced upwards with his blade, and the shadowy thing completely _destroyed_ Roberto’s body. It utterly disintegrated everything it passed through, which happened to be the middle of his abdomen, chest, and then his neck and entire head. His arms dropped limply away from Paptimus’ neck as his body fell backwards, almost neatly bisected, spilling his viscera all over the dry ground. But it was too late. Before Paptimus could turn to block, before he could turn himself into shadow and melt into the ground, Braddock was upon him.

 

The Ostian had leapt forwards, straight at Paptimus, and as he landed he let out one more downwards chop with the Basilkos—and this time, the blow was true. The mighty axe glowed and gale-force winds swirled around its blade as it crashed down upon the vulnerable Paptimus, and even his thick, strong plate mail was as flimsy as paper against such an attack. The axe blew it apart, its gale-force winds scattering pieces of it all over the battlefield, and then did the same to the flesh and bone below.

 

-x-

 

All of a sudden, strangely enough, Paptimus felt himself flying.

 

He had no control over himself, of course, and he couldn’t even feel his body. The reason for this soon became apparent—he was _watching_ his own body. What was left of it, anyways. Blood filled the air like some kind of profane rain, spattering the statue of Elimine below in bright-red hues. Bits of bone and pieces of flesh, along with twisted pieces of his black armor, were flying all around as well, and he could make out his Gespenst tome, lying abandoned next to his right arm, dismembered by the force of Braddock’s attack. It went without saying that all of his other magics, such as the shadow-blade he’d summoned, had been dispelled as well.

 

In the very last moments of his life, Paptimus, who had once thought he would be the savior of Elibe, one of the greatest men to live since the Eight Heroes, realized he was nothing more than a decapitated head sent flying over the shattered remains of his body.

 

_Not like this…not like this…_

 

He saw himself sharing a drink with his friend Glaesal, celebrating the fall of Thagaste.

 

_Not like this…not like this…_

 

He saw himself holding Meris, crying with joy when she broke the news of her pregnancy to him.

 

_Not like this…not like this…_

 

He felt the warmth of a younger Glaesal’s hands on his shoulders, holding him in the aftermath of his last fight in the arena, where he had triumphed via the use of magic rather than force, and remembered the pride he’d felt when the older man told him that he was too good to waste his life like this—words that his own father had never given him, but he had now.

 

_Not like this…not like this…_

 

And then he saw one last thing…

 

 _The purple-haired boy was crying_. _Why couldn’t he see his mother again? Why did she have to sell him? And why had his father sold everything they had, and then left them? The huge, flabby man who was now his owner simply gave him another hard slap across the face, stilling his tears through fear. The boy was being led on a chain through the streets of the great city of Aquleia, a place he had always wanted to see, but not like this._

_The gates of the Colisseum loomed up before him, as menacing as if they were the mouth of Hell. “Home sweet home, boy,” his captor laughed, giving his chain a jerk. “Get that miserable expression of your face. Y’r gonna be livin’ here f’r the rest of your life. Better get used to it.”_

_The boy didn’t even bother glaring at the fat, wretched man—he knew it’d be pointless. Instead, he turned his gaze away from him, to a prominent building on the other side of the street._

_It was a church—its stained-glass windows and the icon of Elimine at the top of its steeple gave it away. As he looked at it, the purple-haired boy felt hatred—pure hatred. That woman represented by the icon—the religion she’d made—was the reason he had been torn away from his mother. If his father hadn’t given everything to those wretched Elimineans, if he hadn’t gone on that pilgrimage, the boy knew he would never have had to leave his mother._

_He looked at that church, at everything it represented, everything it had done to him, and felt hatred, pure and hot. There had to be a better way of living, he knew. There had to be more to life than worshipping at the worthless superstitions peddled by the priests. Who knew how many people across Elibe had their lives ruined the same way his was? He wanted to save them, just like he wanted to save himself. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do it today, but someday…_

_Someday…_

_Someday both he and everyone in the world might be able to live in a world free of religion, and free of those wretched nobles too—the fat, privileged scum who watched boys like him suffer and die for their amusement. Someday, he would build a world where everyone was equal, where no-one would suffer like he did, where people lived by what was true, not the lies of religion._

_The boy thought this—knew this—as he looked at that church. Perhaps not in so many refined words—the education for that would come later. But the genesis of the rest of his life was contained in that one brief moment of staring at the face of Elimine…_

_Just before another jerk from his chain brought him into the darkness of the interior of the Coliseum._  


This was the last thing that passed through the mind of Paptimus of Scirocco—then his head hit the hard, dry earth, and he knew no more.

 

-x-

 

“W…what the hell happened here?”

 

Renault said this as he clambered out of the small trade cog that had brought them to this island, a place the owner of the boat said served as its graveyard. They had been fortunate to find such a helpful man—a small, curious crowd had gathered around Paptimus’ embattled “merchant ship,” though the town guard was noticeably absent; seeing all those spells flying around had convinced the lazy and cowardly patrolmen that it would be much better for their health to pretend nothing was going on. The moment they’d gotten their feet back on the piers, though, Khyron had taken one look at the crowd, held out a pouch containing all the gold he’d brought with him, and declared the first one to get him and his men over to the nearby island would get all of it. Their trader friend had been the first one to take their offer and spirited them off to his nearby boat before anyone else could stop them; he’d raised anchor and started rowing straight across the narrow channel while the rest of his competitors jeered at him from back on dry land, angry that he’d be the one getting the money. Not that Renault or anyone else cared about this little drama, though—all that mattered to them was getting to that island. It took scarcely a few minutes; the island was literally almost a stone’s throw away from the mainland. They didn’t even bother to give the trader a “thank you” as they debarked—and he didn’t seem to mind, because he was just as shocked as the rest of them at the sight in front of their eyes.

 

This may have been a graveyard, but now it was battlefield. Toppled, broken, and upended tombstones littered the area; the largest thing that hadn’t been touched seemed to be a large statue of Elimine, and even that seemed to have collapsed somewhat; it was tilting at a strange angle. Part of it was flash-frozen and much of it was covered in blood, along with its surroundings—Renault could make out twisted pieces of black armor mingled in various pieces of flesh and bone, along with an almost-bisected corpse that seemed sickeningly familiar.

 

But where was his friend?

 

Renault rushed forwards, nearly slipping on a puddle of blood. Where was Braddock? He couldn’t see that familiar blue armor anywhere! He ripped off his helmet, its faint red glow dissipating entirely as he did so, and scanned everywhere he could frantically with his own eyes, passing left and right.

 

“T…there!” called Apolli, and Renault turned to see where the boy was pointing. It was to the right, on the far side of the beach they’d landed on. He could see a man there, standing on the sand—a man with heavy armor and long hair, whipped by the wind. His back was turned to them, and he didn’t seem to notice their arrival—he was too busy staring at the rising sun, looking at something only he could see. But his identity was confirmed by the huge axe strapped to his back—even though it was drenched in blood, Renault would have recognized it anywhere.

 

“B…Braddock?” he called, taking a step forwards. The man didn’t notice—he was still almost entirely lost in whatever thoughts the previous battle had given him.

 

“BRADDOCK!” Renault was yelling now, almost desperately, now afraid that the form before him was an illusion of some sort, that Braddock really had been taken away from him.

 

His fears weren’t justified. This last cry was enough to snap the man out of his trance, and he turned to look behind, raising a hand to keep his long blue hair from his eyes, just as blue. Those eyes looked at the people now running up to him, and after a brief moment when they were still trapped in the past, they finally lit up with recognition. “R…Renault,” he called, unsteadily, doubtfully at first, but then a second time, with as much strength as he could muster. “Renault? RENAULT!!”

 

Laughing joyfully, wildly, he broke into a run of his own, and the two men crashed into each other, the rays of the rising sun and the beautiful azure sky above them framing their embrace. The two of them were joined by their friends, rushing up to join their reunion—Rosamia, Harvery, Apolli, and even Khyron, who had shed all pretense of nobility for pure, unrestrained celebration, surrounded the two men, adding to their ebullient cheering and laughing.

 

They would feel the pain of their losses later, but for now, there was nothing but joy. Their war was finally over.

_::Linear Notes::_

Woo-hoo! Good has triumphed over evil, and we have a happy ending…for now. Couple of notes:

 

1: First off, what did y’all think of the battle between Braddock and Paptimus specifically? This is THE longest chapter I’ve written—I never thought I’d write something longer than chapter 20, but I did. D: Sorry ;_; Still, though, for the finale, with their FINAL BATTLE, I hope it was worth it, right? Since the confrontation between Paptimus and Braddock was so long in coming, and since it was the finale/high point of this story arc (but not the very end), I wanted to make it as AWESOME as possible. Since Paptimus was the Big Bad, I wanted the fight with him to have kind of a “last boss” quality—his attacks in the first part were inspired by Dracula’s from Castlevania, as well as how he goes into different “forms” (fistfighting in the second part, blade-fighting in the last). I also wanted to portray the raw, visceral hate Braddock felt for him, and what better way than to just wail on each other with their bare hands? TL;DR: I wanted the culminating fight of this story arc to be a knock-down, bare-knuckle, drag-out, all-out BATTLE ROYALE. Did I succeed?

 

2: Bit of housekeeping. This is gonna be the last “Linear Notes” and NEXT EPISODE for the coming chapters. It’s my personal policy to end a big story like this, or in this case, a big part (chapter 40 is the halfway point) on a somber, subdued note. So next chapter is going to have a “cast and credits” at the end where I thank everybody who’s helped this story, and Chapter 40 will just end with nothing fancy. Chapter 40 is the end of the first half of this story, or what I like to call “Book I.” Although this part can be a ‘happy ending’ too, I wanted to give Wayward Son kind of a “self-contained” ending as well, i.e you can read chapter 40 and even if it doesn’t continue from there (which it will—Wayward Son will end at around chapter 80, but in case I die before then or something—morbid, I know—we’ll at least get to know what happens to everybody), you’ll have a clear end to the tale of Braddock and Renault, and a direct tie-in to the actual FE7 game. So that’s why I’m ending it with no Linear Notes or anything. They’ll be back for chapter 41 :D

 

And on THAT note, my friends…

 

3: Remember, I said this was a happy ending “for now.” Wayward Son isn’t anywhere near finished yet—this is just the first half. So, if you’d like to keep things on a high note, please stop reading here. Chapter 40 is…well, Trunicht’s still at large, right? And you know what Renault’s supports with Isadora and Canas say…;_; And especially since the second half of the story (chapter 41 and onwards) will deal with Renault and Nergal. So…if you guys don’t wanna read after this or Chapter 39 (that chappie tells what happens to all the surviving members of the Autonomous Company, along with the credits, in the style of an FE game :D), I understand. Whatever the case may be, though, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for staying with me so far! I’ll try to give all of you proper shout-outs next chapter, but for now, I just wanna say, thank you so much!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	39. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Paptimus' death, the First Etrurian Civil War has finally come to (almost) an end. This chapter reveals what happened to the surviving members of the Autonomous Company, who worked so hard to bring the Royalists victory.
> 
> But for two men, the war is not yet over. Trunicht, the man who murdered Kelitha, is still at large, and Renault will not rest until he is dead. And, despite the fact he knows he is heading to his own doom, Braddock refuses to leave his friend's side.

 

Chapter 39: Peace

 

It didn’t take long at all for the realities of war to intrude on their celebration.

 

“Hey, where’s Roberto!” laughed Apolli, clapping the victorious Braddock on the back. “Did ‘e manage to get here? He fell offa the boat while we were fightin’ and…”

 

The other members of the Autonomous Company continued their laughing and cheering for a few more moments, still basking in the glow of their great victory…until they saw that Braddock, the person who should have been the happiest, now had a very somber expression on his pale face.

 

“He…he made it over here, Apolli,” said the Ostian. “I…y…yeah…”

 

This was enough to rob the young man of his good cheer as well. “S…so what happened, Braddock?”

 

He said nothing in reply. He simply raised a hand and pointed towards one of the corpses the group had forgotten about in the midst of their celebration. It was a horrible sight—its middle had been _disintegrated_ in such a way that it seemed it had almost been bisected. But even in its state, it wasn’t hard to figure out who it belonged to.

 

“Oh…Oh God…” Apolli, his face now sheet-white and with tears forming in his eyes, rushed over to the body, took a look at it, recognized who it was, and collapsed to his knees before it. The rest of the Autonomous Company—those who remained, anyways—joined him, the happiness on their faces now replaced with dismay.

 

“Paptimus got him,” said Braddock grimly. “I…I’m sorry, Apolli. R…really sorry. He summoned a shadow-blade, like he used to kill C—Henken back at Thagaste. He managed to get a hold of Roberto with it. That distracted him just long enough for me to land a killing blow, but not before Roberto was…” He hung his head in sorrow and shame. “I’m sorry, Apolli. S…sorry…”

 

“It wasn’t your fault, Braddock,” said Renault, grimacing in frustration. “I—“

 

“No, Renault. I would’ve died if Roberto hadn’t arrived when he did. Paptimus had me disarmed and was just seconds away from killing me. Roberto came and saved my life. And if Roberto hadn’t distracted him like I did, I never would have found an opportunity to attack. Roberto’s sacrifice was what let me win.” He put a hand on the sobbing Apolli’s shoulder. “I…I know it’s not much, Apolli. But it’s the only thing I can give. Roberto’s was the last—the _last_ —life that bastard was ever able to take.”

 

“I…” Apolli looked up at Braddock—the tears were still in his eyes, and he was sniffling. But now, at least, he was _smiling_. “R…really?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“T…then…that’s all I can ask.” He stood up, still crying, still looking down at Roberto’s corpse. “E…even through…even through everything…Roberto…Roberto was still my friend. H…he hated me after w…what happened t’ Yulia. An…an we didn’t even talk f’r years after ‘e left Sorveno. But we still grew up together…an’ we still fought together. And now he’s gone…like this. Won’t h…have a chance t’ become friends like we used t’ be…

 

“But…Paptimus is dead. Nobody else’ll die because o’ him. And Yulia...he was th’ guy that killed Yulia. An’ now that he’s gone, Yulia c’n…can finally rest. Right? Th-that’s right, innit? So if she’s at peace…maybe…maybe finally…at least…he’s at peace too.”

 

Apolli said no more after this, simply continuing to sob.

 

“He _will_ be buried,” said Khyron. He did not display as much emotion as his Sniper, though his face was dark with anger and disappointment. “Here, if need be. We may not be able to bring his body back with us, but he will _not_ rot in the open like an animal! He was a brave warrior who sacrificed his life for my cause…my king! He _will_ be properly honored, just like Keith and Kelitha!”

 

He turned and looked at his subordinates. “Do you remember the day this Autonomous Company was formed? The Great General briefing us, preparing us to fight Barbarossa? We were twelve, then—me, along with the Ilians; Imelle, Vayin, Hiyu, and then Keith, Kelitha, and Kasha. Then there were Renault, Braddock, and Rosamia…you, Apolli, and the General’s friend Henken, as well. Lisse served us well up to now as a keeper of our goods…and then Roberto joined us in Thagaste…he saw the truth behind Paptimus’ schemes, like Renault and Braddock did, and fought honorably beside them. And now…now, there are only six of us left, seven along with Lisse. Those of us who survive have an obligation to those who didn’t…we must honor their memory, must we not? _Well?_ ”

 

He received no objection whatsoever. The rest of the Company simply nodded their heads solemnly.

 

“M…My lord,” said Rosamia uneasily—it seemed as if she had become slightly nauseous upon seeing Roberto’s corpse, despite everything else she’d already seen in the war, “W…what of Paptimus? We’ll need to take proof of his death back to the King, won’t we?”

 

“Oh, we’ve got proof,” said Braddock contemptuously. He walked across the bloody ground and picked up Paptimus’ head, the eyes of which were glazed and staring. He held it up in the air, a barbaric symbol of triumph over his most hated enemy. “It’ll look damn good stuck on a pike outside of the Holy Royal Palace, right?”

 

“Very much so,” agreed Khyron, looking at the face of his brother’s murderer with a hatred equaling Braddock’s.

 

“Ah…b…but…Commander,” said Harvery timidly, his downcast face and trembling voice indicating his own sadness over Roberto’s death, “there’s…uh…”

 

“What is it? Spit it out, spy.”

 

“T…there’s that woman we found. She was the one who sent us the letter that allowed us t’ find Paptimus, right? Last I saw of her she was unconscious in his room. Is she still there? What if…”

 

His voice trailed off, and the rest of the Company knew what he meant—and all of them, including Apolli, realized they didn’t have any time to waste. “BACK TO THE BOAT!” shouted Khyron. They rushed towards the small cog which had brought them (except for Braddock and Roberto, of course) to the graveyard island—its owner was still standing on the beach, watching them and looking supremely confused. However, the moment Khyron yelled at him to take them back to the docks—now, _now, NOW—_ he didn’t bother offering a word of complaint.

 

-x-

 

They arrived back at the docks within a very short span of time, though not as quickly as Khyron would have liked. The crowds had dispersed some time ago—now that no-one was fighting, there was nothing to see, but the populace didn’t bother lurking around much longer than they needed to, or even venturing onto the boat or the surrounding area to examine the bodies—they knew from experience it was more trouble than it was worth, since a common, favored trick of many pirates was to play dead until an unsuspecting mark tried to loot their “corpse.”

 

The Autonomous Company could only hope that their quarry hadn’t escaped already—and to their great fortune, they found she hadn’t.  The moment the trade cog docked, Khyron and his men hopped out, leaving the boat’s owner behind in a speechless daze once again, and immediately clambered onto the now-deserted “merchant ship” which had served as Paptimus’s transport. They passed by all the blood and carcasses and made their way back to the Dark General’s bedroom. All of them remembered how the woman there had been rendered unconscious by her lover; if they were lucky she would still be in that state, but if not they’d have to look for her. As it turned out, they were indeed in luck.

 

Meris was no longer out cold, but she hadn’t bothered to leave the room she’d once shared with Paptimus. When the Autonomous Company arrived, they saw her sitting on the small bed with a completely blank expression on her face. That expression evinced only the slightest shift when she heard them hurry into her room and turned to look at them as they surrounded her. All of them, except for Braddock, had their weapons ready—after all, none of them particularly trusted the mother of Paptimus’ child.

 

She was expecting this, of course, and it seemed as if she wasn’t perturbed in the least. She simply looked up at Braddock and said, “I…it’s over, isn’t it? He…he’s dead.”

 

The Ostian paused for a moment. “Yeah…yeah, he is.” He glared at her. “Most satisfying moment of my life was watching his body fly into pieces after my axe slammed into him. You have a problem with that? I hope you don’t, because you were one of the people closest to him. We can’t just leave you here. You’re comin’ with us, and if you don’t like it, or if you’re harboring thoughts of revenge or anything like that, you’ll be accompanying us as a corpse.”

 

“Revenge? Revenge?” Meris laughed bitterly. “Why would I want revenge? I was the one who sent him into your hands, remember?” She couldn’t stop herself, now. She started to cry. “I’m a betrayer, a deceitful, verminous woman …I repaid the man who saved me from slavery with death. Not only that, but the father of my child! What right do I have to ask anyone for revenge?” Her crying deepened, and she wrapped her hands around her belly. “I’d tell you to kill me, but…but my child…I can’t…I won’t let anything happen to my baby. So, fine, Braddock. Take me, Mage General. Do whatever you want with me. I only ask that you don’t kill me until I’ve brought my child into the world. After that…”

 

“We will see, harridan,” said Khyron angrily. “You have the blood of the people of Scirocco on your hands, along with all the other people your wretched lover sacrificed in his mad rebellion. But…but if it wasn’t for you, Paptimus would have eluded us forever. And we never would have brought him to justice. So for that alone, blackhearted Meris—for that _ALONE_ —we will let you live. For now.

 

“Now that Paptimus is dead, we must tell the country the good news. The Great General and the Knight General should be first, especially since…since Gafgarion deserves to know what happened to his son. Harvery, I presume our forces have taken Nerinheit by now, yes?” The Assassin nodded. “That will be our first destination, then. We will bury Roberto, then take a ship to the city, with Meris and the head of her lover in tow. We three Generals will discuss what to do with her now that the war is finally over and we have peace. But it is the King who will be the final arbiter of her fate. After we have briefed Gafgarion and Jerid on what happened here, all of us will return to Aquleia, where Meris will be brought before the King, who will either follow the recommendation of us Generals or dispense his own justice.” He looked at the other members of the Company. “This is as much as I am willing to give you, murderess. It may be more than you deserve, but a servant of the Crown cannot discount services done for the King’s cause. I trust you do not object?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“I trust no-one else here objects?”

 

Braddock and the rest of the Company nodded in agreement—except for Renault, who simply continued to stare at the young woman with an unreadable expression. “Y…Yeah, that’s fair,” said the Ostian, and when he looked at Meris again, some of the anger seemed to have drained from his eyes, replaced with a bit of sympathy. “The help you’ve given us doesn’t make up for everything else you’ve done, girl. But at least it’s better than nothing. I’m not Paptimus—I don’t want to murder a woman in cold blood, especially not when she’s done me a favor.”

 

Renault, however, didn’t share those sentiments.

 

“No…no, not yet.” His voice was very, very cold, and all of his companions, including Braddock, couldn’t help but feel unease at hearing it. He was leaning against a wall, glaring at the pregnant woman, and she shrunk under his gaze. “There’s one thing I want to know, whore. Where’s Trunicht? Your lover’s little Black Knight friend. We haven’t seen him anywhere on this boat or in this city. Where the hell did he go?”

 

“T…Trunicht?” Meris quailed under Renault’s angry presence. “I…I told you in the letter. We--I don’t know where he is. He just disappeared when—“

 

“You don’t know where he is? Or you’re just not telling?” said Renault—and the tone of his voice was enough to chill the blood of everyone in earshot. But none of them, not even Braddock, imagined he was so far gone as to do what he did next. If they had, they would have stopped him immediately.

 

“You seem real concerned about your kid, whore,” he spat. “You really don’t want anything to happen to it?” Before Braddock and Khyron could sputter almost simultaneously, “Renault, what’re you doing?!” and “Blast it, stop!” the Mercenary Lord had strode up to the pregnant woman, looming over her menacingly. His face was contorted in a horrible grin that evinced anger and hatred rather than mirth, and his eyes seemed to burn like coals as he glowered down on her—it was easy to see why his helmet glowed red like it did.

 

“Convenient for me, then. I know just the way to make you talk!”

 

Before anyone could react, Renault whipped out his left hand and grabbed Meris’ neck, lifting her into the air and pinning her against the closest wall. With his right hand, he unsheathed his Silver Sword and pointed it at her belly.

 

“You _sure_ you don’t know?” Renault’s voice was trembling with rage, now, as his friends looked on in horror. “Let me tell you something, bitch. Paptimus’ dead, but Trunicht’s still alive. That piece of shit helped Tassar lure me into working for Paptimus, set me up at Elram’s Citadel, and he killed Kelitha…He killed _Kelitha!_ My war’s not over until he’s dead, you hear me? I’M NOT STOPPING ‘TILL HE’S DEAD! AND IF YOU DON’T TELL ME WHERE I CAN FIND HIM, I’M GONNA CUT THAT KID RIGHT OUT OF YOU!”

 

“Renault, this is crazy! Stop! STOP!” Harvery, Khyron, Rosamia, and Apolli were all screaming at him, but he paid them no heed. The only thing he was concerned about was revenge on Trunicht.

 

“I…I don’t know,” Meris gasped. “Please…”

 

“Piece of—“ Renault tightened his grip on his sword, but finally, at last, he heard a voice which actually was strong enough to stop him.

 

He felt an immensely strong, gauntleted hand clasp his pauldron, and Braddock’s voice call out, “STOP! RENAULT, PLEASE! DON’T DO IT!”

 

“Uh…ah?!” The sound of his beloved friend’s voice was enough to break the spell his bloodlust and desire for vengeance had cast upon him. Were it anyone else, Renault would have just slammed his sword through the woman’s stomach. But Braddock’s presence was just enough for him to regain control of himself.

 

Braddock was grabbing onto his friend’s shoulder, and looking at him with eyes that were neither angry nor condemnatory, but…desperate. Pleading, even.

 

“Renault…I…I don’t want to see you like this. I don’t want to watch you do something like this. Please, please, just…”

 

“B…Braddock.” Renault released his grip on Meris’ neck, sending her stumbling to the floor, hacking and coughing. She, along with everyone else in the room, was staring at him, trying to make sense of his outburst, but he didn’t care.

 

“K…Kelitha’s still dead,” whispered Renault. “Braddock, she’s still dead. Her, and Keith…and it was Trunicht who killed her. Paptimus may have started this war, but Trunicht killed her with his own hands. I can’t…how can you expect me to just forget that? I…Kelitha…Keith…I don’t…I don’t have anybody left, man.”

 

“I know how you feel, Renault. But you still have _me_. Don’t forget that!” Braddock clapped his hands around his friend’s shoulders, as comfortingly as he knew how. “And…and I don’t want you to do this. Pleases. Meris really doesn’t know, I think. Trunicht was one hell of a slippery blackheart, it wouldn’t surprise me _at all_ if he left his Rebel friends in the dark—like he was playing them like he played us! Threatening her like this isn’t gonna accomplish anything.”

 

“B…but she’s still one of _them!_ Those damn rebels are why Kelitha…Keith…The Rebels took them away from me!”

 

“She’s not a Rebel anymore, Renault! There’s no need to do this!” Braddock’s voice lowered, and his expression became even more pleading. “Renault, she wasn’t responsible for your friend’s deaths, and…and …God, Renault, she’s just a woman, like them, and…and like…”

 

“Pamela,” Renault finished for him, in a whisper.

 

“Yeah. So…just…”

 

“A…Alright, Braddock. For you. But _only_ for you!”

 

He stepped back from her, still glaring at her angrily. “Let’s just get her back to Nerinheit,” he growled. “We’ll have to find another boat to there, won’t we? This one’s pretty messed up.”

 

“Agreed,” said Khyron-inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, along with the rest of the Company, now that Renault seemed to have calmed down. “Rosamia, I’m putting you in charge of Meris. Keep an eye on her. I’ll make arrangements for Roberto’s burial and find as a transport immediately!”

 

The plan was set, and the Company filtered out of the room and off the boat. Meris and Rosamia took the rear, and just before they left the docks, Meris stopped for a moment, casting one last glance towards the boat and the island where she knew her lover had died.

 

“Come now. Don’t tarry,” said Rosamia, coldly, but not harshly, either.

 

She did as she was asked.

 

-x-

 

“This place looks different,” Renault said.

 

“Figures. It’s been months and a whole war since we’ve been here,” Braddock replied.

 

The two men had this exchange as they stepped off the modest transport caravel which had brought them to the docks of Nerinheit City. It had taken them just nearly a week and a half to get here from Lordsport. Khyron had first spent a day finding the transport as well as arranging for the proper burial of Roberto’s remains—he had managed to acquire an expensive oak coffin along with commissioning a very large, fine headstone which would mark the Warrior’s grave on the small island. It had been expensive, but the Mage General had been more than willing to pay for the honor of his fallen underling (especially since he paid for it with a Red Gem they’d found in the stores of Paptimus’ ship). After that, it had taken them some time to cross the waters separating them from Nerinheit, since the weather was bad and the seas turbulent this time of year.

 

They’d had very little trouble over the trip, thankfully—Meris seemed singularly indisposed to making any sort of escape. In the meantime, they’d heard from some of the other passengers about what was going on in the rest of the country. The war was truly over. The main Royalist force, led by Gafgarion and Jerid, had reached Nerinheit about five days ago, and the city had promptly surrendered. The Red Shoulders had abandoned it, meaning there was no leadership due to Glaesal’s death and Paptimus fleeing, and the remaining rebels were convinced to lay down their arms by Dougram and Serapino, who had accompanied the Royalists. Following that, the other counts had surrendered as well; Verelecht had fled to regions unknown, leaving his countship in the hands of his steward, and Vinland, though still in a state of near-anarchy, seemed to be most under the control of one of the deceased Count Vinland’s best knights, who acceded the land to the Royal Army.

 

Though there had been very little destruction wrought on the city by the Royalist forces since they surrendered, the war had still left very obvious tells on the town. Royalist guards were posted everywhere, keeping an eye out for any disgruntled rebels or troublemakers seeking to take advantage of the aftermath of the war. Everything seemed dirtier and more run down; a consequence of the great deprivation the war had brought to Rebel lands. On the trip here, one of the other passengers had mentioned to Braddock (after asking him about his axe) that a loaf of bread cost five hundred gold last week.  Many buildings were vacant and dilapidated—their inhabitants had either been drafted or sent to one of the nearby labor camps. Renault had been hearing very bad things about those—as the Royalist troops moved closer and closer to the seat of the Rebels’ power, they had come across more and more of those sorts of things. Enemies of the Revolution had been sent to work their lives out chopping trees or mining metal ceaselessly, without rest or food, till they dropped dead, where they would be replaced with more “traitors” and “reactionaries.” They had also uncovered secret dungeons hidden away in remote locations, where the blood of women and children stained a vast array of torturer’s implements—all towards turning the young into perfect, fanatical devotees of the Revolutionary cause.

 

Even if he hadn’t found out about the truth behind the Lycian Civil War, those atrocities would have been enough to make Braddock glad that they’d jumped ship when they did. Renault, on the other hand, didn’t care that much; he just went where his friend went. Thus, Braddock was the one who seemed a bit more off-put by all the small pieces of devastation the Rebels had evidently wrought on the city as he walked with Renault, along with the rest of their companions, towards Nerinheit’s old manor. The people they passed seemed disheartened, to an extent, but they didn’t seem as if they wanted to rise up again anytime soon. Instead, everyone looked as if they were _relieved_ more than anything else. Even the die-hard Revolutionaries among them, Braddock surmised, were so tired after all the fighting, loss, and privation they were happy just to see it all end.

 

This was almost certainly enhanced by Jerid and Gafgarion’s leniency. According to that same passenger, the two Generals had strictly forbidden any looting or reprisals against civilians, along with extremely harsh penalties for breaking the command—several Royal soldiers had already been sent to the gallows for stealing and rape. Instead, members of the Royalist army were ordered to assist when they can; indeed, given the ease of taking Nerinheit, Jerid and Gafgarion found they had more supplies than they needed, so the people were being given food and other necessities, easing, though not entirely eliminating, the dire poverty many former Rebels were experiencing. This was enough to turn those former Rebels into cheerful Royalists.

 

Not that Braddock, Renault, and the rest of the Company had much to do with this, of course. With Rosamia keeping a close eye on their prisoner, they concentrated more on getting to Nerinheit’s former manor as quickly as possible, since that was where they’d heard Jerid and Gafgarion were maintaining their command. Since Renault and Braddock had been in this city before, they led the way, and soon enough they found themselves at the former Count’s not-ostentatious-but-still-quite comfortable manse.

 

“Aye, who goes there?” asked one of the guards standing by the entrance, the royal eagle of Aquleia proudly visible on his chestplate.

 

“I am the Mage General!” Khyron brushed past Braddock and Renault to address the guard directly, displaying his royal sigil. “I have come to report the success of my mission to my fellow Generals!”

 

“Y…your mission?” The guard’s eyes widened. “So…so you caught the traitor? The Prime…I mean, Paptimus the Betrayer is dead?!”

 

“Indeed he is,” growled Khyron. “Now, let us pass!”

 

“Y-yes, milord!”

 

Without further ado, the bewildered guards opened the door and let the Autonomous Company in. Within less than five minutes, they had taken the Company to the door of Nerinheit’s meeting room—which was now Jerid’s and Gafgarion’s.

 

They didn’t even bother to knock—Khyron simply barged in and his friends followed him.  The guards closed the door behind them and made themselves scarce, knowing how jealously Jerid and Gafgarion guarded their secrecy. The two Generals were apparently in the midst of a meeting, and when they heard the intrusion they were initially annoyed, but of course, that was washed away in the face of their surprise, and then their delight.

 

“L-Lord Khyron!” gasped Gafgarion, his eyes wide, the unexpected visitors causing even the Knight General to lose his composure and forget his station momentarily. “Y’re alive! A-Amazin’”!

 

“Good Lord, m’lord,” said Jerid, just as surprised and off his feet as Gafgarion, “You mean to tell me you—“

 

“Yes, we’re alive, and yes, we completed our mission!” grumbled Khyron. “Did you expect anything less of us? Such little faith in me!”

 

“W-well, y’ can’t blame us,” replied Gafgarion, managing to catch himself from falling off his chair by gripping the edge of the large table in front of him. “Didn’t even send a letter or anythin’ sayin’ you were okay! Hadn’t the slightest idea of where you were or when y’ were comin’ back! Not to mention y’ were goin’ up against a guy like Paptimus…”

 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” said Khyron dismissively. “Anyways, I’m sure you want proof of our success. Here it is!”

 

Braddock handed the large burlap sack he was carrying on his back to Khyron, who unloaded its grisly contents onto Jerid and Gafgarion’s table—both of them recoiled when they saw it. It was Paptimus’ bloody head—somewhat cold, but (comparatively) well preserved; Khyron had used his Finbulvetr tome to encase it within a block of ice for the trip over to Nerinheit.

 

Nobody said anything for a few moments as the other two Generals stared at the horrible thing for a long while. Meris, who had been brought in under Rosamia’s care, had started to cry—very softly, but audibly—again.

 

For now, though, Jerid and Gafgarion didn’t notice that. “It…it’s over,” Jerid said. “It…It’s really over. The war…everything…it’s all over. Now that Paptimus is dead, the Rebels will never be able to rise up again. The war is finally over.”

 

“Don’t say that too quickly,” said Renault coldly. “Braddock and I are still looking for Trunicht, and we’re not gonna stop till we find him. Besides that, there are the Red Shoulders who escaped to the Western Isles. Seems to me like you’ll be havin’ trouble for a long time to come.”

 

Jerid nodded. “You may be right, Renault. But at least with Paptimus’ death, we won’t be having as much trouble as we would have been.” He gestured to the decapitated head. “Puttin’ this on display will do a whole lot to convince the people that the Rebel cause is well and truly dead.”

 

“Not entirely,” said Khyron. “Meris, step forth.”

 

The woman did so quite obediently, and both Gafgarion and Jerid looked at her uncomprehendingly, having no idea who she was.

 

“This is Meris,” Khyron began. “She is—was—Paptimus’ lover, and is carrying his child. She has been involved with his schemes from the beginning of this war, maybe even before. She was at Scirocco when it was poisoned, and she played a role in concealing Paptimus’ true nature, even up to the very day he killed Glaesal.’

 

“But at the same time…she was the one who sent us the letter which allowed us to find Paptimus. He would have escaped if it were not for her.

 

“In my view? I hate this woman for what she put me and my men through at Scirocco. But at the same time…she is a traitor to the rebel cause. I hate traitors too—but if they are traitors like Braddock and Renault, my hatred of them is tempered by their service to my liege. Her life is not worth much, in my view—so she has redeemed its paltry value by handing her lover to us, in the name of justice. Were it up to me, I would spare her. But I will defer to the decision of my fellow Generals, and of course, the King himself.”

 

“Hmm…” Jerid took all of this in thoughtfully, scratching his chin. He gave Meris a long, probing look—neither condemnatory nor forgiving. “Well, you’re definitely carrying somebody’s child, that’s easy to tell. It’s Paptimus’ though…and you did genuinely love him. Who’s to say you won’t try to spark up another rebellion?”

 

“I…I have nothing to give you but my word,” she replied, “though I obviously understand how little that means to you. Well, it…it doesn’t mean much to me either. I only ask, then, you keep me alive for another few months. Let me give birth to my child…and…and then take my head. Do what you want with me. It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Huh. Guess there ain’t many mothers who _wouldn’t_ say that ‘bout their child,” said Gafgarion, looking at her equally thoughtfully. “That said…if this Meris was still sold on the whole Revolution thing, why’d she even sell out Paptimus in th’ first place? Even more’n that, why didn’t she try to escape? She give you any trouble at all, Khyron?”

 

“No, none.”

 

“Thought so. Not th’ kind o’ actions you’d expect from someone who wasn’t tired of war. What d’ you think, Jerid?”

 

“I’m inclined to agree. I can read people, least as much as a jailer can, and she doesn’t read like a threat to me. Not anymore.” Jerid sighed, looking at her. “She still deserves to be punished, though. You made up for it a little bit by helping to end this war, but it doesn’t excuse what you did to help start it.”

 

She bowed her head. “I…I understand.”

 

“Still…I’m a lawman, even b’fore I’m the Great General. And there’s one big thing about laws in Etruria—you punish the guilty, nobody else. Sons can’t be held for the crimes of their fathers…or their mothers. That child in your belly may be Paptimus’, but does that mean he’ll be as bad as his father was? Some would say so…lotta folk tales about an evil man’s spirit living on in his seed, or whatever. But hell, look at Renault. If a good man like Sergion had a son as different from him, maybe the same’ll hold for Paptimus’ child too.” This elicited nothing more than a dismissive smirk from Renault, but Jerid continued. “I’m not gonna punish your child because of you, Meris. You’ll live…at least if I have any say.”

 

This brought the woman…at least a modicum of relief. Her tears had dried and her crying stopped—she sighed, heavily, and closed her eyes and clasped her hands over her stomach.

 

“Nah. Y’see, I’m gonna exile you.”

 

She looked back at him, along with everyone else in the room. “Exile?”

 

“I don’t read you as a threat, Meris, but I still don’t trust you. Far as I’m concerned, you can head off to another country to bear your child. Your relationship to Paptimus and your status in the Revolutionary peckin’ order makes you too much of a risk. I’ll let you live as long as you promise never to set foot in Etruria again. Or the Western Isles, for that matter. Does that sound better than death?”

 

Meris had stopped crying, and this time she stood up tall, looking Jerid straight in the eye. “It…it does. T…thank you. On behalf of my child, I thank you. And more than that…you do your cause credit. Despite everything that’s happened, Great General, I…I still haven’t let go of Paptimus in my heart. I still believe in…in much of what he taught me. But you…you seem to be a man of both mercy and foresight. If there’s anything that could convince me that I did the right thing, it would be meeting a hundred…n, no, a thousand more men like you.”

 

Jerid whistled. “Damn. Pretty compliment, lass. But remember, the King himself’ll have to accept my decision. I serve him, not the other way around. You’ll be in our custody until we take you to Aquleia and show you to King Galahad personally. For someone like you, not even a Great General’s word alone will be enough to free you.”

 

“Very well. I understand. I can only pr…no, hope that your King is as wise as you.”

 

“Good. Guards!” Jerid called, loud enough for his voice to carry far enough for a pair of soldiers to scurry from the outside hallway to throw the door open, awaiting their next orders. “We have a guest room open, don’t we?”

 

“Yes, m’lord, several.”

 

“Take this pregnant woman and keep her in one of them. Make sure you keep an eye on her as much as possible, but don’t mistreat her.”

 

“Yes, m’lord. Is she a prisoner?”

 

“Sort of. Don’t ask questions. Just do what we tell you. Oh, and after you’ve done with that, bring ‘her’ over here too.”

 

“Yes, m’lord!” Taking Meris firmly but gently, the two soldiers escorted her out of the room, leaving the Autonomous Company alone with the Great and Knight General.

 

Khyron  was about to ask who ‘she’ was before Gafgarion interrupted him. “She ain’t the only person who’ll have t’ pay the King a visit,” he said, smiling. “This Autonomous Company’ll have  t’ be makin’ the journey to Aquleia as well. Along with us two, I guess…we’ve been keepin’ a hold on things here pretty well, but the King’ll have t’ hear from us directly.”

 

“Wait, we have to come along too? For what?” asked Braddock suspiciously.

 

“Well, f’r y’r reward, of course!” Gafgarion laughed happily. “Y’ve done more’n anyone else to win this war for the King. And now that it’s finally over, well, it’s high time you get somethin’ back for all you’ve done.”

 

Quite naturally, this was met with nothing short of unabashed delight from the members of the Company.

 

Well, except for one of them. “Reward? I’ve no need for a reward,” huffed Khyron, displaying a bit of his old self. “Serving the King is a reward all its own!” Then he caught his underlings staring at him. Of course, I suppose _something_ is necessary for those who don’t understand the true worth of loyalty to King Galahad, after all…”

 

A small ripple of relieved laughter rolled through his underlings at this—though, of course, Khyron simply grimaced, not entirely understanding what they’d found so funny.

 

The conversation would quickly take a more somber cast, though. “About that reward,” said Gafgarion quietly, “I have t’ ask…there’s the matter of divvyin’ it up. I thought the King’d have t’ give something f’r eight people. But where’s Roberto?”

 

At this, the mirth fell from everyone’s faces. Renault simply shrugged and looked away, uncaringly, but the rest of looked downwards, and the expression on their faces told Gafgarion all he needed to know.

 

“Aye,” said the Knight General. “He…he’s gone, right?”

 

“Pop,” murmured Apolli, “I…”

 

“He…he fought bravely, Gafgarion,” continued Braddock. “I never would’ve been able to deal the final blow to Paptimus if it wasn’t for him. What happened was—“

 

Gafgarion simply closed his eyes—though no tears dropped from his face—shook his head, and raised a hand. “Y’ don’t need t’ tell me anythin’ more, lad. He fought bravely and honorably, right?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

 

“Then that’s all that matters.” Gafgarion let out another sigh that almost—but not quite—sounded like a sob. “Thought that boy’d been dead for a while, ever since he left Sorveno. I saw him again, with that one eye…still thought he was dead. Just didn’t know it yet. And now, well, I guess I was right. But hell…least…least now, it’s over. He’s at peace…finally. And with Yulia, too…both my chil’ren…both of ‘em…least now they have what I c’d never give’em. Peace…”

 

He sighed again, leaning back in his chair, his eyes still closed. Nobody said anything—not even the Great General. What could they say, after all? Still, that decision was made for them.

 

A loud knock resounded from the door, causing everyone to turn around to look. “Enter!” Jerid called immediately, and the moment the door opened, a harried-looking guard walked in, escorting a very familiar skinny, blue-haired young lady.

“Lord Jerid, you called?” Lisse asked as she stepped in—and then stopped in her tracks when she saw the gathered soldiers looking at her in surprise.

 

Then, a moment later, she let out a loud squeal of joy. “APOLLI! YOU’RE ALRIGHT! I WAS SO WORRIED!!” Bounding forwards as quickly as she could, she leapt into his arms, crying tears of happiness, and he could only smile as he returned her embrace. Around them, Jerid and the rest of the Autonomous Company couldn’t help but break into a smile as well (even Renault), and Gafgarion closed his eyes in relief, glad that his would-be son-in-law had finally managed to find at least a bit of love and happiness this side of the grave.

 

All in all, despite everything they had lost, everything the war had cost them, all of the men and women in that room could take a bit of comfort knowing that it could have been much, much worse.

 

-x-

 

“So I guess this is where we part ways, huh? It’s a pity…it’s like we just met up again, on the same side this time, but now…”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s the life of a mercenary,” replied Dougram. “Don’t tell me you’re not used to it by now, eh?”

 

“Hah! Good point.”

 

Braddock smiled as he said this, and not just because it was a beautiful morning. He and Renault were standing just before the southern gates of Nerinheit City, saying their goodbyes to Dougram. They would be setting out for Aquleia along with the Three Generals this afternoon, but they’d heard that Dougram was setting out earlier. Thus, they wanted a chance to say farewell to him.

 

“You sure you wanna leave like this, though?” asked Renault. “I mean, didn’t Jerid offer you a full pardon—and your men, too—if you stayed to help out with reconstruction? A former Rebel would be a good choice for keeping control of Nerinheit, after all, at least if you really did repudiate their cause…”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing,” replied Dougram thoughtfully. “I know the Rebels failed to stay on the path of true justice. But I’m still no more fond of the Church or the nobility than I was before. Still…I don’t think I’ll be raising my sword against them again. Jerid and Gafgarion seem like good men. If they’re in charge of things…I get the feeling that this country might finally get the changes it needs. And without violence, this time.”

 

“Well, isn’t that even more of a reason to stay and try to help?” Braddock asked.

 

Dougram chuckled. “Maybe. But it’s not my place. Remember, I’m just a mercenary. A single man…I never really liked being in charge of a bunch of people. I never liked it too much as a Rebel, and I’m not gonna go back to it now. Jerid promised to give my men a full pardon, and that’s all I asked. A few of them are as impressed with him as I am, and I think one of them might be in charge of Nerinheit and the other Rebel regions for a while. I’m just gonna go back to my wandering. Jerid told me that nobody would come after me as long as he was in charge, but I still don’t want to take any chances. I’m leaving this country first chance I get. I have to continue my search, after all.”

 

“Your search?”

 

“Yeah.” Dougram’s face hardened. “Remember what I told you when we first met? I’m looking for Nergal, the man who killed my mother.”

 

“Oh, yeah…yeah, I remember. Guess you haven’t had any luck finding him? Kind of surprising…he was a dark magician, right? I thought he’d have something to do with this big “Revolution,” given all the dark spells and artifacts they kept using.”

 

“Indeed. It doesn’t seem to be the case, though. I have heard of some rumors, though. There are reports of strange disappearances in a remote region of Bern…a traveler told me that some people think a cave near the edge of a mountain range, close to the coast, is haunted. There’s a famous exorcist who lives in the area, but he hasn’t been able to find anything.”

 

Renault raised an eyebrow. “And you think that might have something to do with Nergal?”

 

Dougram shrugged. “It’s a lead, so it’s better than anything. Anyways, I take it you won’t be accompanying me?”

 

Now it was Renault’s turn for his face to harden. “No. We’re looking for Trunicht, and we’re not gonna stop till we get him. You have any idea where he might be?”

 

“Sorry, brother. He disappeared after releasing Tassar in the Berserker Armor. I have no idea where he went.”

 

“Damn! Figures,” grunted Renault.

 

Before his friend could say anything unpleasant, Braddock quickly jumped in. “Still, thanks anyways, man. Stay well, alright?”

 

Dougram nodded. “You too.”

 

Just before they parted, however, the three men were interrupted by one more visitor.

 

“Dougram! Dooooouuuuuggrrrraaaaammm!!!!”

 

They all turned away from the gate to see a familiar young man in a brown cassock rushing up to them. Renault noted with some interest that years ago, Serapino would have been at least somewhat winded by the exertion. Then again, several years ago he had also been a bit chubbier, but the war had taken a toll on his body. It certainly wasn’t obvious from the way he cheerfully bounded up to them, though.

 

“Oh! And Renault, too!” he said, smiling widely. “Y…you’re not leaving too, are you?”

 

“Yeah, we are,” replied Renault, trying and succeeding (to an extent) to conceal his annoyance. “We’re heading to Aquleia to get our reward. After that, we’re hunting Trunicht. That reminds me…you know where he is?”

 

Serapino shook his head. “He…he was an evil man. I tried to stay away from him as much as possible.”

 

“No surprise. Well, I guess that’s it, then. We’re taking a boat to Aquleia and we have to meet up with our friends before it leaves. See you around.”

 

“W-wait,” said Serapino, “leaving so soon? Renault, don’t you want to stay with me for a while?” His face grew grave. “Especially since…Renault, your mother. I heard, Lady Monica…I…”

 

 

“Stop it, Serapino. Don’t say anything more.”  Renault’s voice was a bit cold. Braddock looked at him somewhat reproachingly, but the Ostian realized that this had to be said. “Serapino…look. I’m just gonna tell this to you now, so remember it. I’ve dealt with my mother’s death—Tassar’s gone, and the Rebels that killed her are gone too. But here’s the thing. I left her behind a long time ago…and I left _you_ behind, too. I’m not the same man I was when I was a teenager, or even when I was Henken’s apprentice. We live in different worlds now. Me and Braddock in one…and you in another. That…that’s all I’m gonna say.”

 

Renault sighed. “But Serapino…I gotta admit. I may never have thought much of you, yet…even so, you’re a good kid. In a world with guys like Trunicht in it, that’s not an empty compliment. We’ve taken different paths in life, and after this, they won’t cross again. But…hell, you were always looking out for me, even…even after I lost my faith. So thanks for that. And thanks for everything else, too.” The Mercenary Lord turned and started walking towards the city’s docks. “Now, Dougram’s your friend too, right? He’s gonna be leaving as well. We’ll leave you to tell ‘im your goodbyes personally. Come on, Braddock. Let’s go.”

 

The Ostian gave Serapino one last smile and a “stay well!” before jogging off to follow his friend. Those were the last words either would ever give to Serapino.

 

-x-

 

“S…So it’s true, Dougram? You’re leaving?”

 

“Yeah. I was just telling those two my reasons. I’m just a mercenary, always been one…don’t want to be a leader, and I don’t want to spend any more time in this country than I have to. I’m also still looking for—“

 

“Nergal, I know. You’ve told me of him before. But he sounds like a powerful—and evil—sorcerer! Are you planning to face him alone?”

 

“Well, Ath—I mean, my village’s elder hurt him pretty badly. I think I’m skilled enough to deal with him. But…enough about me. Serapino, what are you planning to do now? Continuing your path as a mendicant?”

 

“W…well…what Renault said was right,” said Serapino sadly. “He…we’re not friends like we used to be anymore. And now that his mother’s gone…”

 

“Lady Monica,” said Dougram. “Yeah, you were the one who told me about her. Damn shame about her death…”

 

“Y-yes. But she was the person who looked over me in Thagaste. Now that she’s gone, and Renault, too…it feels like…like…there’s not much of a place for me in that city anymore. So…so I think I may continue my journey. I’ve seen a lot of Etruria at your side. But there’s more out there, isn’t there?” He gave the Nabatan a look, and Dougram was both surprised and a bit dismayed at what he correctly surmised was coming. “H…how about it? Are you sure you want to face Nergal alone, Dougram? How about taking me along?”

 

The Nabatan had to laugh. “Serapino…I never thought I’d say this, but I’m flattered. You really are a good friend to me. To be honest, at first I agreed with Renault’s low assessment of you. But he’s right—you do have a good heart, and you really proved that every day of our journey together. I won’t lie. I’m gonna miss you more than anybody else.

 

“But…look. This is a journey I have to take myself. Besides, you don’t know Nergal like I do. You’ve seen a lot of scary things in your time as my staff officer, and this has been a hard war, no doubt about it. But the things Nergal can do…you’re just not up to it. I don’t want you to risk your life, Serapino. I’m sorry, but…”

 

“Oh…oh, okay. Please, don’t worry about it, Sir Dougram! I understand, completely understand! And I’ll follow your wishes!”

 

Dougram rolled his eyes. “Still with the ‘sir…’ well, one last time, for old time’s sake, I guess. But anyways, look, don’t take this so hard. I mean, if you’re still on your ‘pilgrimage,’ I’d be a terrible companion. Remember, I still don’t like Eliminism any more than when we first met.”

 

“Really? After everything we’ve seen, Dougram? Trunicht and…”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Look, we agreed not to talk about religion so much while you served under me, and I don’t see a reason we should start now. But I’m just saying, Serapino, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I think I have more respect for your faith, now. After seeing what people like Trunicht were capable of, I don’t think I can say us non-believers have any reason to think too highly of ourselves. But there’s still too much Elimine got wrong for me to buy into her faith. Didn’t she say that “Dragons must never return to Elibe?” For that alone…even beyond everything else…I’ll never be an Eliminean.”

 

“R…Really?” Serapino was more than a bit puzzled at this. “That…while I, um, won’t force anything on you…L-Lady Monica wouldn’t approve, and I’m not good at that sort of thing anyway…it…it’s the story of the Dragons that gets to you? But almost every religion on Elibe tells stories of The Scouring…the Sacaens, the Ilian pagans, they all fear the dragons as well.”

 

“Yeah, and I don’t believe any of those religions, either. It’s ignorance, Serapino, no more. Dragons…real dragons…they’re nothing to be afraid of. The Scouring…ugh. I don’t have time for this. Look, all I’ll say is that you’ve only heard one side of that story. The Elimineans and the Sacaen elders and the Ilians may say one thing, but that’s not all. Just…you won’t believe me, but…just consider that maybe dragons aren’t as bad as you’ve heard.”

 

“W…well…I don’t really understand, but…but I’ll keep in mind what you said, sir—I mean, Dougram. Gee, it sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience or something!”

 

“Yeah, my father is a dr—“ Dougram quickly shut his mouth, realizing what he was saying. “W-wait, never mind. I was just, uh…was just thinking of something else. My father’s , um…just a regular guy from Nabata, and my village is just a regular village, too. We just…have stories, is all. Just don’t think of Dragons like the rest of Elibe does.”

 

“Um…oh, I see,” said Serapino. He didn’t look very convinced, though.

 

“Anyways, it’s not as if this war vindicates your religion either,” said Dougram, changing the subject. “I mean, you want to look at Trunicht and tell me unbelievers are evil? Okay, but does that make believers good? Look at you, Serapino. Are you a good guy? Yeah, I’d say so. But why are you good? Just because you’re afraid of God punishing you if you aren’t? I don’t think that’s true goodness. It’s just fear, isn’t it?”

 

“W…well…yes, yes, that is true,” said Serapino, and this time, he didn’t seem unsure of himself. “B…but that’s not why I live the life I do.”

 

“Yeah? So doesn’t that mean you’re good despite your religion, not because of it? Not the most ringing endorsement of your faith.”

 

“No, that’s not right either, Dougram. I wouldn’t be who I am today without the teachings of the Saint. But it’s not because I’m afraid of God, Dougram! It’s because I love Him!”

 

“Huh?” This was something the Nabatan had never heard before, and something he never expected to hear, either.

 

Serapino laughed, holding out his arms and spinning around. The expression on his face was so happy, so content and at peace, that for one moment, Dougram thought it might have been genuinely worthy of the name “beatific.”

 

“See, Dougram,” Serapino said as he twirled around, “Look at everything God has given me! The birds with their wonderful singing, the pretty blue sky above us, and the lovely green grass below us. The cool air we breath, and the sun that lets us see. He’s finally given us peace, too! Sure, it took a long time, and many people died…but many lived as well! You and I are still alive, aren’t we? And God gave me a friend like you. And besides that, I feel Him in my heart, and I know He walks besides me as well. God loves me, and I want to do my best to love Him back.

 

“So how can I return God’s love? It’s not as if I can give Him flowers, as a husband does to the wife he loves, or carry Him on my back, as a father does for the children he loves. No, I can show my love for God by following His teachings, as given by the Saint. What does that mean? It means I must be honest, kind, and merciful, as the Saint told me. It means I must be a cheerful, loyal friend to all I meet…be true in my word, true in my heart, and to try my best to help the people around me. E…even if I’m not the strongest, or the smartest…even if I don’t have that much ability..if I can do that…that’s all God asks of me. It’s not because I’m afraid of Him…not because I fear His punishment or desire His rewards. It’s all because I love Him.”

 

Serapino fell silent and stopped twirling, breathing heavily after delivering such a monologue. Dougram seemed similarly taken aback, and neither of them said anything to the other for some time.

 

“Serapino, I’ve been travelling across Elibe for years now,” Dougram finally said. “Met a lot of people, a lot of believers, too. But you’re the first one who’s ever said anything like that to me.”

 

“U…um…really?” Serapino blushed. “I…um…wow, I didn’t think…”

 

Dougram laughed again. “Look, don’t think you’ve converted me or anything. I’ve still got too many problems with your Church to become a part of it. But you know what? I don’t believe in your God, Serapino. But I do believe in you.”

 

Serapino smiled and looked his friend right in the eye. “And you, Dougram…even despite the war, everything that happened…if…if I was able to meet you, I’m happy. If there is a God or not…if you or I are right…it…it doesn’t matter. You’re a good person, Dougram! And no matter what you believe, or don’t believe, th..the world needs more people like you. So wherever you go…please, stay well! And please…please…let’s meet again!”

 

Dougram nodded. “That, my friend, is a promise I most definitely want to keep.”

 

He offered one last wave to his friend—and Serapino returned it, raising his hand and waving frantically, tears wetting his eyes. Dougram didn’t see them, though—he’d already turned and passed through Nerinheit’s gates, heading south on his quest. Serapino stood there, waving until his arm got tired, and stood for some time after, indeed, even after Dougram had already disappeared into the distance.

 

He was crying now—not just because he was parting ways with someone who was now a dear friend, despite their differing beliefs—but because he knew, somehow, that Dougram wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.

 

-x-x-x-

 

**_Serapino, Beloved Son of Thagaste:_ **

_This traveling mendicant would continue his journey all across Elibe, both to spread the word of God and to help those in need. He become well-loved all over Etruria for both his skill with a staff, curing the sick and wounded in the aftermath of the First Civil War, as well as his endlessly cheerful demeanor and bright smile. The people of Lycia, Bern, and towards the end of his life, even Sacae and Ilia would love him for the same reasons—even if they had to put up with his ability to get lost anytime, anywhere, even if he had a map. So tirelessly did he work that years after his death he would be canonized as an “Elder of the Church.” Despite his devotion to Eliminism, though, he would go down in history as a staunch advocate for toleration and freedom of thought. Serapino would perpetually point to the noble Dougram as proof that one could find wisdom and virtue in non-believers. Yet for all he talked of his friend, and despite the fact that he searched for Dougram in his pilgrimage to Bern, he would lie on his deathbed saying, “I wish I could see Dougram one last time.” That wish would go unfulfilled._

**_Dougram, the Fang of the Sun:_ **

****

_A warrior with an unquenchable thirst for justice, Dougram had served the Revolutionary cause to the best of his ability, but abandoned it when he realized it had never adhered to his strict code of morality. In the aftermath of the war, he parted ways with his friend Serapino and headed to Bern. History books mention his role in the First Etrurian Civil War, but after that, he disappears from their pages. He was last seen in a port town on Bern’s eastern coast, apparently making preparations for a trek into the mountains there, which were supposedly haunted by some evil force. After this, he was never seen again._

 

 

-X-X-X-X- _Before the King_ -­X-X-X-X-

 

Aquleia had changed quite a bit since Renault had last seen it…though this time, in very much a good way.

 

It seemed as if all the damage it had endured from the war—the chaos wreaked by the Rebel invasion and the fortifications Henken had built to repel it—had been repaired completely. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, he would have been surprised to hear that a battle had been fought here at all. The corpses had been removed from the streets, of course, but the walls had also been rebuilt, the buildings repaired, and the ballistas and other weapons on strategically-placed rooftops removed as well. The red-shingled buildings were as lovely and clean and ever, the churches and cathedrals as grand and splendorous as ever, and the water of the many canals threading through the city as pure and beautiful as ever.

 

That would have been impressive enough, but what was truly striking was all the celebration.

 

It seemed that every inch of the city was geared towards revelry, and every single citizen was enjoying it. Banners and flags emblazoned with the royal emblem were hanging all over the place, and vendors lined the streets, selling cakes, festive clothing, and all other manner of wares to the throngs of people seemingly filling every bit of space they could find. Troubadours and bards played songs of happiness and celebration, families danced together in the many plazas, and the canals were filled with boats carrying young children and romantic couples from place to place, all of them basking in the sheer ebullience that hung in the air like the beneficent presence of some mirthful God.

 

They were celebrating the end of the war, Renault realized, every last one of them. Though the war had technically ended some time ago—Paptimus had died on the early morning of the 14th Sage, it had taken them ten days to return to Nerinheit, and then nearly three weeks to take a ship from that city to Aquleia (Renault would be celebrating his 26th birthday in a few days)—word that Paptimus’ head was now sitting on a pike outside of Nerinheit’s former manor had probably not reached them until fairly recently. And even if they had known for some time, given how much pain the war had caused, more than a few days of celebration were definitely called for.

 

As much as the Company might have liked to participate, though, they knew it would be a bad idea. Despite their crucial role in the war—despite everything they had done for Etruria—all of them knew the general populace still distrusted them, or was at least ambivalent towards them. The people still couldn’t decide if they were the heroes of Caerleon or the murderers of Solgrenne, and the suspicious nature of their last fight in Lordsport would very likely only add to rumors floating around about them.  Not to mention the fact that they were escorting an _extremely_ “suspicious” person—Meris was still very much under Rosamia’s care. Thus, they had all silently agreed to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible (all of them were clad in the same concealing traveler’s robes they’d used to gain ingress to Lordsport) and do nothing else but head straight to the Holy Royal Palace to meet King Galahad.

 

Jerid, the Great General, and Gafgarion, the Knight General, led the way, but even clad in their regal armor as they were, they had not yet spent enough time in their positions to be immediately recognized by the populace—most thought they were just another pair of high-ranking Royalist knights escorting some travelers to join the fun going on around the Holy Royal Palace. All the members of the Autonomous Company were immensely grateful for this. It allowed them to pass through the city, across the wondrous Holy Royal Road, and to the back gate of the Palace itself. The guards there were savvy enough to recognize their Generals, but also smart enough to follow their orders to the letter.

 

“Take us to the King,” said Khyron. “We’ve several matters to discuss with him, urgent ones, too. Take us to his throne!”

 

“Er, um, yes, Lord Khyron,” said one of the guards, “But, er, he’s not there…”

 

“What? Where is he?”

 

“In his personal chambers, great Mage General. Ever since he received word that L—I mean, the traitor Nerinheit died, he’s been spending all day and all night in there, with his mis—I mean, Her Grac—I mean, uh, Lady Malonda!” The man had the good grace to blush at this. “I-I can bring you there if you want, b-but I’m not sure His Majesty will like being disturbed…”

 

“It’ll be fine,” said Jerid calmly. “I think both he and Malonda could stand to be…uh…’interrupted’ just a little bit for something like this.”

 

“Y…yes, m’lord!”

 

Without further ado, the guard opened the back gates and led them through the castle. It was a route Braddock remembered—after a few minutes, they found themselves on the fifth floor, in front of the same room where he’d managed to rescue King Galahad just a few months ago, during the siege. The Ostian recalled the carnage he had seen (and caused) within the castle walls that bloody day. It seemed to have disappeared completely.

 

And he could only surmise that it had disappeared from Galahad’s memory, as well.

 

His suspicions would be proved correct momentarily. “Your Majesty, Most Glorious King of the greatest country on Elibe, Etruria! I bring to you guests!” the guard declared. He cleared his throat, belted out that declaration again, and knocked on the door. No response came.

 

“Just open it,” said Jerid.

 

“B…but…”

 

“Never mind.” Jerid walked up to the door, gently pushing the guard out of the way, and knocked again. No answer this time, either, though Renault thought he could hear a woman’s giggling from the other side. Finally, Jerid grew impatient and just opened the door and barged right in.

 

The King and his erstwhile companion, as expected, were lying on the bed cuddling together, though once again Braddock had gotten lucky—neither of them were naked. It seemed as if they were in the process of taking off their clothes, though, which meant they’d arrived just in the nick of time.

 

“W-what is this?!” yelled Galahad, immediately breaking his embrace with Malonda and straightening up his clothes. “Guards! GUARDS! I SPECIFICALLY SAID NO INTERRUPTIONS! GET THESE INTERLOPERS OUT OF HERE!”

 

“M’lord,” said Gafgarion, “We’re…not…”interlopers.” We gotta talk to you ‘bout a few things…”

 

“Who are you?!” Malonda snarled. “We don’t even recognize you!”

 

“L-Lord Galahad! My lady!” Khyron immediately barged in front of the two Generals and bowed before his King. “It is I, Mage General Khyron! Please, hear us!”

 

“Khyron? Oh, yes, it’s been so long. Wonderful work, my boy! I’ve heard all about your exploits! My God, you really showed those Rebel fools what-for! I’ve heard all about your defense of Caerleon, and even how you slaughtered that worthless traitor Paptimus!” Galahad’s bad mood seemed to have disappeared the moment his thoughts turned to what he loved so much—big, exciting battles. Malonda wore a distinctly displeased expression on her face—Galahad had begun to show more pacifistic tendencies earlier, but now that the war had been won, it seemed as if he was back to his old war-loving self. “Good, good, good! So what brings you here today? Come to tell me more of the battles you’ve fought in? Ah, perfect! I must ask, though, who are these people you’ve brought along with you? They’ve stories of bravery and valor to tell of their own, I hope?”

 

“Y-yes, my liege, they most certainly do! That is Jerid, the Great General, and Gafgarion, the Knight General. You…you remember them, don’t you?”

 

“Hm? Ah…I heard something about Henken dying—very distressing, that—and something about his replacements.”

 

“Those are the men, my liege.”

 

“Very good, very good. What of these others?”

 

“The Autonomous Company, my lord. They have fought beside me and helped me—helped us—crush the Rebel vermin. It is on their behalf I speak to you today.”

 

“Wonderful, wonderful! I’ve heard tales of all of you! Some are quite nasty, but I pay them no heed, of course.”

 

“I think he should,” huffed Malonda. “One can’t expect too much from _barbarians,_ after all!”

 

“I _still_ can’t believe we went through all that trouble to save these people,” whispered Braddock beneath his breath, and though Renault chuckled next to him, the expressions on the faces of the rest of the Autonomous Company; indeed, even Jerid and Gafgarion themselves (though Khyron was still as stoically loyal as ever) indicated they shared that sentiment. Not that Malonda or Galahad noticed at all, of course. They simply continued their prattle until Khyron finally interrupted them.

 

“My most gracious liege…i…if I may, I have matters of some import to discuss?”

 

Galahad rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Just be quick with it, will you? Malonda and I still have some ‘celebrating’ to do, after all.” He shot her a lascivious grin that turned the stomachs of all who saw it.

 

“U…um…yes. First, there’s the matter of Paptimus’ lover. Bring her forwards!”

 

Rosamia obediently did so, guiding Meris so that she stood in front of Galahad’s bed, staring at the monarch with undisguised contempt.

 

“Feisty little thing you have there, Khyron! Who’s she?”

 

“That’s Meris, m’lord,” said Jerid. “She…she was Paptimus’ lover.”

 

“His _lover?!”_ Malonda shrieked. “Why would you bring such a _filthy_ creature in here! Off with her head! Do it _now!_ ”

 

“N-not so fast, milady,” said Gafgarion hastily. “First off, she’s pregnant, as y’ can see. Secondly, she was absolutely _crucial_ in helping us find Paptimus. She sent Braddock a letter detailing the turncoat’s escape plans. If she hadn’t, we never would’ve found him. So…”

 

“So what? She’s still a filthy little harlot!”

 

“W-well,” said Jerid, “Don’t…uh…I mean…she deserves a _little_ leniency for everything she’s done for us, wouldn’t you say? I’m just a jailer, but I know that not every criminal’s deserving of death. ‘Least when I ran things back in Thagaste, we only reserved the gallows for the most inveterate of the lawbreakers. If somebody really wants to change…and I think Meris does…shouldn’t we give her chance?”

 

“Whatever.” Galahad rolled his eyes. “You’re a…what are you, again? Grand General? Ultimate General?”

 

“Great General, sire.”

 

“Yes, yes, very good. I leave it up to your discretion, then. Kill her if you want, but I do agree that it’s somewhat barbaric to do so. And she’s pregnant as well.” Galahad’s eyes seemed to soften for a moment, and for the first time his guests saw something there that made him seem…if not kingly, at least somewhat respectable. “I…I do so want children. I don’t want to stop one from coming into the world.”

 

Malonda laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, Galahad…”

 

“Uh…well, if that’s the case,” said Jerid, “then here’s my verdict.

 

“Meris, you’ve committed, or at least been a party to, some of the greatest crimes this country has seen in a century. But you’ve done your part to correct those crimes, too. So I don’t think you deserve death. But you do deserve punishment. So here’s what I’m telling you. We’ll let you live…but we won’t let you stay in this country. Not again, not ever. You’ll be escorted to the border with Lycia. Any resistance on your part will mean your death, _immediately_. Now, if you don’t give us any trouble, we’ll let you go there, under one condition:

 

“You may never, _ever_ set foot in Etruria again. Not your children, either, or your children’s children, or _their_ children. If you do, your life is forfeit. If anyone ever sees your face in this country after today, we’ll put a price on your head. You can live, and bear your children freely, and without any trouble from the King and his servants—though obviously, we won’t be able to do a thing ‘bout any former Revolutionaries, bounty hunters, or other assorted riffraff who have a grudge against you—but you’ll only have peace from us as long as you stay outside our country. Stay in Lycia, or go to Sacae, or Ilia, or Bern, or even Nabata—it doesn’t matter to us. All that counts is that you keep the _hell_ away from Etruria, and the Western Isles, too. You okay with that?”

 

The redhead gave one more disdainful look at King Galahad. “Yes, Jerid. I’m more than ‘okay’ with that. I want nothing else.”

 

“Solves a lotta problems, then. GUARDS!” the Great General called, and two spearmen in fine silver armor immediately came to attend him. “Take the redheaded girl to an inn and requisition a wagon—I’ll pay for it. You’re to take her to Lycia and ensure she doesn’t come back. Don’t mistreat her—if I hear you have, I’ll give you something worse than exile, a _lot_ worse.  But keep an eye on her. If she tries to escape, or return to the country after you’ve deposited her in Lycia, you have my permission to end her life. If not, though…”

 

“We understand your intent, my lord,” they replied, and marched up and took her by the arms. It was very much something she’d grown very used to by this point. “You heard him, lass. Give us no trouble and you’ll not be harmed.”

 

“Of course,” she muttered. As they led her out of the room she cast one last glance behind her, and her eyes caught Braddock’s for a moment. There was something between them—a flash of hatred, as Braddock couldn’t forget her allegiance to the man who’d killed his wife—but then a flash of sympathy, as he’d remembered that she was the one who helped him take that revenge.

 

But it lasted no longer than a moment. She disappeared as the guards closed the door behind them, and disappeared completely from his life and the minds of the Autonomous Company.

 

-x-x-x-

 

**_Meris, Mother of Shadows:_ **

****

_The First Etrurian Civil War had taken a most heavy toll on her. She had lost the love of her life—not merely lost him, but betrayed him of her own free will. The guilt she felt over his death would never leave her, and it would be compounded by the guilt she felt at having been party to his horrible schemes for all these years. Yet, against all odds, she survived. She reached Lycia without incident, and there, ironically enough, found succor at a small convent—a shelter for female runaways—in the great canton of Ostia. There she bore a healthy baby boy. Yet the stench of darkness hung thick about both mother and child, and it would not be long afterwards that she fled the convent, realizing that the nuns there would not tolerate one who had sunk as deeply into the dark arts as she._

_Meris and her son traveled across Lycia. She managed to live by taking on odd jobs wherever she went—the skills of a sorceror, which Paptimus had taught her, served her well in many capacities, particularly as an herbalist, scholar’s assistant, and assessor of magical artifacts. Yet wherever she went, she did not remain long—sooner or later, the people’s latent distrust of Dark magicians came out. This was compounded by the fact that her son had inherited his father’s purple hair *and* his precocious skill with Elder magic. Realizing that they would never find peace in a country like Lycia, where the elder arts were viewed with fear and disgust, even though Eliminism did not have a strong hold on the land, Meris took herself and her son to Ilia. There she would spend the rest of her days, and there her son would grow up. Users of the dark arts were not loved there, but they were tolerated, and occasionally even respected._

_Meris became one of those—she continued her studies, and became a sorceress of some renown. She lived on the outskirts of a small town at the foot of a great mountain, and would eventually become known as its guardian. Her Dark magic could single-handedly annihilate entire bands of thieves and raiders, and her willingness to use her skill with staves and her knowledge of plants and other miscellany made her a beloved elder of the little village. When her son grew of age, she passed that mantle on to him, which he accepted with gusto. He would marry a girl from the village and give Meris grandchildren—a boy and a girl, both of whom shared her features but their grandfather’s hair…along with his dark power. She died peacefully, surrounded by the people who loved her. Her son would grow old, too, and join his mother, leaving the village in the care of his own children. The village on the foot of the mountain would become known for its purple-haired protectors for over two hundred years…until one fateful day, nearly 950 years after the Scouring, a woman named Niime—sought after by every man in the village for being an incredible purple-haired beauty as well as an inheritor of great magical power—abruptly abjured her heritage. No-one knew why, except for the fact that on the same day, a youth named Yodel left the town and did not set foot in Ilia again for many years._

_Niime would hear no questions about her decision, simply saying that the village no longer needed a protector. She sequestered herself on the mountain overlooking the village, and became known as the Hermit on the Mountain. There, she would spend years in solitude, punctuated only by the invitation of a traveler—a wandering Druid—into her bed, a joining which resulted in perhaps the last inheritor of Paptimus’ power, a Shaman named Canas. This man didn’t take up the mantle of defender of his hometown, either—he married a travelling Lycian, a Sage, and then went on a journey as well. His son, Hugh, had both Paptimus’ ability and his face, yet that ability took after the Anima magic of his mother, not the elder power of his distant ancestor. Of course, it goes without saying that none of the Dark General’s descendants shared his ruthlessness…especially not Hugh, who would fight bravely in what would be called the Great Movement of Bern, and would never be able to keep himself from maintaining a friendship with a green-haired thief of Dark magic tomes named Ray…_

-x-x-x-

 

“Ah, what a relief! _So_ glad that’s finally done with,” sighed Galahad contentedly. “Anyways, is that all?”

 

“No, my lord,” said Khyron, walking up to the King’s bed and bowing before it once again. “There is one more thing we have to discuss.”

 

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense! Get on with it!”

 

Khyron stood up and straightened his shoulders. “Well, my liege, it is the matter of compensation. While I am sure I need not restate the issues involved in paying all the soldiers in the New Etrurian Army, the members of the Autonomous Company, along with our newly appointed Great General and Knight General, deserve special consideration. Without the efforts of all of these men and women, Your Majesty, the war would have been lost and evil would have been triumphed. While all of our brave soldiers have contributed to the victory we enjoy today, these…no. My brothers and sisters gathered here today deserve special consideration.”

 

“Is that so?” Galahad rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm…well, I’ve been having ever so much fun for the last few days, especially after hearing about Nerinheit’s death, that wretch! I’m in a very generous mood. So, yes, Khyron, I’ll hear your requests. I’ll begin with what you want, my Three Loyal Generals! Ask me anything, and it shall be given. Now is a time for celebration!”

 

Khyron just stood there for a few moments, until Galahad asked him again, pointedly, “Well? Don’t test my patience!”

 

“M…me, my liege?”

 

“Yes! I’ll get to the rest of your men later, but for now, tell me _your_ desires!”

 

“Uh…yes, my lord!” The Mage General quickly bowed again. “My liege, I ask for nothing more than the opportunity to continue to serve you. I will accept whichever rewards or peerage you deem fit to bestow upon me, but for now, the knowledge I have served my country is enough. Please allow me to remain the Mage General, and I shall want for nothing else!”

 

“Very good, very good,” he said absent-mindedly. “I think I’ll make you a Duke, that should be enough. Anyways, Jerid, how about you?”

 

“Honestly, my liege, I think I want the same thing as Khyron.” The Great General stepped forwards. “I’ll be honest, a part of me wants to go back to being just an ordinary jailer in Thagaste. But Lady Monica’s not there anymore, and…and…the city’s too different, anyways. No longer a place for me. I think I can do more work for it—and the rest of Etruria—as the Great General. So the only thing I really want…just let me keep my position. I’ll do my best to do what I can for Etruria, and that’s all I can really ask for. Um…except maybe for one more thing. I, uh…” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “If I were to…hypothetically, of course…get married sometime soon, d’you think you cover the cost of the weddin’?”

 

“Yes, yes, of course. Nothing but the best for my faithful retainers! Now, how about you, Gafgarion?”

 

The older remained quiet, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Uh…I’m sorry, my liege. R-really. C…c’d ya give me just a bit more time t’ think? Just a lil’ bit?”

 

“Fine, fine. But you’d better have an answer within a few minutes!” Finally, Galahad turned to the men and women behind the Generals. “Now, let’s see what you people want…”

 

-x-x-x-

 

_The First Etrurian Civil War, which ended in 703 A.S, was one of the largest, most destructive conflicts in the history of Elibe. At the time, it was roughly comparable to Bern’s ill-fated invasion of Sacae, and it would not be until 1000 A.S that another conflict would eclipse it completely—the Great Movement of Bern, which devastated not a single country but the entire continent, including Etruria, since it involved the Second Civil War of that country. Still, people living in the eighth century could not see the events of their future, and to them, Paptimus’ war—though it had lasted less than a year—seemed like the bloodiest time since the Scouring. Nearly four percent of Etruria’s population had been killed in the war—and this was most pronounced in the regions north of Thagaste, some of which lost up to a third of their people, both from the war and Paptimus’ purges. Solgrenne remained a ghost town for hundreds of years—even during the Great Movement of Bern, forces from both sides avoided it due to a belief that it was cursed. The nobility was even more strongly gutted. As a result of the routs at the Lurkmire as well as the First Battle of the Fortress of Spears, along with their subsequent losses, it is estimated that anywhere from thirty to forty percent of Etruria’s aristocracy died in the war._

_Yet even such terrible destruction can bring beautiful fruits. The first benefit of the great war was the upheaval it provoked in Etruria’s political and military structure. Before the Civil War, Etruria had relied almost entirely on its Mage Corps. Though these sorcerers were the most highly-trained and effective on the continent, as their utter failure against the Red Shoulders proved, relying so heavily on a single form of combat was not at all effective against a more flexible enemy. By the time the Civil War had ended, the Etrurian army had been reformed into a diverse fighting force which incorporated armored troopers, cavalry, and archers alongside its powerful mages. This would cement that country’s status as a great military power and ensure that nothing besides the pure might of Bern could even think of competing with it._

_This was matched by a change in its politics. Before the war, the Prime Minister’s power was second only to the King’s. As the betrayal of Paptimus proved, it was very dangerous to give that much power to one man. Thus, following his rebellion, the offices of Great General and Knight General were formed alongside the Mage General. Though initially these offices were intended simply to ease the military’s transition from a purely magical force to a combined-arms one, it quickly became apparent that they had great political use as well. It soon became custom that below the king, power would be divided in Etruria. The office of Prime Minister was removed, replaced by a council of Advisors, the highest ranked of which would have influence almost as great as the former Prime Minister’s. This position would be given to Visclad Bramsel, a man known for his economic savvy as much as his sexual perversity and obesity. However, the Three Generals—the Knight General, the Great General, and the Mage General—were given collective standing and influence that matched his, and together the three of them could veto the Advisor’s decisions. Of course, even this system had its limits. The Royal Court and the noble families of Etruria possessed a collective power that eclipsed everyone else’s, even the King’s. As the Second Etrurian Civil War would prove, not even the Great Generals could stop an Advisor’s schemes if he had the support of other influential nobles._

_Still, for now, perhaps the best side-effect of the terrible war was the injection of new blood into the nobility. Since the aristocracy had lost at least thirty and possibly forty percent of their numbers, there was a vacuum in its ranks waiting to be filled. The many heroes the war had produced were just the men and women to fill it. Merchant’s sons and farmer’s daughters were drafted into the Etrurian military and given swords and spellbooks with which to fight. The best Myrmidons, the most dauntless Knights, and the most skillful Cavaliers found themselves becoming Swordmasters, Generals, and Paladins. And when they achieved victory, these brave men and women found themselves becoming barons and even Counts as a reward for their contributions. This gave Etruria’s ruling class the vitality it so desperately needed. For centuries, the nobles had grown increasingly distant from the people, increasingly callous in their treatment of the commoners, and increasingly incompetent in their rule. The “new nobility” changed all that. People who were once humble traders, militiamen, or laborers were not quick to forget their lowly origins, and they were far more sympathetic to the plight of the lower classes than the old aristocracy they largely replaced. Though things did not go perfectly—many of these new nobles were complete novices to the art of governance, after all—and they faced much resistance from the old nobles who had survived, the “new aristocracy” attempted to turn Etruria towards a more egalitarian path, and they largely succeeded. Galahad left the Generals and the Advisors in charge of running the country, for the most part, and as a result the Court, filled with the “new aristocracy” as it was, pushed through a series of laws and reforms which, over time, balanced the budget while easing the tax burden on the lower classes and simultaneously increasing the military’s strength. The people also found themselves with greatly increased personal freedoms, such as stronger guarantees of freedom of speech and gathering, which would not be abrogated until the Second Civil War._

_All in all, this terrible conflict set the stage for an economic rebirth—a Renaissance—which would echo through not only Etruria but all of Elibe. It proved that Dougram and Braddock were right—that reform could be achieved without destroying everything. Etruria, which had seen nearly a twentieth of its population die in this war, saw the populace double in number after fifty years, then double again one hundred years after that. As a result of the subsequent war in the Western Isles, the trade reforms pushed through Court would spark economic development all over Elibe, most notably Lycia. Along with help from many kindhearted Etrurians, that country rapidly recovered from the civil war Paptimus had caused and then began a great deal of growth. Even Bern, long Etruria’s primary rival, enjoyed a gradual warming of relations as a result of the new trade laws._

_This would have dire consequences down the road, admittedly. As time passed, the children of the “new nobles” became more comfortable in their positions and forgot their humble origins. They gradually lost their forefathers’ compassion for the common people, and grew to believe they had more in common with the great lords of Bern. This was what led Advisor Roartz and Island Lord Arcard—both descendants of men who had been knighted, then given baronies, then countships during the Civil War—to betray their country in the future. But such dark times would be years away. For now, let us look at two men who contributed as much as anyone to their country’s reconstruction following the First Civil War…_

**_Jerid, the Iron Shield of Thagaste:_ ** _This humble jailer would never have imagined that he would attain the highest position in the Etrurian military following the Civil War. Yet that was exactly what his courage and determination earned him. As Great General, he worked tirelessly to strengthen his country’s military, but more than that, he worked tirelessly and used his great political influence to ensure that every Etrurian, great and small alike, would enjoy the benefits of justice and fairness. He would receive a great deal of (distasteful) assistance from Count Bramsel; he often found it necessary to ignore the man’s disgusting immorality to heed his sound financial advice. He and Khyron would also lead a successful campaign to rid the Western Isles of the remaining Red Shoulders and bring it fully under Etrurian dominion. An even happier accomplishment would be his marriage to his old friend from Thagaste, Ethlea. She bore him a strong son named Solomon, who would be such a great warrior that he inherited his father’s title of Great General. Though the position of Great General was determined by tests of skill and tactics, just as the position of Mage General was not inherited but determined by tests of magic, Jerid’s descendants would hold it more often than not. This was the case during the Great Movement of Bern, as General Douglas demonstrated the courage, tenacity, and loyalty of his ancestor in his resolute service to Prince Mildain._

**_Khyron Caerleon, Master of the Inferno:_ ** _Not even the soldiers who served under him would imagine he would turn out to be an effective leader. However, war tempers some men like a blacksmith’s flame tempers steel. Khyron was one of those men. He fought valiantly every inch of the way besides the other members of the Autonomous Company, and for that alone he earned their respect. However, the war had done a great deal of damage to his reputation; people initially still believed the rumors that he was responsible for what happened at Scirocco and Elram’s Citadel. As time passed, however, and Paptimus’ brutality became more evident to everyone, Khyron’s hard work in restoring the country would ensure that love replaced suspicion in the hearts of the populace._

_Above and beyond this was his charity towards the rest of Elibe. For all his life, and despite his sheer reluctance to admit it, Khyron would carry a deep affection for every last one of the men and women who had composed his Autonomous Company. As a result, he became a dedicated advocate of racial understanding and one of the most bitter opponents of racial discrimination in Etruria, or indeed, anywhere on Elibe—particularly ironic, considering his former prejudice. He would never forget the loyalty and valor of Keith and Kelitha. Thus, he made many charitable donations to that country which saved many of its citizens from starvation, and more than that, he lauded the loyalty and unbreakable devotion of the Shrike Team far and wide, which largely contributed to the reputation of Ilian mercenaries as completely trustworthy even centuries later. Khyron would also never forget how it was Lycians—specifically, sons of Cornwell and Ostia—who had played such an important part in saving the life of his King. Khyron dedicated immense amounts of time and his personal funds as mage General and Count of Caerleon to uncovering the truth behind Paptimus’ role in the Lycian Civil War (though he never managed to put two and two together and figure out Braddock’s true identity—or if he did, he never told anyone). Not only that, but he lavished immense sums, again, almost all out of his own pocket, on Ostia and Cornwell to help them rebuild. This resulted in a deep tie of friendship being formed between Lycia and Etruria, which would come to play during the Great Movement of Bern centuries later. On a more personal level, Khyron grew so close to the ruling family of Cornwell that on his deathbed he would swear an eternal bond of friendship between Caerleon and Cornwell. Whether it truly was eternal remains to be seen, but it certainly lasted for nearly three hundred years, when Caerleon adopted the younger daughter of House Cornwell, Priscilla, during its fall in the 970s._

_Above all, however, he would be remembered for his valor in the Western Isles. Almost the moment word reached Aquleia of Paptimus’ death, influential members of the Church notified the King’s spies that many Red Shoulders were hiding out in the Western Isles. The Three Generals were sent to deal with the problem, and naturally, Khyron was one of them. He acquired fame not only for his ferocity in battle but also for his resolute insistence that the people of the Western Isles not be mistreated—in his view, anyone who pledged loyalty to the King was a true Etrurian, no matter where they were born. He would also find his wife there—another irony, given how vehemently he had opposed Garl Vinland’s marriage to Astraea. It was not the most peaceful of marriages, but it did ensure the continuation of the Caerleon line, which is still in existence._

-x-x-x-

 

“Step forward, the three of you! Don’t be shy! Come, now!”

 

“U…us?” Apolli, Lisse, and Harvery looked at each other with uncertainty.

 

“Yes, you! Hurry now, I want to get back to celebrating as soon as possible!”

 

“Yes, m’lord!” The trio immediately scurried past Renault and Braddock to kneel before the King.

 

“You first. The brown haired fellow, I mean. Haven’t I seen you before?”

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied Harvery. “I’m one of your spies, remember? Always did real good work for ya, right? I mean, I was the one who found Henken for you and everything! You can’t forget me!”

 

“Oh, yes, I remember now. Very good work. What do you want, O useful eyes and ears of the King?”

 

Harvery sighed, and it seemed like a distinctly unhappy cast had fallen over his face. “M’lord, I…”

 

“Go on, spit it out!”

 

“M…may I be honest, Lord?”

 

“Yes, yes, just hurry!”

 

“Your Majesty, I…I would like…to retire.”

 

This sent everyone watching him aback for a moment, especially Khyron, who very much couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But Harvery was quick to explain himself.

 

“K..King Galahad…you know I’m a loyal Etrurian. You know how much I love this country. I’m proud I served you, and nothin’ will ever change that. But…but, please…you have to understand…

 

“Bein’ a spy’s important, but it’s not honorable work. I…I’ve seen so many things…done so many things…that I’m getting’ tired of it. This war…after this war…I just can’t take it anymore. Keith died…Kelitha died…and Roberto died. It’s just luck that…I didn’t die too. I know it was necessary, and that their sacrifices weren’t in vain, but…I’m tired, Lord. I just want to have some peace, for a little while. Please…I don’t want any money or anything. C…can you grant me this request?”

 

“Hmmm.” Galahad’s face scrunched up in thought, and everyone held their breath in anticipation of what his answer would be.

 

“Ah, why not?” he finally said. “You were a good spy, but we can always find another.”

 

“R…really?” Harvery’s face lit up. “Thank you! THANK YOU! Oh, Your Majesty, I—“

 

“Hmph. Abandoning your duty, are you?” said Khyron coldly. Then his expression softened. “Well, I did promise you a reward, and I’ll admit you earned it, nightblade. I only ask one thing, though! Tell me, where the hell do you intend on spending your ‘retirement?’”

 

“Heh! Good question,” said Harvery. “Look…even though Etruria’s my homeland, it’s just…too many memories for me, you know? Of Keith, and Kelitha, and Roberto, and everything else…I gotta leave. I…I’m goin’ back to where we first met.” He was looking squarely at Braddock now. “I’m going back to Lycia. Sure, that country’s been hit hard by war, but I’ve got a lot of _good_ memories of it. And especially given the relationship me and Char had…I guess it’s the least I could do to try and rebuild it, right?”

 

Braddock nodded at him in satisfaction—and though the rest of the Company agreed with his decision, that was the best vindication he could ask for.

 

“Well now, how about you two?” asked Galahad. “And you are…?”

 

Lisse and Apolli looked at each other for a moment—then, oddly enough, looked at Renault behind them, almost as if they were unsure of something. Then they looked at each other again, with determination this time, grabbed each other’s hands, and stared straight at King Galahad.

 

“I…I’m Apolli, m’lord. I’m just a humble archer. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. And this here’s Lisse. She used t’ have an inn back in Thagaste, but now she’s our Transporter. Did a real fine job of keepin’ our goods organized an’ tidy.”

 

“Ugh, how boring. Well, what do you want?”

 

They looked at each other again, then to…Harvery, this time. “I’ll lay it out t’ ya straight,” said Apolli, after taking a deep breath. “Lisse…Lisse is somebody special t’ me. And we’ve decided we wanna stake out our lives together.” At this, they both sent another glance at Renault, but his expression betrayed absolutely nothing. “But see, this country…it has…too many memories f’r both of us, too. My fiancée…and Yulia…and Lisse’s parents. So…so we wanna get out.” Taking another deep breath, he continued, “Me an’ Lisse…we wanna see other countries. So we were thinkin’…how about Ostia? Harvery told us a lot ‘bout Lycia, and how wonderful it is. We wanna see it for ourselves. So…so we were thinkin’…we wanna accompany him t’ Lycia. Maybe start up a lil’ inn or something in Ostia, like the ol’ Ruby Tortoise. B…but better this time. H…Harvery, w’d that be a’right with you?”

 

“With me? Hell, I’d be overjoyed!” exclaimed the surprised Assassin. “It’ll be lonely as hell over there, given how many of my friends died in the war. Don’t you worry about a thing, Apolli! I’ll make sure you and Lisse get set up there real good!”

 

“G-Great!” Lisse’s eyes beamed with pleasure, then dimmed as she turned to look behind her, at Renault. “Oh…um…Renault…is that okay with…”

 

Renault sighed. He knew this would come eventually.

 

“Lisse…listen to me. I…look, I’ll be honest. You’re a good girl. I’ll admit I never, ever treated you as well as you deserve. But when you get right down to it, it’s because I’m just not the kind of man who could ever make you happy. Our paths in life are just too different. I’m happy they crossed, at least for a little while, but now, I guess, they part.”

 

“Renault…”

 

“Apolli’s gonna make you happier than I ever could. Ain’t that right, kid?”

 

“R...Renault?”

 

“Well?”

 

“Yes…” Apolli looked away for a moment, then stared right back at Renault, eyes resolute and full of determination. “Yeah! I’ll treat ‘er well, Renault! As best I can!”

 

“Then that’s all that needs to be said.” Renault offered the two of them a small grin as he fell silent.

 

Now Apolli and Lisse had no more doubts at all. Together, they turned, faced the king, and gave him their request. “Your Majesty, King Galahad…if…if you could, could you give us some funds to help us on our journey? No more than ten thou—“

 

“Ten thousand gold? How about thirty thousand?” the King replied. “Malonda seems to like you, girl,” and at this, the black-haired woman giggled. “Take it and use it well, for her sake, then.”

 

“Y…Your Majesty!” Harvery, Apolli, and Lisse were all stunned by this sudden display of generosity.

 

They would be even more stunned, however, by what came next.

 

“M’lord,” said Gafgarion, who had previously been silent while the rest of them put forth their demands, “I think I’m ready to ask f’r my r’ward, if I…”

 

“Oh, finally! About time you made up your mind. Well, what is it?”

 

The Knight General paused, took a deep breath, and then said, finally, “I want the same thing as Harvery. I’d like t’ retire.”

 

For the second time a shocked silence reigned.

 

Then Khyron exploded.

 

“RETIRE?! WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? YOU CAN’T RETIRE! NOT NOW! YOU’RE THE _KNIGHT GENERAL!_ HOW CAN YOU—“

 

Gafgarion raised a hand to stop him. “Y’r Majesty…I’ll understand if y’ don’t want me t’ go. If y’ want me t’ continue servin’ ya, just say the word. But…please, hear me out.

 

“I’ve lost everythin’ in this war…or more specifically, thanks t’ Paptimus. Yulia ‘n Roberto…both of ‘em are gone. My old life…I c’n never go back to it. I’m just…Galahad, I’m around y’r age. I’m _old_. I feel jus’ like Harvery. I did my best for ya in the war…and it’s all I was able to do.

 

“I…I’ve lost _ev’rythin’,_ milord. Both my children ‘re dead. Sorveno…I don’t have a place in it anymore, and I sure as hell wouldn’t if I kept on with this Great General business. I fought hard as I could, an’ I managed t’ live through this war. But I know I’m gettin’ old, an’ I know these’ll be the last days o’ my life. Please…King Galahad…an’ Khyron…please, I’m beggin’ ya. Apolli’s all I have now, an’ I wanna see him make a new life with somebody. This country has so many memories for me, good an’ bad, an’ like Apolli said, it’s time to leave ‘em behind—not forget ‘em, but leave ‘em behind—so I c’n make some new ones. Before I die…it…it’s all I ask.”

 

“You’re not the only one who’s lost people important to them in this war, Gafgarion,” fumed Khyron. “What about me? What about Jerid? We’ve lost friends and family, yet we haven’t cast aside our duty to the king!”

 

“Y…y’re both stronger’n me, m…milord Khyron,” sighed Gafgarion. “Y’ve got y’r whole lives ahead of ya. Me…I’m just an old man. Old ‘n weak…I just ain’t cut out f’r this job, lord.”

 

“Weak? _Weak?! HOW DARE YOU CALL YOURSELF WEAK!”_ To everyone’s surprise, Khyron seemed to be blushing furiously—out of embarrassment as much as anger. “Y…you _fool!_ What…what will I do without you? You were the best steward Caerleon could ask for! The people loved you, and the countship prospered under you! Your wisdom has been one of my pillars for years! After my brother died, you were the only man whose judgment I respected! Without you and Apolli…th-the castle’s going to be…be empty! It’ll _feel_ empty! And…and… _Apolli cooked better than any of the other servants!_ ”

 

“K…Khyron.” Gafgarion and Apolli, along with the other men and women gathered there, were yet again astonished to see such an open, overt confession of affection coming from the Mage General. Yet by this point, they could appreciate it all the same.

 

In response to this display—and now it was Khyron’s turn to be surprised—Gafgarion, the Knight General, walked up to him, and then got downed, kneeling before him as he did when he was a humble servant. Khyron started to protest, but Gafgarion’s next words stopped him right in his tracks.

 

“M’lord Khyron,” said the old man, “I…I’m honored t’ have served with ya, and t’ have fought b’side ya. I’ll admit I never thought much of your leadership when I was steward o’ Caerleon. But d’spite everythin’, I knew you were a good man b’neath it all, and that’s why I stayed with ya. And y’ never proved me wrong, m’lord. Y’ may not have been th’ most sensitive man, but I knew y’ cared ‘bout me ‘an Apolli, or y’ wouldn’t ‘ve let us stay with ya in th’ first place. Y’…you may not’ve known much ‘bout governing, but you tried your best and worked as hard as you knew how.

 

“And after that…after this war…You fought harder’n anyone else, and more’n that, ya _learned_. Learned from y’r mistakes, and learned from what y’r friends taught ya. Y’r as worthy of th’ title o’ Mage General as Lord Exedol ever was. You’re a true hero.

 

“So…Lord Khyron…I’m…I’m grateful. Grateful f’r everything. I’m thankful f’r what you’ve done for me, for my friends, and for this whole country. You’re a good man, a strong man, and I’m honored to have served under ya and beside ya. Honored. And I’ve never said anything as true as that, m’lord.

 

“But that’s the thing. Y’ don’t need me anymore—this war has proven that. Y’re a great soldier, and now, y’re a true leader. Y’re a thousand times stronger’n when ya first started out. Like I said, if…if ya really want me t’ stay, I will. But, m’lord Khyron…If I really have served ya as well as y’ say…then, can’t ya grant me this one last request? Servin’ the King’s it’s own reward, like y’ said. So that’s why I ain’t even askin’ for money or titles or anythin’. But t’ spend my last years in peace…it’s the only thing I ask.”

 

“I…Gafgarion,” said Khyron in frustration, “but the position of Knight General is one of the highest ranks of our military, now! We _need_ someone who understands cavalry tactics and can maintain a force of mounted warriors! Who else but _you_ has that sort of experience?!”

 

“Don’t worry, m’lord,” said Gafgarion, standing up, “I’ve already given this a lotta thought. There’s a recruit we picked up…think he was originally from the Bern-Etruria border. His name’s Wayland, and he’s a lil’ younger than Renault. M’lord, he’s one of the best horsemen I’ve ever seen, and as one o’ my Captains he’s been an invaluable asset in all the battles we’ve fought, rangin’ from Aquleia to Caerleon. I’m confident he’ll be a more than capable replacement for me.”

 

“Well, if you say so,” said Galahad disinterestedly. “I’ll accept your judgement, then. If you do have a good replacement, by all means, enjoy your retirement.”

 

“K-King Galahad! Sire! Thank, thank you so much!” Gafgarion turned to Khyron. “M’lord…is this a’right with you?”

 

“Tch…well, given your age, I can understand it,” said Khyron imperiously. “After all, you don’t have my youth and vigor! I can hardly hold you to the same standards as myself. Very well, Gafgarion, I can accept your ‘retirement.’ But! This ‘Wayland’ had _better_ live up to my expectations…and your legacy!”

 

“He will, m’lord. Don’t got a doubt about that.”

 

“We’ll see. And one more thing! Just what are you planning to do with your retirement, hmm?”

 

He chuckled, looking fondly at Apolli and Lisse. “Well…at least if you two wouldn’t mind havin’ an old man hangin’ around as y’ start y’r new life…I was wonderin’ if y’ wouldn’t let me tag along with ya. Never got to see anyplace outside of Etruria, so I figure I oughta start now.  Hell, maybe I’d be useful in getting’ ya set up. That okay with you?”

 

“P…pops…” Apolli broke out into a wide smile. “Th-that’s more’n okay with me! That’d be GREAT!”

 

“Yup,” Lisse chimed in, “I’d really like having you around, Sir Gafgarion!”

 

“Well, as they say, the more the merrier,” chuckled Harvery. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves quite a good little Company here. I’m glad to have you along, Gafgarion. This sounds like it’ll be a whole lotta fun!”

 

As the three of them stepped away from the King, he turned his eyes to the only members of the Autonomous Company who hadn’t yet received their rewards. ‘Well, it looks like we’re almost done here,” Galahad said. “Do step forwards…”

 

-x-x-x-

 

**_Apolli, the Phantom Arrow:_ ** _This young man had managed to survive the carnage of the First Etrurian Civil War, and by its end he was no longer a naïve country boy but a seasoned veteran. He would never again nock another arrow, though. He and Lisse moved to Lycia, first in Cornwell, then in Pherae, and finally settled down in Ostia, where they were (officially) wed. In Ostia, with Galahad’s money, Lisse was able to start up a new inn and tavern, called Yulia’s Grace, which brought immense pleasure to her husband. As you can tell, Apolli never, ever forgot about Yulia and Roberto. However, he tried to honor their memory by bringing as much happiness as he could to his new bride. He succeeded very well—he’d lost none of his skill as a chef, and his knowledge of Etrurian cuisine, along with his own enhancements to some Lycian dishes, made Yulia’s Grace one of the most successful establishments in Ostia. Not only that, but he also fathered three children with her, all of whom survived to adulthood. He would pass away at the ripe old age of 84, and the content smile he wore on his deathbed indicated what a rich life he had led._

****

**_Lisse, Devoted Innkeeper:_ ** _Though she never entirely forgot her lingering feelings for Renault, her love for Apolli would only grow following the end of the war. Harvery took them on a tour all over Lycia. She and Apolli did some work as domestic servants to the marquesses of Cornwell and Pherae, where they would both be well-loved by their masters and the common people alike for Lisse’s kindness and diligence and Apolli’s excellent cooking. She then moved to Ostia with Apolli, Harvery, and Gafgarion. There they spent King Galahad’s gift on turning an abandoned, dilapidated building into Yulia’s Grace. After this, she would finally wed Apolli, and it was the fourth happiest day of her life—Gafgarion and Harvery would both note that she looked positively radiant in her white dress. Now, what were the happiest days of her life? Those which marked the birth of her children. She would pass away one week after her husband died, every bit as peacefully, with all three of them by her bedside. There is little known  of the genealogy of her eldest two sons, Roberto and Renault, but her young daughter Rosamia would apparently grow up to marry a well-to-do merchant. This merchant’s family would maintain fairly extensive genealogical records, which is how the last member of that line, Merlinus, would be able to tell King Roy that he had just a bit of Etrurian blood in him three hundred years later._

****

**_Harvery, Etruria’s Nightblade:_ ** _This man had spent years in the service of his country, and the deeds he had to commit would weigh more and more heavily on his heart as time went on. With the end of the First Etrurian Civil War, however, that weight was finally lifted.With King Galahad’s blessing, Harvery was removed from the ranks of all Etruria’s spies (his name erased from the records of their intelligence-gatherers, of course) and allowed to live the rest of his life as a common man. This gave him no end of pleasure—he had always hated killing, and now he would never have to do it again. He would accompany his friends Apolli, Lisse, and Gafgarion to Lycia, showing them around the country he loved so much. By a stroke of wonderful good fortune, when he arrived in Cornwell he managed to find the milkmaid he had once shared such a delightful tryst with so long ago. Apparently, she had always nurtured a small flame for him in her heart, and it wouldn’t be long until he made an honest woman out of her. He and his new wife followed Apolli and Lisse to Ostia, where the woman made a very good living as a servant to the marquess’s family. Harvery, on the other hand, was apparently unable to give up his old ways permanently. Though his wife was never quite sure exactly what he did, aside from his vague description as a “fireman,” the fact that he always seemed to spend so much time meeting with Ostian nobles in the quieter rooms of Yulia’s Grace seemed to indicate that he had a lot of information they found valuable. Still, he seemed much happier in Lycia than he had been back in Etruria, perhaps because his wife gave him what he had always wanted—children. He would be a devoted father, loved by his own sons and Ostian kids in general alike, and passed away as an old man after he had taken too much to drink and tumbled down a flight of stairs in Yulia’s Grace. Not the most dignified ending, but there could have been unhappier denouements to a content and well-lived life. His descendants would follow in his footsteps as “firemen.”Matthew the spy is the latest heir to Harvery’s skills as an information-gatherer…and an assassin._

****

**_Gafgarion, Grey-haired General:_ ** _Despite everything he had said about being an old man, this veteran of the First Etrurian Civil War had quite a bit of life left in him. He would accompany Apolli, Lisse, and Harvery in their travels across Lycia, and he would often remark on how fortunate he was to be able to experience everything that foreign land could offer (he was particularly fond of their cuisine). In his time there, he would serve the marquesses of Cornwell, Pherae, and finally Ostia as an expert on mounted combat, helping to train their Cavaliers. He would write several treatises on horsemanship and cavalry tactics which remained Lycian standards up for a hundred years after the Great Movement of Bern. He would leave this life peacefully, with Apolli, Yulia, and Harvery standing beside his deathbed._

-x-x-x-

 

“Well, come on now! You two big men and you, the green-haired woman. You’re the only ones who haven’t received their rewards yet!”

 

Braddock, Renault, and Rosamia looked at each other. “Eh…you go first, Rosamia,” Braddock said. Renault just shrugged, so she decided to take the opportunity they gave,

 

“Ah…my liege,” said Rosamia, dropping down to her knees, “I, personally, request nothing of you. My only wish is to continue serving my country. I hope my lord and master, Mage General Khyron, still has use of me?”

 

“With Gafgarion gone, someone will have to look after Caerleon,” growled Khyron. “I trust you’ll be a more than capable steward. You’ll also have full access to my brother’s library, so I anticipate that will bode well for your studies, yes?”

 

“Of course, milord!”

 

“Is that all?” asked Galahad. “My word, what’s wrong with you people? I have so much to give you and yet you’ll have none of it. Oh well, I suppose I should hardly complain.”

 

“Quite right,” added Malonda, “they’d probably waste it anyways!”

 

“Well, a good King repays his loyal servants, doesn’t he? But anyways, Rosamia, you don’t want anything? You’re sure?”

 

“Ah…well, I can think of one thing. My parents…after the battles in Aquleia and everything, they have lost much. We…ah, I feel ashamed for making such a greedy request.  But can you spare some money for them to rebuild their shop?”

 

“My dear girl, ‘tis not such a terrible request at all!” laughed Galahad. “I know your father. Considering that his daughter seems to be every bit as valorous, I’ll happily grant what you ask.”

 

“Thank you, my liege.” She bowed demurely, then for a moment cast a strange glance at Braddock, which caused him to blush and look away for a moment.

 

Galahad, of course, didn’t notice. “Now for, uh…”

 

Renault and Braddock didn’t even care that the King didn’t remember their names at this point. Instead, the Mercenary Lord strode right up to him and gave his request without hesitation—or even bowing or showing any sort of request, which distinctly peeved the King.

 

“I only want one thing,” growled Renault. “I’m looking for Trunicht, the Black Knight. You have any idea where he is?”

 

“I-Impertinent fool!” stammered Khyron. “You’re speaking to the _king_ , you freebooter! Show some respect!”

 

“N-now, hold on,” said Jerid hastily, trying to defuse a nasty situation, “Uh, Renault worked hard an’ all, so—“

 

“Tch! For that reason alone, I suppose I can forgive your rudeness _this_ time,” said Galahad imperiously. “But…alas, I’m afraid I can be of no help. Who’s this “Trunicht” person? Malonda, my dear, do you know him?”

 

“Just another nasty Rebel,” she sneered. “Surely he’s just rotting away in some forgotten hole, somewhere. Why do you care? The war’s over! With their leader dead, if there are any Rebels left alive, they can’t do a thing! We’re at peace, now! Lay down your weapons and enjoy it! Aren’t you barbarians tired of fighting yet?”

 

Renault grimaced and clenched his hands—Galahad and his mistress clearly had no idea whatsoever of how important his quest for revenge was. Thus, Braddock quickly jumped in before Renault got angry enough to do something that would send them to the stockades.

 

“L-look, my liege,” he said, trying without much success to disguise his contempt for the King, “You’ve surely heard worse requests before, right? Besides, even if the main Rebel leader is dead, his underlings might cause you trouble later on. If you can tell us where Trunicht ran off to, that’s one less thing you’ll have to worry about down the road.”

 

Galahad shrugged. “True, true, but we really don’t know. None of my spies have told me anything about this Black Knight of yours. Harvery, you’re a spy, aren’t you? Do you have any ideas?”

 

He shook his head apologetically and cast his eyes away from Renault. “Th…the last time I saw that scumbag was at the Fortress of Spears, and after that we were so busy with Paptimus I didn’t have time to see where he could have run off to. Renault…I’m sorry. Really, I…”

 

“Hah. I should’ve figured,” he growled. “In that case, Your Majesty, can you spare 10,000 gold? 5 thousand for me, and 5 for Braddock?”

 

Galahad blinked. “Y-yes, quite easily. Why?”

 

“We just need to fix our armor up. If you have it on you right now…”

 

“Hmm…well, I believe a White Gem is worth 10,000 gold.” Galahad wasn’t sure whether he ought to be offended or confused. Still, he reached over to a small box on the bedstand next to him and pulled out the valuable gemstone. “Will that do?”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Renault reached out and simply plucked it right from the King’s hand—an incredibly rude gesture, but not quite as rude as his next one—

 

Renault immediately turned and began heading out the room’s door.

 

“W…where are you going?!” Galahad yelled incredulously. “Where are your manners! I say, I don’t care who you are, I’ll have you punished for this! B-besides… _You don’t want anything else?_ Is THIS how you treat the King of Etruria’s charity?!”

 

“I don’t _need_ anything else!” Renault shot back, glaring at him. Even the King of Etruria had to wither under that piercing, hateful gaze. “All I care about is killing Trunicht. All the money in the world’s no good to me while Kelitha can’t rest peacefully!” He turned back and shoved the door open. “Come on, Braddock! We don’t have any time to waste! We need to find out where the hell Trunicht went NOW! He might be halfway across the world for all we know!”

 

The Ostian couldn’t argue with this. He simply cast the King—and notably, Rosamia, too—apologetic glances and hurried off after his friend. Rosamia looked as if she wanted to follow them—and Khyron seemed as if he’d stomp off after the two of them—but nobody would be allowed to leave just yet. “Pah! Good riddance,” huffed Galahad indignantly. “Anyways, though, while you’re all here, we might as well get a few other things out of the way as well. Paptimus is dead, isn’t he? Oh, how I wish I could have seen it! I want you to tell me everything about how that miserable traitor met his end!”

 

Malonda rolled her eyes, but she knew there was no stopping Galahad when he got like this. And despite the fact that they all wanted to leave as soon as possible, the Autonomous Company and the Three Generals realized that Galahad did have a right to know what had happened to the man who had betrayed him so terribly. Thus, Renault and Braddock were left to continue their search on their own, leaving their comrades alone to deal with the King’s barrage of questions.

 

-x-

 

“Renault! Hey, Renault, wait! Come on, man!”

 

Braddock’s plea was enough to make the Mercenary Lord slow down as he made his way through the winding halls of the Holy Royal Palace. “What?” he asked, glaring at his friend. That glare softened, though, when he saw Braddock’s expression and the genuine concern on it.

 

“J…just calm down for a second, bud!” Braddock was huffing and puffing a bit—Renault had made his exit as quickly as he could, and the Ostian had to jog to catch up to him. “Look, Renault, this isn’t helping. I understand how you feel, but you’re not gonna get to Trunicht any quicker like this!”

 

“So then what do you suggest, huh?” Renault slammed a fist into a nearby wall in frustration. “Dammit, Braddock, I can’t just let him go! I saw him kill Kelitha _right in front of me!_ I can’t live with myself until I pay that bastard back! It’s already been weeks since anybody’s seen him, and he’s just gettin’ farther and farther away from us! The more time we waste, the less likely it is we’ll ever find him!”

 

“Look, I understand that, and believe me, I’m behind you all the way.” He clapped a hand on Renault’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “And you know I mean that, man. We’ve been through this whole war together. I would never have killed Paptimus if it weren’t for you. You’re the best friend I ever had. Hell, we’re even oath-brothers now, remember? So there’s no way I’m leaving you now.”

 

“Y…yeah.” Renault seemed to have calmed down somewhat. “Yeah, I understand.”

 

“Then you know I’m just trying to tell you this for your own good. Losing your head over this guy isn’t gonna help us catch him. Comin’ up with some sort of plan is a lot better than just stomping around all over the place.”

 

“We need a plan, huh?” Renault was starting to get frustrated again. “Alright, well, do you have one?”

 

“That’s…” Braddock had to admit he was stumped.

 

However, as if by either a stroke of incredible luck—or perhaps something more sinister—an answer to their quandary would almost literally drop right into their laps.

 

“Oy! I know you two!” came a cheery voice from behind them. “You’re Renault and Braddock, right? Renault the Impervious and Blue Comet Braddock! I’ve heard all about you! With Mage General Khyron, right?”

 

“I hate being a celebrity,” Renault growled. “Just ignore him, we don’t have time to deal with this nonsense.”

 

“Oy, wait up! You were talkin’ about Trunicht, right?”

 

This definitely got their attention. Neither of them recognized that voice, and that was enough to put them on their guard. They weren’t wearing their armor, but both of them knew better than to travel anywhere unarmed; Braddock still had the Basilikos strapped to his back and Renault had his trusty Silver Sword by his side. Both men immediately put their hands to their weapons and spun around, ready to fight.

 

That apparently wasn’t what their new friend was looking for, though. Before them stood what was apparently one of the Royal Guards—he was clad head to toe in good plate armor and had a fine Silver Spear. The armor, however, was in somewhat shoddy condition and the man’s face looked rather shifty—they could faintly smell liquor on his breath, he wore a scruffy brown beard not unlike Harvery’s, but his narrow eyes seemed suspicious rather than friendly.

 

That didn’t stop him from letting go of his spear, allowing it to rest on the wall, and hold up both hands in front of himself as a show of good faith. “Whoah, easy now! I’m a friend, not a foe!”

 

“Not many people besides ‘foes’ know Trunicht’s name,” Renault growled.

 

The man was now evidently sweating. “L-look, I don’t know who he is either! But I got…a friend. Yeah, a…’friend,’ who, uh, likes complaining about stuff, and the name “Trunicht” keeps popping up with him, too. So I was thinkin’ you might be able to help him out.”

 

“And who’s this “friend,” eh?”

 

“N-not here! Can’t talk about it here!”

 

Renault unsheathed his sword. “Hope you’re ready to die here, then!”

 

Braddock, however, took a more measured view of the situation. As their new frightened friend immediately grabbed his spear, the Warlord put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Not so fast, Renault. This guy might really know something. Trunicht has his fingers in a lot of places, but one of the King’s own guards? If he or any of the other Rebels managed to infiltrate the palace to this extent, they would’ve killed Galahad a long time ago. Besides, weren’t you just saying we needed a lead? This guy might be the only one we ever get.” He grinned. “I’ve still got my Basilikos, so even if he tries leading us into a trap, we shouldn’t have much trouble.”

 

“Y-yeah!” said the man. “I-I just wanna help, really!”

 

“…fine,” said Renault, who lowered his blade—but didn’t sheathe it. “So if we can’t talk here, where do you want to do it?”

 

“Not in the Palace. I can take you straight to the ‘friend’ I was talkin’ about…”

 

“Then do it, and quickly.”

 

The man nodded and quickly led them back out the way they came, across the Holy Royal Road, until they’d set foot back on the normal roads of the city. “My name’s Frampt, by the way,” he said, trying to make conversation, “I—“

 

“Shut up and lead.”

 

Frampt immediately did so. He led them through the lovely, well-kept streets, not bothering to descend into the back alleys—if he actually was some sort of spy or cutthroat, he apparently knew the benefits of “hiding in plain sight.” However, only the most audacious spy would lead them to where he ended up.

 

“Wow,” said Braddock as the three of them reached their destination. It was quite close by, only a five-minute walk from the Holy Royal Palace. Perhaps not surprising, given it wasn’t much less grand.

 

They were standing in front of a massive cathedral, the largest Renault had ever seen—Zodian’s Rest may have been magnificent, but it was dwarfed by this one. The _basic_ shape was the same—a roughly rectangular area marking the narthex, or entrance, where the pews and altar were, followed by the enclosed square which formed the cathedral’s Sanctuary, and in the middle of the far wall was set the main tower. This building, however, belonged to an Archbishop, not a Bishop like Monica—though of course, Renault had made it a point not to remember any kind of religious teaching like that. All he knew was that the cathedral was almost twice the size of his mother’s. The stained-glass windows were slightly enchanted, glowing softly even when sunlight wasn’t passing through them. It was festooned with statues and gargoyles depicting various scenes from both religious and secular history, but many of these statues were _gilded_ —the gargoyles had claws tipped with gold, and the stone knights wielded actual Silver Spears. The Archbishop’s Tower itself was gigantic, with eight floors as opposed to the four of Zodian’s Rest. It was topped with a great statue of Elimine holding the Aureola tome above her head, the stone book inscribed with runes that glowed on their own, even at night. There were also two other towers built into the east and west walls of the Sanctuary, each about the size of Monica’s main tower back in Thagaste. All in all, it was a very impressive sight.                                                                                                 

 

“This is Lady Aleffine’s cathedral,” said Frampt with pride. “I’m…um…a…’pious communicant’ of her flock, eh?”

 

“Is she the one who mentioned Trunicht?”

 

“Not quite, but ‘er guest is! Come on!”

 

The seedy guard led his two friends into the cathedral proper, down the aisle and past the altar, into the sanctuary, where a truly massive evergreen stood growing in the center. However, he didn’t take them past it, to what Renault assumed was Aleffine’s personal tower. Instead, he ushered them to the tower on the east wall. Brushing past the numerous monks (members of a cenobitic order who lived in the towers and walls surrounding the sanctuary, dedicated to serving the Archbishop, each of whom had a complement of these monks) who were giving him unhappy but unsurprised looks—it was apparent this wasn’t the first time they’d seen him, and that he often brought “visitors.” The first floor of this tower was similar to the first floor of Monica’s tower—desks and bookshelves, an administrative area teeming with the celibate monks who served as its bureaucrats. Frampt led them past these men to the stairwell on the far side—but then he led them down.

 

“A dungeon beneath a cathedral? Shouldn’t be surprised,” said Renault sarcastically. “But if this turns out to be another ‘nasty surprise,’ you’re dead. You know our reputation, right?”

 

“Sure do. That’s why I ain’t betrayin’ you!”

 

The trio had reached the bottom floor. It wasn’t a dungeon, actually—it was fairly dank and musty, as you’d expect a basement to be, but there weren’t any emaciated corpses and hopeless prisoners chained to the walls. There were torches there to provide light, and what they illuminated seemed to be a series of storage rooms, where one could keep anything from wine to emergency provisions for the poor. Given Renault’s opinion of the Church in general, he thought the former was more likely. No matter, though. Frampt led them through the hallways until he came to a door near the end. He rapped on it once…then again, then after a pause, two more times.

 

“Frampt? Is that you?” A voice called from the other side.

 

“Yeah. I got a couple of people here who might be able to deal with that Trunicht guy you keep talking about!”

 

A moment later and the door opened, showing Renault and Braddock something that surprised them. Before them stood a tall, handsome man with long and luxurious floofy red hair. He was clad in a Bishop’s robes and miter—Renault would have assumed he was one of Aleffine’s underlings if he wasn’t holed up in her basement. And he was definitely living there—the room behind him wasn’t as well-furnished as one would expect for a bishop, but it still had what seemed to be a comfortable bed, a lamp, a table, and bookshelf. To say this was a strange sight would have been an understatement, and both of the mercenaries were a bit too surprised to protest as they were ushered in. The apparently-Bishop took a seat at the table and motioned for Frampt to pull out the other two chairs which were against the wall nearby.

 

“These two’re Renault and Braddock,” said Frampt with no small degree of pride. “They’re members of the Autonomous Company. You know, those big ol’ heroes who helped win the war? I overheard ‘em talkin’ and it seems like they’ve got a grudge against that Trunicht fella you mentioned. I thought they might be just the guys you needed!”

 

The red-haired clergyman smiled widely at this. “Well, Frampt, I suspect you just may be right.” He gestured for the two men to sit in the chairs Frampt had pulled out. “Please—“

 

Renault just shook his head.

 

“Well then,” said the strange Bishop, coughing and clearing his throat, “I guess I can’t blame you if you don’t trust me. Let’s get right down to business then, shall we?”              

 

Renault and Braddock both nodded as Frampt closed the door and excused himself.

 

“Very well. My name is Bishop Le-Cain. Well…I used to be a Bishop before Gosterro excommunicated me.” This last sentence was said with an angry grimace.

 

“Excommunicated? What does that mean?” Renault asked.

 

“You’re Monica’s son and you don’t know?”

 

“There’s a lot of stuff about this religious garbage I don’t know. You think I would’ve become a mercenary if I got along with my mom? Dump the sarcasm and just tell me.”

 

“Hmph.” Le-cain brushed back a stray lock of hair haughtily. “Well, Gosterro is the man who runs the Church of Elimine. He’s the highest-ranked among the Eight Archbishops of Etruria—the ones who make up the Head Church of Etruria, i.e the Supreme Church of Elibe. He kicked me out of the Church proper because I threw in with the Rebels.”

 

Renault and Braddock both immediately raised their hands to their weapons, but Le-Cain quickly stopped them. “No, no! I’m no longer with the rebels! I left when it seemed like they were going to lose! I was originally Nerinheit’s bishop, but I ran away a long time ago. Right when I caught word of Vinland’s death, in fact.”

 

“Very noble,” drawled Renault. “So what are you doing down here?”

 

“Well, you see, I knew Gosterro was a proud, cruel man. Such a hard heart, in such defiance of our blessed Saint’s teachings! I knew that if I crawled before that wretch begging for mercy, he would never give it. Not that I would want to beg him for anything, of course! But Archbishop Aleffine…yes, she is much more reasonable—er, I mean merciful, like the Saint! She realized how useful I could be, so she’s sheltering me in her cathedral for a little while. Gosterro might know I’m down here, he might not, but not even he would send assassins straight into the heart of his fellow Archbishop’s cathedral. So for now, I’m safe…and your friend, my good heroes!”

 

“Your loyalties sure change fast. Well, if you want to be our friend, give us what we’re looking for. If you have information on Trunicht, spill it.”

 

Le-Cain grinned. “I have an old friend named Grigorius, you see. Though he’s bound by his Order to Gosterro, his personal loyalties are with me. He still writes to me every now and then—letters addressed to Aleffine’s—and my—loyal servant Frampt, of course, so prying eyes can’t get a hold of them. He’s told me some very interesting things. Apparently, Gosterro has ordered his monastery on the east coast of Bern to shelter a very strange penitent. This man was once a Black Knight, but says he’s changed his spots. Grigorius, of course, is not convinced. The man insults the Church and mocks our beliefs every chance he gets! Yet Gosterro ordered he be kept alive, be _protected,_ even, because he supposedly holds information the Church might find very useful in the Western Isles.” Le-Cain’s eyes glowed. “I think you see where I’m going with this. You don’t need me to spell out his name, yes?”

 

“Trunicht,” Renault snarled, “TRUNICHT! YES, THAT’S IT! COME ON, BRADDOCK! WE’RE TAKING THE FIRST SHIP TO BERN!”

 

“Whoah, whoah! Hold on, Renault!” The Ostian gave Le-Cain a hard glare. “How do we know you’re telling the truth? You used to be with the Rebels. Why are you selling Trunicht out?”

 

Le-Cain shrugged. “I hate Gosterro, that’s why. I’m not foolish enough to go down with a sinking ship, and Trunicht’s ship sunk a long time ago. But he apparently knows a lot about the Rebel presence in the Western Isles. Gosterro plans to use that knowledge to enhance his own position. Maybe it might help Etruria, maybe it might help our Church, but that doesn’t matter to me. If a plan can help Gosterro, I want to foil it! Trunicht’s death would foul up that plan or at least inconvenience it. That’s enough for me.” He gave Renault a sly look. “I don’t really know why you hate Trunicht so much, and I don’t care either. All that matters to me is that I hurt Gosterro. So it’s win-win. I get a bit of revenge on the Archbishop, and you get revenge on Trunicht for whatever reason. Sounds just wonderful, doesn’t it?”

 

“Definitely,” said Renault. He looked at Braddock. “What do you think?”

 

The Ostian shrugged. “It’s the only thing we have to go on. We might as well go with it. It may not be the wisest course of action to put our trust into somebody who went over to the Rebels, then went back to the church, then got involved with all these conspiracies, but if he’s leading us into a trap, we’ve gotten out of worse scrapes before.”

 

“Very reasonable, good sir!” Le-Cain was well pleased. “A pleasure doing business with you. I trust you’ll tell no-one of your destination, yes? Trunicht might flee if he hears of your coming. And, of course, I trust you’ll tell no-one where you heard all this? Suffice it to say I don’t want Gosterro hearing about me any more than you want Trunicht hearing about you. Ah…um…well, you understand.”

 

“Yeah, we got it. Thanks, priest-boy. We might bring you back Trunicht’s head as a souvenir, though!”

 

“W-well that’s truly not necessary…ah, ah, wait!” Le-Cain rose, trying to get the two men to stop, but they’d already left their seats and made their exit with a loud, happy laugh, leaving Frampt and Le-Cain behind them.

 

-x-

 

Rosamia rushed through the busy streets of early-morning Aquleia as quickly as she could, the letter clenched tightly in her right hand. She really, _really_ wished it had been delivered to her earlier, though it wasn’t the fault of the sender, she supposed. It said it had been written yesterday afternoon, but the friendly guard he’d asked to deliver it to her was a notorious procrastinator, and she had only received it a few minutes ago. “Oh, hey,” the guard had said when he’d wandered up to her room in the castle and woken her up with a knock on the door, “sorry for bargin’ in at this hour, but I almost forgot! This big guy with a huge axe told me to give this to you. Hope I’m not too late!”

 

The mention of Braddock immediately allayed any suspicion she had, and when she read its contents she knew she had to leave as soon as possible. She had immediately jumped from her bed, not even bothering to change her sleeping clothes, simply putting on her trusty boots and traveling cloak to cover herself, and immediately rushed past the ersatz mailman, out of the Holy Royal Palace, and towards Aquleia’s docks.

 

 _Dear Rosamia_ , the letter had said, written in Braddock’s unadorned but functional penmanship,

 

_I’m really sorry for just bailing on you yesterday. Renault was really insistent on keeping on with the hunt for Tr “our friend,” though, and you saw how he was acting, I could not just leave him alone._

_Despite that, I was hoping you and I would have some time to talk by ourselves later on, but it was not to be. We managed to find a lead on where that “friend” disappeared off to. I can’t tell you in this letter, and please, don’t tell Khyron or anyone else either—me and Renault have our reasons for wanting to keep this a secret. But I wanted to tell you, since w I  you know that you’re an important person to me. I did not just want to run off without a word. Renault, though, absolutely does not want to slow down. We have gotten our armor fixed up, and we also managed to find a boat that will take us to our destination._

_It is leaving tomorrow morning. Cost us a quite a bit, but we had just enough money from the White Gem and a few other things to pay for it. Rosamia, if there is anything you want to say to me before we leave, this evening is the time. Me and Renault are holed up at one of the little inns near the dock for the night—it called Holbart’s Refuge, decent place with white walls and a blue roof, you should be able to find it easily. Our boat leaves early tomorrow morning, and if I dont see you tonight, I will wait at the third-to-last pier on the east side until the very moment the boat leaves. Still, I guess at this point, I have not treated you so well lately. Definitely worse than you deserve. If you don’t want to see me off, I ud understand. But if you could forgive me, that would mean a whole lot to me. Either way, please stay well, Rosamia._

“Please, God,” Rosamia muttered to herself as she came to the end of the road which led to the docks, “tell me their boat hasn’t left yet…”

 

She was in luck.

 

The docks of Aquleia were huge—it was the capitol, after all, so it had to be large enough to accommodate ships from all over Elibe. It took her almost as long to reach the third easternmost pier as it had to reach the docks from the Palace. However, she was quite a fast sprinter (mages may not have been known for their physical stamina, but everything she had been forced to endure over the course of the war had strengthened her body considerably), and in the light of the early morning sun, she could make out a decently-sized two masted caravel, of similar shape to the one Paptimus had used to escape from Nerinheit but just a bit smaller, still anchored safely. And on the ground nearby, she could make out a pair of large male figures, both dressed in modest brown traveling cloaks. And as she drew closer, she could make out what they were saying…

 

“Dammit, Braddock! The captain said he’s gonna leave without us! She’s not coming, man. Let’s just go!”

 

“Just a few more minutes, Renault. Please!”

 

“BRADDOCK!” Rosamia shouted. “BRADDOCK, I’M HERE!

 

“Rosamia? ROSAMIA!” The big Ostian turned at the sound of her voice, and when he caught sight of her his eyes widened in delight. He immediately bounded right up to meet her, with Renault following, grumbling discontentedly.

 

The two of them didn’t leap into each others arms, but it wasn’t hard to tell that they were happy to see each other. They both stopped just a short distance from the other. Braddock stood as tall as he could, looking down at Rosamia affectionately, but also with a sheepish, embarrassed expression on his face as he blushed and ran a hand through his long blue hair. Rosamia, for her part, was a bit too winded to do much more than stand with her hands over her chest, trying to catch her breath as she looked up at Braddock.

 

Thus, ironically enough, it was Renault who spoke first. “Guess you two are gonna want a little time alone, huh? I’ll head back to the ship and tell the captain you just need five more minutes or so. Any more than that, though, and we’ll leave without you!”

 

“Uh…y-yeah! That’s fine, thanks, Renault!” Braddock nodded and waved his friend off. Renault promptly took the hint and entered the caravel, meaning that for a few brief minutes, Braddock and Rosamia were the only two people standing on that pier.

 

“Braddock,” Rosamia began, taking a deep breath, “WHERE IN THE WORLD WERE YOU?! You just up and left the King when he was in the middle of giving us our reward! Do you have any idea of how angry he was? And even after that, we had to spend hours telling him about your last battle with Paptimus, and you weren’t there to help us! We just had to make everything up!”

 

“D-did you?” Braddock looked at the ground sheepishly. “Jeez, me and Renault really did leave too early. Um…sorry?”

 

“Oh, and that’s not all! I was _worried,_ Braddock! It seemed like you and Renault had just disappeared! I spent all day yesterday looking for you! I had no idea what to do until I got your letter just this morning! By the Saint, I shouldn’t even be at the docks at this hour! Khyron will be furious with me if I’m not there to assist him at a meeting this afternoon! A-and I didn’t even have time to get dressed!”

 

There was a long pause between them as Rosamia thought about what she’d just said. Braddock turned his eyes lower, below her face, and noticed that beneath the folds of her cloak, which she was no longer holding closed, since she had been so distracted, she was wearing nothing but her rather unconcealing nightdress.

 

“Aw, _hell!_ Sorry! SORRY!” Braddock immediately turned bright red and looked away as Rosamia became just as red and immediately doubled over, covering herself with her cloak. They were fortunate there weren’t that many people around this early in the morning.

 

“L-look what you’ve made me do!” she admonished her friend. “You’d better have a good explanation for this, Braddock!”

 

“I do! I do! Trust me!” At this, his voice lowered and the color drained from his face, and he put a firm hand on Rosamia’s shoulder. “Look, I’ll tell you all about it, but not too loudly, okay? We don’t know if our ‘friend’ still has spies in the area.”

 

This immediately brought Rosamia’s mind away from her embarrassment and annoyance towards more important matters. She knew very well what Braddock was talking about, so she didn’t protest one bit when he led her away a short distance and moved his face very close to hers—and began to speak.

 

“We found Trunicht!” he whispered quietly.

 

“What?! How? Where is he?”

 

“He’s in Bern. Holed up in a monastery or something on the coast.”

 

“A _monastery?!_ That…how is that possible?”

 

“I…” Braddock paused for a moment. “Look, Rosamia, I want you to _swear_ that you won’t tell anyone, alright? Not a _soul_.”

 

“I swear, Braddock.”

 

“Alright. Look, I can’t say too much, for a few reasons that’ll become clear real soon. Long story short, there’s some sort of…conflict, power struggle, something going on in the Church. I was never too good with politics, so I’m not entirely sure.  But from what I understand—and from what I can tell you—Trunicht turned his back on the Rebels right after Nerinheit Castle fell. He managed to weasel his way into the good graces of somebody high up in the Church. This “high church official” has a lot of enemies of his own, though. One of those enemies commissioned us to take Trunicht out.

 

“So…yeah. You can see why I don’t want you to tell anyone, Rosamia. Hell, I’ve already told you too much as it is. We might get in trouble, our, uh, benefactor might get in trouble, Trunicht might find out and flee before we’ve caught him, and…God damn, I dunno. If word of this gets out it might cause a huge scandal within the Eliminean church, and that’s the last thing this country needs at the moment. So…please, Rosamia. _Please_. Don’t tell a soul, alright?”

 

“…Fine, I won’t,” she said, but she still seemed extremely frustrated as she looked at her friend. “So I’ll just tell you this, Braddock:

 

“ _Are you crazy?!”_

“W-what do you mean?”

 

“You’re going on this secret mission to Bern, at the behest of…I don’t even know, to kill a dangerous Black Knight, and you didn’t even tell the rest of us? You didn’t even tell _me?_ I thought you trusted us…trusted me!”

 

“I-I do, Rosamia! But things just spiraled out of control, I swear! We found our informant where we least expected him, and by the time he finished telling us his story, Renault had already left to get our equipment patched up and to find a boat that’d take us to Bern. That took hours, and by the time we managed to get a ride it was nearly midnight and we had to find ourselves some beds! I barely had time to send that letter to you! You can’t blame me, at least not entirely!”

 

“Even so, just the two of you? _Alone_? You’ve never been to Bern! And you’re getting involved in some sort of political struggle in the Church? That’s too dangerous, Braddock? Why didn’t you tell Khyron or the others?”

 

“No. No way, Rosamia.” At this, Braddock’s voice became firm. “It has to be just the two of us. Apolli and Harvery…they’ve already done so much and fought so hard. I couldn’t ask them to risk their lives just for Renault’s vendetta against Trunicht. Same with you and Khyron. If the Mage General or his apprentice were to be caught in Bern,  it’d cause a lot of political trouble. That’s why we can’t ask Jerid or Gafgarion for extra troops, either. What would it look like if a bunch of them were to raid a monastery in a foreign country? No, me and Renault are just ordinary mercenaries. We’re the only ones who can take this job without stirring up a hornet’s nest of diplomatic problems.”

 

“S…So then why do you even have to take this stupid job in the first place?”

 

“Huh? Rosamia?” Braddock blinked, and he seemed genuinely confused.

 

“Why are you leaving, Braddock?” Rosamia burst out, and he could see that her eyes were moist. “Lea…leaving me? After this war’s finally ended, after…after everything, I thought we could…”

 

“R…Rosamia…”

 

“Why are you even chasing after this wretched Black Knight, Braddock? It’s such a foolish risk! I hate him, too. Kelitha was my friend, and I want to see him pay for that. But…but dammit, Braddock, I don’t want to lose you! He…he’s not worth losing you, too! We…both of us…we’ve already fought so long. Aren’t you tired of war yet? I thought you were a better man than that, not some barbarian in love with bloodshed! So…so why? Just leave Trunicht to rot in that monastery in the middle of nowhere! At least he won’t be able to do any more harm there! Why…don’t you want to stay with me? Just forget about Renault’s revenge quest and come with me! We…”

 

“Oh…Rosamia…Rosamia, I’d like to,” he said, and just by looking in his blue eyes—which seemed as if they were tearing up just a bit—Rosamia could tell he was as sincere as he had ever been. “I’m as sick of warfare as anybody, but I sure as hell aren’t sick of _you_. Exactly the opposite. I haven’t felt this way about anybody in years, not since P…not since my…my wife passed away. Managing to settle down with a woman like you would be a dream come true for me.

 

“But…not yet, Rosamia. Look, I…I’m sorry, but I have to help Renault.”

 

She didn’t say anything in response to this. She simply continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation.

 

“I have to leave with him. I _have_ to. I _have_ to help him. I wish it wasn’t the case, but…” Braddock sighed. “Look, you saw how he’s been since Kelitha died, right? And you saw how he acted during the last battle…how he threatened Meris…”

 

“Yes…yes, I did.” Rosamia’s expression darkened. “It…it was horrible. I understand how he must feel after everything Trunicht put him…us…through, but even so…his anger, it…it frightens me. I shudder to imagine what he would have done to Meris if you hadn’t stepped in, my dear friend. His anger…Renault’s anger…I fear it’s consuming him. It…it’s an _obsession_ now”

 

Braddock nodded. “You’re exactly right, Rosamia. And I can’t let that happen.

 

“That’s why I have to do this. That’s why I’m coming along with Renault. His ‘vendetta’ is mine, too. Rosamia, he…he’ll never be able to get over this. Not by himself. Not while Trunicht’s still alive. Killing that Black Knight is the only way to satiate that burning anger…to satisfy that obsession. It’s the only way to _save_ him, Rosamia. When Trunicht’s finally dead, we…both of us, we’ll finally be able rest.”

 

“But _why?!_ Braddock, why can’t you just let him fight his own battles? You’re not the one who’s obsessed with Trunicht! You’re not the one consumed with some lust for revenge! _He_ is! Let him run off to Bern! You…you don’t have to raise your axe ever again! Stay with me!”

 

“Rosamia, I can’t…”

 

“ _WHY?!”_

_“_ Because he’s my _friend_ , Rosamia!”

 

Braddock’s voice rose, and he almost shouted this. Either way, the force of it was enough to still her for a moment.

 

“Rosamia, this…you have to understand. I mean, I care for you. I care for you a lot. Like I said, I feel…I haven’t felt like this for anyone since…look, you’re important to me, alright? _But so is Renault_. He’s my best friend, Rosamia. He’s the one who helped me escape from the Rebel forces—I never would have came back to you in the first place if he hadn’t sprung me out of Paptimus’ dungeon.  If it wasn’t for him, I never would have gotten my chance to kill Paptimus. For that alone, I’d owe him my life. But even before that, ever since Scirocco, he’s been by my side every step of the way. _Every last step_. He’s fought beside me, bled beside me, saved my life, let me save his, over and over and over again.

 

“We’re brothers, Rosamia. Maybe not by blood—or hell, ever since that oath, in blood too. I _have_ to stick by him.

 

“I’m not lying when I tell you how badly I want to stay with you. You…to hell with it, I’ll just say it out loud. You’re beautiful, Rosamia. Looking at you now, your hair, your body…screw Aquleia, I could spend years with you in any corner of Elibe and not get bored of it as long as it was just the two of us, together, without war or violence or any of that. Just us. But Rosamia, even though you might have my heart, Renault has my _life_. No matter what happens, I can’t abandon him. Not even for you.”

 

She stared at him as if stricken. Braddock figured he ought to try and lighten things up. “Rosamia, think about it this way. I’m an honorable guy, right? Well, would an honorable guy just up and abandon his best friend? If I was the sort of man who could just leave Renault when he really needed it, you wouldn’t feel the way you do about me. Right?”

 

“I…I can’t deny that.” Rosamia allowed a small smile to creep across her face, though tears had begun to appear at the corner of her eyes.

 

“Besides, it’s not like I intend to leave you forever. It’s me and Renault versus one Black Knight. Those aren’t bad odds. After everything we’ve been through, we ought to be able to kill him easily! And once we’re done with Trunicht we’ll come right back, I swear!” He coughed and looked away, blushing again slightly. “I mean, uh…I’ve never been to Bern, but I figure there’s something there you might, um…like. Uh…mountain flowers or something?”

 

Rosamia couldn’t stifle a giggle at this, even in her emotional state. “Braddock, it’ll take weeks for you to get back. No flower would live that long.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. Well, I mean, you get my point, just a little somethi—“

 

“No.” She shook her head and looked straight at Braddock. “J…Just come back to me, Braddock. Please. I’ll wait for you, however long it takes. Just…just don’t leave me.”

 

The tears which had begun to appear were now streaming down her face. And in response, Braddock smiled, then, and it seemed gentler and sadder than any expression Rosamia had ever seen on his face before. He raised one hand and placed it softly on her cheek.

 

“I…Rosamia, you know me. I’m a mercenary. We can’t make promises like that. I…I respect you too much to lie to you.”

 

“B…Braddock…”

 

“But look, I can tell you this, and it’ll be true. Truest thing I’ve ever said. Rosamia, no matter what happens, no matter what my fate may be, I want you to know one thing:

 

“I’m glad I met you.”

 

With that, he bent down and kissed her on the lips. His eyes were closed, as if he had lost himself in his emotions for a moment. Rosamia’s eyes widened, but then closed as well, and she wrapped her arms around him and returned his kiss.

 

They didn’t know how long they stood like that, they didn’t care if any passersby were watching, and they almost didn’t care whether or not the boat left without them. “Almost” was the important word there, though. Gently and regretfully, Braddock broke away from the embrace, taking a step back as his beloved caught her breath, her green hair whipping in the cool sea breeze which had picked up. He offered her one last, sad, longing smile, and reached out a hand to stroke that hair.

 

Then, without another word, he turned and entered the transport caravel behind him.

 

Rosamia could do nothing but stand and watch as he disappeared into its depths. She could still do nothing as the ship lifted its anchor and began its journey to Bern. And for a long time, she could do nothing but watch the calm blue waves reflect the cheery light of the afternoon sun—a sight she desperately hoped she could share with Braddock again one day.

 

-x-x-x-

 

**_Rosamia, Loyal Maiden:_ ** _This woman was one of the most important members of the Autonomous Company, but not one of the most well-known. She left few records and no descendants to posterity. What is known of her life, gleaned from Caerleon’s records, is stated thusly: For several years she lived by Khyron’s side, helping him as an aide in his duties as both Mage General and count of Caerleon. When he left the mainland to serve in the conflicts on the Western Isles, Rosamia acted as steward of the realm, and her wisdom and judgment earned her the lasting affection of Caerleon’s citizens. Despite this, however, she never married. After the death of her parents, she begged Khyron for permission to retire, which he reluctantly granted. For reasons known only to herself, she abjured her position in Etrurian society. She turned her back on her status as a member of the Mage Corps and Khyron’s apprentice and abandoned the prestige of being such a high-ranked noble of Caerleon. Instead, she wrote to her old friend Apolli, living in Lycia at this time, and asked for permission to stay with him. He happily accepted. Thus, Rosamia would spend the rest of her days in peace with Apolli’s family. It seemed as if she had almost completely forgotten her storied past as a noble and soldier, for she lived contentedly as nothing more than housekeeper and nursemaid for his children. Well…’contentedly’ might not be the correct word. Right up to the day she died, it seemed as if she was waiting for someone. But that someone never came._

-X-X-X-

 

“So what’d she say?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Renault asked this to his friend as both of them stood on the top decks of the small transport caravel, looking up at the night sky above them as they both so loved to do. “Aw, nothin’,” said Braddock, a bashful smile on his face as he blushed slightly. Renault saw that, and just chuckled in response.

 

“Yeah, I bet. Well, whatever. You’ll have plenty of time to think about that stuff after Trunicht’s dead.”

 

“Heh, I hope so.”

 

“Hope? Hell, I know! Trunicht’s got nowhere to run, now. And once I get my hands on him he’ll wish the Church just killed ‘im instead of leaving him for me!”

 

The two men shared a laugh, Renault’s confidence rubbing off on Braddock. They continued to chat and joke with each other throughout the night, talking about how satisfying it would be to finally kill the slippery Rebel and what they’d do with his body.

 

They might have been much gloomier, though, if they were aware of the stowaway that was accompanying them on this trip.

 

Below them, in a dark corner of one of the storage rooms, completely unbeknownst to them—or the captain of the ship, or any of the other passengers—was crouched a small, dark shape. It seemed like a man—at least a man dressed in a concealing traveling cloak, of the same type the Autonomous Company was so fond of. The way he held himself was strange, stranger even than the fact he was hiding in storage. It seemed as if he had only one arm, the cloth of the cloak lying limply over the area where his left arm should have been.

 

And strangest of all was the one word he kept rasping to himself with his gravelly, hateful, corpse-cold voice:

 

_Maaaaaxxxiiiiiiiimmmm……_

-X-X-X-

****

**_Braddock, the Blue Comet:_ ** _Even less is known about him than Rosamia. Was he truly nothing more than a wandering Lycian mercenary? Years later, historians pondered whether or not this man, slayer of Garl Vinland and heir to his Basilikos, was actually Prince Maxim of Ostia, long presumed dead since the Lycian Civil War. All that would remain entirely in the realm of speculation, though. He was last seen on a ship heading to Bern, and after that, never again._

_And finally…_

****

**_Renault, the Impervious:_ ** _Even more than Braddock and Rosamia, this man is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most enigmatic member of the Autonomous Company. At the very least, historians agree on where the famous swordsman who fought in the First Etrurian Civil War was born. They all acknowledge him as the son of Bishop Monica of Thagaste. Beyond that, though, there are no clear answers, even among scholars who are actually interested in him—a very small group, seeing as to how he was only a single soldier in a war that involved thousands._

_And yet the questions which surround him remain almost unsolvable. How did he meet his end? A man matching his description was seen on a boat to Bern in 703 A.S. Yet the exact same man—apparently not having aged a day—was seen in another part of Bern fifty years later. Fifty years after that, a mercenary with a fine sword and strange chain-dagger was seen in Etruria. Another fifty years, and there are reports of him appearing in Ilia. In the 950s, accounts of the short-lived conspiracy in the Lycian canton of Caelin mention an unbeatable mercenary named Renault the Impervious. The last time his name appears is as a **bishop** associated with Eliwood’s army in 981, three hundred and four years after the mercenary who fought for Khyron was born._

_Who was Renault the Impervious? Were these other sightings merely cases of mistaken identity? Imposters? Or is it possible…_

_Read on, my friends, to find out._

 

 

**_::Wayward Son, Book I: Cast and Credits::_ **

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**_-x-General Thank-yous-x-_ **

 

Wayward Son is easily the longest, most in-depth project I have ever undertaken in my life. There is no way—NO WAY—I would have been able to do it without the support and love of multitudes of people. Some of these folks are my reviewers and subscribers, who I have tried to thank above. However, there are several general groups of people I absolutely must thank. You’ll see why I’m doing this as I go along.

 

First off, I have to give special mention to Chaos Hero Mark and Enilas, who read and beta’d several chapters of this story. Your help means so much to me, brothers. Thank you!

 

Secondly, I of course have to give a shoutout to all my dear friends at the Lil’ Circle of Reviewyness, Lemurian-Girl’s forums generally, and FireEmblemMewMew’s too. You guys are the best! Thank you for everything!

 

My old FESS friends. It’s been ages since I’ve been to FESS, and it’s not even active anymore, but a lot of my bros from there still keep in touch with me. Many of them have also given me their support for Wayward Son, even if it was too big to read in its entirety XD

 

The folks at FE Legends. It’s an FE site I was a part of for a while…and it’s gone, now. I don’t remember everyone there, and I haven’t seen any of ‘em in ages. But I had so many good times there, with Rella, Blankvoid, and the rest. My Wayward Son topic, frequented by folks like Thunder_Bolting and Cunonunda, was a success, just like it is at Serenes forest. So I give these people a shout-out, even though we haven’t and perhaps never will meet again.

 

The people of the Castlevania fandom. Jorgey and Diplo, Alis and Successor-sama…Thernz, Beingthehero, Seraphim Valmar, and Nightmare, and uzo, and Crisis, and Bloodreign, and Middy, and Redrum, and Jimmy…the list goes on (Don’t feel bad if I didn’t mention you, I just don’t have time to list EVERYBODY XD). Like so many of my other wonderful friends, they were always willing to give me advice and a sympathetic ear when I needed such, which was more than a little common in recent days. I’m so happy to be part of the Castlevania fandom, and you amazingly chill bros are a big reason for that. Even if you don’t read FE fanfiction, your support helped give me just enough strength to finish these hundreds of thousands of words. Thank you, thank you so much!!!

 

My brethren at /m/subs. Helping you is one of the things in my life I’m most proud of, along with Wayward Son. Even though you probably don’t even know I’m writing this…XD

 

My Vindictus guild: Heaven and Earth. I haven’t been able to play much since I’m busy with so much IRL work, but suffice it to say that my brethren over there have been one of the most constant and reliable sources of strength for me ever since I joined. Whenever I needed a sympathetic ear or just someone to talk to, they were there. More than that, they were as enthusiastic about my fic as anybody! Absolem, TheMerchant, and many others gave anonymous reviews for Wayward Son and my other FE fics. For your lasting support and friendship, brothers and sisters, I thank you.

 

Then there’s my friends T.S, D.B., F.P, F.F, and all the others at my very favorite forum, a certain land where we made an exodus from our servants…so to speak ;) It’s a bit of a “secret” place in that the proprietor doesn’t want too many people coming in (it’s nice and quiet), so I can’t say too much, but I can at least say that the friendship and support of everyone there, especially T.S., has meant more to me than I could possibly convey in these small credits. Not only has T.S’s valuable insights added hugely to the quality of Wayward Son (even if he hasn’t read it XD), he was always willing to give me advice and a sympathetic ear, even when I found myself in hot water, offline and on.  For everything he and the other bros over there have done for me, and this fic, they have my sincerest gratitude.

 

There are also my innumerable friends on Livejournal. Burning Phoneix, my beloved friend Ryuli, Mel Makoro, Kyuusei, Jisei Template, Cancerbike, Lensterknight, and all of the other 158 people on my friendslist have contributed—no matter how inadvertently XD—to the successful completion of the first half of Wayward Son. Whether it’s by showing their interest in the story, like Burning Phoenix, cheering on my anime-watching efforts, like Tibby-sama (Lensterknight), or giving me advice and picking me up when I was down (like Kyuusei, Neonclover, Mel_Makoro, Pukingtoreador, and so many others), they’ve all helped, in their own ways, no matter how small, to push this project just a teensy bit closer to completion. Once again, even if they don’t read it XD I can only ask and pray that all of you will continue to support me. Thank you, thank you so much!

 

Finally, there’s one more group of people I have to thank. And I suspect they may be the largest…though the hardest to pin down XD

 

You see, I like checking the traffic stats for my stories. And every time I click on Wayward Son’s, I notice hundreds—not dozens, but hundreds—of readers popping in every month. September, had **649 hits** and **247 visitors**. The month before that had **287** visitors, and the month before that, **237**. Even more amazing in the sheer cosmopolitan distribution of these silent readers…my friends, as far as I’m concerned. Most of my hits come from America and Canada, but I’ve seen folks come in from France, German, Switzerland, Malaysia, Singapore, Viet Nam, Indonesia, the Philippines, Australia, New Zealand and Saudi Arabia (I think that’s Burning Phoneix, though XD), and even places like the Aland Islands, among many more. I don’t have time to list all of them, so I’ll just say this: To every single person who’s read Wayward Son—even if you didn’t leave a review, or fave/alert—thank you. You may be invisible, but just knowing I have your support—especially when it comes from all over the world—makes me so happy. Indeed, that’s how I’ll end these credits. To every reviewer, to every subscriber, to every faver, to every single person I’ve named above, to every single person I’ve undoubtedly forgotten, to every single person who’s been supporting me as an invisible lurker or reader:

 

Thank you!

 

**Thank you!**

**THANK YOU!!!!**

 

 

 


	40. Finale of Wayward Son, Book I - The Church By The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Braddock have managed to track down Trunicht, hiding in the remote monastery of Par Massino at the very edge of Bern. However, he is not defenseless, and more than that, his pursuers have been pursued as well. The first half of Wayward Son ends with what its protagonist has seen all too much of already--Death.

**_Wayward Son, Book I_ **

****

**_Final Chapter_ **

****

**_The Church by the Sea_ **

 

 

 

 

 

In all his life, Renault never thought he’d set foot in Bern. And yet here he was, with Braddock at his side.

 

The long, winding journey had not been easy. It had taken nearly three months, much of which had been spent on a boat. First, the caravel they had managed to find in Aquleia headed south, down the small river called the Alfen which led into the Argos Mountains. The mountains separated Lycia and Etruria, while the river demarcated both countries from the wasteland of Nabata. After debarking at the small yet busy town at the end of the river, Renault and his companion spent a few days marching to their next stop—a small harbor town on the western edge of Lycia. There, they’d taken another boat which traveled northeast up the coast until it entered the longest river in Elibe, even longer than the Tiber of Renault’s Etrurian homeland. It was called the River Hartmar, after Bern’s champion, the greatest of the Eight Heroes. It wound up north through Lycia, then east through the Taliver Mountains which separated Bern and Sacae, and continued through Bern’s interior before finally terminating into the ocean on the eastern coast.

 

At that point, their boat would take them no further, forcing them to disembark and walk to their final destination. Thus, at the moment Renault and Braddock were standing on the hard ground of the Bernese port town called Grimley. They were both very happy to have finally gotten off the boat—though neither of them were given to seasickness, thankfully, spending so much time on seas and rivers would have been taxing on anyone who wasn’t an experienced sailor.

 

“Damn! This feels wonderful,” laughed Braddock jovially and sincerely. “Thought I’d be out on the water forever!”

 

“Does a man good to have the earth beneath his feet again,” agreed Renault. “Now, come on, let’s find a place to rest before we freeze out here!”

 

This wasn’t said entirely in jest. It was a cloudy, snowy afternoon on the fourteenth day of the first month of the year, the Sun. The Scouring had ended 704 years ago, but neither Braddock nor Renault had time to occupy themselves with that bit of history—they were too busy trying to stay warm. Though the two men were both clad in thick, warm traveling cloaks, the chill in the air still penetrated their flesh. Neither of them was a stranger to cold weather; winters in Etruria and Lycia could get quite harsh, and the plains of Sacae were chilling at this time of the year. Bernese winters, though, were something else. The country’s huge mountains sheltered large portions of the land from warmer winds coming from the western portions of Elibe, resulting in Bern’s eastern coast subjected to winter weather almost (though not quite) as bad as Ilia’s.

 

Thus, they were both very eager to find a warm place to rest before the night and its cold set in. Grimley certainly wasn’t as massive as Aquleia, but its position at the mouth of Elibe’s largest river meant it wasn’t much less busy than Elibe. Around Braddock and Renault was a bustling crowd—the other passengers on their little caravel had exited as well, and all along the many piers of the large dock other boats were discharging or accepting masses of their own travelers. This was just fine as far as the two mercenaries were concerned; they didn’t want to stand out and the crowd made it harder to do that—even the massive Basilikos strapped to Braddock’s back wouldn’t be too conspicuous among the other weapons carried by some of the other soldiers and mercenaries within the crowd.

 

Dragging the trunks which contained their suits of armor behind them, Braddock and Renault set out from the docks to find a decent inn nearby. Given how long it had taken them to get here, Renault understandably wanted to get to their last stop as soon as possible, since he was afraid of their quarry escaping. However, since it was Trunicht he was hunting, Renault also knew that it would be a very bad idea to head for a confrontation without being fully prepared and well-rested.

 

Thus, he and his friend made their way purposefully through Grimley’s streets—but not so quickly that Renault couldn’t take in a bit of the architecture he was so interested in. At first glance, Grimley didn’t seem to be much different from a town of comparable size in Etruria. Both Bern and Etruria were the wealthiest and most developed countries on Elibe, so Renault hadn’t been expecting any Bernese settlement to be as primitive as, say, a Sacaen one. This place had stone buildings, a large castle for the lord of the city, and well-maintained paved roads, just like Thagaste. The Bernese, however, seemed to have a distinctly different aesthetic sense than the Etrurians. The roads themselves weren’t as curved or winding as many were in Aquleia or Thagaste—rather, they seemed to crisscross each other to form almost perfect right angles, meaning that the city was organized as a series of very neat but uninteresting box-like zones.  Similarly, the buildings seemed very sturdy and well-constructed, but with very little visual flair or even distinctiveness. Virtually none of them were made of wood or even had wooden components; probably due to fear of fire and the fact that Bern’s mountains had so many quarries from which good stone could be easily mined. They were not ugly—though they tended to be a little squat, they were not so different in shape from Etrurian or Lycian buildings, and Renault noticed their roofs did have some appealing red and blue shingling—but nearly all of them looked almost exactly alike; the only way to easily tell a home from a blacksmith or shop was looking at the sign above the door. Some important buildings may have been larger, but that was about it—there were no leering gargoyles, fanciful statues, ornate gildings, or tall marble colonnades for Renault to enjoy in this town. This applied even to the churches. Bern was indeed a religious nation, almost as religious as Etruria, a fact Renault noted with distaste. There were about as many houses of worship here as there were in Thagaste, though of course there was no great cathedral like Zodian’s Rest. The churches they passed by, however, could be distinguished only by the fact that they were larger than shops and residences and topped by bell towers rather than chimneys. They had no wonderful stained-glass windows or other architectural features which, for Renault, would have made up for what he saw as their worthless religious purpose.

 

All this seemed to verify Bern’s reputation as not only a proud, militaristic nation but a very practical one as well. As could be expected, Renault found his Etrurian sensibilities disappointed, but Braddock’s Ostian tastes were well-pleased. “How can anybody live in a place like this?” The Mercenary Lord grumbled. “Just a giant eyesore as far as the eye can see!”

 

“That’s a good thing in a way, right, Renault?” said Braddock good-naturedly, attempting as he usually did to deflect his friend’s Etrurian chauvinism. “We won’t have to worry about any buildings crashing down over our heads while we’re here, at least!”

 

“Yeah, well, maybe if Bernese architecture wasn’t so boring, these people would find better things to do than gettin’ involved with wars in other countries,” came Renault’s dark reply. At this, Braddock couldn’t really bring himself to rebuke his friend—after everything they’d experienced, he couldn’t blame Renault for being more than a little antagonistic towards Bern. Not only were Bern and Etruria traditional rivals, but Bern’s meddling, in the form of the giant Barbarossa along with Vyrleena’s support for Paptimus’ rebellion, had caused them a great deal of trouble personally.

 

Still, they couldn’t let that get in the way of their mission. “I think that place looks good,” said Braddock, pointing towards a larger, three-story building which had a sign above the door that read, “The Laughing Lancer.” They quickly made their way inside, glad to receive at least a bit of respite from the cold, and entered a clean but fairly crowded tavern. They pushed their way through the servers and customers until they reached the bar’s counter, where a short, fat, balding man they assumed to be the proprietor of the establishment was busy setting out mugs of Bernese beer for his patrons.

 

“Hey!” said Braddock, walking up and knocking on the counter to get his attention. “Sir, you got a room we could spend the night?”

 

“Eh?” The man turned around, sizing up the two men suspiciously. “Don’t look like you’re from around here. Whaddya want?”

 

“Like I said, we’re lookin’ for a room.”

 

“Watcha carryin’? And why’s that axe on yer back so big?”

 

“Look,” growled Renault, “If you’re just gonna interrogate us, we can find another place to stay.”

 

“Whoah, hey now, not so fast, boyo! I got a room for ya. Lucky for you, it’s my last one. But I jus’ wanna make sure you cause no trouble, ay?”

 

“We won’t, believe us.” Braddock looked at Renault, and that was enough to soothe the man’s anger for a moment—he could tell from the expression on the Ostian’s face that he had a plan.

 

“We’re…uh, pilgrims,actually,” said Braddock. “Roads are dangerous these days, that’s why we’re so heavily armed. Can’t do God’s work when we’re dead, right?”

 

“Oh!” The man’s face lit up. “Oh, I understand! S’ry for doubtin’ you. Always a pleasure to help a fellow servant of Elimine! So where’re you headed?”

 

“We’re looking for a holy man named Grigorius. I was wondering, might you know where to find him?”

 

“Course I do!” the man beamed. “Why, he’s only the greatest exorcist on Elibe! He really, _really_ loves his privacy, though. Even though he’s famous round these parts, not too many people come visit him. He’s set up in a pretty isolated area, and tries to keep folks away as much as he can. Gettin’ to him won’t be easy!”

 

“Is it possible?”

 

“Think so. It’s about a week’s ride south. I c’n help set you up with some fine horses if you like. Grigorius is holed up in the Monastery of Par Massino, squashed right between some nasty mountains and a jagged, stormy coast. That’s why th’ ship wouldn’t bring ya right to it—in that area, boats would just get torn up on the big rocks by the shore! There also isn’t a proper road leadin’ up to it, so you might wanna get a guide, too. I can set you up with one, too!”

 

“Damn, thanks. You’re a helpful one.”

 

“Aye, well, a servant of Elimine does what he can.” He grinned at the two men. “’Course, we all need help doin what we can, right? It’ll be a hunnerd gold for a room, but if you want all that other stuff…five hunnerd f’r each of ya might be nice.”

 

“Five hun—“ Braddock began incredulously, but Renault cut him off. Both of them had, after all, been compensated most generously for their work in the Civil War. He simply withdrew from his money pouch two large gold coins worth five hundred each.

 

“Here,” he said. “Your room, guide and your horses better be good, old man.”

 

“Thank y kind--” the man said, then stopped when he examined the coins, peering at them suspiciously. They were Etrurian gold, stamped with the likeness of the ancient king Tages. “I’ve seen these b’fore. Y’ain’t Etrurian, are ye? We don’t take kindly to you haughty dogs around here, I’ll warn ye.”

 

Renault bristled at the insult, but once again Braddock saved him. “Hey, geezer, look at me. All Ostian here, not a drop of Etrurian blood in me. We’ve just been traveling all over Elibe, and our last stop was in Etruria. Lot of holy people we have to meet, right? Pilgrims like us keep busy.”

 

“Ah, yes, yes, I got it! So you’re Lycians?” The man’s hostility disappeared, replaced with open contempt. “I c’n see why you’d wanna come to Bern, then. Nothin’ worth seeing in your own country! Now, lemme tell you, you guys are like Bern’s little brothers. If you just let us lead you, you’d be a lot better off than you are now!”

 

“Whatever you say, boss. So where’s our room?”

 

“Second floor, last door on the right.”

 

“Thanks. Let’s go, Renault!”

 

The two men proceeded to grab their luggage and haul it up the stairs to the second floor, right to their decently-furnished (a warm room with two large beds and a drawer) lodgings.

 

“Phew!” Braddock exclaimed. “Gonna be nice to sleep on a bed that doesn’t move, too. Our journey’s almost over, man!” As he sat down on his bed, he reached into his cloak and pulled out one of his treasures. “I have to admit, I’m looking forward to meeting Grigorius. I can’t _wait_ to get rid of this!”

 

Renault nodded as he looked at what Braddock was holding. It was the Gespenst tome he’d taken from Paptimus, distinctive among his other spoils of war from that great battle. He knew full well how dangerous the spellbook was, so when he heard that they were heading to a monastery led by a famous exorcist, he figured the monks there would be able to seal it away or at least render it harmless some way or another.

 

“Yeah, that book creeps me out too. I can’t wait to get rid of it either. I also can’t wait ‘till I’m outta this country,” Renault grumbled as Braddock put the sinister tome away. “I knew the Bernese had a reputation for being imperialistic and xenophobic, but…”

 

“Well, it could always be worse. I mean, I’m here to take care of you, right? After how I managed to play the innkeeper, I don’t think these Bernites will be much of a problem for the two of us together.”

 

Renault grinned. “Damn straight! And neither will Trunicht. We’ll get the guide and his horses early next morning, and then it’ll be just a few days before that son of a bitch is _dead!”_

 

“Y…yeah.” At this, Braddock’s gaze darkened somewhat. “Well, we have to be careful. Trunicht’s a real slippery bastard. I think we’ll have to make our entrance into the monastery pretty stealthily, to avoid alerting him…if he’s even still there.”

 

“You’re exactly right.”

 

“And…well…if he’s not there…”

 

“Then we’ll keep looking!” Renault’s face contorted with anger. “I’m not stopping until I’ve torn that piece of trash limb from limb! I don’t care if I have to traverse this continent three times over! Until Kelitha can rest in peace, I’m not giving up!”

 

“R-right! I know, Renault, I was just saying…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Renault sighed. “Sorry for getting’ angry. I’ll be better once this is all over with.” He smiled at his friend. “Braddock, I…”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Thanks, man. You’ve always been looking out for me, ever since Scirocco, but…even after the war ended, you’re still standin’ by me. I’m sure Kelitha, and everyone else Trunicht has hurt, would be grateful, but me…I’m just really thankful to have a friend like you.”

 

“Heh.” Braddock smiled back. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve stood by me every bit as much, you know? Best friend I ever had. As long as I live, I’ll never forget what you did for me back at Nerinheit. I was able to get revenge…hell, I was able to live only because of you. I gotta pay you back, eh?” He blushed slightly. “Besides, even in and of itself…with you, I’ve been able to see so many things I never even imagined when I was younger. I never thought I’d be in Bern either. With you, I’ve seen a lot more of the world besides just Lycia. Sacae, Etruria, Bern, even a little bit of Nabata when we got off that first boat from Aquleia. That kind of experience does a man good, I think.”

 

His blush grew a bit deeper. “And even more than that…I mean, don’t get me wrong, I miss our friends, and I really want to see Rosamia again, but…this journey…it’s been good for me. When you think about it, this is the first time it’s been just the two of us together.  And honestly, I haven’t felt as good in a long, long time. Sure, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a sailor, but with you…it’s been great. I honestly don’t think I can imagine life without you, now.” He laughed. “Sorry, maybe I’m too sentimental. I guess I must sound pretty weird, huh?”

 

Renault shook his head. “No way, bud. I feel exactly the same.”

 

He was telling the unvarnished truth. Though the two of them had been together for years, never before had it been _just_ the two of them. First they had accompanied Tassar, then the Rebels, then Khyron’s Autonomous Company. And even though Renault had a soft spot for everyone of the Company (of course, it’d be difficult to get him to admit that), for the first time his only real companion was his best friend.

 

And this journey had proved that wasn’t a problem at all. He and Braddock had celebrated his 26th birthday together on the boat from Aquleia—and even though it wasn’t much of a celebration, Braddock had made it fun, regaling him with wild stories about his youth in Lycia. Indeed, the two men talked to each other about their lives and experiences almost constantly. They’d spent many nights on the deck of their boat, gazing up at the clear, starry sky of the sea and commiserating with each other over the people they’d lost—Pamela, Keith, Kelitha, and others. When they made landfall, their days were spent commenting on the terrain they encountered, with Renault sharing what little he knew of Nabata, and Braddock telling Renault more about Lycia. When they arrived at that Lycian port town and got on a boat sailing up the River Hartmar, they laughed and joked about all their old friends of the Company—Braddock lamenting how they hadn’t had a chance to see if Lisse and Apolli had reached Lycia safely, Renault pondering what Khyron was doing with himself now that the war was over, and both of them poking fun at the doddering King Galahad and his mistress.

 

Thus, the Ostian’s words made Renault realize how much he shared the sentiment—he truly couldn’t imagine what life would be like if the two of them were not together. No-one else on Elibe had gone through what he had, no-one else understood as much about him, no-one else could talk to him like Braddock did, and no-one shared the connection they had, forged on and off the battlefield, of two men who had been through everything any war could throw at them and who still emerged triumphant because of their trust in one another.

 

“I’m glad to hear that.” Braddock’s smile grew wider, but then disappeared entirely. “But that reminds me…Renault…when this is all over…when Trunicht’s dead…what’re you gonna do?”

 

Renault blinked, almost uncomprehendingly. “W…huh?”

 

“I mean, if we can’t catch him, then we’ll have to keep looking for him, but…what if we do find him and kill him? What then?”

 

“What do you mean, ‘what then?’”

 

“Come on, Renault. Your life’s not over. You’re only 27, right? You’re gonna have to think of what you’ll do after Trunicht is dead, won’t you?”

 

“I…” Renault fell into silence. He hadn’t given that question any thought.

 

“You think you’re gonna keep being a mercenary?”

 

“Hm?” Renault was quiet for another moment more, then nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. I mean, this is really the only thing I’m good at. What else am I gonna do?”

 

At this, Braddock looked…not hurt, but a little sad. “You really think so?”

 

“Yeah. Why? You thinkin’ of retiring?”

 

“Honestly?” Braddock scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. Renault, I’ve been traveling around Elibe for years, now, fighting, killing, and risking being killed. It…it’s a living, but it’s not something I even wanted to do in the first place. I’m just…tired of violence, Renault. I want to try something different for a change.”

 

“Like what, bud?” Renault sat up on his bed. “What else can you do? What else can _we_ do?  Being mercenaries is the only thing we know. It’s the only thing we’re good at?”

 

“Is that all we are? Maybe I’m just sentimental, but as long as you’re alive, there’s hope for change, no matter what. I’ll admit I might not be the brightest guy on Elibe,” and both of them chuckled at this self-deprecating joke, “but at least I’m strong, and at least I learn quickly. That ought to be good for something, right? Surely someone out there has some use for my skills that doesn’t involve killin’ people.”

 

“You thinking of anyone in particular?”

 

Braddock blushed, very brightly this time. “Well…Rosamia. Maybe she’d find something for me to do, huh?”

 

Renault couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Hah! Yeah, I thought so.” His mirth quickly disappeared, though. “But then what does that mean? We gonna part ways after this?”

 

“Well…” Braddock looked at him bashfully, yet hopefully. “She doesn’t mind you either. I mean, if things between us don’t work out, then sure, it’s back to being a mercenary with me. But if I do manage to settle down with Rosamia…well, Renault, you’re a smart guy. Even smarter than I am. If I can find a path off the battlefield, so can you. You used to be an architect, right? Why not pick that up again?”

 

“After all this time? The battlefield’s the only place I ever really felt at home. My hands are more used to holding a sword than a stoneworker’s tools.”

 

“Can’t you try? At least for me, Renault? After living through the Civil War together…maybe givin’ peace a try can be our next adventure, huh?”

 

“Braddock…” Renault stared at his friend with an unreadable expression on his face, saying nothing for several moments. Then, at last, he sighed and exclaimed, “All right, all right, you win. The only reason I even became a mercenary in the first place is so I could stay close to you. I guess it makes sense to leave the business because of it.”

 

“R-really?” Braddock made no secret of his elation. “Renault, that’s great! I—“

 

“But not before Trunicht’s dead!” added Renault vehemently, his face again contorted with anger. His hatred for Trunicht still burned as brightly as it ever did, after all. During the trip, every time Braddock brought up the subject of Kelitha or the war, Renault was reminded of how much that slimy Dark Knight had taken away from him—manipulating him into serving the rebels, framing him for what happened at Elram’s Citadel, and murdering his comrade right in front of his eyes. With Trunicht so close to their grasp, he definitely wasn’t going to lose sight of him now.

 

“I understand, I understand, Renault. Remember, I want revenge on that guy too. Keith and Kelitha were my friends, and Trunicht was one of Paptimus’ close associates.” The good cheer on Braddock’s face had been replaced with a bit of anger. “I’m sure he probably helped murder Pamela, given how much they worked together over the years. I can’t rest either—he has to pay for his crimes.”

 

“Looks like we’re in perfect agreement,” said Renault, smiling in triumph.

 

“Yeah. So before we go hunting for Trunicht, how about we rest ourselves up? From what the innkeeper said, it’ll be a few days before we get to that monastery. Let’s get something to eat and then stock up on vulneraries and extra weapons if we need ‘em.”

 

“Sounds like a plan, my friend!”

 

With a jovial clap on each others’ shoulders, the two men got up and headed back downstairs, ready to order a meal in the tavern—Bernese cuisine was something they’d never tried before, after all.

 

Both of them were as happy as they’d been in months. They were confident Trunicht’s days were very close to an end, and even if he couldn’t be found, it just meant they’d have to continue on a journey together they both enjoyed.

 

 

 

 

They had no idea of what was in store for them.

 

 

 

 

As they descended the stairs down to the tavern proper, they caught sight of a man in drab traveler’s cloak making an exit. They paid him no mind, of course—there were many similarly-dressed wanderers here, after all. What they didn’t notice, however, was that man had followed them to the tavern—had followed them off the boat—and indeed, had been trailing them every step of the way from Aquleia to Bern. It was indeed a testament to his skills that they had not detected him.

 

Considering that he had once been one of the most feared assassins on the face of Elibe, this was no surprise.

 

Of course, he would never regain that reputation now—the stump where his left arm had been was proof of that, thanks to Renault. However, driven by his own sense of pride and his obsession with the two men, he hadn’t given up yet.

 

He could feel it calling out to him—the artifact resting within the catacombs of the monastery of Par Massino. It knew what he wanted, and it knew how to give it to him.

 

The assassin had slipped into the Laughing Lancer behind the two men, inconspicuous and unassuming, seeming as though he was no more than another patron. He bought nothing—simply skulked around the back, blending in with the tavern’s rowdy crowd, but just close enough to Renault and Braddock to overhear their conversation with the inn’s owner.

 

When they mentioned going to see Grigorius, that was all the confirmation he needed.

 

He didn’t need a guide to reach Par Massino. It would be easy for him to get there some time before they did. And when Renault and Braddock arrived, he would be waiting for them.

 

-X-

 

“Ah, Abbot Grigorius. What a fine day it is today! May I help you with anything?”

 

The holy man looked away from the bookshelf in front of him and gave his caller the coldest, most disdainful look he could muster. The pale-skinned man with the wan lips and sinister eyes acted as if he didn’t notice, allowing only the tiniest hint of a smirk to creep on his face. This was what he usually did, and it infuriated Grigorius even more.

 

“No, no, not at all. Leave us immediately,” the abbot instructed. With another slight smirk, the man bowed—a gesture which was clearly insincere—turned, and made his way to the exit of Par Massino’s library. Even the shuffling of his initiate’s robes irritated Grigorius—those robes were humble, but indicative of true faith, which meant their monastery’s newest brother was utterly unworthy to wear them.

 

“Abbot, are you sure?” asked his friend, the apothecary Polfrey. “We could really use the help…it’ll take hours to organize all these books! I have my own work to do, after all…”

 

“I am quite sure,” replied Grigorius, and smiled a bit wryly. “No-one is sick, so you surely cannot be too busy, yes? I would much prefer your assistance than anyone else’s, especially Trenard’s. The less I see of that man, the better.”

 

Polfrey nodded. “I understand, Abbot. I share your feelings as well.” He looked down. “Even though I am no longer an initiate perhaps I am still not as morally strong as the blessed Saint expected us to be. Still, I cannot help but question what would bring a man like…like…”Brother” Trenard to the monastic life. He doesn’t believe a word of the Saint’s teachings, he merely acts like he does! Whenever he thinks we’re not looking he mocks us and our beliefs! It is disgusting, my friend! Ever since he arrived, food has been disappearing from our stores, but we have never been able to catch him, no matter how satisfied he looks each morning! Ever since he has been living here, a bit of gold from the almshouse disappears every night! I have not heard him pray, or even do any constructive work, a single time for as long as we have known him! Any time he is not whiling away in idleness and dissipation, he spends time in this library…reading _only_ your books on dark spells and cursed magics! A-and that’s not all! Do you know what he does, late at night, in the very room we were commanded to give him! He—“

 

“I have heard. There’s no need to say it.” Grigorius cut off his companion with an utterly disgusted look on his face. “Brother Trenard is apparently much given to the sin of lust. Many men struggle with it, but few are unable to keep their hands away from themselves almost every night.”

 

“And what of that _thing_ he brought with him, Abbot? That accursed armor? He says it would only be safe in our hands, but he’s lying! He wants to use it, that evil, vile—“

 

“I agree, Polfrey. His motives are not pure.”

 

“I knew you would understand, brother! So then why must we endure his presence? We must seek everyone’s salvation, but he puts the spiritual well-being of all of us at risk! Why can we not simply eject him from our communion?”

 

“Because His Holiness Gosterro wills it!” snapped Grigorius in irritation. “I would recognize his handwriting anywhere, and the letter this…”Trenard” brought was certainly signed by him. The Archbishop explicitly told us we were to welcome this man into our midst, accommodate him to the best of our abilities, and especially _protect_ him as best we can. Refusing his demand would be the same as denying his authority, which would be tantamount to heresy!”

 

“But, holy Grigorius, you are the Master of this monastery! Surely—“

 

“I am an abbot, nothing more. Remember that we of the Order of Valdine, we who follow his Rule, are not independent, unlike our brothers of Nessarion and sisters of Cythea. We are beholden to the Supreme Church, and as Archbishop Gosterro is at the top of that Church, we are beholden to him. He has given us this order, and we must obey it.”

 

“Or else what happened to His Excellency Le-Cain might happen to us as well?”

 

Grigorius’ eye twitched. “Enough of this. Let us return to our duties. While I am grateful that anonymous donor has gifted us with such a fine collection of theological tomes, he brought them here with no organization—it is a task we will have to perform ourselves.” He gestured to a small pile of books on a table near the bookshelf. “Polfrey, I believe those are exegeses of the first three Testaments of the _Journey_. You know where they should go, yes?”

 

“I believe so. Any treatise of the first parts on the Good Book should be on the second floor, right?”

 

“Exactly. Please take them up now.”

 

Polfrey smiled. “You owe me for this, you know!”

 

Laughing at the man’s joke and feeling a bit better, Grigorius watched the skilled apothecary—and his best personal friend in the monastery—pad to the entrance to the stairwell, the pile of books balanced perfectly in his dexterous arms. The abbot proceeded to turn back to the still larger pile nearby which needed to be organized—he already had all the volumes of the great _History of Bern_ , but it never hurt to have spare copies, and there were also several scrolls he had never seen before; several missives from a Lycian bishop on the virtues of fasting seemed like they would be worthy reading, but for some reason they had been packed hastily in between the pages of the _History_ , meaning it would take some time for him to extricate all of them without damaging any.

 

Thus, he was able to distract himself satisfactorily for quite a while, but the conversation with Polfrey left a series of nagging doubts in Grigorius’ head that refused to go away. More and more, he was convinced that there was something very wrong with “Brother” Trenard, and that the monastery—perhaps even Elibe as a whole—would be better off without his presence. But above all, he was growing more and more certain that this Trenard would be the cause of a great deal of trouble for him and the other brothers of Par Massino.

 

He had no idea of how quickly he would be proved exactly right.

 

-X-

 

“We’re almost there, lads! The Monastery of Par Massino is just about a half hour away!”

 

“I can tell,” replied Renault, looking at where his guide was pointing.

 

As much as he hated the innkeeper’s greed, he had to admit that springing for horses and a guide had definitely been a good investment. He and Braddock probably couldn’t have reached the monastery otherwise. Though Bern had a relatively good system of roads and transportation, those leading up to the mountains near the eastern coast seemed to be in a particular state of disrepair. Given both Grigorius’ fame and his extreme desire for isolation, Renault had to wonder whether this was intentional.

 

Of course, getting across the roads themselves wouldn’t have been very difficult, even if they weren’t in the best condition. Reaching the mountain, though…that was where the guide really came in handy. Even an experienced mercenary like Renault hadn’t been through anything like the great crags of Bern—the Argos Mountains had nothing on these. The single winding road through this range was quite perilous, and without the guide to keep them on the right track, it was entirely possible they might have fallen to their deaths several times. The mountains were giant, grey spears of rock piercing into the clear blue skies, and the trail to Par Massino was little more than a small thread winding around one of those great spears with a few battered, rotten wooden signposts guiding the way. These mountains were situated right next to Bern’s coastline, which meant that at times, losing their balance would have sent them straight into the ocean.

 

There guide was there to make sure that didn’t happen. Early the very next morning after they had purchased their rooms at the Laughing Lancer, they asked the innkeeper to introduce them to the guide they had paid for, which he was too happy to do. A short walk to a nearby mercenary guild introduced them to a man they knew only as a guide—he hadn’t given his name and they hadn’t asked. He didn’t seem to be sinister or suspicious—he was a dull orange-haired man of average height and weight who nevertheless kept a perpetually cheerful expression on his weathered face. All they knew about him was that he was apparently a devout Eliminean, since when they had first met him, he had exclaimed, “Ah! An opportunity to aid more pilgrims along the Blessed Path! Never shirk from an opportunity to share the wisdom of Abbot Grigorius. Come along, my friends!”

 

Renault may not have respected the man’s faith, but he certainly respected his knowledge. The guide seemed to know exactly which areas of the path were most dangerous, which areas were safe, when they should stop to avoid particularly bad weather (winter was not a good time to travel in the mountains) and many caves and outcroppings in which they could take shelter to avoid snowfalls (or even worse, avalanches, though thankfully they hadn’t experienced any of those yet).

 

Despite how dangerous the trek was, though, neither Renault nor Braddock could keep from admiring the natural beauty of the environment. Renault had always preferred the splendor of man-made architecture, but one thing he’d learned from traveling with Braddock was that nature had its own glory. The sight of the largest of Bern’s peaks—giant blue-grey spikes topped with white and surrounded by a halo of clouds—gave Renault a sense of awe as great as that provided by the largest of Etruria’s castles and cathedrals. He could do without the sounds, though. Every day, particularly during the mornings and evenings, came the loud roars of wild Bernese wyverns. Though the guide assured him and Braddock that the animals were harmless to humans at lower altitudes (They rarely ventured far from the mountain’s peaks, and when they did it was usually to pilfer livestock, not attack humans. Only those going higher on the mountains had much to worry about), the sound of those roars was enough to remind Renault of all the Wyvern Knights he’d fought against during the war.

 

Not enough to dissuade him from his course, obviously. The three of them were resting in a small alcove about a third of the way up the mountain—Par Massino was situated about halfway on it. They could see the monastery from here—even though it was difficult through the fog and (thankfully) light snow, it was clear that there was the distinctive shape of spires and belltowers in the distance above them. This gave Renault and Braddock much-needed encouragement—the monastery itself seemed to be situated perilously on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and the waters here seemed to be singularly nasty. Renault fully understood why ships were unwilling to take travelers to Par Massino.

 

“Alright, well, we’d better get ready,” said Braddock pointedly. Renault nodded, and together, the two went over to the trunks they had lugged all the way up the mountain with them. Opening the chests, they both began to take out their suits of enchanted armor. Knowing Trunicht, they would almost certainly need it.

 

This, however, was not what the guide was expecting. “W-wait, what are you doing?” he asked. “I thought that armor was a donation to the monastery! And that book of black magic,” he gestured to the Gespenst tome chained to Braddock’s belt, “D…did you not want to bring it to Grigorius for destruction?”

 

“The tome? You’re right about that,” said Braddock. “But…um…about the armor, well, uh…what if we run into trouble along the way? Best to be prepared, right?”

 

“This close to the monastery? If there were bandits about we’d have been set upon by now.” He glared at the two men suspiciously. “Just what are you—“

 

“Alright, enough!” snapped Renault. “Guess what? You’re right. We’re not pilgrims. We have our own reasons for going to Par Massino. Those reasons are our own. Now, if you don’t want to end up splattered on the rocks below us, stop asking questions!”

 

The guide was now both angry and frightened—but to his credit, he wouldn’t stand down. “No! I can’t allow this, you villains!” Swifter than Renault and Braddock expected, he reached to his belt and produced a small knife. “I won’t allow you to hurt Master Grigorius or the other followers of Elimine! Even if it means my life, I’ll stop you!”

 

“Yeah, well—“ Renault started, but Braddock immediately cut him off, slamming a fist into his shoulder.

 

“Renault, stop it! Trunicht’s your enemy, not the monks or our guide! There’s no need for this! Don’t waste your energy on hurtin’ people you don’t have to when our real quarry’s this close!” He turned back to the guide, who still looked angry and confused. “Look, sir, I’m sorry about this. The truth is, we misled you. We’re not pilgrims. We have a mission at the monastery, but it’s not a holy one. It’s important though. Now, I can’t tell you any more than that, but I can say this. We mean NO harm to Grigorius, or the believers, or any innocent people. We don’t want to steal anything from the monastery either. Once we find what we’re looking for, we’ll be right out of Grigorius’ business, and I think he’ll be better off for it, too.”

 

The guide didn’t look convinced, but he was looking at the very large axe strapped to Braddock’s back, and had to admit he didn’t have the faintest chance of keeping either of these two men from reaching the monastery. Even so, he still found the nerve to interrogate Braddock further. “W…what assurance do I have that you’ll cause them no trouble?”

 

“On my honor as a Lycian, on the honor of the House of Ostia, I swear that we mean Grigorius and his monks no harm.”

 

“We’re not interested in ‘em, and the monastery doesn’t have anything we want,” growled Renault. “Braddock’s right. There’s no point in wasting time on them or you. If you really think we’re up to no good, then just leave us here to make our own way up the rest of the distance to Par Massino. That’s all we ask. Just leave us alone and get out of here. You do that, and nobody gets hurt.”

 

“I…I…” The guide looked at both of them, and then looked away, soundly defeated. “D-don’t think you’ll get away with this! I-I’ll tell all of Bern! If you hurt Grigorius, you’ll never escape your punishment!”

 

With that, he turned and bolted out of the small alcove in the side of the mountain, dashing back down before Renault and Braddock could do anything.

 

“That could’ve gone better,” lamented the Ostian.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Renault, and his voice was heavy with anticipation—just from his breathing, it was easy to tell how desperately he wanted to get his hands on Trunicht. “Now, let’s get back to getting ready! I wanna be there before night falls!”

 

With no further discussion, they did as he recommended. In a few minutes, both of them were fully dressed up in their suits of magic armor—although Braddock’s helmet had been destroyed by Paptimus earlier, so he had to make do with a simple, cheap open-faced helm he’d bought at Aquleia. Together, the two of them exited the alcove and started on the final leg of their journey.

 

-X-

 

 _Ah, they’re finally here_.

 

The assassin thought this as he watched the two large men trudge up to the front gate of Par Massino under the light of the late afternoon sun. They were covering their eyes, and the assassin understood why—he found the sunlight glinting off the snow to be nearly unbearable himself.

 

But it worked in his favor, all things considered. Indeed, at the moment everything in this situation worked in his favor.

 

Of course, as they approached, their stalker knew he had to move quickly. He had arrived at the monastery a full day before his prey, and the hapless brethren of the isolated community had not noticed him at all. They had nothing (much) to worry about, since he wasn’t interested in them.

 

He was more concerned with the secrets concealed in Par Massino’s catacombs.

 

The assassin, still clad in his drab traveling cloak, hopped off of the monastery dormitory’s roof (the building was located closer to the outer gate, giving him the best view of anyone approaching the premises) on to the snow-covered ground two stories below. He landed with barely a sound aside from the soft crunch of snow. The two brothers chatting idly in front of him didn’t even notice, and before they could turn towards him he had swiftly dashed around to the back of the dormitory.

 

The assassin had already become acquainted with the monastery’s layout from the brief span of time he had stayed, so he knew exactly where to go. The entrance to the underground catacombs was a small, squat building located within the mountain monastery’s walls but away from its main living areas. It was, like the rest of the community’s structures, fairly unadorned compared to other buildings of the Church of Elimine—it looked like a miniature church, except much smaller and without windows. Adding to the assassin’s luck, it seemed no brothers were guarding it at the moment.

 

Granted, he knew why—the catacombs of Par Massino were well-protected enough to not need constant oversight—but it wouldn’t be a problem for him.

 

He entered the building’s shadowy depths and came to his first obstacle—a great padlocked door. Producing from the folds of his robe a small lockpick, he easily undid the heavy metal lock with a few lightning-swift movements of a single hand. Though many assassins were trained to work lockpicks and other such devices with one hand, this one would never have thought he’d have to put those skills to use until now.

 

The door opened with a loud creak, and the assassin slipped into the darkness waiting for him. No torches lit this catacomb, but he did not need them. He steadily made his way down the winding stairwell into the underground labyrinth, making his way through the pitch-black darkness as steadily as if he were in broad daylight, walking a path he had trod many times before. The voice of the treasure he sought was guiding him—he had no problems.

 

He was surrounded by the skulls and bones of hundreds of monks—the monastery of Par Massino had stood on this mountain for three hundred years, and had seen more than its share of death. The assassin had no concern for these, either—he had already taken what he needed from them. Rather, he was much more interested in the odd blue glow that was more and more apparent as he neared his destination, winding through yet another tunnel of the macabre labyrinth.

 

The glow was coming from underneath a huge, thick padlocked door, even bigger and stronger than the entrance to the tombs. This one was closed with two locks—yet once again, the assassin was not dissuaded. With a single hand he soon undid both the heavy locks, listening to them fall to the ground with satisfaction. And with all of his remaining strength he pushed the door open, allowing the eldritch light from within to bathe him and his surroundings.

 

In front of him, nestled away in a small, isolated room in the deepest part of Par Massino’s catacombs, was the Armor of the Berserk.

 

This cursed artifact was not producing the glow, though. Rather, it was the three torches set in a triangle around it. They seemed to be nothing more than ordinary torchstands, but the blue flame they produced gave off no heat at all. It was obvious they served some arcane purpose.

 

That purpose, the assassin knew, was to seal away the dark power of the cursed armor in the center of the room. And he knew just how to confound that purpose.

 

The assassin was very careful not to get anywhere near the flames—he knew that while they were not hot at the moment, their magic energies would ignite and burn anyone who came near them without the permission of the one who had kindled them—Abbot Grigorius, probably. The assassin, however, could dispel such enchantments as easily as he could pick locks.

 

He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, fine vial of grayish-yellow powder. This powder was the crushed remains of the bones of several of the monks laid to rest in these catacombs. Late last night, under the light of a full moon, the assassin had mixed them with the root of a poisonous plant, the Hemlock, and placed the resulting substance into this specially enchanted vial. He had allowed it to simmer all night to make sure the enchantment solidified, and now it was ready for use.

 

Flicking off the skull-shaped cap of the vial with a thumb, he held it up to his face for a moment, then tilted it so the dust began to fall from it. As it did, he pursed his lips and blew, sending many flecks of it towards the first torch, directly in front of the Armor. The moment the first specks of that strange dust reached the blue flame, it flickered out, as if it were an ordinary fire being doused with water.

 

Smiling in satisfaction, the corpse-skinned killer did the exact same thing to the other two torches. Soon enough, the warm, holy blue light had gone out, and he was left with nothing but the darkness of the catacombs…and the Armor of the Berserk.

 

 _Ahhh….Perfect,_ a malevolent voice only he could hear hissed. _How vexing it was for my powers to be sealed by that meddling priest and his magic flames! I must thank you for freeing me, seeker of darkness._

 

He nodded.

 

_I am ready to give you your reward. Yet this does not come without cost. I see what lies in wait for you, seeker of darkness. You almost died in your last battle, and your body has deteriorated ever since. You don’t have enough strength to satisfy my hunger for even ten minutes. In your state, my power will consume you. Does your lust for revenge outweigh your desire to live?_

He nodded.

 

_Then let the harvest begin._

 

-X-X-X-X-X-

 

“Wow.”

 

Renault had seen many amazing and terrifying things over the course of his mercenary career, but even he couldn’t help but feel a bit intimidated as he trudged over the snow-covered ground to the great gates of Par Massino. They were huge and made of weathered stone, standing about half as tall as the gates to Aquleia. They did not seem to be ornate or decorated in any way, but they were very thick and strong, and gave the impression of being able to ward off a spirited attack. The fact that the Bernese would build such a sturdy fortification in an already isolated and unforgiving area gave Renault, as a warrior, new respect for Bern’s pragmatic mentality.

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” whistled Braddock, “This place looks like it could be an Ostian fortress!”

 

“And Trunicht’s hiding somewhere inside,” growled Renault. “Braddock, you got your Basilikos with you, right? Just blow open the gates and let’s storm this place!”

 

“Renault, that’ll make the inhabitants mighty pissed at us.”

 

“So what?”

 

“Remember what we promised the guide? Hell, remember what you said? These monks aren’t our target. Wasting time on them will make it harder to find Trunicht.”

 

“Not if they make a point of getting in our way,” replied Renault. “It might end up being faster to just kill ‘em all if we get Trunicht in the process.”

 

“I won’t accept that!” said Braddock fiercely. “Renault, you’re my friend, and I want Trunicht dead as much as you do.” _And for you_ , he thought to himself. “But I’m not going to give up my honor for the pursuit of revenge. Trunicht’s our _only_ target. I won’t let any innocent people get hurt, understand?”

 

“Alright, alright, I got it,” said Renault, defeated. “But only ‘cause that’s what you want, Braddock. Only for you. So if you have a plan better than mine, put it to use!”

 

Smiling widely in relief, Braddock clapped his friend’s shoulder. “Much appreciated, Renault.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Just get on with it!”

 

“Alright, well, let’s see…” The Ostian looked to the gate’s side and saw something interesting—what seemed to be a small version of a belltower, only about thrice his height, but with a bell at its top that was larger than he was, even in full armor. Elimineans seemed to have a particular affinity for bells, he surmised. In any case, though, he figured out that it probably served as the only means of greeting outsiders had, so after thinking for a moment, Braddock marched up to it, grabbed the long rope dangling out from under it as hard as he could, and pulled with all of his impressive strength.

 

He needed it—the bell was quite heavy. He was rewarded by a great GONG, though, and he pulled twice more, rewarded with the same sound. The ringing seemed to echo all across the mountains and for a moment Renault almost thought the ground shook underneath his feet from it—remarkably loud for a simple greeting bell rather than the actual bell of the church itself.

 

It served its purpose, though—not fast enough for Renault’s liking, admittedly. “Nothin’s happening,” he said, about a minute after they had rang the bell. “I think we may have to find another way in.”

 

Fortunately for the monastery, he wouldn’t be kept waiting any longer. A man with a brown tonsure—the distinctive, bowl-shaped haircut required of initiates of the Order of Valdine—popped his head over the rampart on the right side of the gate. “Who goes there?” he called.

 

“Um…a pair of pilgrims, coming to pay homage to the great Abbot Grigorius,” Braddock called back. “May we enter?”

 

“I can see your armor,” said the initiate. Though they couldn’t quite make out his face, it was easy to tell he was suspicious. “Who are you? Brigands? We’ve no use for your kind! I warn you, we are more than capable of defending ourselves! Begone!”

 

“Thought it wouldn’t work,” Renault quipped. “Now—“

 

“H-hold on!” Braddock stammered, and turned back to the monk. “Look, alright, I’ll admit we’re not pilgrims. But we’re not here to hurt you. We’re…friends of a friend. Have you ever heard of a Bishop named Le-Cain? Abbot Grigorius should have. At the very least, ask him if he’s heard of that man, and tell him that man sent us.”

 

“L-Le-Cain?!”

 

He apparently knew that name. The initiate disappeared for a moment, which soon turned to several minutes. By this point, even Braddock was wondering whether it would be a good idea to just bash in the gates, but fortunately, both he and Renault jumped back as they opened with a load groaning of stone that seemed more like a roar.

 

From within that gate came a dozen grim-faced monks, each holding a Lighting or Divine tome. “Damn,” muttered Renault, preparing to unsheathe his weapons.

 

“Not yet!” hissed Braddock. “They haven’t attacked us, yet! J-Just hold on!”

 

His restraint would prove to be a blessing. “Come with us,” said one of the monks, apparently the leader—though in Renault’s view, they all looked alike with their silly tonsures.

 

“To where?”

 

“Grigorius will see you, but not without an escort.”

 

“Fine with us!” said Braddock excitedly. “Alright, let’s just follow them, Renault!”

 

His friend was _very_ uncertain that this would actually lead them to Trunicht, but at this point there was no use in complaining. Renault simply grunted and followed the lead monk to Grigorius’ personal sanctuary.

 

The guide had already told him a bit about the layout of the monastery, and as he passed through its environs, Renault was struck by how much it seemed like a miniature village. Though it was centered around the large church on the far side of the complex (situated right next to the cliff facing the sea), the equally large library, and the dormitories for the monks, there was also a blacksmith, an apothecary’s hut, a small chicken hutch for raising poultry, and virtually everything else the monks needed to sustain themselves. Admittedly, they couldn’t raise crops in this rocky mountain, but according the guide, the Bernese government regularly sent Wyvern Riders to give them any supplies they needed.

 

Of course, all this was yet another detail Renault didn’t much care about. The monks led him and Braddock to the central church. Like the rest of the monastery, it was quite unadorned, far less so than the great cathedrals or even an ordinary city church. Little more than a large square structure with a belltower at its top and an altar at the far end of a room filled with pews, it also had a small protruding room on the right side that Renault surmised was Grigorius’ personal quarters. Given that the monks were now leading him through the main doors of the church, past the pews, and to a door on that right side, it seemed he was correct.

 

There was very little inside the side room—a bed, a table and chair, and a bookshelf nearby. At the table sat the man they assumed was Abbot Grigorius. He was dressed in the same unassuming cassock as his fellow monks—the only differences in dress and upkeep were the distinctive rosary he wore around his neck, along with the fact that he was bald. However, his clear blue eyes and his wrinkled yet strong-looking, masculine face were enough to tell Renault that he was the true authority here.

 

“The brothers have already told me of your reasons for coming here,” Grigorius began, apparently not one for wasting time. “How do you know Le-Cain? Why did he tell you to seek my monastery?”

 

“I’ll get right to the point, old man,” said Renault. The monks around him gasped audibly at his disrespect, but Grigorius simply held up a hand to keep them from acting on their indignation. “We’re looking for a man named Trunicht. You’ve heard of the Civil War in Etruria, right? Even up here, you had to have heard about it somehow. Trunicht was a high-ranking Rebel. He murdered one of my friends and framed me for the deaths of a whole lot of innocent people. That piece of filth has to die, and Le-Cain told us he was hiding here.”

 

Grigorius blinked. “Trunicht? Why would Le-Cain tell you such a man was here? I know of no-one by that name.”

 

“Dammit! I knew you were hiding him!” The visor of Renault’s helmet glowed red as he prepared to unsheathe his weapons. Once again, though, Braddock was able to stop him.

 

“W-wait! Grigorius, please,” he said, frantically grabbing on to Renault’s shoulder. “Listen, Le-Cain told us about you. He said him and you were friends, and that Archbishop Gosterro excommunicated him cause he chose the wrong side in the war. But from what Le-Cain told us, Gosterro’s been playing with the rebels as well. He said that Gosterro reached an agreement with Trunicht, and sent him all the way here to protect him, in return for Trunicht feeding him information on the rebels. He might be here under an assumed name or something like that. We—“

 

“An assumed name?” This seemed to pique Grigorius’ interest. “Can you give me a description of this man?”

 

“He’s a Dark Magic user—a Black Knight, skilled in both horsemanship and shadow spells. He…He’s got pale skin and sort of sickly, pinkish lips. Pale hair, too. Looks like a real freak. Is there ANYBODY here who matches that description?”

 

Grigorius pursed his lips thoughtfully, and spent several moments contemplating his reply.

 

“I am sorry,” said the Abbot, “but according to what you have told me, if Trunicht was here, he would be so under the protection of Archbishop Gosterro, yes?”

 

“Um…I think so…”

 

“Then I cannot help you. The order of Valdine is bound to the curator of Elimine’s Church, and we must obey his orders. If Gosterro were to order us to protect this Trunicht, we would be obligated to do so.”

 

“I KNEW IT!” Renault roared, readying his sword and dagger. “God damn priests! I’ll slaughter you all!”

 

“However.” Grigorius said, loudly and with enough force to stop even the enraged Renault for a moment.

 

“There is a man here named “Trenard,” he continued. “He came several months ago with a letter from Gosterro specifically asking me to give him refuge.

 

“I have not known him long, but I have known him long enough to be sure that he is an evil man. He disrespects our faith and mocks our teachings. He is even beholden to a cursed artifact we were forced to seal away in the catacombs, and I know he is only biding his time before he gets a chance to use it.”

 

“That’s him! That’s Trunicht!” yelled Braddock excitedly.

 

“As I said, we are obligated to protect him. _But_ …we are, after all, no more than simple monks. And if we were to be attacked by some vicious mountain bandits…especially ones with enchanted weapons and armor…we couldn’t protect everyone here. If this Trenard were to die in the chaos, there would be nothing we could do, right? Especially if those bandits were to attack the dormitories…specifically, the fourth room of the third floor.”

 

Comprehension dawned on Renault, and his visor glowed green again as underneath it, his face twisted into an immensely satisfying grin. “Oh, I get what you’re saying, Abbot. Don’t you worry, these two “mountain bandits” will be more than happy to take Trun—I mean, Trenard off your hands for you!”

 

“Hey, wait a second,” said Braddock suspiciously. “You’re not dumb, Grigorius. You know what you’re doing. After everything you said about your Order or whatever, you’re going to disregard Gosterro’s orders just like that? Maybe I was wrong about you, but I had you pegged as being a man of more sincere faith. If you actually were serious about your loyalty to the Church, how can you justify making this little “arrangement” with us?”

 

“I realize that as a servant of Elimine, I should never wish for another man’s death. We are supposed to display the virtues of mercy and forgiveness. Elimine asked us to turn the other cheek, after all. However, mercy and forgiveness are given only to those who ask for it. Trunicht…he is a deeply evil man. There is no hope for him, no salvation. I knew it as soon as I saw him looking at that horrible armor. To stop even greater evil from being visited upon Elibe, I believe that ending his life is the only way.”

 

The Abbot’s mouth was a thin, angry line. “Gosterro may disagree. But though I am his servant, I have never gotten the impression that he genuinely cares about the Church. What I am saying probably sounds blasphemous, or at least heretical, but the brothers here all feel the same way. We chose a life of holiness in this isolated monastery rather than a religious life as preachers or ecclesiastics among the people because of men like Gosterro. He treats the Word as his own personal plaything, a means to acquire power for himself! My vows may obligate me to serve him, but am I not bound first and foremost to God? If Gosterro gives me an order, I will follow it…but not to the best of my ability. I will not lift a finger to assist you if you wish to hunt Trunicht. But I will not oppose you, either. I will allow all of you to face your own destinies without interference.”

 

“Well, thanks for that. I guess it’s good for me the Church is so hypocritical.” Renault sneered. “Nothing I’m not used to, though. Come on! Let’s pay a visit to Trunicht’s room, Braddock!”

 

“Man, I don’t think I’ll ever understand this religious stuff,” Braddock mumbled to himself, but then to his friend, “Alright, let’s go!”

 

The two of them turned to leave Grigorius’ office, and made their way to the main exit of the church itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Or rather, they would have—if they hadn’t been interrupted by a very, very bad omen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a wild, low, howl—it seemed to be coming from _below_ them, somehow, yet they could both hear it clearly, and feel it in their bones. The ground shook—literally, unmistakably, _shook_ —from that horrifying noise. It was no wyvern, definitely not even any earthly animal. Renault and Braddock had seen more than their fair share of dark magic, and they could sense the malevolence and hatred from that howl and realize it was not natural. And even more importantly, they could sense the very specific traces of infernal spellcraft the howl left in its wake—an aura both had felt before. And given what Grigorius had told them, they had a very, very good idea of what it heralded.

 

“Sh…shit,” Renault moaned, as the ground beneath him began to quake. “It can’t be…the Armor of the Berserk…”

 

“I-Is Trunicht wearing it?!” came Braddock’s frantic reply as he tried to stay on his feet. “How the hell—“

 

As it turned out, it wasn’t Trunicht, but another of their old friends.

 

Renault, Braddock, Grigorius, and the other monks were literally blown backwards and off their feet when the altar on the far side of the church nave _exploded._

 

Grigorius and the monks were scattered around the room, while Renault and Braddock were sent straight into the pews, their armored bodies turning several into clouds of splinters. Thankfully, no-one was hurt (though several monks would be nursing nasty bruises for several days), but it was apparent that might change very quickly.

 

“Uuugh,” groaned Renault as he tried to get back to his feet. Braddock did the same, and as they both turned towards the altar, they noticed that it had not actually exploded—rather, it had been blown apart by an explosion coming from _beneath_ it. There was now a huge hole in the main church of Par Massino, and from that hole rose the next opponent Renault and Braddock would have to face.

 

 _“Ahhhhhh….”_ hissed a cold, corpse-like voice coming from the hole in the floor. Then, in a flash of shadows almost too fast for the eye to see, a dark shape leapt from it in front of Renault and Braddock, who at this point had managed to regain their bearings and ready their defenses.

 

It was a man wearing strange armor which nonetheless seemed horrifyingly familiar. Having leapt from what Renault and Braddock could only assume were the catacombs below the church, he was currently hunching over in front of them, perfectly still. But with another cold, terrifying, _“_ Aaaaaah,” he raised his body and stood tall before them, allowing them to get a good look at his form.

 

Of average height, he was clad entirely in grayish-black armor, a vile thing that seemed as if its surface shifted and wavered under the thin beams of sunlight coming through the church’s small windows. The man’s greaves terminated in odd, upwards points and his pauldrons possessed splayed crests that could have easily passed for large, demonic claws. His helmet and his arms were his most distinctive features. His head was covered by what could have been a demonic skull. His eyes couldn’t be seen from over the gray-black skeletal jaw covering his lower face or the empty eye sockets which would have contained them—only two points of burning red light, dancing with hatred and bloodlust, indicated that there was anyone inside that accursed armor. Most importantly, the skull had a pair of long, sharp, vicious-looking horns at its very top.

 

The man’s armaments clinched his identity. In his right hand, held in a clawed gauntlet that looked like dead dragon’s talons, was a distinctive curved blade both Braddock and Renault recognized as a shotel. In his left hand, however…well, he didn’t have a left hand. In fact, he didn’t have a left arm at all. Where that should have been, there now seemed to be a _snake_. Protruding from his left shoulder and curling around the rest of his body was a fanged serpent that seemed to be attached to his armor and made of the same material. It twitched and writhed, possessed of a crest behind its metal-scaled head similar to that of a wyvern, and two eyes set above the vicious fangs in its unhinged mouth glowed with the same red hatred as those of its wearer. It squirmed to look at its prey, and let out a terrifying, metallic hiss.

 

“Th…the hell is this,” stammered Renault. “That shotel…it can’t be… _Yurt?!_ ”  


The man before them turned his head back and laughed—a laugh that sounded just like the terrifying howl from before. “Renault…how glad I am you remember me. And you, Maxim…you remember me as well, do you not?”

 

“I saw Renault kill you back in Thagaste! What the hell are you doing _here?!_ ”

 

“You underestimate me, fool. He took my left arm, but my black magic allowed me to escape with my life. And ever since that day I have waited for you, waited for the perfect opportunity to strike back. In my condition, I would have been no match for you under normal circumstances, but now…” He let out another howling laugh. “As you can tell, this armor is more than enough for me to claim what I am owed. You see, Ostian fool, so long as I live, every single one of my marks will die. _Every single one_. You, Maxim, are the only one of my targets to have ever escaped me. I will take my revenge on your friend later, but first, I’ll deal with you!”

 

With blinding speed, the Silent Chief burst forwards, and Braddock barely had time to raise his shield to protect against a strike from Yurt’s shotel. The curved blade arced over the buckler but fortunately hit nothing but Braddock’s sturdy pauldron—though the force of the blow was enough to leave a dent there; the assassin’s strength as well as his speed had been vastly increased by the power of the Armor of the Berserk.

 

More problematic, on the other hand, was the attack coming from Yurt’s left arm. The unholy serpent extended its entire body, forcing Braddock to scream in fear and pain as it wrapped itself around his neck. It brought its head up to his face, exposed due to the fact that the cheap skull cap he’d bought to replace his destroyed helmet didn’t provide nearly as much protection as his old one did.

 

As it prepared to chomp down, it occurred to him how much he would have liked some assistance from the monks—they were the ones supposedly dedicated to banishing evil such as this. Yurt, however, wouldn’t let that happen. He opened his skull’s mouth, and vomited from it a series of tendrils of inky black smoke. Before any of the monks, including Grigorius, could cast their spells, the smoke surrounded their mouths and faces, sending them coughing and gagging to the ground.

 

Grigorius realized he was outmatched, and that his first priority was protecting the lives of the initiates. “Everyone! Get out of here! _NOW!_ ” he yelled, as loudly as he could with the vile smoke burning his lungs. “We’ll need more help to seal away this evil! Let the two warriors deal with it for now!”

 

It may not have been brave, but the monks were more than happy to follow those orders, rushing as fast as they could out of the church and scattering to gather the rest of the brethren. Fortunately for Braddock, though, Renault had very different plans.

 

The Mercenary Lord’s helmet provided more than a bit of protection against attacks like poisoned smoke, so he hadn’t been put out of commission. The gas pouring from Yurt’s mouth was cut off with an inhuman scream of pain as Renault rushed forwards and hacked downwards with a mighty two-handed swing of his Silver Sword, severing the serpent which had replaced Yurt’s left arm cleanly from his shoulder.

 

The creature went limp and fell from Braddock’s body, allowing the grateful Ostian to step back and gasp for breath, no longer in danger of being strangled or having his head bitten off. Yurt, however, had not been injured severely. The serpent fell to the floor and went limp, but a moment afterwards, it disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. A moment after that, a cloud of that same smoke materialized around the stump of his left shoulder, and when it disappeared, it left the metal snake behind, hissing as if it had never been hurt at all.

 

“I don’t like leaving a job unfinished either,” growled Renault as Yurt stumbled back, regaining his footing. “Not even the Armor of the Berserk can save you from the two of us together! Right, Braddock?”

 

“No. No!”

 

“Huh?”

 

Yurt looked as if he was about to jump at Braddock again, but the Ostian dissuaded him by unlimbering the Basilikos from his back and slicing it down, the wind from the slash blowing the assassin backwards and keeping him from making any more attacks.

 

“Renault, listen to me! If Trunicht’s nearby, he might have heard all this commotion by now, which means he’ll be trying to escape! If he gets away now, you’ll never find him again, and you’ll never be able to rest! I won’t let that happen! Just go and kill ‘im as quickly as possible! I’ll keep Yurt distracted for you!”

 

“But—“

 

“I’ll be fine! JUST GO!” Braddock screamed, and as if to punctuate his point, he hefted the Basilikos, now glowing bright blue, and slashed it at Yurt. With a loud BOOM a shockwave erupted from the blade of the axe, blasting right towards the assassin, who was forced to dodge it by disappearing into another puff of black smoke and allowing the attack to blow a hole in the back of the church. He reappeared right behind Braddock, but the Ostian was used to his tricks. Without turning, Braddock twisted his shield-arm behind him as quickly as he could, slamming Yurt clean on the face. He wasn’t hurt at all, but the force of a shield bash with a Warlord’s strength behind it was enough to send him flying away once again.  

 

“Please, Renault!” Braddock cried. “Just trust me! You’ll never be able to rest until you get Trunicht! I don’t want you to live obsessed with him for the rest of your life! Just find him and we’ll take on Yurt together! I promise!”

 

“A…alright,” said Renault, his faith in his friend winning him over. “Alright! But you’d better stay alive, hear me!”

 

“It’s a deal!” yelled Braddock as he warded off another attack from the Silent Chief with the flat of the Basilikos. “Now go!”

 

“Okay!” Renault turned and dashed out of the main doors of the church, leaving Braddock and Yurt alone with each other, finally able to settle their grudge once and for all.

 

“How foolish!” laughed the assassin. “You’ve just sealed your fate. Without Renault to help you, you’re as good as dead!”

 

“My friend’s more important,” Braddock growled. “You wanna kill me? Go ahead and try. But Renault saved me from your clutches, helped me kill Paptimus, and has been with me every god damn step of the way for the past five years. You’re not layin’ one slimy finger on him!”

 

“We shall see!”

 

The snake of Yurt’s left arm let out another loud hiss, and not even a moment afterwards, the Silent Chief once again hurled himself at his hated foe.

 

-x-x-x-

 

_Almost there, almost there…_

 

Renault raced across the snow-covered ground as quickly as he could, towards the wooden building he knew served as the dormitory. Many of the monks had heard the horrifying howl along with the subsequent explosions and were steadily streaming from the dormitory (and the other buildings of the complex) to see what was going on. All of them took note of the heavily-armored interloper rushing towards their living quarters, but they were too panicked and disoriented to do anything about it, which was absolutely perfect for him. Blowing past a tall monk carrying a copy of Elimine’s _Journey_ , Renault stormed into the dormitory. It seemed not entirely different from the military barracks he’d lived in during his time as a mercenary—spare, undecorated halls with equally sparse, undecorated rooms containing only beds on either side. He saw the stairwell on the other end of the floor and took it, rushing up to the first floor, and then the second. And when he came to the third…

 

-x-

 

“Brother Trenard” knew something was wrong the moment he felt the pulse of dark magic well up from the ground beneath him.

 

Even though life in a monastery was decidedly _uncomfortable_ compared to what he was used to, it did have its pleasures—he had been spending the afternoon happily reading a text he had stolen from the library on how to fight dark magic. He figured the monks would utilize some of the tactics in the book, meaning he would be able to counter them if he ever needed to in the future. But when he sensed the distinctive aura of the Armor of the Berserk suddenly surge from the catacombs, followed by that unearthly howl and the explosion from the church, he thought that day might have come much sooner than he expected.

 

He didn’t allow himself to be flustered—his door was locked, thankfully, meaning it’d be a moment before the other brothers would set upon him if they suspected him. That would be more than enough time for him to get away…

 

At least, if the person pursuing him didn’t have a Silver Sword.

 

Trenard—or, more accurately, Trunicht’s—eyes went wide when he heard the commotion coming from the halls outside. “Who’s there?!” called one voice. “Why are you in that armor! Stop!” called another. In other circumstances, he might have been just quick enough to make his escape then and there. However, so surprised was he by what was going on that he didn’t move until after the door to his room exploded inwards—the lock neatly cut open by an expert swing of one of the strongest swords money could by.

 

He quickly ducked down, and grabbed for the Luna tome he kept hidden from the moralizing monks between the thin mattresses of his uncomfortable bed. Going purely on instinct, he raised it above his head, and this saved his life.

 

The book was just thick enough to keep the chain-dagger flying at him from embedding itself into his forehead.

 

“Who..?” he pondered, lowering the book and looking at his visitor. The last thing he saw was a very familiar suit of white armor and distinctive magical visor, now glowing bright red, which had him in its hateful sights.

 

“Trunicht,” growled an equally familiar voice, fury and hatred dripping from its every word. “TRUNICHT! I’VE FOUND YOU! I’VE FINALLY FOUND YOU!”

 

“R-Renault,” said the Dark Knight, “What an unexpected surprise! How did you—“

 

The Mercenary Lord didn’t even bother to answer. He charged straight into Trunicht’s room, sword leading the way.

 

-x-

 

“Gyah!”

 

Yurt had never been an easy opponent under the best of circumstances, and with his powers enhanced severalfold by the fell armor, Braddock realized that he was very likely in over his head. He realized that his shield would do little good against not only a shotel but an eldritch serpent, and had discarded it right after he’d bashed Yurt with it. He was now holding the Basilikos with both hands, since in this case, the best defense was a good offense. The great axe had performed well against Tassar the last time he had pitted it against someone possessed by that cursed armor—maybe it would work well once more.

 

The slippery Yurt, however, was a much more crafty opponent than Tassar. The howling sound of his terrible, inhuman laughter echoed through the empty, devastated church as a frustrated Braddock swung his axe round and round, fruitlessly trying to score a solid blow on the assassin. Yurt dipped and dived through the attacks, and just when Braddock thought he’d finally caught his foe, the assassin disappeared in a puff of that awful smoke.

 

Once again, Braddock turned to spin the Basilikos in a wide, circular revolution, predicting that Yurt would appear behind him. This time, however, his prediction was wrong, and the Basilikos hacked through only empty air.   


“C-can’t be!” swore the Ostian, stopping his spin and looking around him, Yurt was nowhere to be found.

 

“Up here, fool!” Braddock looked above him to see the assassin on the _ceiling_. He was upside-down, clinging to it like a bat—the upturned points of his greaves had twisted and shifted so they now served as claws. Yurt’s shotel might not have been able to reach him from up there, but his left arm could. Braddock raised the flat of the Basilikos to defend himself, but it was too late. With a loud, metallic scream, the serpent of Yurt’s left arm extended itself out towards Braddock and opened its jaws.

 

“AAAAAAAHHH!”

 

He shut his eyes and screamed in pain as a noxious substance fell all over his head. It seemed to be the same smoke that accompanied Yurt wherever he went, but this time the stuff was purple, not black. It worked its way over his eyes and, most importantly, down his throat, choking and burning him. He coughed and gagged, and only his discipline and experience saved his life. Just before he was overwhelmed, he managed to grip his axe and let out one last, wild strike towards the sky, sending a shockwave straight at the Silent Chief. Luckily, the blast came close enough to its mark—the purple stream coming from the snake’s mouth cut off as Yurt let go of the ceiling and fell back towards the floor, allowing the Basilikos to blast a hole in the church’s ceiling where he had been a moment before.

 

“Aah…agh!” Braddock continued to stumble, cough, and gag, tears in his eyes, the bizarre substance still seeming to _burn_ him somehow. With one trembling hand he ripped off his cheap helmet, covered in the vile substance as it was. He then reached to his belt and grabbed for one of the vulneraries he and Renault had purchased earlier. He quickly brought it to his lips and took a deep draught, and for a moment, the burning sensation receded. He was able to sigh in relief and open his eyes to see Yurt standing before him. The evil man had not bothered to attack, but instead was simply looking at his adversary, his burning red eyes seeming to gleam with not only hatred but _glee_ now.

 

“Your little vulnerary won’t save you,” he gloated. “Feel the blessing the Armor of the Berserk has given me!”

 

“Wh…wha…?” was all Braddock could say before the pain came back. It was dull at first, but soon bloomed into excruciating, almost paralyzing agony. “Ahh…AHHH!” He doubled over as his chest and gut constricted, feeling as if something was burning him from the inside out.

 

“The Armor of the Berserk amplifies the natural powers of its wearer,” Yurt continued. “The shadows have granted me the ability to travel through them as easily as a fish travels through water. They are even willing to choke and blind my enemies at my command. But now, enhanced with this magic armor, they can do far more than that. The Berserk has filled my body with enough poison to kill an entire city! Do you feel it, Maxim? Feel it burn through you?” At this, the Silent Chief’s voice faltered, and he twitched—Braddock realized that his own armor was taking a toll on him. “H…haha! It will be the last thing you ever feel!”

 

“N…no,” Braddock gasped, and he tried to get to his feet. He almost dropped the Basilikos when another wave of pain wracked his body, causing him to retch and double over.

 

“You will die here, Maxim of Ostia. I…graah!” Yurt’s body shuddered, the dark energies coursing through it beginning to eat away at him. “I…commend you for causing me so much trouble over the years, but my chase is finally at an end. N…now…not much time…Renault…took my arm…I’ll…I’ll take revenge on him as well!”

 

This was exactly the wrong thing to say.

 

“I won’t let you,” growled Braddock, tears streaming from his bleary eyes.  To Yurt’s surprise, he staggered back to his feet, apparently ignoring the debilitating effects of the poison. “I won’t let you! Yurt…I DON’T CARE IF I DIE! I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME! YOU’RE NOT TOUCHING RENAULT!”

 

With the very last reserves of his rapidly dwindling strength, the Warlord, his desire to protect his friend blinding him to the horrible pain, hefted the Basilikos once again and launched himself at Yurt for one last attack. Braddock was being eaten away from the poison, and Yurt’s very essence was being eaten away by his armor.

 

But both men had just enough strength to finish things, once and for all.

 

-x-

 

“Not today, Renault!”

 

Trunicht deftly tossed aside his ruined Luna tome and dived under Renault’s lunge, rolling past him and getting on his feet with catlike agility. As the Mercenary Lord yelled in frustration, the slippery Dark Knight darted from his room and down the stairs to the first floor of the dormitories. Renault quickly gave chase, raw anger propelling him far faster than one would expect from a man in full plate armor, but Trunicht was still a little faster.

 

“Where the hell d’you think you’re going?” Renault yelled as he chased Trunicht outside onto the snowy ground of the monastery interior. The monks were now fleeing to the entrance, on the far side of the main church—Grigorius had apparently advised his flock to stay as far away from it as possible until the combat had died down. Renault gripped his chain-dagger and let fly, but once again he missed his target, Trunicht lowering his head as he ran just in time to avoid it and hopping over the chain as it fell to the ground. He was heading northwest, to a small circular building on the left side of the church. He darted inside a few moments before Renault could catch up to him.

 

“What the hell’s in here?” Renault spat to himself as he entered the two-story hutch. There was no other exit, only a door leading upstairs—it seemed Trunicht had trapped himself.

 

There was another occupant, though. “F-First Trenard, and now you?!” stammered the bewildered apothecary. “What in the world is going on?”

 

“Why would he…SHIT!” Renault cursed as he took a better look at the room around him. It was the apothecary’s storage, filled wall-to-wall with all variety of staves—most were Heal and Mend, but from the Silence and Barrier staves also lined up, Renault realized that Trunicht was probably looking for a Warp staff.

 

“NO! I won’t let you get away!” Renault screamed, charging up to the second floor. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF THAT WARP STAFF, YOU PIECE OF FILTH!”

 

But it was already too late. He emerged into the small, circular room just in time to see Trunicht raise the sapphire-tipped staff above his head. “Sorry, Renault!” he laughed, as it began to glow. “Better luck next time!”

 

“DAMMIT!” Renault screamed at the top of his lungs, realizing that his last chance to get at Trunicht had been shot…

 

Until he suddenly felt a surge of magic coming fromthe _first_ floor.

 

“W-wha...” was all Trunicht could say before his voice petered out entirely. A flickering purple triangle, seemingly made out of translucent light, surrounded him for a moment, then disappeared with a flash. Renault noticed that he suddenly couldn’t hear anything—despite all the chaos outside and in the nearby church, everything was quiet. The noise slowly came back, but for Trunicht, it didn’t return at all.

 

For the first—and last—time in his life, the Dark Knight had been take completely by surprise. He continued to hold the Warp Staff up in the air, but the blue glow had disappeared, and it was now, in his hands at least, a useless piece of junk. Comprehension and utter fear slowly dawned on his face as he dropped it on the floor, stumbling back and holding his hands out as if to ward off Renault. His lips were moving, and it looked like he was saying something, perhaps trying to negotiate or plead for his life, but no sound came out.

 

“Trenard,” yelled Polfrey, coming up from the first floor with a Silence staff in his hands, “This is simply too much! You must answer for your crimes! The explosions in the church and the surge of dark magic…you were responsible for both, weren’t you! I won’t let you get away! I…” His voice faltered as he saw the storage room’s other visitor looking back at him, visor glowing bright red

 

“Thanks, priest-boy,” hissed Renault as he turned back towards his prey.

 

“S…stop, don’t…” said Polfrey, realizing what he had just done, but it was too late.

 

Trunicht could do nothing more than open his mouth in a wide, soundless scream as Renault plunged his Silver Sword straight into his chest.

 

-X-

 

“GRRRRRAAAAGH!”

 

As Braddock dashed towards the Silent Chief, Yurt drew his right arm back and turned the left side of his body towards his opponent.  Unexpectedly, Braddock didn’t attempt to hack down with the Basilikos as he ran, but rather turned it so the flat of its massive blade was in front of him, once again serving as a shield. Yurt’s arm-serpent lashed out, but its fangs only found purchase on the enchanted metal of the huge axe, just a moment before it crashed into him.

 

This was exactly what Braddock was hoping for. He stopped his charge, allowing Yurt to stumble back from him—even a warrior in the Armor of the Berserk would be momentarily stunned. This gave him just enough time and distance for one final blow.

 

With a scream of primal rage, Braddock flipped his axe and then twisted his entire body, once again going into a circular spinning slash—and this time, Yurt couldn’t dodge it.

 

Another scream echoed through the church—but this time, it was a cry of agony, and it was accompanied by the sound of rending mental.

 

The Basilikos glowed bright blue as it sliced through the horrific Armor, and then cut the flesh beneath it. The strike had landed just on Yurt’s waist, and carried enough force to slice him in two—and not cleanly. The upper body of the Silent Chief was sent flying through the air as his torso and legs crumpled to the ground beneath him—and the Armor of the Berserk, its power expended, disappeared into a cloud of black energy that coalesced into an orb and zipped through the hole in the ceiling, leaving nothing behind but a pile of bones.

 

Yurt’s upper body, however, was not yet finished.

 

As Yurt’s chest and head fell to the ground behind Braddock, with one last metallic hiss, the serpent of Yurt’s left arm extended, many times its original length, and flew at the Ostian just as he stopped his spin—and he now he couldn’t dodge, either. He could only let out his own scream of pain as the creature latched on to his shoulder, its fangs digging right through his armor as if he were wearing nothing at all. Even as Yurt’s life ebbed away, he pumped more and more poison into the Braddock’s ravaged body.

 

At last, his strength faded entirely. The serpent’s jaws relaxed their grip on Braddock’s shoulder, and its red eyes dimmed, then winked out of existence. It then disappeared, along with the rest of the Armor’s remains, leaving nothing but…

 

Braddock, in his state, wasn’t entirely sure, and it was probably for the best. Whatever Yurt may have looked like under his armor couldn’t be discerned, now. The upper half of a man lay on the floor before him, only the barest, thinnest covering of skin covering his bones. His entrails weren’t even leaking out—nothing but thin red dust dribbled from the massive hole where his lower body had once been. But he still had time for a few last words.

 

 “I’ve won,” the dying assassin hissed, “I’ve won! R…Renault may have gotten away, but I was n…never asked to kill him! You, on the other hand…your life is over, Maxim! Now, not a single man has escaped the blade of the Silent Chief!”

 

As Braddock watched, he began to laugh, but this time it was no magically-enhanced howl. The power of the armor had left him, and he was now no more than an ordinary man. His laughter was simply the high, shrill screech of an obsessed lunatic. He laughed and laughed, so loud that Braddock thought his ears would split…until finally, his voice gave out. The desiccated remnants of his skin fell away from his bones entirely, his withered tongue disappeared in a cloud of red dust, and his cold, gravelly voice was silenced forever.

 

“It…it’s over…”

 

Braddock smiled tiredly—and then grimaced and fell to his knees. The blue glow of the Basilikos winked out entirely as he dropped it to the floor next to him. He couldn’t hold it in this time—he keeled over and vomited, a horrid stream of blood and bile falling from his mouth. His entire body felt like it was on fire, and his tear-filled eyes saw nothing but a blurry mess. The Ostian tried to get to his feet, but failed—falling over prone on the ground. His trembling legs could no longer support him.

 

“Not…not…”

 

He knew he was dying. He knew there was nothing he could do, no hope for him. But despite this, there was one thing he wanted to do.

 

He reached out and grabbed the Basilikos again. This time he succeeded, his numb, shaking arms just barely strong enough to hold it. He turned it over and stomped its head onto the ground, and this time, using it as an impromptu cane, he managed to stand up once again.

 

Slowly, laboriously, leaning on his mighty axe, Braddock inched his way towards one of the windows on the back side of the church, facing the sea. The Valdinians apparently prized humility and poverty over all else, meaning that their monastery churches contained no ornate, beautiful luxuries like stained-glass windows. But that was just fine with Braddock.

 

He just wanted to watch the sun set over the sea one last time.

 

“A…ahhh…” he sighed in satisfaction, forgetting the pain for a moment as he finally managed to collapse against the wall next to the window and peered out of it.

 

It was an absolutely beautiful sight. It might have been nice if his vision wasn’t so blurry, but what Braddock could see was better than nothing. A ball of orange softly coloring the calm blue seas below it…it occurred to Braddock how much he loved the ocean; a sight like this had greeted him when he had killed Paptimus as well, though that was a sunrise rather than a sunset. But in any case, if he had to leave this world now, there were worse things to see than a Bernese sunset.

 

It was strange, though. As blurry as the vista before him was, he could see other things in front of him—images that were absolutely crystal-clear. He couldn’t tell if it was an effect of the poison or just him going crazy, but it seemed as if his memories were playing out in front of him, as if every single one of them had taken place yesterday.

 

He saw—felt—his older brother beating him, his father belittling him, and the first time he’d killed a man, Volker’s head deforming under his hands…

 

And yet, at the same time, not all of those memories were bad. He saw other things, too.

 

The first time he’d met Pamela, the fun they’d had in Ostia, and their very first kiss…

 

“P…Pamela,” he muttered to himself, “I…I’ll be with you soon…”

 

And not just her, either. The first time he’d talked to Rosamia, helping her with supplies along the road to Scirocco. Dancing with her in Aquleia and Caerleon. And that last kiss they’d had…

 

“I…I’m sorry, though. I didn’t want…to come back to you…just yet. I wanted a little more time…time with…Rosamia. Heh…I’m not disloyal, am I? You…you would have liked her. But…there’s more…I wanted…I wanted…to be with…one other person…”

 

Above all, there was one whose face shone brighter than any other’s in Braddock’s mind. One who occupied the lion’s share of the memories flitting in front of Braddock’s eyes.

 

_The two of them stood by the North Gate of Thagaste, watching Khyron lead their troop up the road._

_“Nobles are such assholes. Am I right, or am I right?”_

_“You are most definitely right, my man!”_

“Renault…”

 

_The young swordsman stood before his newest friend in the dilapidated interior of Castle Nerinheit, determination shining in his eyes. Despite the fact he had never even held a sword before, he would absolutely not abandon Braddock under any circumstances._

_“I...I never really had too many friends back at Thagaste. My mom hates me, my boss and I parted on...pretty bad terms, my best friend from when I was a kid is too religious for me, and the one girl I talked to a lot was a wreck. So when I say nobody's ever done anything for me like you did...I mean it."_

“Renault…”

 

_Without even giving it a second thought, as if betraying an entire army and throwing in with a cause he hated was the most natural thing in the world, the sellsword knocked out Braddock’s jailer and opened his cell, thinking of nothing else but helping his friend get the revenge he wanted above all else. He listened to Braddock’s tale, of all the crimes the Ostian had committed, the bloodshed he was responsible for, and said—_

_“You're my friend, Braddock. I don't care about civil wars or any of that crap, I don't care how much blood you've got on your hands. You're my friend, and if I have to stand against the whole damn world to stand by your side, that's what I'll do."_

 

“Renault…I want…”

 

But above all, there was one memory that Braddock wanted to hold on to. Even more than Pamela, even more than Rosamia, there was one thing he held in his heart, more strongly than anything else…

_Renault was silent for a long moment, and Braddock almost considered retracting his hand, now fully aware of how utterly foolish he must have seemed at that moment. Renault, however, was too quick. In a single swift movement, the Mercenary Lord picked up his sword with his left hand and sliced the palm of his right, and then reached out with it to give Braddock a firm, bloody handshake._

_"Don't tell anybody about this," growled Renault. "I really treat you too kindly, you know that? First goin' easy on Eliminism, and now I'm indulging your silly Lycian superstitions!_

_"But you know what? You've already been my brother for a while, and I guess this makes it official. So I guess it's worth, it, right?"_

“Renault…I want…to see you again…”

 

 

-X-

 

“Hah, hah! Kelitha…Kelitha! Look what I’ve done! You…you’re happy now, right? Right?”

 

Renault stood laughing over the desecrated corpse of Trunicht, reveling in his moment of utter triumph. The man had died instantly when he’d been stabbed through the heart, but that hadn’t been enough for Renault, who had continued to hack and slash at the body until it was almost nothing more than a desiccated lump of meat. 

 

It felt good. _Really_ good. He hadn’t felt so refreshed, so free in a long time. Renault had been thinking about Trunicht and his murder of Kelitha almost every day for the past few months. Now that the Dark Knight had finally, _finally_ paid for his crimes, it felt as if a massive weight had been lifted from Renault’s shoulders.

 

“I gotta tell Braddock!” he said excitedly. “It’s over! We’re finally done!” With a loud whoop of joy, he sheathed his bloody sword, retracted his chain-dagger to its storage place in his left pauldron, and dashed back down the stairs, straight by the terrified Polfrey, out of the apothecary’s storage, and to the main church nearby.

 

It was in a state of total devastation—the altar was still blown to pieces, along with most of the pews, and there was a huge hole in the ceiling, through which the orange rays of the slowly setting evening sun were shining through.

 

However, Renault saw the Warlord by one of the back windows, leaning against the wall, and knew everything was right with the world.

 

“BRADDOCK! YOU’RE ALIVE!” he shouted joyfully as he ran up to his friend. “Hey, I got him! Trunicht’s dead! We’re done here, bud!”

 

Braddock didn’t reply immediately. That was Renault’s first clue that something was very, very wrong.

 

“B…Braddock?” His elation rapidly turning to worry, Renault clapped his friend on the shoulder—the armor of which was noticeably mangled. This was finally enough to get Braddock to do something.

 

“Heh…Renault…looks like my wish came true.” Braddock turned to look at his best friend, offering the best thing he could—a small, weak smile. Renault’s eyes widened as he saw the Ostian’s horrible condition. His entire body was shaking, and there was blood streaming from his mouth. The fact that he could no longer stand, even while grabbing onto the wall of the church, and collapsed straight into Renault’s arms clinched it.

 

“B…Braddock…” said Renault, shocked. “What happened?”

 

“Poison…Yurt…he had poison.” Braddock coughed and retched, turning his head so another gout of blood fell away from Renault. “The Armor of the…Berserk…gave him that power. I managed to kill ‘im anyways,” and he nodded weakly towards the pile of bones, “but the poison’s still there.” Even now, he managed to give his characteristic, goofy, lopsided grin. “Damn, we shoulda bought an Antidote. Don’t I feel dumb now…”

 

“No...” said Renault dumbly.

 

“Listen, Renault…”

 

“No! NO!” Renault yelled, his voice rising to a shriek. He and Braddock were completely alone, here—Grigorius and the other monks were still hiding, not sure if the battle was finally over. But even if the whole world was watching, Renault wouldn’t care.

 

 _Nothing is worse than death_.

 

“Braddock, you’re not gonna die! YOU’RE NOT GONNA DIE!”

 

His hands were shaking as much as Braddock’s were, but from pure panic, not poison. He reached to his belt and took from it a vulnerary, bringing it to Braddock’s mouth and allowing him to drink. The Ostian gratefully accepted the salve, and for a moment, relief washed over Renault as he seemed to improve…

 

Before his stomach twisted again, and he bent and vomited out the bad-tasting substance—along with a sizable amount of blood—all over Renault’s chest.

 

 _I’m not gonna die. Neither is Braddock_.

 

“N…No…Braddock…after all this…it can’t end like this…”

 

“E…everything ends sometime, Renault,” coughed Braddock. “Guess it’s…it’s the end for me. It wasn’t so bad…”

 

 _Nothing is worse than death_.

 

“B…Braddock…” Tears were forming in Renault’s eyes, now. He laid his friend gently to the floor and ripped off his helmet, wanting to look at the man with his own eyes.

 

“Not…not a bad life at all…I was able to…to kill Paptimus…and I…met so many friends…Rosamia…Keith…Kelitha…and most of all…”

 

_Me and Braddock will be together forever._

 

“Renault…I met you, Renault…”

 

“Braddock…” Renault was pleading now, “Please, you can’t die now! We’ve come so far! Our journey’s over, man! We killed Trunicht! We’ve WON! You can’t…”

 

“D…don’t think I have a choice.” His skin paled and his breathing grew shallower, as Renault saw his eyes fluttering.

 

“I’ll get the apothecary! He’s gotta have Restore staves around somewhere!”

 

“T…Too late…” Braddock gasped.

 

“It can’t…it can’t be…”

 

“Renault…please…one last time…listen to me…”

 

“I…”

 

“Please…please live, Renault. I…I want you to live.”

 

Renault could only grip his friend’s hand, as tightly as he could, to listen to his last words. Braddock raised his other hand to offer the last thing he could to Renault. He brushed his hand through Renault’s teal hair, and allowed it to cup the side of the man’s face.

 

“And not only that. I want…I want you to find…”

 

Braddock’s lips moved, but his voice had faded. Renault couldn’t make out what he was saying.

 

And with that, his hand fell away from Renault’s face, and his eyes closed for good.

 

 

 

 

 

“Braddock.”

 

 

 

The Ostian’s other hand was limp in Renault’s own.

 

 

 

 

 

“Braddock!”

 

 

 

 

 

He didn’t seem to be unhappy. He had gotten to see Renault one last time, and thus, despite the pain he was in, his lips were still turned upwards in a small smile.

 

“BRADDOCK!”

 

No sound came in response, except for the winter wind blowing through the hole in the church’s ceiling.

 

Renault’s throat had closed. He could say nothing more. Instead, he let go of Braddock’s hand and stood up, as tall and furious as he ever had, chain-dagger falling into his left hand and unsheathing his Silver Sword with his right, ready to make whoever had done this pay…

 

But there was no-one.

 

His grip on his sword slackened when he saw the lifeless pile of bones that had once been Yurt, the Silent Chief.

 

His grip on his knife loosened when he realized that Trunicht was already dead.

 

For the first time in his life, his rage and hatred receded in the face of one thing, and one thing only:

 

 

He had not mourned when his father died, blaming God and directing his hatred against religion.

 

But how could he blame God for this?

 

He had not mourned when his mother had died. He had killed Tassar to avenge her, and given that he had not loved her, he thought his former mentor’s death obviated any need to mourn.

 

But Yurt was already dead. There was no-one left for him to kill.

 

Even when Keith and Kelitha had died, he had not mourned—he had instead turned all his hatred towards Trunicht and his rebels. Revenge, he thought, was better fare than sorrow.

 

But now, there was no-one left alive who could possibly slake any thirst for vengeance he had.

 

He was left with nothing more than grief.

 

He no longer had it in him to scream, to yell, to rage. So he did the only thing he could.

 

“Braddock…”

 

Renault shut his eyes as he broke down and began to cry, openly. Tears streamed down his face as he threw away his Silver Sword and let his chain-dagger hang limply from his pauldron. He bent down, his tears falling on the Ostian’s lifeless chest, and took Braddock’s body into his arms, holding on to it as tightly as he could.

 

For the first time in his life, Renault cast aside his weapons and knelt, to mourn his fallen friend.

**_Wayward Son, Book I_ **

****

**_The End_ **


	41. Beginning of Book II - Chapter 41 - Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault thinks he might have found a way to bring Braddock back...or has he?

Wayward Son

 

Book II

 

_Old Man_

 

41: Hope

 

Renault was no longer alone.

 

He didn’t notice.

 

He was surrounded. They were all around him, and in most other cases that meant death for a mercenary. Renault was therefore most fortunate that his companions meant him no ill-will—though that was because they were afraid of him, not because they were on his side.

 

Not that he cared. The only person who mattered to him was cradled in his arms, silent and still.

 

“W…what happened here?” came a quiet, trembling voice from above and behind him. “Father Grigorius…”

 

“Stay back,” snapped a deeper, more authoritative voice.

 

Renault still didn’t care. “Braddock…Braddock…” he whispered to himself, over and over again.

 

It was a plea, really. He ran his hands through his friend’s hair, across his face, saying his name over and over again, completely refusing to believe he was no longer there. But to no effect. Every time Renault stroked Braddock’s cheek, a little more warmth escaped from the flesh beneath. And every time he moved his lips, the Ostian said nothing in response.

 

“We can’t just leave them here, can we?” another voice said. “They…they did so much damage to our church! We have to start repairs!”

 

“It…it was his friend who died, wasn’t it? He’s in mourning! It’s not right to…”

 

“His hands are no less stained than Trenard’s! Cast him out and be done with it!”

 

“Enough! Silence, all of you!” The deep voice roared again, and the others obeyed.

 

How long had he been kneeling there, holding Braddock’s body and mouthing his name? Renault didn’t know. Or care. But however long that trance lasted—a minute, an hour—it was finally broken by a firm hand on his shoulder.

 

“Sir…” said Abbot Grigorious, but his voice trailed off as Renault turned to look at him.

 

His eyes passed over the older man’s face, over the crowd of curious monks behind him, over the destroyed pews and debris strewn all around him. There was no anger in those eyes, or even hatred. They were glassy, emotionless, and so seemingly _empty_ it was if a dead man was staring out of them. The sight was enough to quiet even Grigorius, and unnerve the younger monks behind him too much for them to say a word.

 

Not that Renault wanted to—or even could—say anything, either.

 

But he didn’t need to. He turned his eyes back to Braddock’s corpse, and then laid it gently on the ground. As the priests continued to stare, Renault stood, walked over and picked up the great Basilikos, lying still where its wielder had dropped it earlier. He reached down and, after a short struggle, managed to pick it up. He may have been a strong man, but not as strong as Braddock, meaning the axe’s weight was still enough to give him some problems—needless to say he couldn’t wield it in battle. Renault persevered, though, and managed to strap the giant weapon to his back, just as his friend had done.

 

The Mercenary Lord then turned back to his friend’s corpse. He again knelt, and slowly, gently, reverently, scooped up the corpse. One arm under Braddock’s legs, another under his shoulders. To Renault’s surprise, he was able to lift up Braddock with very little effort, despite the fact his friend was even larger than he was, and clad in full armor as well. Renault realized that there seemed to be very little flesh beneath the protective steel plate. His stomach turned and fresh tears filled his eyes when he thought about what the poison must have done to Braddock’s body.

 

But he had already mourned for his friend—as much as he could, anyways. With a deep breath, he cleared his throat and shook the tears out of his eyes. And with the same dead, staring expression—no hatred, no anger, none of the other emotions which had come to define his life over the past few months, nothing but an empty sorrow—he turned again, but this time to the exit of Par Massino’s small church.

 

Renault strode past the shocked monks and out the church’s doors. He continued to stare at nothing more than what was in front of him as he trudged through the snow towards the monastery gates. He didn’t need to cover his eyes. The clear blue skies of Bern were now covered by a sea of roiling grey, blocking out the sun. There would be a snowstorm soon, making travel anywhere on the mountain most inadvisable, as the monks would certainly tell him.

 

But he still didn’t care. He stomped resolutely towards the huge gates, which were still open—in all the commotion the monks had forgotten to close them. Those monks were trailing behind him now, though keeping a safe, respectful distance from him, wondering just what he was planning.   


A few more steps, and Renault had almost passed through the stone doors, his friend’s body in his arms. The moment before he stepped out of the monastery grounds, he paused for a moment. For the first time in several moments he blinked and opened his mouth slightly, then gazed upwards. There was no change in his expression—he only watched the huge expanse of rock above him, the gigantic mountain stabbing into the grey sky as if it was a spear pointed at the heart of God.

 

Then he pushed forwards and began his attempt to scale those heights.

 

He paid no attention to the twittering of the monks behind him. “Is he crazy?” one asked. “A storm’s coming in!” whispered another. “Past Par Massino, this mountain’s dangerous under the best conditions! He’ll never survive!”

 

But, of course, none of them made a single move to stop him. And as the first flakes of snow began to fall, they only watched as he disappeared into the distance.

 

-X-

 

How long had he been marching? An hour, two? He didn’t know—it was impossible to tell time under an endless mass of grey clouds. And where was he going? Given how much it was snowing, he had no idea—the blizzard made nearly everything around him seem like an undifferentiated mass of white. For all he knew he might have been going straight _down_ the mountain.

 

Not that it mattered. The dead weight of his friend held in his arms reminded Renault why he didn’t care.  


He hadn’t bothered to retrieve his helmet from the monastery, so the snow and wind sliced at his face, forcing him to keep his eyes shut. That wouldn’t save him from the cold, though—he could feel his face, along with the rest of his body, slowly going numb.

 

It still wasn’t enough to stop him. His muscles were screaming from the freezing cold as well as the fatigue born from lugging a corpse up a treacherous mountain trail (which, for some reason, led beyond the monastery, though in progressively worse condition—Renault didn’t know why or where it ended, save it was a miracle that he hadn’t taken a false step and fell). But still he persevered. One step forwards, then another. Right foot, left foot. He didn’t even let out a gasp as one of his greaves crunched down on a patch of snow which covered a cracked, weathered outcropping of eroded rock rather than solid ground. He simply twisted to the side, tightening his grip on his friend’s body, and made a quick hop to the right, just in time to avoid joining the crumbling pieces of rock plunging to the ground thousands of feet below.

 

It was a testament to his skill that he’d managed to avoid that fate, half-frozen as he was. Yet Renault was operating on pure instinct as much as anything else. His brush with death barely even registered in his mind. He couldn’t think of his own life—he could only think of the life which had already been lost, and which had been just as important to him as his own.

 

“Braddock,” he whispered through the biting, freezing wind. “Braddock…”

 

He stopped for a moment, and then continued his trek forwards. As another foot crunched into the ground, he realized he couldn’t feel its impact. Indeed, he realized he couldn’t feel his arms, his hands, his exposed face, or any other part of his body.

 

 _I’m freezing_ , he thought numbly. _In a few hours…_

_I could die up here_.

 

And almost as soon as that thought ran through his mind, it was followed by a question:

 

_Why would it matter?_

 

Renault collapsed to his knees in the snow, cradling the body of his friend ever closer. Memories surged through his mind—crying over his father’s death, swearing that it would never happen to him, swearing that he and Braddock would never die…

 

And now, it seemed so pointless. All his talk had been for nothing. Braddock—the one man who’d given his life meaning for the past four years—was dead, and there was nothing he could do. If death came for him now, what would be the loss? He had absolutely nothing left.

 

And yet Renault could recall one more memory…

 

_Please…please live, Renault. I…I want you to live.”_

Renault’s eyes shot wide open.

 

No matter how shattered his friend’s death had left him, Renault had to make good on his last words. It may not have been much, but it was all the purpose he needed. Braddock had spent his final moments telling Renault to survive. The Mercenary Lord very much wanted to obey that command.

 

“Shelter,” he muttered to himself. “G…gotta find shelter…” He thought about turning back, right to Par Massino, but knew that he probably wouldn’t make it back down before he was frozen solid, especially not while carrying Braddock’s body—which he was most determined not to leave behind.

 

So where could he go? It was getting darker, meaning he’d have to think very fast.

 

“Aagh…dammit!”

 

Squinting to keep too much snow from getting into his eyes, Renault could just see the grey stone face of the mountain in front of him. Braddock’s body seemed heavier than it had before, but Renault still had enough strength to carry it. He lurched towards mountain rocks and slammed his body against them, taking a moment to catch his breath as he leaned on them for support. Then, keeping himself as close to it as possible, not wanting to risk another tumble off the mountain trail, he grit his teeth and pressed forwards, continuing his ascent.

 

He recalled something the guide had told him and Braddock during their initial journey to Par Massino. There was actually a small altar in a cave midway to the mountain’s peak, above the monastery church. It was used by the hermits who had made this mountain their home before the monastery was constructed years ago, though since then no-one had used it.

 

It was a faint hope, but if that cave was still there, and if it hadn’t collapsed or been snowed in, Renault would be able to find a place to rest for the night.

 

To his great fortune, that hope would be fulfilled. Renault cursed and gripped Braddock’s body even tighter as his foot caught on something and almost sent him toppling over again. As he regained his balance, though, Renault looked down, and through the snow he had displaced, he could see something odd beneath him, just a moment before new snow covered it up again.

 

It was old, very worn down, and almost indistinguishable from the rocks below him, but Renault was sure it was a step.

 

Newly convinced he was heading in the right direction, Renault picked up his pace. And though he stumbled a few more times—reinforcing his conviction that he was on some sort of very old stairpath—after a few more minutes he thought he saw something strange on the grey rock before him. A patch of black…

 

He didn’t even stop to think. Still carrying Braddock in his arms and the Basilikos on his back, Renault charged up the steps towards it, and he might have hurt himself if that black patch had been anything other than the entrance to a small cave.

 

Gasping for breath and feeling a wave of relief wash over him, Renault quickly took a look around his new home for the night. It was so dark he could barely see anything, but night had not yet fallen—just enough light drifted down from the grey skies behind him that he wasn’t rendered completely blind.

 

The cave was indeed a suitable home for an ascetic. It was adorned with absolutely nothing but a featureless stone altar at the far end along with the rotted remains of rags on the floor which Renault assumed had once served as a hermit’s bedding.

 

Despite not having the least respect for religion, Renault had to admit that such a dwelling served his purposes perfectly. Lurching towards the altar on his half-frozen legs, the Mercenary Lord succeeded in laying his friend’s body reverently on top of it. He reached to his back and removed the Basilikos, almost collapsing under its weight, but managed to deposit it on the floor beneath its wielder.

 

Now, he could finally pay some attention to himself. Neither of them had used up many of their provisions on their trek to Par Massino, something which Renault was very thankful for. There was some kindling and tinder in the small pouch of travelling supplies Renault kept with him at all times. With those, Renault had soon struck up a little fire, the first this tiny hermitage had seen in decades. He was still quite cold, but at least with the flame’s warmth and light, protected within the confines of the cave he wouldn’t worry about freezing to death. As he slowly felt feeling returning to his face and extremities, he reached into that same pouch and removed a small hardtack ration—favored sustenance of mercenaries or any traveling soldier all across Elibe.

 

He cast another glance at his friend’s body on the altar and felt another wave of sorrow wash over him, so strongly that he almost dropped his meal and broke down crying again. But even now, he managed to control himself. No more than a few tears dripped down his face as he forced himself to bite into the tasteless bread, filling a stomach which had been empty for over a day.

 

 _I’ll go back down to the monastery with you tomorrow, Braddock_ , he thought to himself. _Damn…what a fool I’ve been acting. Wandering up this mountain for no reason… You’d be laughing like crazy if you could see me now. Well, you deserve better than that. Time for me to make up for this stupid mistake. I’ll bring you down so the monks can give you a proper burial. It’s the least…the only thing I can do._

He choked back a sob along with the last bite of the bread. Then he blinked, and found it difficult to open his eyes again. Renault was tired—very, very tired. Night had already fallen, and he hadn’t gotten any rest after chasing Trunicht all over that monastery. His best friend’s death obviously hadn’t done anything to ease his exhaustion either. He shuffled up against the far wall of the cave, looked at his Braddock’s body one last time, then, with a mournful sigh, closed his eyes and slept.

 

-X-

 

“Uuhh…hey, Braddock?”

 

Renault said this out of pure reflex, and the moment he did he felt another pang of regret and sorrow. Every time he woke up he instinctively called for his friend…and this was the first time in years Braddock wouldn’t answer. It was a hideous truth he would have to get used to, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

 

He coughed, blinked, and stared at the entrance to his little hideaway. The fire he’d built yesterday had died down, and cold air had once again taken control of the small cave. Fortunately, however, there was light shining through the entrance, and outside Renault could see the clear blue sky. The snowstorm had stopped.

With another cough Renault picked himself up and staggered to the mouth of his cave. Sunlight glinted brightly off the fresh white snow, and he had to squint to keep the glare from damaging his eyes.

 

It was a breathtaking sight--even with his narrowed eyes Renault could see for miles. The great stone lances of Bern’s mountains were covered in bright, shimmering white, and far off in the distance black shapes danced through the sea of blue above them, calling to each other in the guttural roars that passed for the language of wyverns. The whole world seemed so tiny to him up here, almost as if he could pick it up in his hands. He took a deep breath, unconstricted by a sob for the first time since yesterday. The air itself seemed better, cleaner, more pure—though also thinner, he had to admit.

 

“Braddock,” he muttered to himself miserably. “I wish you could see this.” He turned away from the magnificent panorama before him, back to the dim, dingy interior of his little shelter, and Braddock’s impromptu resting place.

 

He then let out a loud, shocked cry.

 

Braddock’s body was no longer there.

 

“W…what the hell?!” Renault rushed over to the stone altar upon which his friend’s body had previously rested. He peered over it, checking if the corpse had somehow fallen off during the night. Apparently not—it was nowhere to be seen, and the Basilikos was completely undisturbed.

 

What could that mean? That Braddock was alive? Renault’s conscious mind knew it was impossible—the Ostian hadn’t taken a single breath in all the time Renault had carried him. And why wouldn’t he have woken up Renault if he really was okay? None of it mattered, though. Renault desperately wanted to believe his friend was alive.

 

“Braddock! BRADDOCK!” he yelled elatedly, turning away from the altar and rushing back outside. Where could the man have gone? Blinded by the sun’s glare, Renault fell to his knees, gasping as his breath clouded in the air. He rubbed at his eyes for a few moments and then opened them slightly, trying to get a decent look at the snow around him.

 

The only footprints he could see were the ones he had just made. That meant Braddock would have made his escape while the snow was still falling. And he almost certainly wouldn’t have survived for long in such a storm.

 

“Damn it!” Renault yelled, slamming a fist into the ground. He felt tears welling up once again…but then he remembered that he hadn’t explored the cave very thoroughly before settling down to sleep last night. If there was more to it besides the small living area and altar, Braddock might have gone off to explore. Why he would have done so without waking his friend up, however, was an open question.

 

Still, Renault didn’t have any other ideas. He immediately turned back and ran into the cave, heading straight towards his traveling supplies, from which he took a torch. Even with the morning sun outside, it was still quite dark, meaning he’d need the extra light if he wanted to scour each and every last inch of his new home.

 

He lit it with his flint and raised it into the air, heading towards the back of the cave. Holding the torch over the altar, Renault could see it seemed to be totally undisturbed—no scratches or anything—besides of course the absence of Braddock’s body. There were also no footprints in the dust and detritus on the floor around it. Renault was now growing very uneasy. It was as if Braddock had simply _disappeared_.

 

When he raised his eyes—and his torch—to get a better look at the space behind the altar, though, he had a good idea of where his friend might have disappeared to.

 

There was a large opening in the back wall of the cave. Renault had no idea how he could have missed it—assuming it was even there last night. Was it too dark to have noticed it? Or had it somehow just appeared while he was sleeping? If so, who could have created it? It might have been wise to ponder these questions, but at this point Renault was too stressed and emotionally drained to care. He only noticed that it was an almost perfect rectangle, meaning it was likely manmade. And strangest of all, he could feel a waft of warm air coming from within.

 

Renault moved around the altar, standing before the strange doorway and pondering the shadowy depths on the other side of it for a moment. He shifted the torch from his right hand to his left and gave the Silver Sword in its scabbard at his side a reassuring pat.

 

Then he took his first step into the darkness.

 

-X-

 

It was a good thing Renault had taken only one step. Another one might have been his last.

 

The torch he carried burned brightly, but it seemed to illuminate nothing around it—within the light it cast, there was only empty air. Suspicious, Renault immediately froze, and then knelt down to get a better idea of where he was going. Now he could clearly see the floor beneath him—and understood why there didn’t seem to be much for his torch to light up.

 

He was standing on a small platform, made out of the same stone as the rest of the cave but absolutely smooth, formed just as perfectly as the doorway—Renault was now certain he wasn’t in a natural extension of the small cave, and that the Eliminean monks hadn’t built it either. The platform jutted several feet out into what seemed like an endless black abyss. There was absolutely nothing beyond that. Renault blinked, then puckered his lips and spat as hard and far as he could. The glob of saliva arced out, and then fell beyond the light of the torch. He waited half a minute for a splatter or any sound indicating the projectile had landed. None came.

 

“Some fall,” he muttered to himself. “Braddock…are you down there?’ It was a purely rhetorical question, of course—if his friend’s body _was_ down there, Renault would just have to go down and get it. But how?

 

Renault looked to his left and saw that the platform extended for a few more feet in that direction. Carefully, still kneeling, he made his way over to its edge. Peering over it with torch in hand, he saw, with a combination of surprise and satisfaction, that a series of equally well-carved steps led down. He definitely knew where his destination was, now.

 

Still, Renault also knew that he couldn’t get too eager—who knew what dangers could be lurking in this strange place, after all. He kept the hand holding the torch out as far in front of him as possible while gripping his sword’s hilt tightly in the other, ready to whip it out at a moment’s notice. He also tread very carefully—each step was slow and painstaking, ensuring the Mercenary Lord wouldn’t be surprised by a gap in the stairs or a weak spot collapsing and sending him plummeting to his death.  


After nearly an hour of this, though, it seemed such precautions were unnecessary. The stone stairs seemed to be quite strong and sturdy, with no treacherous breaks or hidden traps waiting for the unwary. The real danger, it seemed, was boredom and exhaustion. The stairs were all the same, unvarying shade of dull grey, along with the walls, and aside from those, there seemed to be nothing except the utter darkness of the…shaft, Renault assumed. The stairs were going down in a circular pattern. His stomach growled—he hadn’t bothered to eat breakfast. He looked up, and realized he couldn’t see the platform he descended from. That made sense, given how dark it was, but it also meant he had no idea how far he’d come. Since he was essentially tip-toeing cautiously down these stairs, he doubted he’d covered _that_ much distance, but…something was off about this place. He couldn’t tell exactly what, but he was sure there was some magic at work. Distance and space seemed almost imperceptibly _changed_. Also, there was a strange sort of heat all around him—Renault wasn’t uncomfortable, but now he knew where those warm breezes were coming from, despite the mountains of Bern being some of the coldest places on Elibe outside of Ilia. All this weirdness made him suspect that even if he wanted to come back up, he wouldn’t be able to.

 

“Some kind of spell, huh? I’m gettin’ real tired of this,” he muttered, putting his sword away as he realized it likely wouldn’t do much good in the predicament he was in. As he did so, however, he felt the air around him _change_ somehow—as if something had shifted in front of him. He couldn’t tell what, though. However, as he took a few more steps down the stairs, the light of his torch finally fell upon something other than grey rock beneath him.

 

In front of him was a wall, and within that wall was a rectangular opening, similar to the one he had initially entered.

 

As he advanced, Renault noticed that there was actually a torch hanging on the wall right next to the opening. It was not lit, but he noticed to both his satisfaction and suspicion that there was still wood which could be put aflame. Grateful, he brought his own torch up to it and watched as another warm ball of light joined the one he held. Neither illuminated far into the room ahead, though—Renault gulped, again brought a hand to the hilt of his sword, and prepared to cross this second threshold.

 

He stepped inside into…what could have passed for a small library.

 

He couldn’t stop himself from letting out a quiet “The hell?” as the light of his torch fell upon his surroundings. The room wasn’t very large—only slightly larger than his quarters in Castle Caerleon. It was filled, however, with books. Shelves had been carved into the stone of the walls around him, completely filled with books, tomes, and scrolls of all shapes and sizes, all in a variety of languages, few of which he even recognized. At the far end of the room was another rectangular door, but Renault didn’t want to deal with that until he’d explored this strange place a little further. In the center of the room was, oddly enough…a fairly nondescript table and chair. There were several books lying open on that table, and the Mercenary Lord got the distinct impression that this little study had not been abandoned for long—if it was even abandoned at all. Now very curious, Renault made his way toward it, carefully stepping over the books and pieces of parchment also scattered around the floor as well (less because he cared about damaging them and more because he didn’t want to trip).

 

Next to the table was a small stand for a torch, into which Renault placed his. _Cozy little place here,_ Renault thought to himself. _If it wasn’t in the middle of a Bernese mountain, Khyron would’ve loved to spend a long time here. Or Kelitha…_ Another pang of sorrow arced through him as he remembered another friend he’d lost. It soon passed, however, as he reminded himself to continue with his examination of this strange complex and his search for his best friend.

 

He figured a closer look at all these books might give him a better idea of where, exactly, he was. He sat down at the chair and began to read one of the texts lying open in front of him. He peered closely at the script—a bunch of strange wriggles he didn’t even recognize. He grunted and tossed the book away, then picked up the one beneath it. This time he was able to recognize the language, though not read it. It was Draconic, the same language in Kyron and Rosamia’s spellbooks. From this, Renault surmised that whoever had lived—or still lived—in this odd little hideaway was some sort of magician, or at least a scholar.

 

Looking closer at it, however, Renault noticed that there were notes scrawled carefully between the lines and in the margins of several pages of the book. The light from the torch was just enough for him to make them out—and his eyes widened when he realized he could read them. They were written in the common tongue of Elibe.

 

 _Earth, Wind, Water, Fire_ , read one note near the top of the page. _Everything is made of those 4 elements, including human bodies_.

 

Mildly interested, turned the page to see if there was anything else he could read. On the next page there was another question scribbled on the bottom of the page this time. _What animates these bodies? Is a man nothing but the sum of his parts, or is there something more?_

 

On the next, there were few notations. Only one word, five boxy letters nestled in the middle of the last paragraph of the page, was circled and underlined. A translation was written three times in large bold script right over the words next to it, highlighting its importance:

 

_QUINTESSENCE_

_QUINTESSENCE_

_QUINTESSENCE_

“Eh?” Renault remembered hearing the word before, but couldn’t quite place it. Maybe Khyron had mentioned it to him, or his mother or even his father at some point in his youth. He vaguely recalled it to be synonymous with life force or something like that.

 

As he continued, he came across a surprise—a piece of parchment tucked in between the next couple of pages. The scholar, whoever he was, apparently hadn’t found enough room on the margins of the text to write what he wanted. Renault peered at it for a few moments. The top half of the parchment was filled with indecipherable diagrams and equations. The bottom half, however, was filled with more notes, still in the common script.

 

_This is the key! This is the key! Quintessence is at the center of it all! My experiments with the rats over the past month prove it beyond any shadow of a doubt. Even if one masters each of the four elements, they are nothing without the spark of life—the dragons call it Quintessence. Not even they know exactly what it is, but it is what separates all living things from the dust they are made of. God breaths it into all life as it is born or hatched—or the gods, or the Universal Force, depending on if you ask an Eliminean, a Nabatan nomad, or a dragon. But without it, any sort of life simply falls to nothing. Neither Anima nor Light can affect it directly, only damaging the shells in which it is contained. Dark magic, though—Dark can harness it at least, if not control it._

_Tomorrow, continue the research with #s 68 and 69 with the Nosferatu spells. Ask Athos about the Grimoire of Ner’Zhul. Librarian Dukat said it spoke much about quintessence, but the look he gave me made it seem like if he had the book, he wouldnt want to show it to me. Do NOT let him or Athos find out about the rats. Burn the bodies tomorrow morning._

“Athos?  Couldn’t be the Hero himself, this book’s not that old. Maybe it’s a popular name from wherever this guy’s from. Ilia? Sacae? No...Etruria, maybe.” Many mages named their children after the greatest of their kind, after all—Renault felt just slightly more comfortable knowing he was in a countryman’s abode, strange as it may have been. He blinked, then looked at a very large tome laying near the end of the table. It was very, very thick, with black covers and gilded lettering. He couldn’t read the title embossed on the spine (it wasn’t even Draconic, written in a series of interconnected lines, dashes, and dots), but given that it was the largest, most prominent book in the vicinity, he wondered if it was the “Grimoire” the scholar’s note had referred to. He reached over, picked it up, and began flipping through it. Much like the previous book, it was peppered with notes, and since most on the first few pages were very elated in nature (“I’ve found it!” and “This is perfect!” being the gist of most of them), Renault figured it was. Soon enough, he found another piece of parchment with several diagrams accompanying the notes.

 

_I’m a fool! I should have begun my research into the origins of the Nosferatu spell ages ago! I’ve always wondered how it could heal my own wounds while weakening my opponent’s, but just like the Grimoire says, it’s all in the quintessence! But the magic contained in this book is so advanced so incredibly advanced. Nosferatu transfers quintessence from one body to another, but Ner’Zhul figured out how to store it, and then manipulate it. What an incredible achievement! And the ancient dragons executed him for it? Why?_

“Why indeed,” muttered Renault. He was hardly hostile towards the arts of sorcery, but still more interested in swordsmanship—under normal circumstances he would have put the book away by now. However, something about this concept of ‘quintessence’ intrigued him. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be as important to him as it was to this scholar, whoever he was. Thus, Renault kept reading—even if he was wrong and all this was just meaningless rambling, he would at least know more about the place he’d stumbled onto, and maybe a few clues as to where Braddock’s body had gone as well. He continued to skim across the notes until he found an answer.

 

_From what it did to the rats, I can only imagine this spell would produce a truly horrifying effect on a sentient being. No wonder Ner’Zhul was torn to pieces by his fellow dragons! But even so, his work is simply far too valuable to be dismissed out of hand—just look at what I have been able to do with it in the span of a few short weeks! The phylacteries I have created from Ner’Zhul’s diagram have kept the life essence of these rats perfectly preserved ever since I collected them, and they are not degrading. Even better, Ive repurposed this quintessence for my own ends!_

_Using nothing but the quintessence I have harvested from these rats, yesterday I managed to create tiny objects of varying compositions—a ball of clay, a sheet of metal, and finally a single gold coin conjured out of nothing but thin air and the power stored in my phylacteries. Anima mages can only summon fire, ice, wind, or thunder—the basic elements. I have created actual matter combining all four, with nothing but the animating force of a living being! But even that is nothing compared to what I have accomplished today. Using the quintessence of three of my rats, I managed to reconstruct one of their paws. It was a cold, dead thing, and the tiny flesh was pale grey, not pink, and cold to the touch, without the original’s warmth. But it is flesh! An actual piece of a once-living creature! What an incredible triumph for a mage!_

_But what else? I know I’ll be able to recreate the entire body of a rat easily enough, given enough time to study this magic further. But is that all? Can I create more? What about the mind? What about the soul? I must do more research._

“Once living…?” Now Renault was interested. Very, very interested. He continued flipping through the Grimoire, coming across several more pieces of the sorcerer’s notes. And now he was intensely scanning every line, searching for another reference to anything “once-living.” And soon enough, he found one.

 

_Success! Success! I have restored #102’s body! The process is still inefficient—it required his own quintessence as well as that of 99, 100, and 101—but I now possess a little rat of the exact same size and shape as #102. His fur is grey, and his golden eyes disquieting, but he obeys my commands as well as he did in life. Indeed, I believe I have managed to restore his very mind—perhaps even his soul, if such a thing exists. The reconstructed #102 can traverse my little rat maze as well as he could in life. His memories have returned. He retains the ability to solve the small problems I set before him, meaning his consciousness is intact. Beyond the minor point of physical appearance, he is the same rat now as he was in life._

_I have done the impossible! I have undone death!_

 

The moment he read those words, Renault froze.

 

_Undone death?_

He continued to read.

 

_I have mastered killing and reviving rats. Now I need the energy of only two to recreate the body of one. I am ready to move on but I require more quintessence. This next undertaking will be a gigantic leap forward._

 

The end of one piece. Renault didn’t hesitate to place it aside—carefully—and move to another.

 

_I mustn’t get too full of myself. Throughout history my fellow mages have summoned or made constructs to assist them. Even a novice dark magician can summon the golden-eyed shadows and bend them to his will! That was the very first spell I learned, in fact. And now Ive moved on to these reconstructed rats—as pleased as I am, Ner’Zhul himself would probably be unimpressed. He would approve of my aspirations though I am sure of it. What I hope to create is much more advanced. The ancient texts refer to beings much like the ones I am thinking of. Called “morphs,” they can be constructed in forms male or female, however their creator wishes. But what if I cast one in the form of a dead man or woman? And what if I suffused it with quintessence? It is in this quintessence that life truly lies—a person’s memories, their personality, their consciousness. My experiments with the rats have proven this. With enough quintessence, could I not recreate a human mind in its entirety?_

_And why stop there? A dragon’s soul is many, many times greater than a human’s, but not infinitely so. I would require more than rats…even more than humans…it would take an entire nation of them to give me the power I need. But if I could gain enough—hypothetically, I must test this—I could create a morph in the shape of a dragon. And with quintessence harvested from another nation, I could recreate a dragon’s personality. This is this is better than anything I could have dreamed of Aenir my Aenir I can bring you back to me I can bring you back to me I can bring you back_

__

“Aenir?” The name meant absolutely nothing to Renault. But the half-mad notes reminded him of a name that meant much, much more.

 

“Braddock…Braddock…is…is it possible? Could I…”

 

A little voice inside his head told him he was crazy. These notes were nothing but meaningless rantings likely penned by some unknown, insane hermit. But they also gave him something he desperately needed. An idea, something he couldn’t live without.

 

 

And for that reason alone, he felt something replacing the pain and sorrow of his friend’s loss. It was very small at first—but it grew moment by moment.

 

It was manic determination.

 

Even this might have been squashed, given enough time. Had he not found any evidence for the bizarre claims of the notes written in the _Grimoire_ , he might have simply given up. But the next few writings he found set him immutably on his path.

 

Moving the _Grimoire_ aside, he began to search frantically for anything else—notes, journals, experiment logs, anything—written in a language he could understand. Soon enough, he came across a small hidebound book with nothing written on its cover—neither in the Draconic script nor the strange lines-and-dots of other books in the library. When he opened it up, however, he saw it was full of scribbling in the common language.

 

It was indeed an experiment log—each page was labeled with a number, which Renault assumed to be the identifier of the individual rats this sorcerer had used. He flipped through pages 1 to 102, already knowing what had happened to the unfortunate subjects. Pages 103 to 120 seemed to be records of the progressing refinement of the harvesting process—entry 115 mentioned creating a full rat from nothing but the quintessence of 114, and in 120 this sorcerer had apparently managed to create an extremely large rat from the quintessence of 118 and 119. However, this journal apparently wasn’t complete—Renault noted with frustration that pages 121 to 150 had been torn out. The last few pages, however, were still intact.

 

They seemed to be written in the same hand as all the other notes he’d come across. The writing now, however, was extremely shaky and sloppy, rendering it almost (but not entirely) impossible to read. It seemed as if the author had been in a state of panic, or perhaps great pain, when he was writing. But Renault could still make out what he was trying to say, even if he had to stand to hold the book closer to the light of the torch.

 

_ATHOS HAS BETRAYED ME THEY HAVE ALL BETRAYED ME JUST AS I WAS ON THE CUSP OF MY GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT! THEY DESTROYED MY NOTES AND LEFT ME TO DIE IN THE DESERT BUT I STILL LIVE. IT IS POSSIBLE! WITH THE QUINTESSENCE OF A MAN YOU CAN CREATE A MAN! MORE TIME, MORE EXPERIMENTS, MORE QUINTESSENCE I NEED MORE QUINTESSENCE I WILL REST AND HEAL AND THEN GET MORE QUINTESSENCE AND THEN THEY WILL PAY THEY WILL PAY THEY WILL PAY_

“Create a man,” Renault whispered to himself, digesting everything those strange notes contained. “Braddock…Braddock…could I do that for you as well? Heal you? Re-create your body and bring you back?”

 

That was a question which definitely deserved a great deal more consideration. But for now, actually _finding_ Braddock took priority. Renault shut the book and placed it on the table, resolving very strongly to return to it again. He then turned to the door on the far end of the room, resolved to see what lay beyond it. Taking his torch from the stand and keeping a hand on his sword, Renault pushed forwards.

 

The moment he stepped through the final doorway, the resulting shock almost made him drop that torch in surprise.

 

It wouldn’t have been such a bad thing, though, because he wouldn’t have needed it.

 

Renault was blinded for a moment by a flash of blue light. He immediately jumped back, but the flash was not a part of any sort of attack. When he next opened his eyes, he found he could see into the next room quite clearly.

 

It was a circular chamber, about twice as large as the study, and lit by a series of glowing blue orbs hovering near the walls—they seemed somewhat similar to the light sources Renault had encountered in the Reaper’s Labyrinth. Its walls were undecorated and it was virtually empty except for two things: Some sort of throne at the far end upon which sat a form covered in bluish-black rags, and a large stone altar at the center of the room, similar to the one in the hermit’s retreat above, illuminated by a beam of soft blue light emanating from the ceiling above it.

 

Upon that altar was Braddock’s prone form.

 

“Braddock! BRADDOCK!” cried Renault, tossing aside both his sword and his torch and rushing up to the altar. He threw himself upon his friend, hugging the body close to him…

 

And felt it was cold and still. No movement at all, not even breath.

 

“Braddock! Braddock! Wake up, please!” Renault pleaded, hoping that the Ostian had came here under his own power, hoping that a miracle truly had occurred…

 

But nothing happened. Renault’s best friend still offered no response.

 

“Braddock…” he muttered, tears again forming in his eyes as he faced the reality of death a second time. “W…what’s going on, man? If you’re…if you’re not…then…then how’d you get all the way down here?”

 

“I brought him here.”

 

Renault reacted purely on instinct. He hopped backwards and then immediately crounched down, picking up his sword from the floor. As he rose he pointed it at the source of the voice.

 

It came from the rag-clad form on the stone throne behind the altar. It shifted, and a man’s head popped out. The right side of his head was concealed by bandages, and hastily-applied ones too. From what Renault could tell, his short, slicked-back hair was greenish-teal, somewhat darker than his own. From his chin jutted out a patch of that green hair in the form of a goatee.

 

“At ease, friend. I mean you no harm. In fact, I may be able to help you,” the man said. Renault didn’t let his guard down, but he did feel himself relax ever so slightly. That voice was warm and soft, and reminded Renault of good memories—it sounded slightly like Braddock’s voice, and even more faintly, like Sergion’s, his own father’s.

 

That still wouldn’t be enough for Renault to trust him just yet, though. “Is that so? Then why’d you drag my friend’s body down here? And how’d you do it?”

 

The man smiled reassuringly, and then brought out a familiar-looking staff from the folds of his robes. Renault noticed that his hands shook as he held it. “Even in my state, I can still use a Rescue staff. Very useful things, aren’t they?”

 

“Rare and expensive, too. Why the hell would you spend a charge on a corpse?”

 

“Because…because he’s _perfect._ ” The man got up from his throne, using the Rescue staff as a makeshift cane. Slowly, laboriously, he inched towards the altar, as if he were an old, infirm man. When he reached it, he caressed Braddock’s face with a trembling hand.

 

“For the first time in months, I felt someone’s life other than my own in the caves above. And when I sent a shadow to look, I saw this…this man’s body. Look at his handsome face! And I know he wielded that great axe you brought with him. Imagine what his physique must have been before he died! He is very much the _perfect_ specimen…”

 

“Specimen?” Now Renault was growing angry. “You’re a dark magician, aren’t you? I just spent an entire war slaughtering your kind. Tell me one good reason I shouldn’t run you through right now, and make it quick!”

 

The man chuckled—he didn’t seem offended in the least. “That would do neither of us much good, friend. I don’t know what experiences you’ve had with users of the elder arts, but we are not all the same. I am much more useful to you alive than dead.”

 

“Convince me.”

 

“Well, you’ve spent some time reading the books in my little study, haven’t you?”

 

Renault said nothing.

 

“You’ve seen how close…how close I was to re-creating a human body…”

 

Still nothing.

 

“With a little more time, I could have made a human mind as well…”

 

Renault’s mouth twitched, just slightly.

 

“But Athos and the others…they betrayed me before I could finish my work…”

 

Beads of sweat dripped down Renault’s brow, and his throat suddenly felt very dry.

 

“I thought I was finished…but with a helper…an assistant…I can begin again…”

 

“Get to the point,” Renault managed to gasp.

 

“Heh, heh, heh…very well. You care about this dead man, don’t you? This…Braddock, as you called him. He was your friend. Perhaps more. It’s very easy to tell. You didn’t even bother to hide it, from the way you were holding this body and crying over it.”

 

“I told you to get to the point!”

 

“I can bring him back.”

 

Once again, Renault had no response.

 

“You’ve read my notes in the Grimoire of Ner’Zhul, and you’ve read my experiment logs. With enough quintessence, I can re-create this man’s mind and body. He would be the perfect choice for the creation of a human morph.

 

“My friend, I can grant your greatest desire. I can return him to you. But I will need your help.”

 

For another long moment, Renault said nothing.

 

Then, at last, he lowered his sword.

 

“Who…just who are you?”

 

The blue lights of the room seemed to dim as the sorcerer smiled in great satisfaction.

 

“My name is Nergal.”

 

_::Linear Notes::_

A couple of notes: This fic is where Nergal makes an appearance, and thus marks the first direct connection with FE7 we have in the story. There will be more and more of those as it goes on.

 

 


	42. Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault does not trust Nergal--at first. But that may soon change.

Wayward Son

 

42: Suspicions

 

“My name is Nergal.”

 

Renault’s mouth went dry as he heard that last word echo through the empty chamber. Not just because it was superficially familiar—he knew he’d heard it once before—but because somehow, on a deeper level, he realized he was _bound_ to that name. Or at least, he thought he was. Renault may have mocked the concept of “fate” before, but as his legs trembled just a bit as the echoes died off at last, for a moment he was convinced that _something_ had to have brought him here.

 

No longer than a moment, though. “Nergal,” he rasped, regaining control of his faculties. “Nergal!” He immediately stood ramrod-straight and pointed his sword again at the pile of rags in front of him. “You might not know me, but I sure as hell know you.”

 

“Really?” The man chuckled, seemingly amused. “Then I am at a distinct disadvantage. I don’t recall seeing or hearing anyone remotely like you before.”

 

“This is the first time we’ve met in person. You’ve never heard the name ‘Renault’ before, right? But I sure know your name. And a lot more about you, too. You’re from Nabata, aren’t you?”

 

Nergal shifted on his throne. “Impressive. Renault…that’s your name, yes? I will remember it.”

 

“Answer my question.”

 

“If I were to say yes?”

 

“Then you’re the murderer Dougram told me about. It was a long time ago, but I still remember. He said some dark magician from his hometown started experimenting with something called quintessence, drawn from living creatures. That’s what the first hundred pages of your journal were, right? That stuff with the rats. But afterwards? Those pages that were torn out? That’s when you started stealing it from humans, isn’t it? Like Dougram’s mother?”

 

“Heh heh heh,” the man chuckled again, his voice crackling like dead leaves rolling across a barren landscape. “My reputation has preceded me, it seems. Dougram can’t see what I wanted to do…and he still pursues me anyways? Persistence may be admirable, but not when it’s so misdirected…”

 

“Wasted, you mean. I got the impression Dougram really wanted to kill you himself, but I hope he won’t mind if I’m the one bringing him your head.”

 

“Do not make the same mistakes he did, sir. You know nothing about me aside from what he told you. Did you fight besides one another? Was he as close to you as this…Braddock, was? If not, how can you be sure he’s telling you the truth?”

 

“I’m more inclined to trust him than you. Haven’t met a black magician yet who meant me any well—and I spent a whole war slaughtering your kind. Time to kill one more!” He tightened his grip on his blade and prepared to leap at the helpless sorcerer…before the man’s next words stopped him cold in his tracks.

 

“Even if it means your Ostian will never come back to you?”

 

Renault stood as still as a statue, pointing his weapon at Nergal…but moving no closer.

 

“Surely you have not forgotten what we have just discussed? I can bring him back to you…if my notes were enough to convince you that I am a murderer, why should they not also prove I can resurrect the dead?”

 

“I…I’d be a fool if I listened to you. You’re not the first smooth-talking, manipulative dark mage I’ve met. If you’re the kind of man who can kill in cold blood, you’re the kind of man who can lie just as easily.”

 

Even as Renault said this, he knew he was trying to convince himself as much as his opponent. His rational mind was _screaming_ at him not to trust this man. But a voice from deeper within his psyche—a softer voice, but a very, very influential one, dripping with absolute desperation—told him he needed Braddock, couldn’t live without Braddock, and that even the slightest chance of bringing him back, no matter how small…

 

And Nergal, it seemed, knew exactly what to say to strengthen that voice.

 

“Cold blood? Both you and your friend are…were…mercenaries, yes? Are either of you so different from I?”

 

“B…Braddock was.”

 

“And what about Dougram?”

 

“He—“

 

“Weren’t you on opposite sides?”

 

“How the hell would you know?”

 

“’Twas not an unreasonable guess. And I was right. Why would you be so quick to listen to someone who was once a foe?”

 

“He’s a good—“

 

“Even good people can be mistaken. He didn’t know what I was trying to do…what _we_ were trying to do. His mother participated freely in my experiments…she thirsted for knowledge, just like I did. But we lost her anyways…truly unfortunate. My experiments simply needed more refinement…more _time._ And we could have made up for it! Brought her back! _Could_ have! If only that fool Athos,” and at this, the man’s formerly friendly voice began to drip venom, “had not intervened. Dougram knows nothing, my friend. He knows nothing about me, about my goals, about what I intend to do. Will you leave this Ostian in the darkness of death for all eternity…simply because of what an ignorant child has told you?’

 

“Y…you’re still lying…!”

 

“Are you sure? What if I’m not?”

 

“I…”

 

“Perhaps hearing your friend’s voice again would convince you of my good intentions?”

 

“What—“

 

“…Renault…!”

 

The voice was very faint, but it wasn’t Nergal’s.

 

It was Braddock’s.

 

The sorcerer held out a pale, shaking hand, summoning a small ball of blue light over his palm. And from that orb, Renault could hear his friend calling out to him.

 

“…Help me…I want…”

 

“Braddock. BRADDOCK!”

 

The sound of his friend’s voice was enough to banish every vestige of good sense from Renault’s mind.

 

“H…how can this be possible?” muttered Renault, throwing away his sword and falling to his hands and knees before Nergal. “Braddock…Braddock…” He turned back to look at his friend’s corpse on the altar, still motionless and quiet. “Braddock’s dead. How can you…”

 

“It is fortunate you brought your friend here so quickly, my friend. In any case, the explanation is complex, but…there are still…remnants…lingering in that body over there. Enough for me to preserve. But alas, I am weakened. In my state, your friend’s whispers from the beyond are the best I can provide. If I only had more quintessence, I could make that voice louder. Indeed, with more power, I could give you more than a voice…much, much more…”

 

He clenched his hand around the blue sphere and it winked out of existence, taking Braddock’s voice with it.

 

“The hell?!” Renault quickly got to his feet and picked up his sword, brandishing it before Nergal. “What’s your problem? What’d you do to his voice? Bring it BACK!”

 

“That…my gift to you,” he chuckled,” takes energy, my hot-blooded friend. Energy that I have very little of, as you can plainly see. If you want to hear his voice again…and that is the very least I can do…I will need more quintessence. Much more…”

 

Renault didn’t say anything.

 

“I know you don’t trust me…understandable, given your experiences and all you have undoubtedly heard of me. But you also heard your friend’s voice. A corpse cannot provide one, but I can. No matter how suspicious I may seem…do you really want to live out the rest of your life without ever seeing a smile on that face again?”

 

_I…I can’t._

 

His mouth was a motionless line on his stony face, but the words still echoed inside Renault’s head.

 

_I need you, Braddock…_

 

He remembered how many times he had promised the Ostian that they wouldn’t die. That death would touch neither of them. That they’d be together forever.

 

_You’re the only friend I have…_

He remembered his father’s last day among the living. His mother’s grand funeral. Kelitha’s body falling apart in the skies, and Keith’s blood dripping off the fangs of the Wyvern which had killed her.

 

Renault lowered his sword, and he would not level it at Nergal again for a very long time.

 

“I can’t live without him,” he muttered, forcing himself to face that painful truth. Then he looked up again, glaring at Nergal. “If you can bring him back to me, then I won’t mind using you. Yes, using _you_. You’re just a means to an end for me. Nothing more.”

 

“I won’t mind.”

 

“Yeah? Then you’re going to have to do something else for me to prove you could actually be useful. I want to hear Braddock’s voice again. And louder, this time.”

 

Nergal coughed and shuddered. “I told you already…I need more quintessence. I am not in the best of health, as you can plainly see. That tiny demonstration I gave you just now strained me as it was…”

 

“You need quintessence,” growled Renault in irritation. “How can you get it?”

“The notes should have told you…you have to harvest it from living things. I would do it myself, but I am in no condition to leave this refuge.” He saw that Renault was about to grow angry again, and smiled. “But you can, my new friend. If you can give me the power I need, I can grant you everything you desire…and more…”

 

“And how would I do that?”

 

“Heh, heh. An enthusiastic student…I like that.”

 

“I won’t say it again. You’re not using me, Nergal. Nobody uses me. I’m using _you_.”

 

“Of course, of course. Look at me!” He chuckled again. “How could I use you? Or anyone? Not in this frail, broken body…”

 

“Just shut up and stop babbling. Tell me what I need to do.”

 

“Ah…then, here. Take this.” Nergal reached into the folds of his robe, and then brought out perhaps the oddest little trinket Renault had yet seen.

 

It was a necklace, of sorts, not entirely different from something one would expect a noble to possess. The fine gold chain was quite large, and easily long enough to hang down to Renault’s lower chest if he wore it about his neck. Attached to it, however, was a small, delicate ampoule. Cylindrical in shape, it was about half as large as his thumb. However, the air around it was thick with eldritch power. It did not seem to be malign—the tiny thing gave off none of the palpable waves of dread Gespenst or even most common, weak dark magic tomes or cursed weapons generated. Still, Renault was well aware that this was indeed an enchanted artifact.

 

“Put this around your neck,” Nergal wheezed. Renault reached out for it, and then stopped.

 

“What, do you think it’s cursed? That it will steal your life away the moment you touch it? Surely you know better. You’re an experienced mercenary, are you not? You should be able to feel it from here…it generates not the smallest aura of hostile magic. And even if I could conceal such an enchantment from you, why would I bother? I have absolutely nothing to gain from harming you. A single man, even a great warrior like you, couldn’t provide me with nearly the power I need to restore myself. Working together is infinitely more practical for the both of us…”

 

It took one more moment for desperation to finally defeat doubt in Renault’s mind. He snatched the strange necklace from Nergal and threw it onto his neck, half-expecting to feel a sudden burst of pain, or to begin withering away into a husk as Nergal laughed at him…

 

But nothing happened. Nothing at all.

 

“See? Harmless.”

 

“What are you planning?” Renault replied, still not entirely convinced. “I can tell it’s not for decoration. If you’re trying to fool me, Nergal, you’re as good as dead.”

 

Nergal let out another dry chuckle. “That, Renault, is a phylactery.”

 

“Explain.”

 

“When a living being dies—human, animal, it doesn’t matter—its life force…its quintessence…usually dissipates into the environment around it. Lost forever, in most cases. However, I was able to construct a device which would…retain that quintessence. Store it. Power fleeing from a fresh corpse would be drawn and trapped inside that device…that phylactery…rather than simply returning to the earth. I had built many, including larger ones, but virtually all were destroyed by the mob…this was the only one I could save from my laboratory in Nabata. But one is enough.”

 

“I get it now. You want me to find something to kill, store its quintessence in this…phylactery, and bring it back to you?”

 

“You _are_ a quick study.”

 

“Well, what do you want me to kill? There aren’t exactly a lot of people on this mountain.”

 

“Animals will suffice. There is a nest of wyverns not far above this place. Destroying it should be no great challenge for you.”

 

“Probably not. At least assuming you’re not sending me into a trap.”

 

“Why would I, especially after I’ve gifted you with such a rare and powerful artifact?”

 

“We’ll see. And even if I do take this job…why do you want those Wyverns dead?”

 

“Everyone benefits, in my view. You’re not Bernese, I can tell. Surely you have no love for those beasts…and you’re a mercenary, aren’t you? You have a warrior’s blood in your veins…you must desperately want to test your blade once again, yes? Perhaps it will take your mind off the loss of your friend…and bring you a few steps towards resurrecting him. And you’ll be doing the people of this region a favor. Fewer predators for them to worry about. As for me, obviously…Wyverns are strong creatures. Their deaths will give me plenty of good quintessence…”

 

For the last time, Renault hesitated. Then he said, “So…I kill these wyverns, their quintessence goes into this…phylactery…around my neck, I bring it back to you, and you bring Braddock back?”

 

“It will take much more than that to restore someone like your friend…a powerful warrior like him has the quintessence of a hundred lesser men. But his voice…I can show you more than his voice…”

 

Renault nodded—though he still looked upon his new compatriot with a gaze filled with distrust. “Alright. You have yourself a deal, Nergal. But you better see this through, or else I’m tearing you apart the moment I get back.”

 

With that, Renault turned and strode out of the strange sanctuary, a purpose in his steps for the first time since Braddock died. And when he was out of earshot, Nergal let out a long, low chuckle.

 

“Yes, Renault,” he whispered. “A deal indeed…”

 

-X-

 

“Hell,” grumbled Renault to himself as he stood on the snowy, sunlit ground outside of the cave, “maybe I should’ve thought this through a little better.”

 

It wasn’t the weather that concerned him—thankfully, snow had not begun to fall again, and it was still early enough in the day that he had a very good view of his surroundings. However, the only thing Nergal had said was that his destination was “above.” He really should have asked the sorcerer to be more specific.

 

 _Worry not, friend_ , whispered a voice in his head. _I will guide you._

 

“Huh? What the hell?” Renault jumped back in surprise, putting a hand to his sword.

 

_‘Tis only I, Nergal. I created the phylactery ‘round your neck…through it, I can guide you. You need not fear being abandoned so long as you wear it._

 

“Isn’t that a relief,” he muttered. “Well, you probably know my problem. How do I get “above?”

 

_The path to the hermitage continues upwards for a short while. Follow it until you reach a tall rock face. You will have to climb it._

“Better than going off of nothing,” Renault had to concede, and began his trek.

 

As Nergal had said, the trail did indeed continue for a small distance beyond the hermit’s sanctuary, though absolutely no-one had maintained it for a very long time. It could barely be called a trail, in fact, and Renault had to be even more careful as he walked across it to avoid a fall. This, combined with the fact that last night’s snow obscured most of it, forced him to take thirty minutes for a journey which ought to have taken no more than ten.

 

Still, he persevered, and he grinned and stopped his ascent when he saw the trail end at a large wall of mountain rock a few steps ahead. Before he could take another step forwards, though, he was reminded of why he had come here in the first place.

 

A loud roar echoed above him, and Renault immediately dove to the ground. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a handful of snow and slathered it over his head. His ploy worked—the large, bat-winged shadow which passed over his head took no notice of him as it returned to its nest. He breathed a sigh of relief that his armor was colored white—the Wyvern might have seen him and attacked, otherwise.

 

Slowly, he raised his head and looked above him, watching for any other ‘friends’ his quarry might have called. There seemed to be none in the skies, though he could hear the roars of other Wyverns coming from much farther away. He knew very little about the social structure of these creatures, and wasn’t sure if they were solitary or hunted in packs.

 

 _No need to worry,_ came Nergal’s voice in his head. _You’ll be facing no more than two_.

 

“You’d better be right about that.”

 

As quietly as he could, Renault sneaked up to the chunk of mountain leading up to the second cave and gave it a good look. He was not a skilled mountaineer, especially since he didn’t have any equipment for the job, but happily he found that this obstacle, at least, wouldn’t be too difficult to traverse. There were many holes and ledges in it that would make excellent hand and footholds—it would probably be even easier to scale than the side of the Argos Mountains he’d descended with Braddock on the way to fight Barbarossa, so long ago.

 

The memory of fighting alongside his friend brought a pang of sorrow to Renault’s heart, but once again it was replaced by determination. Renault brought one hand to the sturdiest outcropping he could find, then a foot on another, then his other hand, and soon enough, within less than two minutes he found himself nearing the edge of the cave’s entrance. He didn’t immediately haul himself up, though. Instead, he cautiously poked his head over it, not an inch farther than necessary to get a glimpse of the nest and its inhabitants.

 

The first thing he noticed was a rather pungent aroma—not the worst thing he’d ever smelled, but the smell of dung mixed with the rotting remains of the animals these things brought back to their young was enough to make him crinkle his nose in disgust. More importantly, though, he could both see and hear his prey. Directly in front of him, he could see a lumpy, dull-green form with batlike wings folded behind it, hunched over something he couldn’t see, but he assumed were young wyverns considering the high-pitched screeching they were making. They were probably being given a meal that their parent had hunted for them. Behind that, Renault could make out a similar lumpy shape lying at the back of the cave, rising and falling as if it were in deep sleep.

 

The Mercenary Lord knew very well it would be a very bad idea to face down two Wyverns at once. What was the easiest way to get rid of one of them? Renault remembered from the attack on Barbarossa that Wyverns were relatively sound sleepers, except when they smelled blood. A loud noise might attract one that was awake, but probably wouldn’t rouse one in slumber…

 

It was worth a try. Renault was perched quite securely—the grips on which rested both his feet and hands seemed to be quite secure. Thus, he could spare a hand to draw his sword.

 

He rapped its pommel against the edge of the rock face, three times—it seemed to echo all across the mountains; sound carried very well here. But he waited for a little while, and no response seemed to come from the Wyvern.

 

He tried again, slamming the pommel onto the rock five times. And _now_ he got a reaction.

 

Renault heard the high-pitched screeching stop, followed by a curious growl and the shuffling of a heavy, scaled body from above him. And a moment later, the Wyvern previously busy with feeding her (or his, Renault certainly couldn’t tell) babies snaked her head over the edge the mercenary was clinging under. She looked left, right, and then down—pausing for a moment as her eyes locked with Renault’s, not understanding what, exactly, was going on.

 

It was a moment too long.

 

“Nothing personal,” Renault grunted, and thrust his Silver Sword upwards, jamming it straight through the beast’s jaws and into her skull. She died instantly—her body collapsed to the ground with a loud THUD and her neck hung limply across the edge of the rock face, shattered head dripping blood before.

 

He heard a low growl and the shifting of another large, scaly body inside the cave, and realized that must have woken up its other resident. Quickly, Renault extricated his blade and clambered over the edge and up to his feet, the body of his first kill for Nergal cooling beside him. Ahead of him, he saw a batch of tiny Wyverns—none of which were any larger than his gauntleted fist—staring at him in shock and utter silence. And behind those, he saw a large, bulky silhouette in the darkness of the cave, just beyond the reach of the sunlight pouring in through its entrance, slowly getting to its feet. The beast was about the same size and shape as its fallen mate—easily twice as heavy as Renault and covered in dull green scales.  He (or she) turned towards Renault—and toward his vulnerable babies, the smell of his companion’s blood thick in the air. The beast let out another low growl as he caught a whiff of that scent, realizing that something was very wrong and that the strange interloper in front of him was likely responsible.

 

The Wyvern’s eyes dilated in rage, and he spread his wings, bared his claws, and let out an earthshaking roar at Renault, intending to charge straight at the man and crush him under his weight before tearing him from limb to limb.

 

Unfortunately, that roar cost the lizard his life.

 

As loud as it was, Renault at this point was simply too disciplined (or perhaps obsessed with his quest for Braddock’s resurrection) to pay it even a little heed. The sight of the Wyvern’s head, hanging still in the air with its mouth wide open, was simply too attractive a target for the swordsman to ignore. The beast’s scream lasted for about a second and a half—that was all the time it took for Renault to flex his legs and leap at the monster, bringing his weapon down in the same motion. The flash of silver landed on its mark almost perfectly—much like his mate, this Wyvern died instantly as Renault’s blade chopped his head nearly in half, from the tip of his snout down to the squamous crest behind his eyes.

 

“Heh. That wasn’t too hard,” said Renault, watching in satisfaction as his second foe collapse to the ground, blood pooling about his nearly bisected skull. “I wonder—“

 

He was cut off as he noticed something very strange.

 

His chest felt… _hot_.

 

It wasn’t burning, but he could feel himself sweating beneath his armor, as if it was a hot summer day—very, very strange indeed, considering it was a winter afternoon in one of the coldest regions of Bern. Renault grasped at the…”phylactery” Nergal had given him. Sure enough, it seemed to be generating the heat he felt, and as he held it in front of his face by its chain, he noticed the green glass of the small vial was giving off a distinct yellowish glow.

 

 _Perfect,_ came the voice in his head, _Perfect! Not much quintessence, but just enough for me. That glow, Renault, is the phylactery storing the life force of the wyverns you’ve just killed. Instead of losing it forever, you can now bring it back to me…”_

“Alright,” he said, and turned to exit before Nergal stopped him.

 

_Wait a moment. Aren’t you forgetting something?_

“Eh?”

 

_The younglings._

“Huh?”

 

Renault turned back, and his eyes fell upon the clutch of baby Wyverns, sitting very still and staring at him within the small depression in the floor that served as their bed.

 

_They won’t leave the nest. They’re too young._

_Kill them as well._

 

“Wait, kill ‘em?” Renault said out loud. “Babies?”

 

_They only possess the slightest trifles of quintessence. Still, there is no need to let it go to waste. Kill them and deliver it to me._

“But…”

 

_Surely you’re not getting sentimental over Wyverns, Renault? They’ll simply grow up to be as large and ugly as their parents. Besides, they can’t live on their own. You’d be doing them a favor putting them out of their misery now._

He still felt uneasy, but he couldn’t argue with that logic. Ignoring the churning in his stomach, Renault knelt down to get a better look at the terrified Wyvernlings. He had to admit, they looked sort of cute—tiny wings, plump bellies, and eyes proportionately larger compared to their heads than their parents.

 

He remembered how ugly their parents, were—and what a Wyvern not unlike them had done to Keith—and that was enough to banish the last vestiges of sympathy he felt.

 

Renault wasted no more time. He reached out for the little creatures and finished what he’d started.

 

-X-

 

“Perfect… _Perfect!”_

 

Nergal’s withered, unsteady hands reached out to Renault, almost desperately, the moment he entered the sorcerer’s throne room. It had been much easier for him to return from the cave than it was to first arrive, now that he knew the way. His pace had also been spurred by the strange phylactery hanging ‘round his neck—the extra heat should have been nice, but Renault was suspicious of such bizarre magic, and wanted it away from himself as quickly as possible.

 

Nergal was apparently pleased, though—it seemed he couldn’t wait even one more minute for his precious quintessence.

 

“So what do I do with this?” asked Renault, holding the phylactery in front of him as he neared his new “friend.” “Do you need to eat it or something?”

 

“Simply bring it to me. _Now!_ ”

 

This last word was spoken as if it was an order rather than a plea, or even a request. That was enough to make the suspicious Mercenary Lord stop in his tracks.

 

“P…please, friend,” Nergal added, sounding pathetic and helpless. “S…show me mercy.  Even if you have none, this quintessence you’ve brought me…with it, I can bring even more of your friend back to you.”

 

That was enough to win Renault over. “…Alright.”

 

He walked over to Nergal, holding the phylactery by its chain and carefully keeping it away from his body.

 

“You can hold it, you know. It won’t…it _can’t_ hurt you.”

 

“Don’t wanna take the risk.”

 

Nergal merely chuckled. “Very well. Just bring it a little closer.”

 

Renault stretched his arm out a little further, just enough for Nergal to reach out and clasp  the phylactery within his hands.

 

“Ahhh….Yes….Yesss…. _Yeeeessssss!_ ”

 

Renault nearly jumped back at the sound of Nergal’s ebullient voice—but even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to escape, for the wizened magician held that phylactery in a death-grip. He was breathing heavily, and he continued to chant “yes, yes,” in a way that seemed almost _orgasmic_. Renault felt bile rise in his throat and couldn’t stop his face from twisting in disgust, but he remained too fascinated—almost entranced—by the bizarre display, and couldn’t turn his eyes away.

 

Something was definitely happening. The phylactery was glowing even more brightly now, forcing Renault to squint. However, the light seemed to be moving, strangely enough. The glow shifted from the green glass, leaving it as dull and plain as it was when he had first seen it, and traveled up Nergal’s arms and into his body, stopping at his chest and giving one last pulse of brightness (forcing Renault to shut his eyes entirely) before winking out of existence.

 

When he opened his eyes again, nothing much seemed to change…at least on the surface. Nergal was still sitting in his stone throne, clustered protectively within his rags. Yet when he let out one last “ _Yes…_ ” his voice sounded slightly stronger, and when he withdrew his hands they didn’t seem to shake as much as they had before.

“Good, Renault. Very, very good…”

 

“I…I take it you’re feeling better?” said Renault, still a bit disturbed by what he’d seen. “So I did well, right?”

 

“Yes, very well.”

 

“Alright, so now it’s time for your end of the bargain. Let…let me hear Braddock’s voice again!”

 

The dark magician simply smiled. “Of course, my friend.”

 

He raised a hand above his head, and over its palm there formed another ball of blue light similar to the one he had previously summoned—but this time, it was much bigger, and Renault couldn’t help an overjoyed smile break out on his face when he saw what could have been Braddock’s silhouette—distant, but still recognizable—contained within its smoky depths.

 

“Renault,” he heard his friend’s voice, much clearer and louder than it had been previously, “Glad…I’m glad…Good…help…helping…”

 

“Braddock! Braddock!” Renault looked away for a moment at Nergal. “Can I talk to him? Can he hear me?”

 

“I’m afraid not. I can recreate his voice, but not his body, much less his consciousness. I’ll need more time…and more quintessence.”

 

The blue ball flickered, and then, to Renault’s dismay, winked out of existence.

 

“You can help me with both, Renault. Help me, help you. I’ve given you more, just as you wanted. You saw…you could see your friend’s form, and his voice was louder as well. Quintessence…with more quintessence, I can give you his voice…and his body…and his mind, all together, to be with you forever. Don’t you want that?”

 

Renault was still and silent.

 

“I have not led you astray. I have kept my word to you. If you still cannot trust me, surely you can see that a collaboration would be in our mutual interest?”

 

Renault didn’t offer a direct answer to that question, but what he gave was good enough for Nergal.

 

“Maybe…maybe…you can bring Braddock back. Maybe your past’s not so bad after all. If you can help me…I’ll help you.”

 

Nergal smiled.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Note the phylactery 'round Renault's chest in his official art. It will play an important role in the future of this story.

 


	43. Two Weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault begins his dark work for Nergal.

**Chapter 43: Two Weeks**

There was both good and bad in Renault’s situation. On the one hand, killing Wyverns was beginning to get somewhat boring. On the other hand, he was getting very good at it.

 

The big lizards were a bit smarter than they looked, but not quite as smart as a Mercenary Lord. As Renault was strolling complacently outside of the mountain trail which led to Nergal’s hideaway, one of the beasts flying nearby had thought him unwary, and thus, easy prey. It was presently flying far above Renault and behind him—and since he was presently facing the sun, its shadow fell behind him as well, giving him no advance notice of its approach. The typical ploy Wyverns used to ambush unsuspecting morsels was to soar as high above as possible, then fold their wings, straighten their bodies, and plunge straight down *behind* their target. By keeping their wings still and allowing gravity to guide them, they could fall almost silently, much more stealthily than most humans expected of such large, scaly creatures; they also kept their shadows behind their prey so as to remain undetected. The impact of their landing would produce a small shockwave strong enough to knock down most humans, which would then allow the predator to make a quick meal of its downed opponent. Such a clever hunting method was one reason Wyverns were so dangerous, one reason it was a very bad idea to head off to Bern’s mountains alone, and one reason many aspiring Wyvern Riders, seeking to earn a mount for themselves, never returned.

 

For Renault, however, such tactics were much more beneficial to him than the Wyverns.

 

Wyverns may have been able to fall almost silently—but “almost” wasn’t good enough against someone who’d had a two-week-long crash course in fighting their kind. Renault heard a slight whooshing of wind behind him that meant something large and heavy was a moment away from landing. In one smooth movement he hopped forwards, spun, and crouched, keeping his right hand firmly wrapped around his Silver Sword’s grip and his left hand around the blade’s lower end. The beast hit the mountain rock with a SLAM, letting out a loud roar as it unfurled its wings and bared its claws, expecting to fall upon a prone opponent who had been blown off his feet by the force of the impact…

 

And instead found its head cut neatly in two as Renault leapt at it and swung his fine sword in a quick, upwards arc.

 

“Hmph,” he grunted in satisfaction as he felt the phylactery against his chest grow warm with the Wyvern’s life force. It was always a good idea to go for the head when fighting these things. Though Archers were trained to aim for the soft belly, melee fighters like Renault had a tougher time, since they could be kept away by the Wyvern’s wings and claws. However, the long neck was quite vulnerable to slashing attacks, and since Wyverns loved roaring and growling so much, stuffing a blade into their mouths was a very easy way of getting to their brains.

 

Renault had gotten the hang of this sort of fighting by the time he’d killed his tenth Wyvern, and that was a week ago. Now, he was on his twentieth. Sometimes he’d had to venture far from his new home, as one of his recent excursions demonstrated. A few days ago he’d paid a visit to a rather dangerous nest about twice as distant as the first small cave he’d entered on Nergal’s orders, and he almost hadn’t escaped—though he was also getting much better at mountaineering (despite his continuing lack of proper equipment), he’d almost taken a fatal plunge, and even then it had taken him an hour to return after finally killing the pair and their babies. That was an exceptional case, though—for the most part, the Wyverns came to him rather than the other way around. They may have been smart hunters, but they weren’t good at learning from the mistakes of their fellows. As predators, they couldn’t stay away from a lone traveler, which meant that Renault often had to do nothing more than loiter about the outside of his sanctuary to attract fresh prey.

 

The results were paying off…sort of. Not as quickly as he’d liked, but Renault got the impression he was making progress. Since Nergal had yet to betray him for the past fourteen days, he saw no reason not to continue assisting the sorcerer in his endeavors—and from what the strange magician had told him, such an endeavor would require not only more quintessence but also more time.

 

He could wait.

 

With all of his strength, Renault laboriously shoved the large corpse off the side of the mountain trail, watching it tumble down far below—too many Wyvern corpses, even up here, could eventually attract unwanted attention. He then turned and headed back to the hermitage in the cave, which only took him five minutes of leisurely walking. Disappearing into the darkness at the far end, he soon came to the door leading to the inner complex, passed through the little library, and came to Nergal’s throne room.

 

As he entered, he paused a moment to look at the altar in the center of the room. Braddock’s body was still there, and it looked as fresh as it had the moment Renault had first brought it up the mountain. Indeed, one might almost think Braddock was merely asleep if they didn’t know better. Nergal had cast an enchantment upon the corpse—it was sheathed in dim blue light streaming from the ceiling, produced by a glowing blue orb similar to the ones arrayed on the walls of the circular room to provide light. The light, Nergal told him, would keep Braddock safe from rot or decay as long as it lasted. Renault, obviously, was very happy about this.

 

“More quintessence?” came the voice from the throne, and Renault nodded and knelt before it, as he had done almost every day during his stay in Nergal’s home. And, as usual, the sorcerer let out a sigh as he absorbed the stolen life essence into his body.

 

“Very good, very good,” he purred. “Thank you, my friend. I truly owe you a great deal…”

 

Renault wasn’t even listening. “I want to see Braddock again. And I’m hungry, too.”

 

“Very well.” Nergal raised his hands, and as he did so a flash of bright light emanated from his open palms. When it disappeared, before Renault stood a steaming, sumptuous repast—a plate of roasted mutton and wild fruits and berries, as if it had been prepared by the finest chef on Elibe. Renault’s supplies would have run out soon, isolated on this mountain as he was, but after he’d brought back the life force of about half a dozen Wyverns, the sorcerer had regained enough of his former power to begin conjuring food and drink out of thin air, using only small portions of the quintessence Renault was collecting. Renault was initially suspicious, of course, but upon considering that there was no reason for Nergal to start poisoning him at this point, he accepted his host’s hospitality—and the food was so good his initial trepidations were quickly forgotten, and thus, ironically enough, even holed up in a cold, isolated mountain in Bern, Renault’s palate was more satisfied than it had been in months.

 

It would be better, obviously, if Braddock could enjoy this meal with him. But Nergal could do something about that. As Renault watched, pausing his eating, a large ball of blue light appeared in the air above them, and within it appeared an image of his friend, smiling at him. Nergal had been giving him an increasingly impressive presentation—the first time he’d done there, there was nothing but Braddock’s voice, but now Renault could see the man’s entire body.

 

For a brief moment, Renault forgot about death, war, and pain—the three things which had characterized much of his adult life—as he gazed at his best friend’s smiling face. Braddock laughed and waved at him, repeating his name…

 

“Renault, Renault…”

 

“Braddock…” Renault murmured, and he reached out a hand—covered in grease from the mutton as it was—to grasp’s his friend’s.

 

And sighed as it passed through the image, through nothing but empty air.

 

“I am sorry,” said Nergal. “This is the best I can do for now…”

 

“That’s what you’ve already told me for a while, Nergal,” Renault grunted in displeasure as the sphere above him shimmered out of existence. “You said you could give me more. When can I expect it?”

 

Nergal frowned almost imperceptibly. “Patience, Renault. Patience, as I always say. This great work will take time…and much more quintessence.”

 

“How much do you _need_? I’ve slaughtered nearly two dozen Wyverns for you.”

 

“It’s much more complex than that, Renault.” A tiny but distinct undercurrent of irritation entered Nergal’s voice. “Men are not Wyverns. For all their size and strength, Wyverns are just stupid beasts. Sentient creatures like Dragons…ah, and human beings, of course…they can provide many times the quintessence of any animal.

 

“And to _reconstruct_ a sentient being? Even a normal human, a man of unexceptional strength in body and mind, would require the quintessence of more than a hundred Wyverns. That is the minimum it would require to make a copy possessing his mind, his personality, and his ability to speak—it is these things that differentiate men from beasts, after all. And your Braddock was no ordinary man. I know it, both from what you’ve told of him and the lingering traces of his essence present upon his corpse. A strong warrior possesses much, much more quintessence than an ordinary person. You would have to kill every Wyvern on these mountains to acquire even half the power necessary to fully restore your friend.”

 

“Then what the hell are you doing, keeping me up here?” Renault was now somewhat angry. “It’ll take centuries to get enough power from these Wyverns to bring him back! You’re just wasting my time, Nergal…and as far as I’m concerned, that’s not so different from using me.”

 

“You must step back a moment and look at the larger picture, Renault. Your people have a saying, do they not? ‘To make money, you must spend money,’ or something similar, yes?”

 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“The same applies to quintessence. When you first saw me, I had nothing. Absolutely nothing, beyond that little phylactery I gave you. I was on death’s door…even breathing was difficult for me. It would have been impossible to gain the quintessence I needed to even heal myself, much less do anything more. Now, though…I am still far from my full power, but I have provided you with food and drink, as well as the voice of your friend, have I not? “

 

“I want more than his voice, Nergal. You said you could—“

 

“And I shall, do not worry. But these Wyverns…small as their life force may be, it was still enough to give me the foundation I needed. I…no, we are strong enough to begin harvesting quintessence from more…bountiful sources.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Heh heh.” From the depths of his robes Nergal produced an artifact very familiar to Renault—a Warp staff.

 

“I now have enough power to use this consistently. I can send you all across Elibe to harvest the most potent reservoirs of quintessence, and bring you back just as easily. The rate of our progress shall speed up very soon, friend.”

 

“So you’re gonna send me to kill things besides Wyverns? At least I’ll be entertained. What’s my first target?”

 

“Enthusiastic…I like that.”

 

“Well?”

 

“I sense a presence on the mountains. Along the same path you took to come here. They are…a small band. About five of them. They mean no-one well…I suspect they are bandits come to prey on the pilgrims who journey to the nearby monastery.

 

“They are weak, but they still possess more quintessence than the Wyverns you have been killing.”

 

“A bandit hunt? As good a warm-up as any. Alright, Nergal, send me to ‘em. I’ll bring back their lives for you.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

With that one word, Renault’s world was turned into a flurry of white.

 

-X-

 

After a few moments, everything was still white—but now, Renault could feel cold, wet snow beneath his hands rather than the endless swirling of nothingness which meant he was being Warped. He stood up, feeling somewhat dizzy, and looked around him.

 

He had to squint—he was definitely outside, and the midday sun was shining. The peak of the mountain seemed more distant, and he could see rocks jutting up from the snow around him and beneath him. There was a large pile of stones ahead of him. Renault cautiously snuck up to it (the blowing wind thankfully drowned out the sound of his footsteps crunching in the snow) and ducked behind it, trying to make sure he wasn’t noticeable if there were people around—even if Nergal had teleported him here, it was better to be safe than sorry.

 

He peered around it and noticed two things. First off, he could the terrain below, and that was enough to tell him where he was. He was apparently on a ledge overlooking the mountain trail which had brought him to Par Massino—the battered signpost his guide had pointed out the first time they’d came here was just barely visible, poking out from a snow drift.

 

Secondly, he wasn’t alone.

 

“So when’s the caravan comin’ through, boss?” Renault could hear a gruff, harsh man’s voice carrying over the wind, just on the other side of the pile of rocks. It was accompanied by the babble of several other equally harsh male voices—about five in total, it seemed.

 

“Any moment now,” said one—the loudest and most intimidating. “Just keep yer pants on. One o’ me wenches in town says some rich noble’s donatin’ everythin he has to the monastery…’deathbed conversion’ or somfin’ like that. He n’ his wagon’re scheduled to arrive this afternoon.”

 

Another, slightly-higher-pitched voice sneezed. “No sooner? Damned if we ‘aven’t spent ‘nough time here already. I’m freezin’, boss!”

 

“Quit yer yappin’! We loot this guy’s death-gild and we be set for life! What fool of a bandit’d pass up a chance like this?”

 

“So these’re the targets,” Renault whispered to no-one in particular. “They don’t look like much. Do they really have more quintessence than a wyvern?”

 

 _Trust me, Renault,_ came Nergal’s voice in his head, _They do._

 

That was almost enough to startle Renault and make him give away his position—almost. “Damn it, Nergal, don’t do that!” he hissed silently.

 

_Forgive me._

“Whatever.” Renault had already turned his mind to more important matters. The conversation had taken an interesting turn.

 

“Oy, Boss, I gotta…”

 

“Eh? Well, do it b’hind the rocks, and be quick about it. And care lest yer sword freezes off! HAW!”

 

The ‘sword’ the bandit leader was referring to was obviously metaphorical, but Renault had his very literal one at the ready. Body tensed in anticipation, a smile spread across his face as he saw his prey come ambling around the pile of rocks.

 

It was an Archer—a lanky man with mottled skin and dirty brown hair, wearing the ugly, tattered clothing which seemed to be favored by bandits all over Elibe. “Friggin’ mountains,” he murmured to himself, eyes half-closed and very distracted. He was looking downwards, undoing his pants, clearly not expecting anything to interrupt his bathroom break.

 

The muffled “MRGH!” he let out as Renault’s hand closed firmly over his head was not loud enough to be heard by his friends. And the sounds of a silver blade slipping through his throat followed by his body being gently lowered to the ground couldn’t be heard by anyone.

 

Renault quickly returned to his hiding place. His phylactery was glowing, now, _very_ brightly—he had to grab it to keep the other bandits from noticing its light. Nergal, apparently, had not been kidding about the quintessence humans could provide. Still, the suspicious absence of the Archer would give the game away eventually. “Oy, where the hell’s that dullwit?” came the voice of the boss after about a minute. “Shouldn’t take that long t’ piss. Go find out what e’s doin’.”

 

“Yessir.”

 

The brigand made his way around the pile of stones—and then promptly met the same fate as the Archer.

 

By this point, the remaining three goons realized that something was seriously amiss. “Eh? Nester? Skelar? Th’ hell’s happenin’ back there?”

 

Now, three sets of feet seemed to be crunching towards Renault. Closer…Closer…

 

And then the perfect opportunity presented itself.

 

The bandit leader—at least, so Renault assumed, judging by his horned helmet--foolishly poked his head around the side of the rock pile. Renault quickly drove his sword straight through that head. Without wasting a moment, he whirled around and cast the chain-dagger in his other hand out behind him—slamming it into the throat of a brigand who had gone around the other side of the pile.

 

Now there was only one left. “Aaaah…AAAAHHH!” came the last bandit’s terrified scream as he watched what happened to his leader and comrade. He might have been able to get away—the ledge wasn’t a great distance above the trail, and he would have survived a jump down to it. Unfortunately, panic got the best of him, and he stumbled and fell squarely on his backside, losing his grip on his cheap, damaged Iron Axe. That gave Renault more than enough time to finish him off.

 

The Mercenary Lord wasn’t even breathing heavily—to say that a few bandits made an easy victory would have been an understatement. But when Renault grabbed his phylactery and held it before his face, he couldn’t deny that this outing had been more productive than his previous Wyvern-hunting excursions had been. The device was glowing more brightly than ever before.

 

“You _really_ weren’t lying, Nergal,” he muttered to himself. Then he turned to look at the huge mountains in the distance above. “Now, how am I gonna get back…”

 

_Do not worry, Renault. I will see to that. But it’s not quite time to leave, yet…_

“Eh?”

 

_Look below._

He did so, and noticed a small wagon being pulled up the mountain trail by a pair of horses, Cavaliers equipped with good steel spears astride them. The wagon itself, though not particularly ostentatious, had a golden icon of a wyvern on its top which indicated its occupant was a member of the nobility.

 

“Guess that’s the caravan those guys wanted to hit. What about it? Maybe they owe me a favor, but—“

 

_They have good quintessence, especially the knights. Extract it._

“E-extract…you want me to kill them?”

 

 

Renault paused, considering his course of action. There was…something that seemed…incorrect about that request. Perhaps not incorrect— _wrong_ , rather.

 

 _Why do you hesitate? They will be gone, soon_.

 

“But…they’re not like the bandits. Do they deserve to die?”

 

_Does it matter?_

 

“It…it would’ve mattered to…”

 

_Are you sure? Is Braddock here to tell you?_

“No, but—“

 

_Don’t you want to see him again?_

“Of course! But—“

 

_Both of you were mercenaries. Neither of you are strangers to killing. What’s the difference now?_

 

“But…Braddock…”

 

_This noble is hardly innocent. None of them are, really. Ill-gotten gains pilfered from the labor of his downtrodden people…killing them would be justice, not sin._

Renault couldn’t say—or think—of anything to say in response.

 

_Isn’t Braddock’s life worth more than theirs? Do you think he enjoys being dead? After all he did for you, surely a few more deaths are nothing but a trifling concern. Both your hands are already so very stained with blood…what difference does it make?_

And then, floating across the distance which separated them, he heard a voice in his head which was not Nergal’s—but Braddock’s.

 

_Kill…Kill…_

 

That clinched it.

 

It wasn’t a difficult task to get down to the trail—the ledge sat upon a rock face which was only gently faced, allowing Renault to slide down with ease—he assumed this was why the bandits had chosen this spot for their ambush. They probably would have succeeded—even though it was mid-day, the Cavaliers on top of the horses weren’t expecting an attack, so they didn’t notice their new visitor until their horses slowed, stopped, and reared up when Renault landed in front of them.

 

As a credit to their training, however, they quickly readied themselves for battle. “Ho!” called one of them, regaining his control over his mount. “Who’re you? What business do you have with us?”

 

 _Just kill them quickly,_ Nergal cooed.

 

It was a request Renault could happily oblige.

 

Bern was known primarily for its Wyvern riders, but the other members of its armed forces were no amateurs, and that included its horsemen. These two knights were young, however, and despite their excellent training, had no actual battle experience.

 

They didn’t stand a chance.

 

The one on the left couldn’t even react before Renault bounded up beside him, far faster than he expected a man in full plate armor could move. He and his horse were between his companion and Renault, meaning the other man could do nothing to assist—his spear would hit his comrade as easily as his foe. Renault reached up, grabbed the Cavalier’s free arm, and yanked him right out of his saddle. The Bernite’s horse reared again in terror, but Renault had already finished his evil work—the moment his body hit the ground, the youth’s throat had already been sliced open by Renault’s dagger.

 

“Shut up,” grunted Renault, annoyed by the now-riderless horse’s panicked braying. He hopped back and ducked to avoid a hoof from slamming into his head, then stepped forwards and rose with his Silver Sword leading the way, passing cleanly through the animal’s neck and ending its life instantly.

 

By this time, the other knight had dismounted, limbered his spear, and replaced it with a sword, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fight on horseback with the animals still yoked to the wagon. “D-DEVIL!” he cried, noticing the bodies of his friend and the other horse. “For God’s sake, why have you done this? My lord seeks only to make a donation to Par Massino! You soulless monster!”

 

“For Braddock’s sake,” Renault snarled in response, “I’m more than happy to be a monster!”

 

He charged forwards, keeping his right arm over his head before bringing it down in a quick chop with his sword. The sound of silver meeting steel rang out through the mountains—to the Cavalier’s credit, he executed a picture-perfect block, catching Renault’s blade in the middle of his own, though he needed to hold his weapon with both hands to keep his guard from breaking under Renault’s unrelenting strength.

 

This, unfortunately, meant he could do absolutely nothing to prevent the dagger in Renault’s left hand from slipping into his unprotected side.

 

Renault removed the dagger and then immediately replanted it in the man’s throat—not out of any mercy, but because the screaming from someone dying of a stomach wound would possibly bring unwanted attention (and annoyance). He then turned to the other horse and ended its life just as swiftly—no point letting even the slivers of an animal’s quintessence go to waste, after all.

 

That left only the occupant of the wagon.

 

Renault walked over to the vehicle’s side door and tore it open, revealing a sickly old man laying prone upon the red couch in the back of the interior. He coughed and raised his head—Renault got the impression that he might have been hale and hearty in his youth, but those days had long passed.

 

The noble sat up, coughing and hacking. “In-in the saint’s name, why have you done this? What do you want? The Kingdom of Bern will never let you get away with it, you know!”

 

“They’ll have a hard time catching me,” Renault replied coldly, remembering how difficult it had been for him to pierce the darkness leading to Nergal’s sanctuary. “Besides, the Kingdom of Bern let you get away with all the crimes you’ve committed over the course of your life. What makes you think they’ll punish me?”

 

“My…my crimes?” The noble’s expression darkened and he sat up a little straighter. “You’re no ordinary bandit…I can tell by the quality of the armor you wear. Is this why you’ve attacked me and killed my men? Some misplaced sense of justice? You fool, you know nothing! I’ve not lived a perfect life—no man has. But I have always cared for my people and I have tried to be honest in my leadership and my business. Who are you to judge me, brigand?”

 

“I…” This forced Renault to pause a moment. He couldn’t think of a good answer.

 

The noble blinked, noticing Renault’s hesitation. “A…are you doing this of your own free will? Is someone controlling you? I don’t know who or why, but my God, man, fight it! Have I done anything to you? Have I ever wronged you? So, then, why take your anger out on me? What do you have to gain?”

 

 _NO!_ Nergal roared inside Renault’s head, this time so loud and jarringly he almost dropped his weapon. _Don’t listen to him, Renault!_

“Ah! Nergal?!”

 

 _Easy, easy, my friend. Remember, I only want the best for you._ Nergal’s voice had once again taken on that reassuring cast which reminded Renault of his own father. _Do you remember Braddock? Remember the hardships he endured by your side?_ That silky voice mouthed exactly the platitudes Renault wanted to hear. _This noble has done nothing like that. He knows nothing of suffering, of sacrifice, of loyalty. His honeyed words are no more than a last, desperate attempt to preserve a life he knows is worthless. End it, and you will do more good than he ever did._

And then, following Nergal, there was once again that familiar voice Renault needed to hear so badly…

 

_Kill…Kill…_

 

The mercenary shook his head vigorously. “Enough of your garbage, old man. I’m doing what has to be done, and neither you nor anybody else will convince me otherwise!”

 

To Renault’s surprise, though, this prompted not fear, not even resignation, but…contempt from the wizened noble.

 

“Hah,” he coughed, staring at his killer defiantly. “You want my life so badly? Take it if you wish! It’s already over anyways. But how many lives will you need before you’re satisfied?”

“However many it takes to get my friend back,” Renault replied grimly as he stepped forwards and drove his Silver Sword through the man’s chest. The old flesh gave no resistance, and whatever the noble wanted to say next was drowned out in a gurgle of blood.

 

Renault withdrew his blade without smiling as he usually did when he made a successful kill. The man’s last words were still echoing in his head…but he had no time to mull over them, for he felt the heat of the phylactery over his chest—it was glowing so brightly now that Renault was afraid it might explode.

 

_You need not worry about that. The phylactery’s light is not dangerous at all—only proof of how well you have completed your objectives._

 

“So I’m done?”

 

_Indeed. I have enough power to operate a Rescue staff as well. I shall bring you back…before I do, however, why not see if there’s anything valuable inside this carriage? Quintessence isn’t the only thing we can make use of, after all._

Renault nodded. He noticed there was a large chest right on the floor on the other side of the coach, in front of its owner’s cooling body. The goods originally intended to go to Par Massino, he presumed. It required a key, but that key was thankfully on the noble’s corpse. And opening it revealed quite a few very useful things.

 

First off was a bright Blue Gem on the top of the pile. While Renault didn’t have much use for money right now—quintessence was much more valuable—it couldn’t hurt to have on hand. Much more intriguing was the fine sword below it. The blade seemed to be made of steel rather than silver, but it was as heavily enchanted as the weapon Renault currently held. The crossguard and grip were made out of odd bluish-green and orange-red metals Renault couldn’t identify, tipped with a ruby pommel.

 

_A fantastic find! That, my friend, is a Brave Sword. The spell on that weapon can make an ordinary soldier’s blows as swift as those from a Sword Master. I would say this little outing was worth it, wouldn’t you?_

“Guess so.” He picked up the weapon along with its baldric, strapping it to his back, and then turned his attention to the remainder of the treasure. It seemed to be a lot of books and scrolls. A few seemed to be in the common tongue, but several were also in the script he recognized as High Imperial.

 

_Hmm…it’s unlikely, but some of those texts might be relevant to our quest, judging from the language. Take them as well._

“Whatever you say. Hey, wait a second…what’re we gonna do about the bodies and the wreckage? If someone gets suspicious…”

 

 _They won’t be able to find us._ _Those with hostile intent cannot find their way to my sanctuary so easily. You know this from personal experience, yes?_

 

“Can’t argue with that.” He didn’t bother gathering up the books and scrolls—he simply slammed the chest’s lid down and picked it up; despite its size he was more than strong enough to carry it. “Alright, I’ve got everything. Bring me back, Nergal.”

 

_Of course…_

 

As his world once again turned into a flurry of white, for a moment before he was whisked back to Nergal, he thought of what the old man had said one last time.

 

“How many lives will you need before you’re satisfied?”

 

Renault _thought_ he knew the answer. But it would be a long, long time before he realized how wrong he was.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Not much to say about this chapter, other than thanks for your support, and please keep reading. 

 

 


	44. Two Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault does yet more work for Nergal, and falls ever further into darkness...

Wayward Son

 

44: Two Months

 

Renault’s life had taken quite a few unexpected turns. He had never thought he would eventually become a mercenary, never thought he would betray his kingdom, never thought he would help save it, and never thought he’d ever end up in Bern.

 

He never thought he’d ever work alongside a Nabatan sorcerer or be a scholar of ancient texts, either. But, of course, he was doing both right now.

 

Renault sat on the nondescript wood chair in front of the table in the small library which served as the entrance to Nergal’s sanctuary. In front of him lay several of the texts pillaged from the noble he had killed two weeks ago, along with a few scrolls from Nergal’s personal library. On the other side, in a similar small chair, sat Nergal, poring over similar ancient tomes.

 

Renault had been a little unnerved the first time he had seen the sorcerer move from his throne in Braddock’s impromptu sepulcher. It had been the same day he’d ended the life of that noble. The moment Renault had been summoned back to his home, he’d knelt before Nergal and gave up the quintessence he’d acquired, as usual. Right after that, however, Nergal did something he’d never done before.

 

“Ahh,” he said, “Such a wonderful bounty. I am grateful to you, Renault. I feel better than I have in a long time.”

 

And with those words, he had stood up.

 

Renault confessed to feeling somewhat intimidated. He hadn’t guessed it from the way Nergal was constantly hunched over, but the man was taller than he was—almost as tall as Paptimus was, though lanky and nowhere near as powerfully muscled. He gazed down at Renault, his turban covering his left eye, and seemed to exude an aura of such power—and unbridled malice—that Renault was frozen stiff for a moment.

 

But only a moment—perhaps it was nothing more than his imagination, a bit of residual paranoia, for standing before him was nothing more than a friendly old man promising to help him. “You have done wonderful work, my friend,” he’d said in that dulcet, reassuring tone. “We can now move on to the next phase of my research.”

 

“W…what do you mean?”

 

“Follow me.”

 

His black robes rustling as they swished over the floor, Nergal turned and headed towards the exit of the throne room, Renault on his heels. He entered the library, and then spread his arms wide.

 

“This is where we shall be spending much of our time in the coming months. You shall help me gain more quintessence when you can, of course, but for now, what I truly need is a research assistant.”

 

“Research assistant?”

 

Nergal nodded. “You know from my journal entries that I was successful in re-creating small rats. But bringing back humans—or at least beings with human capabilities—is a much more difficult task, made even more so by the fact that those fools forced me to destroy parts of my journals and demolished my library in Nabata. As I am now, I might be able to craft something like the homunculi of old—mute, thoughtless creatures completely helpless to do anything except take orders. But that certainly wouldn’t be a satisfactory replacement for your Braddock, would it?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“Therein lies the problem. Reproducing a human is a much more difficult task for the same reasons humans have so much more quintessence than animals. A sentient being’s mind is an incredibly complex thing. ‘Tis easy enough to make a rat with knowledge of a maze, but speech, personality, and memory…retrieving those things from the void of death _and_ placing them within a suitable vessel is no small feat. Indeed, to my knowledge no-one has done so before…”

 

“Are you saying it’s impossible?”

 

“I said, ‘to my knowledge.’ We shall find out, my friend.” He gestured again to the books and scrolls lining the walls and lying on the floor. “We have enough quintessence for now. What I—we—need at the moment is information. I managed to save as many books as possible from my personal library. Not as many as I would have liked…I can only hope it is enough. Either way, it is all we have.

 

“For the next few weeks, at least, you and I will be going through all of these books, searching for any reference to quintessence or morphs, in addition to anything relating to the mind, memory, or emotions. Together, we will find out how we can succeed where the ancients failed…how we can craft something _more_ than a man-shaped doll.”  


“But what good will I be? I’m not a Druid or Sage. I don’t understand a word of Draconic, High Imperial, or any of that.”

 

“A small problem. I will teach you.”

 

The incredulous look on Renault’s face said it all.

 

“No, you won’t master the languages, Renault. But you’re an intelligent man…surely you can memorize a few words and phrases, can’t you? I’ll teach you how words like quintessence, memory, soul, morph, and emotion are written in the old languages. Draconic, Imperial, and even the forbidden Shadetongue, script of the Grimoire of Ner’Zhul, which holds secrets known only to those who have immersed themselves in the Dark. You need nothing more than to be able to recognize them. I ask you only note where you see them, and show me where you have found them. I shall do the rest.

 

“You can do that, can’t you?”

 

“I guess so. That doesn’t sound so hard.”

 

“Then let us begin.”

 

And so it had went for the past two weeks. Nergal had given him a small sheaf of paper (very strange to the touch—it felt smoother than not only parchment but even paper from Etruria’s finest mills) with a list of Common words alongside their translations in Draconic, High Imperial, and Shadetongue. Renault couldn’t pronounce any of the foreign words, but he didn’t have to—all he had to do was recognize them.

 

Though he couldn’t read them, he’d also grown proficient at recognizing each script. Any book which had letters almost identical to those in Common was High Imperial. Letters which seemed to be constructed out of small boxes and geometrical shapes were Draconic. And letters which had many dots appended to them (typically in pairs or triads) were Shadetongue.

 

He was currently looking at a scroll which seemed to be written in Draconic. Was that Bernite noble a mage? Renault shrugged—it didn’t really matter. He skimmed over the indecipherable writing, his eyes shifting back and forth between the scroll and the list of words next to it. None of the Draconic words for morph, quintessence, emotion, sentience, personality, or the related forms Nergal had taught him to look out for seemed to be there. He turned it over—nothing on the back, either. Sighing, he placed it aside (carefully, in a pile Nergal had specifically marked for anything they found useless) and reached below into the chest next to him to take out another scroll.

 

In front of him, Nergal was completely silent, his single good eye shifting over the pages of the tome he was perusing faster than Renault could ever hope to read. Occasionally he stopped, took out a small quill from its resting place in the inkpot near his right hand, and jotted something down in the text, but such triumphs were rare—he apparently wasn’t having much success either.

 

Still, they’d come across enough tantalizing hints that Renault was convinced this pursuit wasn’t entirely worthless. As he looked over the next scroll, he noticed a familiar Draconic phrase. He cross-referenced it with Nergal’s list, and sure enough, it was a reference to quintessence. Continuing the search, extra carefully this time, he managed to find nothing more than a repeat of the phrase near the end of the missive. Somewhat disappointing, but who knew--maybe it would turn out to be useful after all. Only Nergal would know for sure, so Renault reached for his own inkpot nearby, removed the quill, underlined the words, and shifted the scroll to the (much smaller) “possibly useful” pile.

 

On to the next target. He took from the chest a small book, this time. The binding and paper reminded him a bit of the texts he’d found inside of the Reaper’s Labyrinth. Though this one didn’t seem to be a picture book, it was written in High Imperial, so he assumed it was from the same time period. Renault sighed—a book, even a small one, was more work than a single scroll. Still, he did what he had to do.  He began flipping through it, carefully examining its contents line by line, page by page. After a few minutes of this close reading, he arrived at the middle of the book, where the High Imperial word for “homunculus” caught his eye. Somewhat cheered, he underlined it and continued reading. It was repeated a few times on the next page, which he noted as well, but on the next page, something really caught his eye. After a week of reading High Imperial, he’d began to understand a little more of it, since it was distantly related to the common language (which descended from Low Imperial). Though they weren’t on his list, Renault noticed several words which might have been synonyms or at least related to anger and surprise. He may have been completely wrong, but it still couldn’t hurt to get Nergal to look at it.

 

He soon lost track of time as he continued reading, though it wasn’t exactly easy to mark its passage in here anyways, where the only light came from the torch stands. By the time he finished it, the second half of the book had been marked up extensively, filled with underlines and circles wherever he had seen references to morphs, homunculi, quintessence, or emotions near each other.

 

“Phew,” he grunted, setting the book down and his quill back into the inkpot, then leaning back and stretching. He felt more accomplished than he had all week.

 

This seemed to catch Nergal’s attention—the sorcerer put down his tome and turned his eye to his assistant. “Hm? Did you find something, Renault?”

 

“Y-yeah. Well, maybe. This book has a lot of references to homunculi and morphs, and mentions…at least I think it mentions emotions, memories, and stuff like that.”

 

“That _does_ sound quite interesting. Let me see, Renault.”

 

He picked up the book and handed it to Nergal, who flipped through it for a few moments.

 

“Renault, this is a work of fiction.”

 

“What the—really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh.” Renault’s shoulders sagged and he slumped over the table in disappointment.

 

Nergal smiled. “No, no, you may have done well, friend. This seems to be a story…a popular novel published for entertainment a few years before the Scouring.”

 

“So what? That makes it useless to us, doesn’t it?”

 

“Not necessarily. The story is an odd one. It seems to revolve around a homunculi gaining sentience and a will of its own, and subsequently rebelling against its human creators.”

 

“Really?” Now Renault understood why the words for homunculi had been close to words for anger, hatred, and surprise so often in the text.

 

“Mmm. It may be just a story, but the background the author included is…most interesting. He put a lot of thought into how such a creature might have been infused…well, “programmed” is the word he used—with emotion and free will. I suspect this book was aimed at a highly educated, perhaps even professional audience. While these theories obviously might not work in the real world, they have given me some inspiration.

 

“Thank you, Renault. You have done well.”

 

That was the first compliment Renault had received since Braddock died, and it made him quite happy. He smiled—and couldn’t stop that smile from turning into a yawn.

 

“You’re tired, aren’t you? It is getting late. Rest, now.” Nergal waved his hands in the air, and the light from the torch dimmed momentarily. “I have prepared a repast for you in your usual place.”

 

“Thanks.” Renault looked at him for a moment as he returned to his books. “You know, shouldn’t you take a rest too? I haven’t seen you eat or sleep once in the time I’ve been here.”

 

Nergal merely chuckled. “These things are for…let us just say I have advanced beyond them. Food and sleep are pleasing luxuries for me, but that is all they are—luxuries, not necessities. I have no real need of them.”

 

“Huh.” Of all the things he had seen since entering Nergal’s domain, this was probably the strangest, even more so than the stealing of quintessence and their containment in those weird phylacteries. It wasn’t enough for him to give it much thought, though.

 

“Good night,” he said, and as he expected Nergal didn’t even notice. Shrugging, Renault stood up and entered the throne room. The blue light revealed Braddock’s body on the altar, as always, and Renault, as he usually did, walked towards it, laying a hand on his dead friend’s face. Sadness shook him for a moment as he felt the perfectly preserved yet still cold flesh under his fingers, but the pain had dulled somewhat since he had first came here. Not that it would ever truly leave, of course.

 

Still, at the very least he could function. Sighing, Renault turned away and towards the throne Nergal had sat in. This time, there was something different in front of it. A stone table had been raised out of the ground—how, Renault didn’t know, but likely through the same magical means Braddock’s altar had been created. On it was a sumptuous meal of venison, fruits, and pastries. The pastries Renault had never seen before—though they weren’t magical (at least, no more so than the other magically-summoned treats), they were filled with a sweet blue substance he found positively divine but had no idea where it came from. Still, it was satisfying and non-poisonous, so he didn’t give it much thought.

 

Finishing his meal, Renault let out a belch, and then a sigh as he looked back at Braddock’s motionless form. He then made his way to his bed. Nestled right next to the altar, on the other side of it, were the blankets laid on the floor beside Braddock’s body. For whatever reason, Nergal had not seen fit to conjure a bed, but it didn’t matter to Renault. He’d slept on less comfortable grounds than a smooth stone floor, and proximity to his friend was the most important factor in allowing him a good night’s rest.

 

As usual, he gave the corpse one last, sorrowful gaze, then yawned and laid himself down to sleep.

 

-X-

 

_Dam Morfen za kierum aratoshi kazz nucht vemem Basuten, shikashu Arlam zeiz Geiterung zo heinreit Glas…_

 

“Morphs are…something…useful for many ordinary household tasks, but…something, something…”

 

Renault muttered these words a week later, still sitting in front of Nergal as the two of them continued to pore through all the books in this small library. At this point, however, Renault knew a little bit more—in High Imperial, at least—than the small list of words Nergal had given him to start with. Somewhat bored with no fighting to do, Renault had asked to learn a bit more of the languages he was reading, and Nergal ended up agreeing with his assertion that it would likely make the research go faster if more than one researcher had at least some vague idea of what he was reading. With the help of an old lexicon of High Imperial Nergal had managed to rescue from someone else’s library, Renault had managed to acquire a very rudimentary grasp of the language’s grammar and syntax along with an even more rudimentary working vocabulary. It was just enough, however, for Renault to at least understand (most of the time) the nature of whatever text he was reading.

 

This one seemed to be a rather prosaic treatise on the use of magic for everyday applications. At first glance, one might not think it was relevant to Renault’s pursuit, but he knew better—he had long since learned that important knowledge could be gleaned from even the most unlikely locations. And this small treatise did contain a bit of useful information. It apparently had a small section on morphs as servants, detailing their limitations. Renault couldn’t read all of it, but if it contained insight on why those limitations existed, it would help Nergal break those limitations.

 

This was a book from Nergal’s personal library, which he had already looked over, judging by the notes—Renault was re-reading it under the assumption that a fresh set of eyes might happen on something Nergal had initially missed. It wasn’t likely but it was possible—though, again, the mercenary couldn’t understand much of it, he noticed that Nergal hadn’t left many notes in this middle section, which Renault thought might be very useful.

 

One note did catch his eye, however. After finishing up the section on morphs, he continued to skim through the book and came to a section on foodstuffs. He caught a word he recognized as “sweet,” and next to the phrase, Nergal had written something odd:

 

_Ninian and Nils loved these_

“Ninian? Nils?” Renault pondered those words for a moment, and then shrugged—maybe they were friends of Nergal’s before he had been betrayed. As he continued skimming, however, he came across a more familiar name. On the next page there was a note in the margins that read:

 

_These were Aenir’s favorites_

“Aenir?” Renault whispered to himself. He recognized the name. He’d seen it in the notes once before. Might it be something important?

 

“Hey, Nergal.”

 

No response from the man in front of him.

 

“Nergal?” A little louder this time.

 

That got his attention. His one uncovered eye blinked as he turned it to Renault. “What is it?”

 

“Who…or, what, are Nils and Ninian? And Aenir, for that matter?”

 

Nergal didn’t say anything at first, but Renault could have sworn that the air around them seemed to…chill, almost. He got the impression he had touched on a subject it might have been better to leave alone.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Um…look.” He held the book out to Nergal and pointed out the note the sorcerer had originally made. “Aenir loved these?”

 

Nergal stared at it for a long moment, brow furrowed in concentration. It was almost as if he wanted to remember something…

 

But couldn’t.

 

He merely shook his head and waved Renault away.

 

His assistant didn’t know if he genuinely didn’t want to talk about it or if it was simply unimportant. Either way, he didn’t press the issue. He put the book away and moved on to the next one in the pile, and Nergal returned to his own.

 

They remained this way for about fifteen minutes. After that, however, it was Nergal who broke the silence.

 

“Renault.”

 

The assistant was quite surprised, so much so that he almost dropped the quill he was making notes with. He was usually the one to pose questions to Nergal, not the other way around.

 

“H-huh? What is it?”

 

“Tell me, do you remember where you bought your Silver Sword?”

 

Now this was a very strange question. “Uh…I think back in Etruria. Caerleon, probably.”

 

“Who sold it to you?”

 

“What’s that got to do with anything? The guy running the armory.”

 

“Did he tell you his name?”

 

“I dunno, maybe!” Renault was getting a bit frustrated with these questions. “It’s not like I asked, and even if I did, I don’t remember.”

 

“And why don’t you remember?”

 

“Because it’s not important!”

 

“Then you understand why I don’t remember those three names…”

 

Renault’s irritation faded as he pondered what Nergal was saying.

 

“Ninian…Nils…Aenir…maybe I knew those people in the past. If I did, I have long since forgotten about them. Why? Because they’re unimportant. Useless to me…

 

“The only thing that matters is power, Renault. Gaining more power. You need more power to bring back your friend. And I need power to…”

 

He stopped for a moment, as if confused.

 

“Why do I need power…? Why did I need it? No matter…power is its own justification. The only thing that matters. And it is the only thing either of us should be concerned about. If I don’t remember who Ninian, Nils, and Aenir are, it is because they are as irrelevant to our quest as that shopkeeper in Caerleon was. Do you understand?”

 

“I…I think so.”

 

“Good.”

 

And with that, the two of them returned to their work. They said nothing to each other until Renault grew tired and went to rest—and they would never speak of those three names again.

 

-X-

 

“Aaah…”

 

The cool water felt great on Renault’s face, especially after a battle as bloody as his last one had been. Though he and Nergal were concentrating most of their energy on studying, it still wasn’t advisable to let easy quintessence go to waste. Nergal had informed him that a trio of travelers was making their way up the mountain, and two of them seemed to be quite strong. He had dispatched Renault to harvest their quintessence, and when Renault had accosted them on the winding trail, he had seen that they were indeed quite strong. It was a pair of mercenaries—a Hero and a Warrior—guarding what seemed to be a nebbish researcher on a trip to the mountain peaks rather than Par Massino; he wanted to do a study on the Wyverns living there. Renault didn’t care, obviously. He simply killed the mercenaries and then their charge. The fight had been harder than his previous ones, however, and Renault had suffered a nasty gash to his unprotected forehead. Thankfully, Nergal was able to heal him upon his return, being as skilled with mundane Mend staves as he was with Warp and Rescue staves, but it still felt good to wash the blood and sweat off his body.

 

He was bathing in a small room he’d somehow never noticed before—or perhaps it was new. A doorway had appeared on the far right side of the circular throne room, perpendicular to the entrance and Nergal’s throne itself. It was lit by the same blue orbs as the throne room. It was about a third of the size and small and square, but in its center there was something Renault would never have expected—a fountain. It was cast in the shape of a bulky, wingless dragon with a long, sinewy neck—an Ice dragon, if Renault remembered his histories of the Scouring correctly. The stone beast’s neck was raised upwards and then curved down, and from its mouth poured a stream of pure, cool water. Around the statue was a small pool where the water collected, being drained by a pair of small holes around its back legs. Nergal had invited him to bathe, so Renault happily accepted the courtesy.

 

“Mm…felt good.” Satisfied, he stepped out of the stream of water, out of the pool, onto the cold stone floor, and shook his wet teal hair. Had this impromptu bath always been here? Renault could have sworn it wasn’t. Perhaps Nergal had created it? He seemed to have crafted this entire sanctuary in a similarly mysterious manner. Whatever the answer may have been, it wasn’t something that worried Renault very much—if Nergal was planning to betray him like Paptimus was, the time to do so had long since passed. And, of course, the sorcerer was, more often than not, uninterested in answering many questions.

 

But as long as their research was progressing smoothly—and Renault felt it was—he didn’t mind. He had to admit he was quite lonely, though, since Nergal was so taciturn and Braddock couldn’t talk back to him. His mind often turned back to the Autonomous Company, and he found himself missing Rosamia, whom he had respected, and even Khyron, Apolli, and Lisse—after all, despite his disdain for all three of their backgrounds, the noble had saved his life, the “country bumpkin” was a damn good shot, and even the clingy Lisse liked him, at least.

 

However, he often found himself remembering his dead friends—Keith and Kelitha. They were in the same place Braddock was, now…and that just reinforced his determination to get his friend back.

 

On a small stone rack near the door hung what Renault presumed to have been one of Nergal’s old, tough robes, which now served as an impromptu towel. He took it and dried himself off very thoroughly—he was going to go back to researching, and it would obviously be a setback if he ruined some of the older texts by carelessly getting them wet. He put on some light clothes (a new set, this time, pilfered from the traveling pack of the Hero and washed of blood, which fortunately happened to be his size) and entered the library, where Nergal remained sitting and researching. Renault picked up his own tome and started to read.

 

This one was in Draconic, and now, Renault found that he could actually read a little bit of it too. It had been another two weeks since his conversation with his teacher about Aenir, Nils, and Ninian, and the sorcerer had begun teaching him the rudiments of Draconic and Shadetongue along with High Imperial (which he was getting better and better at reading). The difficulty with those two languages was that they couldn’t really be spoken by humans. Draconic, obviously, was made for Dragons and involved grunts, hisses, and roars human beings were incapable of reproducing, while Shadetongue…nobody, not even Nergal, knew who or what had originally spoken that language. Humans had created a sort of ersatz phonetics for Draconic which allowed them to use all Light and Anima magic along with nearly all Dark magic tomes, but it wasn’t exactly the same thing as the vernacular Draconic Renault had to read. However, even if he couldn’t pronounce the words he read, he could grasp their meaning, thanks to another handy lexicon of Nergal’s and the man’s own patient tutoring of grammar.

 

It was coming in _very_ handy right now. Renault was poring through a text he had taken from the chest of the noble he’d murdered, two months ago. It seemed to be a fragment of a letter—its author and intended recipient complete mysteries—which detailed a set of seven magical weapons created years before the Scouring, achieving reputations almost as legendary as those of the Holy Weapons themselves. Renault couldn’t understand the entire passage, but he could grasp the gist of it:

 

“First…something something…Basilikos was/is the something Axe, Rienfletch the great bow, the Regal Blade the great sword, Rex Hasta the mighty spear, and Luce, Excalibur, and Gespenst the unmatched tomes. All were crafted through something means…and then…something…infused? Suffused, I think? With quintessence to give them otherworldly power.”

 

“Basilikos? Regal Blade? Rex Hasta? And the Gespenst…” Renault looked much more closely at these names. “I’ve ran into those weapons before. So all of them did have some sort of special power…no wonder Braddock loved that axe so much. What else is there…”

 

The letter proceeded to describe the special abilities of each of these weapons. Skimming over the sections for the Basilikos, Rex Hasta, and Regal Blade, Renault found he already knew what the author wanted to say—the quintessence attached to these weapons materialized in the form of great winds—almost like miniature hurricanes—which their wielders could control. Same for the Rienfletch, and while the Excalibur and Luce tomes had some arcane usage Renault didn’t care about, he ran into something very interesting in the description for the Gespenst:

 

“Of all the…what’s this word? Ascended? weapons, Gespenst is the strangest. Something…the dark…somethings…it summons…will?”

 

Renault blinked. Odd, quite odd indeed. He figured this might _possibly_ be worth the eye of an expert, so he handed the scrap to Nergal for a more professional translation.

 

“Very interesting indeed,” said the sorcerer. “Here is what it says:

 

“Of all the Quintessence-enhanced weapons, Gespenst is the strangest. Aside from the vortex of darkness it is capable of summoning, it can also tear apart the minds of lesser beings, such as humans, as easily as their bodies. Yet, at the same time, it is capable of _reconstructing_ minds and souls as easily as it can destroy them. Through what means, I do not know. Within the text itself are incantations which can call back the mind or personality of a dead person, and at the very end are chants which can _create_ a mind out of thin air. But how can this be possible? These spells focus _only_ on the mind and spirit, not any physical forms. So far as I am aware, the Gespenst tome is capable only of destroying physical matter. What good is a mind or soul without a body to inhabit it? This leads me to the suspicion that the Gespenst—and perhaps the Luce—was merely one book in what was intended to be a series. If something else was supposed to handle the creation of a body or some sort of repository for the mind or spirit, that would be where the Gespenst would have been used…”

 

Nergal grinned widely. “Yes…yes, this is exactly what I need! _Exactly!_ Masterful work, Renault.” Then his expression darkened. “At least, if we had this Gespenst tome…I’ve heard of it, but I was never able to requisition it.”

 

“My friend Braddock had it,” replied Renault. “He took it from Pap…from the corpse of one of our enemies.”

 

“Did he? I didn’t see it on his body.”

 

Renault looked down. “Dammit...he must’ve lost it while he was fighting. It…it might be at Par Massino. Where he died…”

 

“So we shall merely have to return to Par Massino and take it.”

 

“The monks there might not be willing to give it up, Nergal.”

 

“Even so, it would not be difficult for you to infiltrate the monastery and take it, with the help of my magic, yes?”

 

“I guess not. So that’s gonna be my next job, then?

 

“Indeed. I—“

 

Nergal stopped for a moment, and his smile turned into a slight frown.

 

Renault felt a bit unnerved at this sudden change as well. “What is it, Nergal? What’s wrong?”

 

“Someone comes.”

 

“Another bunch of bandits or travelers? More quintessence for us, then. Want me to—“

 

“No. Not yet. This one…he’s strong. Very strong. Far stronger than anyone else we have yet faced.”

 

Renault was confident in his abilities, but experienced enough not to underestimate his enemies. “You can sense it from here?”

 

“Indeed I can. His quintessence is…magnificent. We can gain so much power from him…but on the other hand, we must be careful. He is strong enough to end both our lives…and he moves with purpose. Up the mountain he treads, past the monastery, with the steps of a veteran of many battles…I would not recommend facing him outside. A defense of our sanctuary would be most advantageous.”

 

“You think he can penetrate this mountain complex?” Renault asked incredulously. “I remember I couldn’t even find my way down those stairs until I sheathed my sword. What’s coming, Nergal? Who the hell is his?”

 

The dark sorcerer grimaced.

 

“Put on your armor, Renault. You will find out very soon.”

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Not too much to say about this chapter, aside from the references to FE7 I hope you guys get (Ice Dragon fountain and everything ;) ). The stuff about languages is my own invention.

 

 

 


	45. Damnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault falls even further into the path of evil--and most horrifying of all, the sin he commits today is but a prelude to the atrocity to come.

**Chapter 45: Damnation**

 

The traveler crunched up the snowy path leading to Par Massino. It was spring—the fourth day of the Month of the Knight, in fact—but snow still fell upon the mountains of Bern.

 

“Just like Ilia,” he laughed to himself—though of course he knew full well that it was even colder there at the moment. And an entire country of people had learned to live with an almost year-long winter, while the only ones who had to deal with it in Bern were mountain-dwelling eccentrics like those he was going to see.

 

His positive outlook was an indicator of how much he had grown. A few years ago, this weather might have troubled him, but not now. Clad in thick fur boots and a heavy fur cloak which provided both protection and warmth (though impeded his movement more than he liked), he bore the cold without complaint.

 

Indeed, he could bear it cheerfully, for there was purpose in his steps. His journey had taken him to Bern for the past few months, and he had heard tales of very strange doings on the mountains of the eastern coast. There had been a great fight in a monastery, and ever since then several travelers, whether they meant good or ill, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Though the rumors did not go into any great detail, it was apparent that a greater evil than bandits had alighted there. People whispered that the monks were now living in fear.

 

It seemed to him that those monks—and the people of this region generally—could use his services. And…deep within his heart of hearts, he wondered if he would finally find what he had been seeking for so long.

 

This obviously meant that he wouldn’t be leaving his guard down. He kept himself alert and prepared for battle, eyes and ears finely tuned to detect anything even remotely out of the ordinary. But as he neared Par Massino (he was experienced enough not to need a guide, even on a treacherous mountain such as this), it seemed that whatever dark force was haunting this place did not have its eyes on him…at least not yet.

 

He walked up to the great stone gates and, with all his strength, pulled on the long rope which would ring the bell at the top of the tower nearby. Soon enough, a tonsured adept poked his head over the wall and called for the gates to open, allowing the journeyman ingress. He was quite grateful. Not only would he have the chance to rest, but he’d also be able to talk to whoever was in charge here about what was going on.

 

Soon enough he was lead to the Abbot’s chambers. Though the monks didn’t trust him—understandable—they weren’t hostile, either. At this point, they realized that they needed some form of help from the outside world, and they were grateful for at least one person making it to their little sanctuary unharmed.

 

He and the holy man exchanged terse greetings—the old, white-haired leader of the small monastery was no more trusting than his underlings. And, of course, the traveler realized their theological differences would likely preclude them from becoming close friends. Still, he wasn’t here to engage in an argument over religion. He simply introduced himself as an itinerant wandering across Elibe trying to do good works, and having heard of the odd happenings at Par Massino, thought they could use his services. He had, after all, managed to survive the recent Civil War in Etruria, so he figured he might be quite helpful.

 

The old man nodded, gave his own name as Grigorius, and thanked him for his concern. He then began to relate the story of when and how things had gone wrong on the mountain:

 

“It all started a little over two months ago. Well…in my view, the curse came upon us even earlier, when that wretched “penitent” arrived here. Soon after the war in Etruria ended, Archbishop Gosterro told us to shelter a sinister man under his protection. It soon became clear that this “Brother Trenard” was a sinner who had not the slightest interest in our path, He—“

 

“Excuse me a moment, Father,” said the wanderer, “but what did he look like?”

 

“Pale face and hair, wan lips…such a sinister countenance.”

 

“Trunicht,” whispered the traveler incredulously. “It couldn’t be…”

 

“Did you know him?”

 

“U-uh? N…no. Anyways, sorry for the interruption. Please, continue.”

 

“This “Trenard” lived with us up until two months ago. One day, a pair of travelers, not entirely dissimilar to yourself, sir, came here looking for a man they called Trunicht. Both were incredibly strong warriors clad in enchanted armor. One was a skilled swordsman all in white, while the other was a behemoth of a man covered in blue, carrying a glowing axe of the same color.”

 

“Renault and Braddock,” the wanderer whispered. He seemed quite anxious now.

 

“Did you know these men?”

 

He quickly shook his head, telling Grigorius the story was more important.

 

“What happened next was…a nightmare. We are peaceful monks, sir, and could do nothing to stop them. But as soon as they were done threatening us, a horrible calamity swept over Par Massino. Trenard had brought with him a dread artifact of terrible power called the Armor of the Berserk, and we had sealed it within our catacombs, where it could prey on no man ever again. But somehow, a third interloper had bypassed our defenses and freed that evil thing! He burst out from under the altar of our church—and we are still repairing the damage—and sought out the swordsman and his friend. The white warrior—his name was Renault, yes—abandoned his friend to hunt down Trunicht, while the blue axeman was left to face the Berserk alone. None of us witnessed the battle—none of us were so foolish! But when everything was quiet, we returned to the church to see a scene of slaughter. Renault had succeeded in killing Trunicht, yes—he has been interred in the catacombs; perhaps now he can find redemption. But his friend…his friend had not survived the encounter. The Berserk’s awful power had been the end of him.”

 

The traveler did not take this news well—it was apparent from how his face fell. “I…I am sorry,” said Grigorius.

 

Once again, he merely shook his head, so Grigorius continued.

 

“Renault…he was inconsolable. God forgive us, we did not try to help him, but how could we? The last we saw of him, he had strapped his friend’s giant axe to his back, picked up the corpse, and headed up the mountain. He didn’t even bother to pick up his helmet, which he’d left on the floor of the church, or the Gespenst tome his friend had bought—it must have fallen from his belt during his battle with the Berserk, and now we have safely sealed it within the catacombs.

 

“We had hoped this would be the end of it. But alas, I doubt we are so lucky. We’ve not seen the swordsman since that day. And who knows, perhaps he died up there on the mountain peaks as well, and all this is just a coincidence. But…for the past few weeks, Wyverns have grown increasingly rare in the skies over this monastery. They were once quite common, but now…”

 

Grigorius shuddered. “And even more worryingly, people are disappearing too. A few days ago, a small trio of researchers—well, a scholar and his bodyguards—passed through this monastery and up the mountain, following the same trail as Renault. They never returned. And before that, a noble who was supposed to have given us a great donation was ambushed and murdered. It…it may have simply been bandits. Still, I cannot help but feel something more sinister is at work. The wounds on the corpses were inflicted by a weapon and a wielder of far higher caliber than mere bandits could aspire to. And he killed the horses of the caravan as well! Such senseless brutality is incomprehensible even for the most savage of brigands—there’s far more wisdom in taking the beasts as your own, to either sell or even use as food later on.”

 

Grigorius sighed. “And there you have it, sir. I have prayed every night that I am overthinking this. That all these evils are truly just coincidences. That we’re dealing with nothing more than a particularly nasty clutch of highwaymen. But every time I pray, I hear the voice of God telling me that something darker is at work here, and it is the responsibility of men to stop it.”

 

When Grigorius finished his tale, his audience said nothing in reply for some time, sitting back and digesting it. Then, finally, he thanked Grigorius for his patient storytelling, and asked if he might spend the night. When Grigorius agreed, he assured him that the next morning he would set out for the mountain’s peak to find answers—whether that involved smashing a nest of bandits, bringing back Renault’s body for a proper burial, or something more.

 

“We will be forever grateful to you, friend,” said Grigorius upon hearing this admission, “but please, be careful. We do not want to see you disappear like the others.”

 

The wanderer assured him that would not happen.

 

-x-

 

It would have been a very funny sight if anyone had been around to see it, Renault surmised. He was sitting in his usual chair in Nergal’s study, but this time fully clad in his distinctive white armor. He was holding one of his chain-daggers in his left hand, lazily examining it as he turned it back and forth in the air, allowing the light from the torch to glint off the fine blade. He was…well, ‘afraid’ wasn’t the right word. Yes, Nergal told him that a very powerful opponent was approaching, but after all the “very powerful” opponents Renault had faced so far, there wasn’t much which could cause him fear.

 

Of course, he’d faced all those opponents with Braddock at his side. But even though the pain of his friend’s death remained smoldering at the bottom of his heart, he was not paralyzed with grief—precisely the opposite. He had mourned little for his friend because he was filled with _purpose_.

 

Braddock would return to him. He was sure of that, absolutely sure. This was only a temporary separation. Once Nergal had enough quintessence, once they had gained enough knowledge together, Braddock would be right back at his side, and they’d be together again as they had always been.

 

Thus, Renault saw no reason to distract himself with grieving or mourning—it would only delay his inevitable reunion with his friend. There was nothing at all for him to do except look forwards, and face whatever challenge Nergal wanted him to.

 

And so he waited in the library, aimlessly flipping his dagger back and forth, filled not with anxiety but _anticipation._

 

-x-

 

He was almost there.

 

The traveler had sensed the presence about half an hour ago, when Par Massino had shrunk to nothing more than a grey blotch beneath him. It had been faint at first, but unmistakable. Others would not have been able to detect it…

 

But it was very, very familiar to him.

 

He didn’t rush his ascent up the ancient, half-forgotten mountain trail, though. He was far too experienced for such a mistake; he knew full well that such haste would only invite death—or worse.

 

The aura grew stronger and stronger as he approached the small hermitage Grigorius had told him about. When he finally entered the dark, dank confines of the cave (simultaneously relieved to be free of the snowy ground but wary of what he knew was lurking within), he immediately took out a torch from his traveling pack and lit it. The new light source revealed the remains of a fire pit which looked to be a few months old. The last time any hermit had used this altar, Grigorius had said, was nearly half a century ago.

 

Aside from that, nothing seemed to be amiss. But the wanderer knew full well that appearances could be most deceiving.

 

He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a curious artifact—a small golden statuette of Saint Elimine. Such icons were not uncommon across Elibe, and some had magical properties, such as those depicting the forgotten goddess Ashera. This artifact was similarly enchanted, but it brought no luck. It actually dated from just around the time of the Scouring, and had been endowed with magic befitting the user of the Aureola tome. Just as Elimine’s holy magic was as effective against Dark magic as it was against Dragons, this statuette was capable of dispelling all manner of Dark sorceries.

 

He held it up in the air, and it glowed, as he thought it would. As its light fell upon the back wall of the cave, a portion of the stone shimmered—and then disappeared, revealing a darkness beyond.

 

He entered.

 

-x-

 

Renault blinked and paused his aimless turning of his dagger for a moment. He felt a surge of magic from above him, and then, somehow, he knew the space around him was twisting and changing, accepting an interloper it wanted desperately to refuse—but could not.

 

He gave the dagger one more twirl…and grinned. One way or another, he looked forward to meeting this uninvited guest.

 

-x-

 

The traveler took one cautious step onto the stone platform, then another. He stopped when he noticed that the light of his torch seemed to fall on nothing but blackness, with only a seemingly endless sea of shadows below and above him. It was as if he’d stepped into the middle of some unfathomably deep chasm nestled directly into the mountain itself.

 

He knelt down with his torch, and soon noticed a set of stairs on the side of the platform he was on. The traveler descended, and after no more than a minute felt the same unspeakable force he had encountered at the illusory wall in the cave—the same force he knew was doing its very best to keep him from going further. Once more he brandished the icon of Elimine, and after another burst of light, he felt the air around him shift. Indeed, it seemed as if reality itself had changed, and that some sort of barrier—a gigantic ward he could not see or touch, but existed nonetheless, had somehow been lifted.

 

And soon enough, after a few more steps down he came to a sudden halt at the great stone wall in front of him. There was a door in that wall, with a pair of torch-stands on the left and right sides of it. Those torches were dead, but that wasn’t a problem—there was soft light coming from the room beyond, indicating that someone was in there right now.

 

He tightened his grip on the icon, prepared for the worst, and stepped through the threshold.

 

-X-

 

Renault heard the steps tramping down the stairs outside and stood up. He unsheathed his weapons, for he now knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that this day would be an eventful one. In all the time he had spent in this sanctuary, the only sounds he had ever heard were produced by either him or Nergal. It was quite unlikely that the addition of a third man bode well.

 

His grip on his blades tightened as he heard the steps coming closer, closer, and closer. At long last his visitor popped through the doorway. Renault had no idea who he was—the thick, heavy cloak he was wearing covered his face and body. Renault could only see the dark skin of his hands, the right holding a torch and the left carrying a strange gold figurine.

 

 _Strike!_ Came Nergal’s voice in his head. _Go on! Kill him now!_

 

Renault’s muscles tensed, and he was just about to do that, before the man’s voice stopped him.

 

“Who—Renault?! Is that you?”

 

“Eh?” The voice was quite familiar, and that was enough for Renault to lower his guard, at least momentarily. “D…Dougram?”

 

“Renault! It is you!” The man doused his torch, put it away, and undid the hood of his cloak, revealing his handsome face and long blond hair. “What in the world are you doing here?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Renault replied. In his head, he could hear Nergal chanting frantically, _Strike! Strike!_ but ignored it. As he mouthed his greeting to Dougram, he thought to Nergal at the same time, _I know this man! Just wait! Maybe I’ll be able to get him to leave us alone!_

 

“I was wandering across Elibe when we met, and I still am now.” Renault noticed that Dougram’s expression, though not hostile, was quite suspicious. The chances of this meeting ending peacefully were low. Still, Dougram was a familiar face, not like that nameless noble or the faceless travelers he’d been preying on. Renault couldn’t bring himself to launch an assault on someone who’d once been a friend…

 

At least not yet.

 

“So what brings you here?”

 

“I was told of sinister forces and strange disappearances in this region of Bern. I thought the people might need my help.” He cast Renault a strange look. “Do you have anything to do with the darkness that’s fallen over this place?”

 

“No.” Renault lied straight through his teeth.

 

It was obvious that Dougram didn’t believe him. “So then what are you doing here?”

 

Renault shrugged his armored shoulders. “I found this weird library in the mountains. Pretty interestin’, isn’t it? You know I like reading history. This place is a treasure trove for me.”

 

“You need your armor to read?”

 

Renault gave another shrug and another lie. “There’re a few treatises on sword-and-dagger fighting in here. Thought I’d train myself a little bit with them.”

 

“Alone?” A look of sympathy crossed the Nabatan’s face. “Renault, I spent the night at Par Massino. I heard what happened to…”

 

This was enough to make Renault glare at his acquaintance, his eyes burning with hate and sadness. “Yeah. Yeah, you heard right.”

 

“S…so is Braddock resting here? Is this his tomb, where you’re mourning him? I’m sorry, Renault…”

 

 _Not mourning_ , thought the Mercenary Lord. _I’m bringing him back. I’m definitely on the way to bringing him back!_ Of course, he didn’t say this out loud. He simply replied, “Yeah, thanks.”

 

Unfortunately, this wouldn’t dissuade Dougram. “But…Renault, why _here_ of all places? Surely you can feel it! The evil lurking here!”

 

 _Dammit_ , Renault thought to himself, _He’s not gonna go away_. As Nergal voiced his agreement in his head, though, Renault still made an attempt. “No!” he snapped, back at Dougram. “No, I haven’t felt anything at all! It’s just me in here! Me and Braddock, all by ourselves. There’s nothing! Nothing! Now, if you’re looking for something, you’re not gonna find it in here. Just leave us alone!”

 

“I…I don’t think so,” said Dougram, the suspicion returning to his voice. “I _know_ something’s down here, Renault.” He gestured to the golden figurine he was holding. “I needed to use this thing twice to get past the cave wall and the stairs. How could you possibly have ended up here without a similar artifact?”

 

“Artifact?” Renault peered at the thing curiously. “What the hell is it? Is that…is that an icon of Elimine? Dougram, I thought you weren’t religious!”

 

“I’m not. This was given to me when I left my hometown. I don’t subscribe to her religion, or believe what she said about dragons, but I can’t deny the Light power that Elimine was able to wield. This icon of her contains a bit of that power, specifically designed to defeat enchantments created by Elder magic. Enchantments that the guy I’m hunting is very, very fond of.”

 

Renault grunted. “The guy you’re hunting? What was his name again?”

 

Dougram’s eyes narrowed. “Nergal.”

 

“Never seen him.” Renault clenched his jaw. “Wherever he is, he’s not around here. Sorry. Now leave.”

 

Dougram’s gaze hardened. “No, Renault. Something’s definitely here. Nobody but Nergal could have warped the space around those stairs like that. You can’t possibly expect me to believe you haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary in all your time here!”

 

Renault grimaced. “I’m telling you, I haven’t seen anything! Now _leave!_ ”

 

“I’m not your enemy, Renault. Remember? My men and I helped you during the siege on the Fortress of Spears. Why are you so hostile?”

 

“Losing his best friend would put anybody in a bad mood. But yeah, I remember that you’ve been good to me, Dougram. That’s the only reason I’m asking you to leave rather than making you.”

 

“You know I can’t do that.” Dougram peeked over Renault’s shoulder, to the door behind him. “I have to find Nergal every bit as much as you had to find Trunicht—Grigorius told me you came all the way up here to bring him to justice. Now, what’s in there?”

 

“N…nothing.”

 

“Let’s see.”

 

He started towards the entrance, but Renault’s hand shot out to grab his arm. “NO!”

 

“Renault!” Dougram wriggled his way out of the Mercenary Lord’s grip. “Renault, what’s wrong with you?”

 

“B…Braddock,” he muttered. “Braddock’s body is in there…”

 

“I…Renault…” Sympathy once again returned to Dougram’s eyes. “I’m sorry. But in that case, let me pass. He was my friend too. I’d like to pay my respects.”

 

“He doesn’t need respects,” Renault snarled. “He needs—“ _Time,_ Renault thought to himself. _Just a little more time_. Naturally, he knew better than to say that out loud. “He just needs to rest. God damn it, Dougram, can’t you understand that?”

 

“How can he possibly rest with a miasma of evil hanging over this place? Dammit, Renault, I’m done arguing with you. I’m getting to the bottom of whatever’s happening here whether you like it or not. _Move!_ ”

 

He tried to brush past the Mercenary Lord, but this time, Renault responded with an angry shove, sending him stumbling back.

 

“Agh!” he grunted. A moment after, he regained his footing and glared at Renault. All sympathy was gone from his eyes, now. He unsheathed his sword. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Renault, but I can’t let you stand in the way of my quest. If I have to subdue you by force…then that’s what I’ll do. I’m sorry.”

 

Renault simply nodded, keeping his armored body wedged squarely within the doorway to Nergal’s chamber, and drew his chain-dagger and Silver Sword.

 

For a moment, both men were as still as statues.

 

Then Dougram exploded forwards in a blur of motion.

 

Renault immediately raised his sword in front of his face to deflect one, then two lightning-fast strikes. He lowered it slightly to see what was in front of him, and was treated to a view of Dougram flipping backwards before disappearing again. A rush of air was the warning he needed to hold his sword vertically to block one more slash to his head, and then lift his right shoulder to allow his pauldron to block another slash which would have otherwise cut through his neck.

 

Once more after a foiled attack, Renault saw Dougram flip backwards through the air, this time landing perfectly on Nergal’s table, sending books and scrolls flying everywhere. He twisted his wrist and gave his Killing Edge a dramatic twirl, then seemed to blur. Renault blinked, and there seemed to be _four_ of him twirling around the air, all aiming their blades at him.

 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with this form of attack, though—he knew that swordsmen with nigh-superhuman speed, like Dougram, could move so fast they left afterimages, and that the “clones” he was looking at were mirages, distractions from Dougram’s true attack. It still didn’t tell him where that attack was coming from, though, so he tried to defend himself by crouching, trying to cover up the weak spots on his armor and exposing as much of the strong, impenetrable plate as possible in order to deflect Dougram’s cuts. Unfortunately, he had no helmet to protect his head and face, and had to rely on again holding his Silver Sword out in front of it and hoping Dougram wouldn’t strike from behind. Now he _really_ regretted leaving that piece of equipment back in Par Massino.

 

It turned out that sword was Dougram’s true target. Renault grimaced as he felt Dougram’s Killing Edge slam into it faster than he could see…and grimaced harder when he felt the same impact a second later. But then, to his surprise, came a third lightning-fast slash to the exact same segment of the blade—by this time his arms were ringing and he’d been forced to take a step back. Finally, Dougram appeared before him, raised his weapon, and arced it down in the mightiest overhead swing he could muster. Renault raised his dagger and sword in an X to block, but Dougram’s strike fell _below_ the intersection of the blades, on the same section of Renault’s Silver Sword on which his other strikes had fell.

 

Renault could only swear and stumble back as the magic blade buckled and then shattered under Dougram’s relentless assault.

 

Silver weapons were enchanted for great power, not durability. If used constantly rather than occasionally, they’d break sooner rather than later, and Renault had been making liberal use of his. It had served him well all throughout the Civil War, but it seemed as if its time had finally come to an end.

 

Of course, as Renault stumbled through the doorway, trying to keep on his feet, he didn’t reflect on the sword’s fine service record. He could only feel rage that it had chosen _this_ moment to break, and panic that Dougram could now enter unimpeded…

 

For that was exactly what the Nabatan did. Renault regained his balance quite quickly and discarded the useless hilt of the broken sword, but not before a blond-haired blur rushed past him. Now, Dougram stood tall within the throne room, nothing impeding his view of what Renault had been defending.

 

His eyes passed over Braddock’s corpse, but didn’t linger. They instead came to the very, very familiar form sitting on the throne on the far side of the room.

 

“Nergal,” he yelled, “NERGAL! You blackheart! I’ve finally found you!”

 

He leveled his sword at the man who had murdered his mother, preparing to strike, but found himself knocked off his feet by a heavy, armored form barreling into him.

 

“NO!” Renault yelled as he tackled Dougram, driving him onto the floor. He grabbed at his foe, trying to pin him beneath him, but the Swordmaster’s slippery movements combined with his loose clothing made it difficult to get a good grip on him.

 

 _Renault,_ came Nergal’s voice in his head, _Renault! Get that vile talisman away from here! Even_ _if you cannot hurt Dougram, getting rid of that fetish will make him much less dangerous to me!_

Renault wasn’t quite ready to go all-out against his former comrade, but he could certainly do something about that stupid little statue. Just as Dougram managed to slip out from under him, Renault managed to reach out and snatch the little golden thing out from his left hand. Dougram swore as he scrambled to his feet, but Renault had already achieved his objective.

 

“Grah!” With a strength borne by desperation, as he stood up Renault squeezed the figurine in his hand with as much force as he could muster, and was satisfied by the sound of metal crunching as it imploded within his grip. He tossed it aside and felt the magic within dissipate—apparently, it was not constructed to be much sturdier than a piece of women’s jewelry or any other golden trinket.

 

“Dammit!” Dougram snarled, holding his blade in front of him as he glared at Renault. “Why? Renault, why are you defending this man? Don’t you know how dangerous he is?”

 

“He’s never done anything to me.”

 

“Yet. He’s _using_ you, Renault!”

 

“Am I?” Nergal chuckled. “Short-sighted as ever, Dougram. I offer this man his greatest desire—a chance at reviving his best friend. Why should he choose you over me?”

 

“He offers you nothing but damnation, Renault!” Dougram tried to reason with his old comrade. “He cares only for himself! He’ll never help you, or Braddock!”

 

“I…”

 

“He killed my _mother,_ Renault! A man like that will just do the same to you!”

 

“Don’t listen to him, Renault.” Nergal raised his voice, and there was urgency in it. “That man’s mother gave herself to me of her own free will. She would have been unharmed—she would have had EVERYTHING she desired—if only her foolish, short-sighted son and the other blind stooges of Arcadia had let me finish my experiments!”

 

“That’s a lie, you soul-stealing vermin!”

 

Renault seemed as if he was considering the Nabatan’s words, but Nergal quickly won him over. “A lie? You say I’m lying? Look at this, Renault! Listen to your friend’s voice, and tell me if it’s false!”

 

He raised his hands in the air, and both Dougram and Renault gasped in surprise at what appeared in front of them.

 

It was a ghostly apparition of Braddock, appearing exactly as he did in life, except translucent and shimmering slightly. The phantom pointed towards Dougram, and said in the voice Renault loved so much…

 

_Kill…Kill…_

“See what I have given you, Renault! Can Dougram offer you anything like this?!”

 

“No,” Dougram yelled, “It’s an illusion! Don’t listen to it, Renault!”

 

Unfortunately, the man was in no state of mind to listen to rational arguments.

 

“It’s his voice,” he growled as he turned to Dougram, “Braddock’s voice! It’s possible…it’s possible…we can bring him back! We just need more time! A little more time, that’s all!” He reached a hand to his back and drew his newly-acquired Brave Sword. “I’m telling you, Dougram, get away from here! _Now!_ I don’t want to fight you, but I’m not gonna let you or anybody stand in my way. I’m bringing Braddock back, no matter the cost!”

 

“There’s no reasoning with you, huh?” Dougram shifted a foot back and lowered his body, preparing to leap. “At least I tried. That’s all justice demands.”

 

He then flexed his legs and soared towards Renault. The Mercenary Lord immediately raised his right arm to parry with the Brave Sword, and then, without even thinking about it, moved it slightly to the left to block one more strike. This all happened in the same moment—Renault realized that his arm was moving literally twice as swiftly, and that Dougram seemed to be moving only half as quickly—Renault could now track movements which used to be blindingly fast.

 

The Brave Sword’s enchantment was potent indeed.

 

Dougram realized this as well, his face twisting in frustration as he released another pair of strikes—a thrust aimed at Renault’s unprotected face which was quickly deflected by an upwards swing of the Brave Sword, then a hop back, a duck, and another upwards thrust going for Renault’s neck—and this one was also stopped when Renault lowered his sword and used its pommel to bat away the tip of Dougram’s blade.

 

And more than that, he wasn’t done yet. As his right arm moved, Renault drew back his left and punched out with his chain-dagger. Fortunately for his opponent, however, the magic of the Brave Sword only affected the hand in which it was held—the rest of Renault’s body moved no faster. He swore as his dagger passed through nothing but empty air, and felt a rush of wind over his head that indicated Dougram had dodged his attack by jumping up and over him.

 

He immediately whirled around, and Dougram had indeed landed behind him…but not directly behind him.

 

The Sword Master was standing on Braddock’s altar, bathed in blue light. In fact, he was actually standing directly on top of Braddock’s armored chest. Renault screamed at the disrespect to his friend’s body…as well as the realization that he wasn’t Dougram’s target.

 

“I HAVE YOU NOW, VILLAIN!” Dougram shouted as he bent his legs and leaped once again, but at the robed form on the throne behind the altar. There was no way Renault could catch him in time—he could only hope, desperately, that Nergal had some trick up his sleeve to save himself.

 

Indeed he did. With a grimace Nergal raised a pale, trembling hand up, fingers spread wide, and a flood of black liquid gushed from his fingertips and coalesced into an ovoid shield in front of him. When Dougram’s sword reached this shield, his entire body was suspended in mid-air, his arms quivering as he tried his hardest to cut through that black guard. If he still had that icon of Elimine, he would have been able to do so easily, but as it was, he could only cry out in frustration as the shadow-shield bulged, then expanded forwards and pushed him away.

 

“I will not be able to ward off a second attack,” gasped Nergal. “Help me, Renault!”

 

His servant was more than happy to. Dougram flipped over in the air and landed perfectly on his feet to the side of Braddock’s altar, then immediately spun around to block a descending Brave Sword. Renault charged at him, unleashing two cuts with his sword (swiftly blocked by Dougram’s own) followed by another thrust with his dagger, which Dougram leapt over once again. As Renault turned, Dougram jumped up into the air one last time—it was obvious his target was the much more vulnerable Nergal, who had been exhausted by his summoning of the shadow-shield.

 

Renault, however, wouldn’t let Dougram accomplish his task so easily. The moment he saw Dougram launch himself into the air, he continued his spin, gripping his chaindagger and then releasing it once he was facing Nergal again. The blade whirled through the air, its chain following it, producing the same effect as a blade-tipped whip. Though the Sword Master was moving too fast for Renault to see, he’d approximated Dougram’s position well enough for his purposes. The dagger didn’t hit anything, but as it arced around Renault, the chain caught something—one of Dougram’s legs. It wrapped around the limb, and the moment he felt it grow taught, Renault’s quick reflexes allowed him to pull it back before Dougram could react. The Swordmaster reappeared a few feet away from Nergal, his attack foiled, and, swearing loudly, was slammed onto the stone floor when Renault retracted his chain.

 

Renault immediately leaped towards him, readying his blade for a stab powerful enough to drive it into the rock below.

 

However, Renault didn’t actually expect this attack to land—he primarily wanted to distract Dougram and keep him from continuing the assault on Nergal. Indeed, even at this point, he still wanted to drive Dougram away more than actually kill him. Dougram had already extricated himself from the chain wrapped around his legs, and Renault knew that he’d roll to the side well before the Brave Sword drove itself into the ground. Renault was planning to shift the blade in his hands a moment before it hit the floor, twist his body just as he landed so he was facing the other direction, and use the momentum to slam the Brave Sword’s pommel behind him, smashing it into Dougram’s body.

 

He didn’t notice the shadows coalescing around Dougram’s prone form. So he had no idea of what was going to happen next.

 

Neither did Dougram—he was planning to roll to the right and then pop up behind Renault; the Mercenary Lord had predicted his movements quite well. But Nergal had seen fit to foil both their plans.

 

He raised his hand once again, but this time the darkness flowed from the ground rather than his fingers. Tendrils of inky shadow erupted from underneath Dougram, wrapping around his arms and legs and pinning him to the floor.

 

Before either of them could react, Renault had fallen upon Dougram.

 

And Renault was quite surprised to feel his Brave Sword sinking into flesh rather than stone.

 

“W-What the—“

 

He looked down, uncomprehendingly, as the black tentacles pinning Dougram dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the Nabatan lying on the floor, Renault’s Brave Sword protruding from his chest as a pool of blood expanded around his body.

 

Dougram looked up at Renault—anger and betrayal shining in his eyes—and tried to raises his sword one last time—but failed, collapsing back down and lying quite still.

 

Renault let go of his magic blade and took a few steps back, gazing dumbly at the cooling corpse, still not quite understanding what had happened.

 

Nergal, on the other hand, was more than pleased. “Yes…” he rasped, _“Yes!!”_ A glowing golden mist seemed to float up from Dougram’s body, coalescing into a cloud of the same color above him. This cloud floated over to Nergal, who promptly absorbed it with that familiar sigh of almost orgasmic satisfaction Renault had gotten used to. “Wonderful quintessence. Absolutely _wonderful._ You have done well, Renault. Very, very well. This man was strong indeed. This much beautiful power should speed things up quite a bit…”

 

“But…Nergal,” said Renault, still not entirely sure what had happened, “W…why? He should’ve dodged that attack easily. How did I…”

 

“I helped you, my friend! You have been a good companion to me for these long months. Of course I wanted you to win your fight! I used my magic to hold him in place while you completed your strike. A wonderful plan, yes? Victory is ours!”

 

“Y…wait, no!” Renault glared at Nergal, growing angry. “I…that wasn’t supposed to happen! I knew that man! I didn’t want to kill him!”

 

Nergal quirked his single visible eyebrow upwards. “I did not realize that. It seemed as if you were fighting in earnest to me. I am not a swordsman, though, so I suppose I must have been mistaken.”

 

“He was going to dodge that attack, and then I would’ve knocked him out with the pommel of my blade or something. I could’ve talked to him, maybe even gotten him onto our side!”

 

Nergal shifted. “As I said, I didn’t realize that. I am sorry, friend. I hadn’t known you were not fighting for your life. My intentions were good, though. How was I to know you did not need to be saved?”

 

“Good intentions don’t count for much. He’s still dead. And you can’t bring him back, can you? You would’ve already brought back Braddock if it was possible.”

 

“No, my friend, I cannot bring him back. But does it matter?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“So what if he was your friend? Was he as close to you as Braddock was?”

 

“No, but—“

 

“And you’re a mercenary, are you not? Today’s friends can be tomorrow’s foes. Isn’t that the case?”

 

“Yes, but—“

 

“Is he the first foe you have slain that was formerly a friend?”

 

A flash of purple hair appeared in Renault’s memory— _Dina,_ he thought.

 

“Then why shed so many tears over this interloper? Especially when he wanted to halt all the progress we have made? After all, you saw that apparition of Braddock. I can give you more…so much more, far more than he ever could…”

 

“But everything he said about you…”

 

“Why should you believe it? Dougram had been mistaken before, hadn’t he? After all, he didn’t know I could give you Braddock’s form and voice. An illusion? You heard him very well, Renault. If that was an illusion, what hope do you have? You certainly don’t want to live without the hope of seeing Braddock again, do you?”

 

“No… _No!_ ”

 

“Then believe in the voice you heard…and believe in me.”

 

Renault looked down. He didn’t respond, but he apparently still felt quite guilty.

 

“Braddock would understand,” said Nergal sympathetically. “He was a mercenary too, wasn’t he? Both of you did what you had to do in order to survive, even though neither of you may have liked it. And this…this was just another unfortunate step along the way.” Nergal raised a hand and a small ball of golden light appeared over it—he regarded it curiously for a moment before continuing with his speech. “A productive step, I might add. This quintessence is truly excellent. Worth well over a dozen bandits, or a hundred Wyverns. We’ve moved that much closer to our goal. That much closer to bringing Braddock back. Does that not justify Dougram’s death?”

 

Renault could have sworn he had heard similar arguments from a man he had once opposed before. Yet in his grief, with his singular, over-riding desire to see his friend again, such logic seemed less like manipulation and more like the only thing in the entire world he wanted to hear.

 

Still, though, he said nothing. And allowed Nergal to continue.

 

“Nothing worth having comes easily,” said Nergal, and this time his voice grew cold. “Everyone must sacrifice something to achieve what they desire. Did not Braddock sacrifice his life for you? What, then, is a worthy offering to repay that? Not your own life, of course. But what about other lives? Lives such as Dougram’s? Are you willing to offer those, Renault? Do you have the steel in your heart? The courage? The _devotion?_ ”

 

Renault looked down again at Dougram’s corpse.

 

“Your hands are stained with his blood, Renault. And that of the noble’s, and the researcher and his bodyguards. How does it make any sense to stop now, after you’ve already gone so far?”

 

Renault stared at it for a few moments, then looked back at Nergal.

 

“Well, Renault? Can you accept Dougram’s death? Can you accept what you have to do, for Braddock’s sake?”

 

He nodded.

 

And Nergal nodded in return.

 

“Then, my valued companion, dispose of this body as you see fit. But be quick! We still have work to do.”

 

Again, Renault hesitated—but then he looked at Nergal’s one-eyed stare, and his resolve returned. He picked up Dougram’s bloody corpse, cradling it respectfully in his arms, and marched out of the throne room, out of the library, up the stairs, and out into the cold mountain night.

 

He would give Dougram a proper burial. At least enough to cover his body with snow, and perhaps construct a makeshift cairn of mountain rock. His old comrade was worth that much.

 

But his life still wasn’t enough to sway Renault from the path he was now on.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say here other than ;_; Ashera is of course a reference to the Ashera icons and Ashera from FE9/10. Beyond that, just as a warning, the next chapter is even more grim and disturbing. Please be careful and heed the warnings and tags, my friends.


	46. Atrocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Nergal's behest, Renault compounds the murder of his former friend with an even more terrible sin.

**Chapter 46: Atrocity**

The traveler crunched down the snowy path leading to Par Massino. He was clad head-to-foot in a large, heavy brown traveling cloak. Even in spring it was still cold and snowy up here, after all. He might not have needed it if his friend had simply used magical means to Warp him down here, but the sorcerer did not want to waste power. Since they had detected no-one else going up or down the monastery’s mountain, it was unlikely he would be seen by any unfriendly eyes, so there was no reason for him not to make the trek by foot, even if it took a little longer.

 

Renault marched up to the same great stone gates which had given him entry once before. This time, however, his best friend was not at his side. It was a small inconvenience; Renault was reminded again of how much he had relied on Braddock’s strength when he grabbed the rope which would ring the large bell at the top of the tower just outside the gates. He had no idea how those scrawny monks made use of it, since it required so much effort to pull it with enough force to ring that heavy thing.

 

Still, he may not have been quite as strong as his friend, but he was strong enough. He pulled on the rope thrice, and was rewarded each time with a loud GONG that seemed to echo all across the beautiful mountainside. Renault’s knees quaked at the sound—but he wasn’t sure whether it was due to how loud it was, or the fact that the bells still sounded exactly the same—just as they had when they’d heralded the end of his best friend’s life.

 

And indeed, once again a tonsured monk popped his head over the wall, though Renault couldn’t tell if he was the same one who’d greeted them on that dark day. All these monks looked (and sounded) alike, after all.

 

“I want to see Grigorius,” Renault called.

 

“Who are you? For what reason?”

 

“He has something that belongs to me.”

 

“ _What?!”_

“Just show me in.”

 

The monk ducked behind the walls, and after a wait that still seemed too long for Renault, the giant gates opened and he stepped through. As seemed to be standard procedure for when this monastery received visitors, a half-dozen monks surrounded him and shepherded him towards Grigorius’ office in the central church. He noticed it had been repaired, though the holes in the ceiling had not been perfectly patched over.

 

It seemed Grigorius had not changed much either. He was still sitting alone at his table, and he was still bald, though it seemed to Renault he had a few more worry lines on his strong face. He looked up at his new visitor with annoyance at first—but when Renault let down the hood of his cloak, that annoyance turned to astonished recognition.

 

“You! You’re—“

 

“The guy…one of the guys who killed Trunicht,” Renault growled.

 

“Good Lord, man! We never thought we’d see you again after you went up the mountain with your friend! Sit down, do you need food, or supplies, or—“

 

Renault stopped him with a shake of his head.

 

“Ah…I see. Then…why is it you’ve come here? I…sir, I am sorry for your friend,” and his sympathy _seemed_ to be sincere, “but as I’m sure you know, there was nothing we could have done. Have you come to offer prayers for him? We can--“

 

This time, Grigorius was stopped by a very angry glare.

 

“…I see,” he said uneasily. “Then what is it you want from us?”

 

“I left something here.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Renault tapped his head. “My helmet.”

 

“Your what?” Grigorius gazed at him confusedly, before recognition finally dawned on him. “Oh, of course! Yes, I remember now. A fine piece of equipment it was. I can see why you’d want it back!”

 

“Is it still here? Or have you sold it?” The tone of Renault’s voice indicated the answer the monks gave would likely influence their future well-being.

 

Grigorius chuckled and shook his head. “We are monks, not armorers. We do not run a pawn-shop. Few come to us wishing to buy our wares. Rest assured, Renault, your helm should still be here. Polfrey,” he said, pointing to a younger acolyte, “it should be in storage. Fetch it for us, would you?”

 

“Yes, Abbot!”

 

The young man rushed from the office, leaving Renault alone with Grigorius and the five remaining monks.

 

“So…Sir, may I ask your name? I am sorry for my lack of manners, but we didn’t ask you when you first came here.” Grigorius still seemed quite uneasy, given Renault’s stony silence. And he remained even more so when Renault didn’t even bother to open his mouth in response to that question.

 

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. “As you wish. But, sir, I have a more important question. I don’t know where you’ve been for these past few months, but I am sure you’ve some knowledge of the evil which followed in your wake, yes?”

 

This was enough to make Renault’s angry eyes flicker over to him. “What’re you talking about?”

 

“There’ve been disappearances…talk of strange murders…and a pall of darkness hanging over the land. I would have thought your destruction of the Armor of the Berserk would have _banished_ such evil, not brought more of it here.”

 

Renault just smirked. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

 

That smirk was enough to make Grigorius suspicious rather than just uneasy. “Well, then, sir, may I ask if you’ve heard news of another traveler?”

 

Renault didn’t blink, or even allow his face to twitch.

 

“He was…a Nabatan, if I recall correctly. He spent a night here, saying he was on a mission to cleanse these mountains of their curse. He was a Sword Master…long blonde hair, and dark skin. A striking combination, I’d never really seen it before. I believe he said his name was Dougram.”

 

Renault’s expression didn’t change.

 

“Did you perhaps see him recently? To be honest, when we first saw you coming down here, in that brown cloak, we thought you were him…”

 

Renault responded to the question with nothing more than a cryptic, “Dougram served his purpose.”

 

Grigorius blinked, but before he could ask Renault to clarify, Polfrey returned with the object of his quest. “Here it is, Abbot,” he said, holding the white helmet with the green visor in front of him. Renault simply turned and grabbed it without so much as a thank-you.

 

The other monks were slightly put off by his rudeness, but not Grigorius. “We’re happy to have helped you,” he said calmly, but coldly as well. “Can we do anything else for you?”

 

Renault turned back to him. “You can, actually.”

 

Again, Grigorius blinked. He wasn’t expecting that. “What else do you need?”

 

“My friend brought something else here. I want it.”

 

“What is it? We don’t have any more armor or weapons in our store,” said Polfrey.

 

“It’s a book. Black binding, weird runes on both sides. It was chained to him when he first arrived, but it must have gotten loose when he was fighting with the Berserk. I want it back.”

 

“That book…” Grigorius thought for a moment, then his face paled. “Gespenst…you mean that cursed Gespenst tome?”

 

“That’s it, yeah.”

 

“By the Saint, what use could you possibly have for it? Its evil power is not something to be taken lightly! Why would you want it now, when we’ve already sealed it away?”

 

“It belonged to my friend…to _me._ ”

 

Grigorius shook his head. “On this I cannot budge. Gespenst is too unholy an artifact for me to allow its release. I will not give it back to you. I am sorry, but you must leave now.”

 

Renault simply nodded. “Fine.”

 

Grigorius was quite obviously relieved, letting out a heavy sigh. “Thank you for your understanding, sir. Again, I am sorry, both for your friend and that we were unable to do anything more to help you in your quest. I pray for your safe journey.”

 

He offered no response. He simply stood up, put on his helmet, and marched out the doors to the small office, his escort trailing behind him.

 

Obviously, he wasn’t really intending to leave with nothing but his helmet. Renault just wanted to get out of that old man’s sight.

 

As they were about halfway to the gate, Renault stopped and looked around. It was a quiet evening, it seemed—none of the other monks were out and about. The only people standing on the snowy ground were Renault and his six bodyguards.

 

“Hm?” asked Polfrey as the monks stopped to look at Renault. “Is something the matter, sir?”

 

He was answered by a flash of blue as Renault stepped forwards, unsheathed his Brave Sword, and slammed its pommel into his forehead.

 

As Polfrey collapsed to the ground, out cold, Renault quickly turned and did the exact same thing to the monk standing next to him. Finally, he whipped out his left hand, catching the dagger shot down from the pauldron above it, and turned once again to slam that weapon’s hilt into another monk’s forehead.

 

Three of them were down, three were left. These were not particularly disciplined warriors, so the shock of Renault’s sudden assault rendered them dumb and helpless for a few moments. More than enough time for Renault to lay them unconscious on the ground with another flurry of pommel strikes.

 

Renault stopped to look around him once again. Thankfully, he hadn’t been too noisy—it seemed the sound of his little scuffle had attracted no attention. Still, for all he knew someone might have been watching from the windows, and in any case the unconscious unfortunates would probably be found quickly. Thus, he had to work quickly as well.

 

_Gespenst is buried underground. In the catacombs, to be specific. The entrance is to the southeast, away from the dormitories._

 

Renault immediately started running in the direction Nergal’s voice indicated. Hugging the corners of buildings and staying within their shadows when he could, without being seen he soon came to the small, squat, church-like building which served as the entrance to Par Massino’s catacombs.

 

It was barred with a heavy padlock—even Renault’s Brave Sword wouldn’t be able to cut through that. Not much of a problem, though. He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a useful trinket Nergal had given him: A Door key. The key fit easily into the lock and it opened without hesitation, the chain falling away from the stone door with a loud clank. Renault pushed it wide open, setting sun casting orange light into its dank depths, and was pleasantly surprised to _not_ see a rush of dust and detritus floating up, as he expected. This catacomb had apparently been visited recently; probably when the Gespenst tome had been interred.

 

Entering the silent building, Renault came to a second padlocked door, which he opened with the same multipurpose key. Beyond that was a spiral staircase, which he descended.

 

The catacombs were naturally pitch-black, but the visor of Renault’s magic helmet glowed green, allowing him to see his surroundings as clearly as if it were day down here. Nergal’s voice guiding him just made things even easier.

 

Down, down, down the stairs, past the first floor, the second, until he came to the third and second-last level of the macabre labyrinth. He exited the stairwell and made his way down the corridor, ignoring the piles of priestly bones neatly stacked up on both sides of him, and the religious inscriptions covering the ceiling on top of him. After about forty paces he turned left at Nergal’s direction, then right, then one last left.

 

He was now standing in front of a door barred by another padlock. Thankfully, the key Nergal had given him was good for one more use—it was less of a key and more of a dumbed-down lockpick which could be utilized by laymen rather than thieves or assassins, but the drawback was that the mechanism wore down and broke after only five uses or so.

 

A lock would not be the last barrier Renault would have to deal with, though. The door opened to reveal what seemed to be a small library, not so different from what Nergal had in his sanctuary. A thick miasma of gloom hung over the place, however, even more so than in Nergal’s dark dwelling. This truly was a repository for the blackest of books. Of course, Renault wouldn’t let that stop him—but before he could step through, Nergal’s voice did.

 

 _Wait_.

 

 _What is it?_ Renault thought back.

 

_This room is protected by more than a mere door. Do you have the scroll I gave you?_

Renault reached into his cloak yet another time and pulled out the yellowed scrap of parchment Nergal had told him to bring when he’d left their mountain sanctuary. On it was written a series of incantations in unpronounceable Shadetongue, with strange runes and a hexagram jotted down at the bottom.

 

_You cannot say the words, but it is not necessary. Simply hold the scroll in front of you. Steady, now! Do not drop it, whatever you do!_

 

Renault followed his instructions, taking special care to grip the paper as firmly as he could without damaging it. A good thing he did, for the runes on it began to glow purple—and a moment later, the whole scroll did the same, giving Renault a bit of a surprise.

 

The scroll flared brightly, forcing Renault to blink, and then began to _dissolve_ into a fine mist composed of small purple sparks floating around in the air, like a swarm of fireflies. The sparks swirled around the room, disappearing as they settled upon the floor and the shelves of evil texts. When the last of them disappeared, Renault felt something…change. He couldn’t put his finger on it, since the area looked the same, but he somehow knew that a powerful enchantment had been dispelled, thanks to the scroll.

 

_It should be safe to enter, now. Look for Gespenst!_

Without wasting a second, Renault began poring through the shelves. While the protective enchantment over the room itself may have been dissipated, many of the books seemed to have equally powerful enchantments of their own, so Renault made sure not to touch anything he didn’t have to. Some of the texts seemed as if they were the sort of thing it was best to avoid even if they hadn’t been touched with dark sorcery—Renault caught a glimpse of a book lying alone on one shelf with a cover depicting a trio of naked women cutting the heart out of a human infant, and the spine of another text read, in Draconic, _The Unrivalled Delights of Everlasting Pain._

 

As interesting as such reading might have been, Renault didn’t have time to spend on it. Looking up and down a shelf on the back wall, he finally came across the distinctive black binding he recognized as Braddock’s souvenir from Paptimus. Without a second thought he nabbed it and stuffed it into his traveling pack.

 

“Alright, I’ve got it,” he mumbled to himself. “Time to get out of here!”

 

_Wait, Renault. Are you certain you should be leaving so soon?_

“The hell’re you talking about? Of course I am! I gotta leave here before they find me, unless you want me to end up fighting this entire monastery?”

 

_Perhaps I do. Or, more accurately, perhaps that’s what you want to do…at least if you truly care about your dead friend._

The mention of Braddock was enough to make Renault freeze and forget about the threat of being discovered. “Nergal…what…what is this? What do you mean?”

 

_Don’t you want to avenge Braddock’s death?_

“I already killed Yurt!”

 

_Yes, but he wasn’t the only one responsible. Think about it, Renault. Think long and hard. Where was he hiding? Inside this monastery. He and his friend…the monks allowed them to kick back their heels, rest and relax, while you and Braddock struggled so hard to get here…_

“Y…yeah…”

 

 _And what of the fight itself? They left your friend alone—to die. They watched the poison eat away at his body, and didn’t lift a finger to help. Remember, almost every acolyte here has some knowledge of magic. Grigorius certainly does. And you’ve seen where they store their staves and tomes, have you not? They could have helped Braddock fight the Armor of the Berserk. They could have used a Restore staff to purge the poison from his body, or even a mere Mend staff to give him some respite from his pain…_  
  


_But they didn’t. They did absolutely nothing._

Renault said nothing in response, clenching his teeth as he began to ball his fists in rage.

 

_Did you never stop to think about it, Renault? Of course you didn’t—you were mad with grief, my friend, as any man would be! But now that enough time has passed, you can see clearly now. These monks…these parasites leeching off the largesse of the stupid and superstitious of Bern…they let your friend die. They watched him bleed and suffer, whimpering away like a band of puling cowards. Why, I’d wager these self-proclaimed holy men took **pleasure** in Braddock’s death. Did you hear that, Renault? **Pleasure!** Remember how coldly they treated you when you came? Remember how coldly Grigorius treated you earlier today? It’s because they hate you, and they hated Braddock. They watched the poison stream into his eyes and down his throat, and they were cheering as they did so. As they cowered under the pews, they watched him vomit his very life away, and they laughed, telling themselves, “look at this unbeliever! He’s gotten exactly what he deserves!” And then, when you knelt over your friend in that destroyed church, even as they put on their somber masks and dirtied their tongues with words of insincere condolence, they said to themselves, within their hearts, “Why is this fool mourning such a wretch? I hope he dies as well!”_

The visor of Renault’s helmet began to glow red—blood red.

 

_You know what you have to do, Renault._

 

Renault heard footsteps down the corridor on the other side of the door. He didn’t move a muscle.

 

_Avenge your friend. Kill them. Kill them all._

 

With those words, the greater part of Renault’s conscience was washed away.

 

“I knew we couldn’t trust you!” yelled a monk as he turned the corner and saw Renault. “Grigorius was exactly right!”

 

“Put away that accursed tome!” His companion followed right behind him, brandishing a Light spellbook. “We believe in the mercy of the Saint. Surrender to us and we might forgive your transgression!”

 

Renault responded to the offer by turning around and thrusting his Brave Sword through the man’s skull. Before the other monk could react, another flash of blue metal sent him joining his friend in death.

 

“Aaah….AHHHH!” The last monk, who was keeping an eye on Renault from outside the room, saw what had happened to his friends and staggered back before falling over in terror. He was the third member of the trio Grigorius had sent to the catacombs when he saw what had become of Renault’s original six escorts, and now he wished he hadn’t taken the job. He rolled over on the floor, trying to get back on his feet, but Renault was too fast, falling upon him before he could escape. The Mercenary Lord left the corpse behind him as he broke into a run, through the corridor and back up the stairs, his steps filled with a new and terrible purpose.

 

He went up to the second level, then the first, and came to the second door he’d crossed through when he entered. The first led outside, but he knew they were likely waiting for him. Thus, he slowed slightly as he advanced, then, before he left the shadows for the waiting moonlight outside, he raised his left hand to grip his cloak…

 

-x-

 

A black shape flew out of the entrance to the catacombs. Grigorius and his retinue were waiting for it. As one they lifted their hands and called upon the power of their holy tomes, and a dozen orbs of golden light coalesced in the air and surged towards a single spot, blowing their target into a thousand pieces and producing for a moment a light brighter than a thousand suns. This was enough to force all of them to close their eyes and even cause a couple of the younger brothers to stumble back a bit, but none of them cared about a moment’s vulnerability—they were sure they had destroyed whatever heathen had dared to defile the resting place of their comrades.

 

“We got him!” cheered one young monk, eyes still closed. “That’s the fate of unrepentant sinners!”

 

“Don’t speak so soon, Olen,” called Grigorius, keeping his eyes open, “We can’t be sure—“

 

He was interrupted by a loud clanking of metal as a second form dashed out of the catacombs—much larger than the first, colored white and teal, but with a red glow emanating from its head that seemed as if it was born from the furnaces of hell. This form stopped in front of Olen, and the monk along with his friend standing next to him didn’t have time to scream before they collapsed to the ground with their innards leaking out. The form let out an angry grunt before whirling around and spewing forth a silvery flash—which ended up in the throat of another young initiate, drowning him in his own blood. Before the ten remaining monks could react, the armored form dashed off and disappeared into the darkness.

 

“Don’t let that murderer escape,” yelled Grigorius. “After him!”

 

Of course, Renault hadn’t the least intention of ‘escaping.’ The little ploy he’d pulled—throwing out his cloak so that the welcoming party wasted their first attack—had been a strategy to weaken his foes, not get away from them. He knew very well that it would be suicide to face the monks out in the open, all at once. By hiding within their own dwellings, however, he’d be able to pick them off at his leisure.

 

He blasted through the back door of the easternmost dormitory, Grigorius’ monks hot on his tail. More would be joining him soon, he knew. “Hey, what’s going on?” mumbled a sleepy monk, stepping out of one of the doorways lining the hall on Renault’s right. The murderer didn’t even slow down as he answered the unfortunate sleeper’s question by sweeping his Brave Sword over the man’s chest as he passed. He proceeded to run up the narrow stairs at the end of the hall which led to the dormitory’s second floor.

Grigorius’ monks were just a few seconds behind him—which was exactly what he was hoping for. The moment he cleared the stairs he turned and crouched, waiting for the first one to come up. They had to do so single-file, which meant that when the first one up the stairs received a blade through his face, he fell backwards onto the monks following him, sending them all tumbling back down and clogging up the dormitory’s second level entirely. It would take Grigorius and his men some time to sort themselves out—more than enough time for Renault to deal with the crowd forming behind him. Many monks, some who were just woken up, but a few who were more alert (occupied with nightly reading or praying rather than sleeping), were streaming out of their rooms and into the second-floor hall, wondering what all the commotion outside was about.

 

None of them stood a chance.

 

Renault charged through the hall, hacking and slashing with sword and dagger as he did so. By the time he reached the end, there was nothing behind him except a slew of bleeding bodies on the floor and slumping against the walls.

 

Judging by the noises coming from the stairwell, the monks had almost extricated themselves from the mess Renault had produced. Fortunately, the window at the end of the hall was tall and large, designed to let in a great deal of sunlight to greet the brothers in the morning. This also made it a very easy escape route for Renault; it was easily able to accommodate his armored body. He knelt down, jammed his chaindagger into the soft, weak wood of the floor, then jumped through the window. As he fell, he sheathed his Brave Sword and grabbed onto the chain extending from his left pauldron with both hands, then twisted his body so he was facing the wall and jammed his feet against it. His dagger served as an adequate grappling hook when the need arose, and he was able to rappel back down to the ground safely. A strong jerk from his hand wrenched his dagger out of its resting place, the mechanism in his pauldron whirring loudly as it drew the chain and attached weapon back into his grasp. He darted off around the nearest corner of the dormitory and hid in the shadows, waiting to hear and see what would happen next.

 

A small chorus of shouts rang out through the broken window, a monk poking his head through the newly-created opening and swearing in frustration when he saw nothing. Grigorius didn’t rebuke him for the profane language, though. Renault heard him shout, “We can’t let that man escape! He couldn’t have gone far! Everyone split up and search for him, but do _not_ engage him without me! Signal with your magic when you find him!”

 

 _Good,_ Nergal purred in his head. _The fewer of them there are, the easier it will be to take them out. Before you do, however, I recommend visiting the apothecary’s storage. Those staves could be…annoying._

Renault nodded and immediately dashed off towards the two-story hutch where he’d killed Trunicht. Unfortunately for him, this time he didn’t manage to evade detection. “THERE HE IS!” yelled a monk peering through one of the dormitory’s second-story windows. A moment after he said this, Renault felt the ground around him begin to grow warm, and instinctively hopped to his right, just in time to dodge a large beam of light which left a small crater where he’d been standing. He didn’t slow down—instead, he continued running towards the apothecary’s storage, but zig-zagging as he did so in order to avoid the Purge spells which continued to rain down around him. Within a few moments he’d managed to reach the small, two-story hutch, dashing through the door, slamming it shut, and lowering the bolt behind him—that would give him a few more seconds, at least. He then immediately dashed around the circular room as quickly as he could, swinging his weapon wildly. In a few moments all of the apothecary’s stores—rare, expensive, and beautiful artifacts such as Silence and Sleep staves along with the most common of Heal and Mend staves—lay scattered and broken beyond repair on the floor.

 

At this point, Renault heard frantic pounding on the door and prepared himself to receive another wave of attackers. As he turned, something caught his eye—a shelf on the far side of the room he hadn’t touched since it didn’t hold any staves or anything that looked like it could be dangerous. However, a second look revealed it contained something that could be very useful to him—not the herbs and other sundry medicinal trinkets, but several ampoules of Pure Water.

 

He promptly dashed over to it, snatched one of the small bottles, uncorked it and poured its contents over his head. On a whim, he then threw the half-empty bottle straight at the door, allowing the magic-resistant water to seep into the wood, grabbed another bottle, and proceeded to slip upstairs. The wisdom of this unconventional maneuver soon became apparent. After a few more moments of fruitless banging, the monks decided to simply blow the door open. One of them blasted it with a Lightning spell, but to his surprise, the wooden door _held_ , the Pure Water on the other side shielding it from his magic.

 

It took them about a minute to figure out what was going on and then finally destroy the shielded door with a concentrated barrage of magic—and by this point, Renault had already finished his scheme. He rushed about the second floor, overturning every shelf he saw as quickly as possible, sending the expensive staves they contained to the floor, which shattered the fragile crystals at their tips which gave them their power. By a stroke of good fortune, on the far side of the room from the staircase was a door leading to a small ledge overlooking the building’s back attached to a ladder stretching to the ground. Normally, this ladder was to be used if the monks found it necessary to access the more powerful staves stored on the second floor quickly, but now it served as a quick escape for Renault. He slid down and ran off into the shadows of the closest building—the monastery library. And this time, he did so unnoticed. The unfortunate monks hadn’t caught sight of him by the time they broke down the front door and ran up to the hutch’s second floor.

 

Renault could still hear their shouting and yelling, though not as clearly at this distance. For the moment, he didn’t move, instead crouching on the ground and remaining as still and quiet as he could. He was waiting to see how the monks would react.

 

Now that he’d lost them—for the moment—he knew there were two approaches they would likely take. The first would be to hole up in a defensible location, such as the main church or any other building which it would be difficult to infiltrate, and wait out Renault’s one-man siege. Only in numbers and with the advantage of familiar terrain did they have much hope of subduing him—these monks had always been more interested in praying than fighting; Grigorius was the only one with any appreciable battle experience.

 

The second strategy, however, would be to split themselves up into small groups and comb the area searching for him. They would do this, it seemed likely, if they thought Renault or the Gespenst tome (or both) were grave threats to the outside world, and could not be allowed to escape. This was what Renault hoped they’d do. It would be easy for him to pick them off quickly and quietly if they traveled in small groups. While the monastery was not the largest in Elibe, it was still big enough to make searching for a single man a difficult task, and had many places for even an armored soldier to hide. Additionally, there were only about forty monks here, and Renault had already killed several. If they didn’t hole up somewhere, he’d find it very easy to exact his revenge on them.

 

He stayed where he was for several minutes, keeping his eyes and ears open for any sign of approach. A few minutes turned into ten, then fifteen. He was starting to worry that they’d gone for defensive tactics, but thankfully he heard a trio of steps crunching through the snow from around the corner of the library. Renault saw a dim light and felt a faint magical energy nearby, and figured the monks had managed to find a spare Torch staff somewhere. He heard snatches of their conversation, which told him just what he wanted to hear:

 

“We can’t let that villain escape with the Gespenst! We’ve got to find him no matter the cost! If anyone sees him, cast some Lightning in the air to let the other groups know he’s been found!”

 

“Perfect,” Renault growled to himself. He waited until the three of them got closer, closer, just a little closer…and when they turned the corner, he struck.

 

None of them had a chance to signal, or even cry out. His Brave Sword flashed out twice, his dagger once. All three of them crumpled quietly to the ground, their throats cleanly slit.

 

As quickly as he could, Renault dragged the bodies behind the library wall. Fortunately, none of the other groups were close enough to notice. After they’d been hidden, he peered around the corner again, searching for movement in the darkness. He caught a glimpse of another spot of light moving around to his location, though. It’d be inconvenient for him if they found the bodies, so he darted around to the other side of the library, opened the door, and quickly slipped inside. He slammed the door loudly, hoping it would attract their attention and keep them from looking around the other side of the building. It did. A few moments after he’d hidden behind a bookshelf, the door slammed open again, followed by another trio of footsteps storming inside.

These three monks didn’t die as quietly, but fortunately, the library’s walls were thick enough that no-one heard their screams.

 

The monastery was Renault’s, now. The unfortunate holy men never really stood a chance.

 

For the better part of an hour he continued to hunt down the remaining acolytes. One team was combing the monastery refectory—Renault snuck in through the back entrance, slicing them apart as they peered under the tables and chairs where they thought he’d be hiding. He moved on to the kitchen, cutting apart two of them and drowning the third by stuffing his head into a large bucket of water. Another visit to the dormitories, where they’d thought he’d returned, left six more corpses cooling alongside the others. And the more of them he killed, the more frightened they became—he saw it on their faces as he ended their lives. They had heard nothing from their friends, their isolation growing deeper and deeper as Renault slaughtered more and more of them beyond the reach of their ears and eyes. They knew they were being hunted, and none of them had ever experienced this sort of terror before.

 

Renault didn’t mind one bit. He hoped they understood how Braddock had felt as he died—how his best friend had died, while they sat idly by and laughed at him.

 

He allowed the body of his latest kill to slump limply to the ground outside one of the large trees growing within the monastery walls—there might have been a reason Elimineans loved trees so much, but Renault had never bothered to learn it. He instead turned towards the one place he’d yet to look for prey—the church proper itself.

 

As he approached, it was apparent they were expecting him. He had attempted to sneak around to the east side of it and enter through the doors to Grigorius’ personal office, but they had put up lookouts by the windows, it seemed—Renault was greeted by two Purge spells he barely managed to dodge. He heard a number of panicked shouts from within the building which indicated more than two groups were holed up inside. It seemed Grigorius had finally caught on to what was happening to the monks hunting for Renault, and had ordered his remaining wards to make a last stand within their monastery’s largest building.

 

At this point, it would do them no good.

 

Renault threw all caution—and attempts at stealth—to the wind as he charged for the monastery’s main entrance. Purge spells continued to fall all around him, several hitting their marks, but they had little effect, for Renault had splashed a dose of the Pure Water he’d gotten from the apothecary’s storage onto his armor, rendering the magic much less potent. The monks had closed and barred the church’s great doors, but they were still made of wood, which meant Renault wouldn’t find it impossible to slice through. He ignored the Purge spells which continued to hammer at his armor and hacked at the double doors as quickly as he could. With the speed his Brave Sword gave him, that was very fast indeed. After no more than a few moments of frantic slashing, the doors along with the bar behind them were ready to give way, and as one last Purge spell fell to the ground beside him, he hopped a few steps back and ran at the door, his armored bulk blowing it into pieces, weakened as it had been by his ferocious assault.

 

He didn’t stop running—his charge took him past the nave and into the pews, where several of the monks who had been casting Purge spells at him were waiting. A quartet of cuts left them dead and broke apart several of the flimsy wooden seats they’d attempted to hide behind. But as their bodies fell, one more blast of magic crashed down upon his head, and this one hurt more than all the others.

 

“AGH!” Renault dropped to his knees as pain surged throughout his entire body. Lightning spells summoned small orbs of holy energy and smashed them into the caster’s target, but this magic was _much_ stronger. It took the form of a spiral coil of light which fell around Renault and then disappeared with a mighty blast of holy energy that almost took him off his feet. This magic was strong enough that not even the lingering enchantment of the Pure Water could dispel most of its damage.

 

Even so, it wasn’t strong enough to subdue the enraged Mercenary Lord. From his crouching position, Renault quickly rolled to the side—a clumsy maneuver which made a lot of noise due to his heavy armor, but still sufficient to take him out of the way of a second blast. He immediately got to his feet and looked towards the altar for its source.

 

The old Abbot Grigorius stood in front of him, holding a gilded tome in one hand with a cold, inscrutable expression on his face. Renault caught a glimpse of the Draconic words on the tome’s cover—which he recognized translated to _Aura_ —before Grigorius began chanting in his low, booming voice, sending another spiral of holy energy crashing down upon Renault. This time, however, the Mercenary Lord dodged by hopping forwards, bringing him in melee range of the old priest. He brought his Brave Sword up in a thrust aimed at Grigorius’ neck, but it passed through only empty air—the man had deftly stepped to the side. Renault snarled in irritation, brought his right arm over his head, and extended it for a downwards slash this time, but another sidestep from Grigorius made this attack miss as well. Finally, Renault arced out his left hand to send his chain-dagger at Grigorius’ head, and couldn’t help but let out a gasp of surprise when his opponent didn’t even attempt to sidestep—he instead simply tilted his head, allowing the dagger to fly past him, then raised his free hand to grasp the chain and jerk Renault forwards.

 

The old monk was strong, very strong—much stronger than Renault had expected. Even wearing full armor, Grigorius’ pull forced Renault to stumble into the target area of another incoming Aura spell. The Mercenary Lord thus turned his stumble into a full charge, rushing at Grigorius quickly enough to leave the Aura blast behind him and hacking down with his Brave Sword. This forced the Abbot to drop Renault’s chain and roll to the side, allowing Renault’s blade to slice a deep cleft in the altar behind him.

 

As Renault turned to launch another assault, he was interrupted by a series of small golden orbs crashing into him. These may have been simple Lightning spells, but at this point, they hurt—the Pure Water barrier was wearing off. He felt his arms and legs trembling—this latest assault, combined with the Aura spell Grigorius had hit him with earlier, had left him with injuries he couldn’t ignore. He’d been burned, electrocuted, and frozen by Anima magic before, and had felt Dark magic eating away at him from the inside, but pain from Light magic was something new to him—the “divine” force hammered into his body almost like physical blows did, leaving both pits and dents in his armor and bruises on his skin—along with more serious damage to the bones, judging by the pain he felt.

 

He could deal with it, though. Renault dashed forwards both to dodge another Aura strike from Grigorius and to bring him closer to his new targets—the trio of monks who had snuck out from the shadows of the church nave (the entrance area before the pews) to assist their leader. As he did so, he sheathed his Brave Sword and then brought his right hand behind him. It closed around a unique golden grip which hadn’t been used in quite some time, but which Renault still kept strapped to his back for situations just like this.

 

He whipped the Runesword from its scabbard, twirled around, and pointed it at one of the monks. A series of black orbs burst from his chest and returned to Renault, carrying his life force with them as he crumpled to the ground, voicelessly screaming with lungs turned to dust. Another twirl and another monk met the exact same fate. The last of Grigorius’ allies had had enough, apparently—before Renault could steal his life force as well, he dropped his book and ran straight out the broken monastery door.

 

The “holy man’s” cowardice amused Renault, but he had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. Grigorius unleashed another Aura spell, which Renault dodged with another deft hop. He landed on his feet with a grin, feeling no pain or weakness—the Runesword had done its job well; his wounds had been healed with what he now knew was the quintessence he’d stolen from those two monks. He also know that the Runesword’s enchantment would likely not penetrate Grigorius’ formidable defenses against magic, so he returned it to its scabbard and re-equipped his Brave Sword.

 

The two men stood silently for a moment, neither one making a move as he watched the other, reappraising their respective abilities. Renault broke the silence first, when he noticed that there seemed to be nothing making any sound at all except for the cold mountain wind outside.

 

“You’re alone now, Abbot,” he rasped hatefully. “All your underlings are dead. There’s no-one coming for you. No-one to save you. Do you understand? Do you understand now, you disgusting, worthless fraud? How my best friend felt as he died—“

 

“Is this why you’re here?” Grigorius was making an effort to remain absolutely calm, but even he couldn’t disguise the anger, hatred, and disgust in his voice. “Fool. Wretched fool! Is this why you’ve destroyed everything I’ve worked so hard to build over the years? Why you’ve killed so many innocent people? Why you’ve commited this…this atrocity?! _Fool!_ We had nothing to do with your friend’s death! We did nothing to deserve this! You’ve damned yourself for absolutely nothing! No reason at all!”

 

 _Heed not his words, Renault,_ came Nergal’s voice. _He knows very well what he did. What they all did. Even now, he denies it. That is all you can expect from these priests, yes?_

 

“Yes,” growled Renault—Grigorius seemed surprised for a moment, not sure of who he was talking to, but he didn’t notice. “Yes…” His attention turned back to the Abbot, and his visor flared red with renewed hatred. “Liar…filthy liar! A monastery full of priests and monks, an apothecary with _every_ type of staff at his disposal, and there was nothing you could do? Your sheep may be stupid, Father, but I’m not! It’s time for you to pay for what happened to Braddock!”

 

He charged at the Abbot, who responded, as he expected, with one last blast of the Aura magic. Before the spell hit, Renault had brought himself to a stop and then hopped back, crouching as he landed, and followed up with a toss of his dagger. He wasn’t aiming for the head or another vulnerable point, but he simply wanted to score a hit on his enemy. He succeeded, the dagger cutting through Grigorius’ thin robes and sinking into the flesh right below his knee. It wasn’t a serious wound, but it was enough to make him stumble and prevent him from dodging or casting magic, and that was all Renault needed.

 

The Mercenary Lord flexed his legs and leapt at the old Abbot. And when he slashed his Brave Sword downwards, the holy man wasn’t fast enough to dodge this time. The blow landed cleanly on his shoulder, severing his right arm in a horrific spray of blood.

 

Grigorius remained standing for a few moments. He looked up at Renault—and then, for reasons the Mercenary Lord would only understand much, much later, he _smiled_.

 

“You…will…never…”

 

He could say no more—the blood loss was too much, and he collapsed.

 

Renault walked over to him, and kicked him roughly in the sides. No response. Another kick. No response.

 

“I…it’s over. They…they’re dead! Braddock, I avenged you! I avenged you! I AVENGED YOU!”

 

He started laughing, cheering, hollering at the top of his lungs, letting out a wild cackle of glee that echoed throughout the re-devastated church. It was, however, hollow. Intellectually—at least going from what Nergal had told him—he knew he should be happy. He knew that the scum who’d let Braddock die had been punished.

 

And yet, he felt no happiness looking at Grigorius’ corpse. His loud cheers and laughter were just a mask over the emptiness he felt inside. Somehow, something deep within him told him he actually hadn’t accomplished anything this night. He tried his best to silence that voice, yet it remained.

 

 _Your doubts will subside when Braddock has returned,_ said Nergal, interrupting his assistant’s gloating and cheering. _Do not fear. You have done very well. You’ve sped up our progress many times over…_

 

“Huh? What’re you talking about?”

 

_The phylactery, Renault. Look at it._

 

Renault had forgotten all about it, but now he fished it out of its place on his chest. He almost dropped it when he held it up, for it was glowing brightly and emanating more warmth than it ever had before.

 

_Grigorius and his monks…so much good quintessence. Even more than Dougram’s. Yes, Renault, with this much power, we can begin our work on the morphs all the sooner…_

 

_But wait. Have you not forgotten something?_

“Eh?”

 

_You let one get away…_

 

“Damn! You’re right!”

 

Renault immediately turned around and dashed out of the church, following the set of fresh footprints in the snow below him. They led him out of the monastery, and running at top speed, he was soon able to see who had left them.

 

The unfortunate young acolyte was moving as quickly as he could, but the trail was not easy, he was not a perfect specimen of physical fitness, and he was terrified out of his mind. The moment he heard armored boots smashing into the ground behind him, closer and closer, he let out a strangled cry and promptly tripped over himself. Renault caught up to him a moment later, grabbing him by the neck, flipping him over, and hauling him into the air with one hand.

 

 _Kill him, Renault_ , Nergal whispered, _Kill him!_

 

Renault was initially planning to do just that. But something stopped him.

 

The boy’s hair, cut in the Eliminean tonsure, was blue, and his eyes were the same color. Blue, just like Braddock’s.

 

He sobbed and squirmed in Renault’s grip, and it was loosened only slightly. “You…” Renault rasped, ignoring Nergal’s pleas to silence the lad. “You…that hair…where are you from?”

 

“A…ah!” cried the boy. “S-stop! Please, stop! W…why have you done this? My friends…my friends never did anything to you!”

 

Renault gave him a hard jerk. “Answer my question!”

 

“O-Ostia!” replied the panicked monk. “M…My parents s-sent me here to learn! I’m innocent, for God’s sake! We all were!”

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

“I—I arrived last month! I—“

 

“Last month…” Renault rasped again. The red glow of his visor dimmed, flickered, and then went out completely.

 

He tossed the youth onto the ground, unceremoniously. “W-what?” came the shocked response.

 

“Get the hell out of here, boy. You weren’t at fault for my friend’s death. Leave.”

 

“I…I…”

 

 _“Leave!_ ”

 

The acolyte took his advice, but not without a few parting words. “Y…you won’t get away with this! I’ll make sure the whole world knows what happened here! You’ll be punished! God will punish you!”

 

 _Heed his words, Renault_ , Nergal pleaded. _It will be inconvenient if anyone knows what happened here. Silence him forever!_

 

“Enough,” muttered Renault as he turned his back and began walking away. “I’m done here. Take me back, Nergal.”

 

_Renault, if you don’t—_

“I said I was finished. If you don’t want to Warp me back, I’ll just get there on my own.”

 

At last, Nergal did as he asked.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Aw, man…darkest chapter I’ve yet written, my friends. Even I had some trouble with this one ;_; I think this may be the darkest installment we’ll see for a while, but the next couple will be pretty grim too. After all, Renault does say in his A support with Lucius, “I trespassed against many.” But just stay with me, brothers and sisters. You’ll see how things turn out…


	47. Quintessence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault's attempts to revive Braddock do not meet with immediate success.

**Chapter 47: Quintessence**

_-X-The First Morph-X-_

 

Renault was bored and lonely. More than usual, at least.

 

It had been a week since he had retrieved the Gestpenst tome from Par Massino (killing everyone there in the process) and he he’d done very little since. The moment he’d returned to the sanctuary, Nergal had snatched the book right from his hands and then given him some very specific orders:

 

“Do not interrupt me for any reason, unless we are being attacked, for the next several days. I require some time to wrest as many secrets as I can from this tome. Your sustenance will appear in its usual place at the usual time. And do _not_ take a single step outside of this sanctuary. It will not be long until the King’s men hear of what happened at Par Massino, and he will likely send a force to investigate the area and hunt down the perpetrators. We can expect this mountain to be under heavy scrutiny for at least a few months. Stay here, where they will most likely be unable to penetrate my magical concealment.”

 

It was very true, and Renault couldn’t argue with it. Still, he hadn’t seen the sun in quite a while, and he hadn’t seen Nergal _at all_ , meaning he had absolutely no-one to talk to. Therefore, he occupied himself with the only thing he really could do: exploring Nergal’s library.

 

Aside from simply alleviating his boredom, continuing to pore through the books served a practical purpose as well—despite Gespenst apparently being the key to their quest, it was possible Renault might happen upon another useful piece of information which could aid them further. Since he couldn’t understand the languages as well as Nergal could, he wouldn’t accomplish very much, but it couldn’t possibly hurt, especially since he had nothing better to do.

 

At the moment, he was sitting at his usual place in Nergal’s library, poring over an old scroll, written in Draconic, pertaining to the most powerful forms of Light magic. One of the letters he and Nergal had read mentioned that Gespenst might have been “one of a series” along with the holy tome Luce, so he surmised that insights from users of Light magic might reveal something useful, even if they came from an opposing school of sorcery. Unfortunately, unless his limited knowledge of the language meant he was missing the gist of it, this one wasn’t particularly useful. It contained some insight on how Light magic worked, but nothing relevant to their quest of restoring Braddock’s mind and personality. He sighed and put it away, planning on looking at the next text on his pile, before someone saw fit to interrupt him.

 

“Come with me, Renault. We are ready to move on to the next step.”

 

“H-huh?!” Renault jerked and immediately stood up, almost knocking over his chair (and the books on the table in front of him) in the process. His surprise wasn’t warranted, though—it was merely Nergal, who had somehow materialized behind him without a sound.

 

“Dammit, Nergal, I keep telling you not to surprise me like that! I haven’t even seen you since I got back from Par Massino! What the—“

 

“It doesn’t matter,” replied the sorcerer coldly and curtly. “I have finished my analysis of the Gespenst tome. You did well indeed, Renault—to say it is useful would be an understatement. However, we still have much work to do. Come with me.”

 

The insinuation that they’d made a good deal of progress was more than enough to make Renault forget his annoyance with Nergal’s habit of surprising him—or his questions about where the man had been for the past week. He immediately followed Nergal out of the library, back into the throne room where Braddock’s body lay, and then towards a new door on the north side of the circular area Renault had never noticed before—it was perpendicular to the entrance to the bathing room on the right side. Whether it was an entirely new addition or something Nergal had concealed, Renault had long since stopped caring. He simply followed his master into its shadowy depths.

 

“Shadowy” was more than the right word for it. Not a single ray of blue light from one of the floating orbs in the throne room fell beyond the threshold to this new part of their sanctuary. It was cloaked in the utmost darkness, and though Renault followed Nergal into it without fear, as he followed the sound of the man’s footsteps, he couldn’t help but feel a bit unnerved—he wasn’t wearing his magical helmet, but even if he was, he got the feeling that the enchantment of its visor, so useful at night, would not be enough to illuminate this room, at least.

 

As it turned out, that wouldn’t be a problem. Nergal spoke a single word—his assistant couldn’t catch what it was—and suddenly a bright flash of blue light forced Renault to shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he could see what the room contained quite clearly…well, clearly enough.

 

The chamber was circular, walls constructed out of the same material as the rest of the sanctuary and roughly the same size as the library. It was dominated by a three-tiered circular dais, at the top of which stood four stone torchstands of an unnerving shape—they almost looked like bones. They were arranged to form a perfect square, and at their tops burned large, bright blue flames—the primary sources of light breaking the shadows of this place. Within that square was set a perfect circle, glowing white—inscribed with similarly-glowing runes and designs which marked it as a sigil of great arcane power.

 

“So…what is all this?” Renault asked uneasily. Even he couldn’t help but be a bit intimidated at the sight of this new facility. It somehow seemed to be a reservoir of more power and much more evil than anything else Nergal had previously shown him.

 

Nergal grinned. “The fulfillment of our quest, my friend. This is where we will create a new body…and mind, eventually…for your friend.”

 

Renault’s heart leapt in his chest upon hearing those words…then fell, momentarily, as he pondered Nergal’s “eventually.” “How long will it take?”

 

“I do not know, honestly. We will need many experiments before we can construct a serviceable body _and_ mind. However, we have made more progress than ever before…perhaps more than anyone ever has. Surely you don’t want to stop now.”

 

Renault thought for a moment…then shook his head.

 

“Excellent.” Nergal reached into his robes and removed the Gespenst tome. “Let us first begin with the smallest of the challenges facing us. I have created morphs of rats and other small animals before, but never a human being, especially not one as strong of body as your friend. The basic theory should be the same, but it is not at all unwise to make absolutely sure I am able to do it before continuing. I won’t create a facsimile of your friend, and hardly his mind, but I will craft a human body. This will also serve as a useful demonstration for you to learn from. I trust that is acceptable?”

 

Renault grimaced, but nodded. “I guess we all have to start somewhere. Just get on with it, then. The sooner we finish these practice morphs or whatever, the sooner we can start making real ones.”

 

“Very good. Then let us begin!”

 

He held the dark tome in front of him with his right hand, and it lifted into the air and began to float. It then opened and its pages began turning by themselves, the strange letters on them glowing purple. In the air, above the runic circle on the ground and within the square the four blue torches formed, a glowing purple sigil appeared, the same one Renault remembered from when Paptimus had killed the Mage General Exedol, so long ago.  The words Nergal was chanting were different this time, though. They were not High Imperial, which Renault recognized, nor were they the chants he knew were human approximations of Draconic, which mages like Khyron and Rosamia used. These words were…different. More guttural, almost. If he had to guess, they represented the mysterious Shadetongue.

 

_Gracht makt vushr zidn Zakt, Gashl tira vishl ryaltr mashl, Moktr yurs hwurm voktr zerra zeras Aghtr…_

Then, at last, he said something in a language Renault could understand:

 

“Earth, water, wind and fire. From these four elements was man created, and from these four elements I create you. Arise, my servant! From dust man was born, from dust he brings forth men! Arise, now, in this body I have given you!”

 

The eldritch purple clouds of mist produced by Gespenst coalesced around the sigil, obscuring from view, though Renault knew their purpose had to be creative rather than destructive this time, since they surrounded no target. The cloud was initially large enough to cover all of the circle beneath it, though still bound within the area of the four torches. Soon, though, it began to shrink, growing thicker and thicker until it occupied an area no larger than a man of Renault’s size. Indeed, it soon began to take the shape of a man as well—Renault could make out smoky arms, legs, and a head.

 

Nergal seemed to be grimacing with exertion, now, but he managed to maintain control over the spell—just long enough to complete it. He now extended his left hand, pointing at the man-shaped cloud, and from his body surged forth another cloud, this one colored gold. Renault realized it must have been some of the quintessence he had harvested for Nergal over the past few months. The golden cloud floated towards the black one, which seemingly absorbed it, maintaining its manlike shape but taking on a golden color and a glow so bright Renault once again had to turn his eyes away. The glow intensified for a moment, swallowing up the blue, white, and purple light of the other magics in the room, and then faded away, and the tome which produced it floated back to its owner’s hand, where it was returned to the folds of his robe.

 

When Renault was able to look up again, his jaw dropped at what he saw.

 

In the center of the runic circle on top of the dais stood a man. What seemed like an attempt at a man, at least. He was just about Renault’s height, but with pale grey skin. His muscles were barely noticeable, and his head, turned down, was completely bald. His thin arms hung limply by his sides, just over his equally thin legs. He was entirely naked, and made no effort to cover himself. Not that he’d needed to—he possessed no genitalia, leading Renault to think that “it” might be a better description than “he.”

 

“Good,” Nergal smiled, “Very good. My theories were indeed correct. They require a bit of revision, but for now this is more than enough progress. Let us run some more tests.” He turned to the newly-created morph, and spoke harshly to it, “raise your head.”

 

The creature did so, and once again Renault felt more than a bit disquieted at what he saw. Its features seemed perfectly normal, at least relatively so, aside from their grey coloring. Ears, lips, and mouth were all in the right place. The eyes, however…set within the bony eye sockets, within otherwise-normal white sclera, were irises of glittering gold. They were the exact same color as the eyes of the shadow-servants Paptimus and Meris summoned—Renault surmised that was due to the Gespenst magic, the same tome Paptimus had assumedly used when he was carrying out his schemes. Despite their color, they were cold and inhuman, evincing no warmth or any other emotion.

 

“Let us see what it is capable of,” said Nergal to Renault, with more warmth. Then, to the morph, in the same icy-cold tone of voice, he said, “Come to me.”

 

The morph did so. Its first step was faltering, hesitant—then it strode up to its master as quickly and surely as its scrawny legs could take it.

 

“Turn around. Raise your arms. Look left. Right. Bend over. Straighten up. Lie down. Stand up.”

 

The morph performed all of these basic commands perfectly, with an unquestioning enthusiasm Renault found just as strange as its peculiar appearance. There was one command, however, it apparently could not fulfill.

 

“Number 1…” Nergal rasped—apparently, this was the name he’d seen fit to give his creation. “Say my name.”

 

It stared at its creator blankly.

 

“Say Renault’s name.”

 

It said nothing, not even moving its mouth. It was as if it didn’t even understand the command.

 

“Yes, exactly as I thought,” he mused. “This…this is a homunculi. A morph, exactly like the ones spoken of by the ancient texts. Quite an accomplishment…none have been seen since the Scouring. And yet the two of us have created what no-one else has in the past seven hundred years…”

 

Such an accomplishment was of no concern to Renault. “I don’t want a homunculi,” he growled, “I want my friend!”

 

“Of course, Renault. I understand that very well. You will have your friend back eventually. This is just a single step to that goal…”

 

“Alright, so what’re the next ones?”

 

“It will take much more experimentation to fully plumb the depths of Gespenst’s secrets. Even this shell of a morph cost a fair bit of quintessence…we will need more, much more.”

 

“I’ve already brought you everything the monks in Par Massino had, along with everyone and everything else I’ve killed so far. How much more do you need?”

 

“A great deal. But worry not, such acquisitions might not take so much time. Renault, do you remember the scroll we translated a few weeks ago? The one which told us of Gespenst’s power?”

 

“Yeah…it mentioned something about ‘ascended’ weapons, didn’t it?”

 

“Indeed. I have heard of those weapons before. Gespenst is one. The Basilikos your friend carried is another. All of them were crafted with huge amounts of quintessence…only the Divine Weapons of the Eight Heroes themselves exceeded them. I can draw quintessence from those weapons as easily as I can take it from living things. We already have two of them…if you can find me the rest, we will have more than enough power to perform our experiments and re-create your friend.”

 

“The rest? You know where they are?”

 

“I have some good ideas. The Luce has belonged to the highest-ranking Archbishop of the Church for a long time. The Hurricane Lance Rex Hasta and the Regal Blade, sword of kings, are heirlooms of Bern. I—“

 

“Rex Hasta? Regal Blade? Those should be in Caerleon’s armory. I saw those weapons in the last war.”

 

“Truly? Excellent, then—we won’t have to go through the trouble of locating them. The last two weapons are the Rienfleche, a mighty bow held somewhere in Sacae, and the Excalibur tome, located in one of Aquleia’s great libraries. You, Renault, will help me acquire all of these.”

 

“It took me and Braddock months to get from Etruria to Bern. Traveling all over the continent like that isn’t practical, Nergal.”

 

“Do not forget I am a sorcerer of no small power. I have regained much of my strength thanks to you…My magic can send you anywhere on Elibe within moments.”

 

Renault looked at the morph again, then back at Nergal. He had to admit, it wasn’t bad at all for a first step. Though it bore no resemblance to Braddock, it was a rough approximation of a human being created right out of thin air. With more power, more quintessence…perhaps Nergal really could create a body exactly like Braddock’s. And after that, a mind as well…

 

“Alright,” he agreed, “I’ll help you. When do we start?”

 

“As soon as possible. Get your weapons, Renault. You’ll need them.”

 

“Fine.” Before following Nergal, however, he stopped for a moment and looked at the morph they’d just created. “Hey, wait a minute. What’re we gonna do with this guy?”

 

Nergal waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Leave it here. We can dispose of it later if we can find no use for it.”

 

 _Dispose?_ Renault felt a slight—very slight--surge of guilt run through him. Even if it was just a useless morph, it was something they had created together—or at least, something Renault had helped Nergal to create with his hard work (and the blood he’d spilt).

 

“I…if we’re gonna just dispose of him—I mean, it, why not do it now? Just leaving it in here for who knows how long…”

 

“Not now, Renault. Look.” Renault reached into the folds of his robe again, but this time produced a small crystal globe. Renault had heard of such things before—called scrying crystals, they allowed one to see events happening almost anywhere in the world, no matter how distant. Within the smoky depths of this one, however, was a scene that was much closer to home.

 

From a vantage point which seemed to be somewhere in the sky, Renault saw the empty shell of Par Massino among the mountains he and Nergal called home. All over that panorama crawled soldiers clad in the red armor of Bern, with Wyvern Knights flitting in the sky above them.

 

“I was not lying when I said the government has caught wind of what happened at Par Massino. Sending our morph out there would simply attract attention we don’t need. And there’s no point in destroying it yet—we might be able to use it in further experiments. Leaving it here for now is the best course of action.”

 

“So all these Bernites might catch a glimpse of our creation, but they won’t notice me Warping all over Elibe?”

 

“Wyvern Knights are not known for their sensitivity to magic. In this sanctuary, they won’t be able to sense any spell I cast, even Warp magic strong enough to send you to Etruria. We have nothing to fear if you follow my plan.”

 

“…Alright. Let’s get started.”

 

_-X-The Spear and The Sword-X-_

It had been nearly a year since Renault had been to Caerleon. It wasn’t his hometown, but the place still held many memories for him, most of which were ironically happier than those of Thagaste. He and Braddock had had many good conversations during their stay within the castle walls. Keith and Kelitha were still alive, and he’d enjoyed the time he’d spent with them. And even Khyron, Rosamia, Apolli, and Lisse had a few nice moments with him in this countship. Granted, he didn’t have many good memories of Roberto, and what happened at the Citadel of Despair still cast a heavy pall over his heart. Still, all things considered, the emotions that washed over him when he looked at Khyron’s castle were far from negative, at least as a whole.

 

It was a cold afternoon on the 14th Knight, and Nergal had Warped him into a small, secluded alleyway just a few moments ago. The sorcerer really hadn’t been kidding about his improved power—the trip across nearly half the continent took just moments with his magic. He quickly sidled up against the nearest wall, peering around the corner at the road ahead. He hadn’t brought along his distinctive armor, so it was easy for him to be stealthy, and he _did_ need to be stealthy. “Renault the Impervious” was very much a recognizable celebrity in this region of Etruria, for reasons both good and bad, and drawing unwarranted attention to himself would make his mission harder.

 

Or perhaps not. “Nergal,” he muttered to himself, knowing the sorcerer could hear him, “If Khyron’s still around, I could just ask him for the weapons. He’s my old boss, after all. I—“

 

 _No,_ came Nergal’s telepathic voice sharply. _He’ll want to know what you’re doing with those weapons, and will be unlikely to give them up if he figures out who you’re working with. Besides, Braddock served under him too, and he would probably want to know what happened to the Ostian. You don’t want to tell him that, at least not before we’ve brought Braddock back to life, do you?_

“No, no…”

 

_It’d be inconvenient, and we don’t have much time.‘Twill be a simple matter to sneak into the treasury and sneak out. I’d have warped you there directly if you were more familiar with the castle layout, but since you never spent much time in that section of Khyron’s abode, your memories aren’t strong enough for me to place you there immediately. No matter. In a time of peace, this place should be easy enough to infiltrate for one of your skill._

Renault very much agreed with this assessment, and he showed it by beginning his intrusion into his former employer’s abode. In lieu of his enchanted plate armor he was wearing his trusty brown cloak over a very practical brigandine and a thick set of traveler’s pants. This afforded him with a decent level of protection without being too noisy or hindering his mobility. Though similar to the protective gear one would see mercenaries and adventurers wearing all over Elibe, Renault had never encountered material quite like the ones he was using right now—it didn’t feel anything like leather, cloth, or anything else he was familiar with. Nergal had shown him this equipment back at the mountain sanctuary in a chest he’d never seen before as well, and he wasn’t inclined to ask where the sorcerer got it from if it worked.

 

It was a relatively busy afternoon, and there was a stream of travelers making their way to Castle Caerleon for a variety of reasons. Merchants and armsmen hocking their wares to the castle guards, tourists who wanted to get a better look at the place where Garl Vinland died, and of course a wide variety of callers and citizens seeking an audience with the Count himself—or, more accurately his steward, since (judging by some of the snatches of conversation Renault heard) Khyron himself was actually in the Western Isles, for whatever reason. This gave Renault pause for a moment, but only a moment—he quickly slipped into the line of travelers and caravans heading into the castle and blended in as if he had been one of them all along. He was very careful to keep his face concealed under the hood of his cloak to keep anyone from recognizing him. Within less than an hour, he’d crossed over the drawbridge and made audience with the pair of lazy guards at the front gate.

 

“What’s your business here?” one of them yawned. “Have something to sell? Complaint for the steward?”

 

“Yeah, I want to discuss something with…” _What was his name?_ Renault thought to himself. _Lander, Lando…Landez, that was it! Hope he’s still around…_ “L-Landez.”

 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said the guard, filling Renault with relief. “What do you have to talk about?”

 

“These taxes. They’re—“

 

The guard rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, taxes’re always too high. He’s just gonna tell you the same thing he’s told everyone else—we need the money. But if you want to argue with him, well, it’s his job to listen to the voice of the people. Anyways, he’s—“

 

The guard was interrupted by Renault suddenly groaning and keeling over.

 

“Eh? What’s the matter?”

 

“Urgh, my stomach! D-dammit, I knew that meat’d gone bad…I-I’m gonna—“

 

“Damnation, not here! Privies’re over there,” he pointed down a hallway Renault was already familiar with. “Jus’ hurry up and go! You’ll lose y’r place in line, though—“

 

“Worth it,” grunted Renault, and he rushed off.

 

Of course, the moment he’d gotten out of sight, he immediately turned back. In reality, he had no reason whatsoever to pay a visit to the chamber pots, he just wanted to get out of sight of the guards. They were fairly unsuspicious, given that it was now peacetime (at least on the mainland), which made his job much easier.

 

Instead of heading down the hallways where he knew the privies were, he went the opposite direction, towards the staircase. Moving swiftly, he darted into it before the guards (occupied with directing some more callers to the armory, this time) noticed him. He descended them and entered the castle basement, where the treasure room was located. This time he wouldn’t be so lucky—a guard was stationed at the exit of the stairs. “Who’s there?” He said as he heard the steps coming down towards him, and then he readied his weapon as the steps speeded up.

 

He wasn’t fast enough to keep a steel-strong grip closing around his unprotected neck (bypassing his cheap helmet) and constricting his throat shut. Within a few moments, he’d stopped struggling and fell limply into unconsciousness.

 

 _Why not kill him, Renault?_ Nergal asked. _We could use the quintessence._

 

Renault considered it, briefly—then remembered Khyron, and another brief flash of guilt stilled him. _We don’t need the attention_ , he thought back, more to convince himself than Nergal. But the sorcerer offered no complaint, and he continued to move down the dank, torchlit basement.

 

He passed several ordinary wooden doors he assumed led to storage rooms, Soon enough, however, he came to a larger door with a golden lock set in its middle guarded by another pair of armed sentries. They noticed the footsteps rushing towards them, and this time they were able to ready their spears, but Renault was still too much for them. Before they could call out he leapt in front of them, swung the Brave Sword twice with enough force and speed to knock their weapons out of their hands, and then pounded its pommel into both their throats. As they reeled back, he sheathed the weapon, grabbed both of their heads with each hand, yanked off their iron sallets, then discarded the headgear and grabbed them by their hair to knock their heads together with a resounding crack. They both joined their colleague at the stairwell in unconsciousness.

 

He’d done quite well—now there was nothing standing between him and his final goal.

 

Renault took the small key Nergal had given him from his belt. It was a Door key, very commonly sold to all variety of buyers—honest men and thieves alike—all over Elibe. Though not as versatile as the lockpicks of thieves and assassins, they could open nearly any door except the most complex, and the entry to Caerleon’s treasury was no exception.

 

The door swung open, revealing a room full of golden chests, boxes of jewels, and all manner of enticing rewards. By this point, though, Renault didn’t care about any of it. The only things he cared about were hanging on the wall on the far end of the room—the Regal Blade and the Rex Hasta, both pointed downwards to form an X. He wasted no time, realizing that Khyron’s men would be after him soon. He hoisted the weapons from their hooks, strapping the Rex Hasta to his back and grabbing hold of the Regal Blade (despite its size, it actually wasn’t extraordinarily heavy, though Renault still needed both hands to lift it). However, after a moment’s thought, he leaned the giant sword against a wall and grabbed a few spare gems and jewels on a shelf laden with them nearby, surmising that it was always better to have too much wealth than too little—who knew when it could come in handy, after all.

 

 _All right, Nergal,_ he thought, _I’m ready. Bring me back!_

 

And as he’d felt so often before, body and mind seemed to separate for an instant as his world was consumed by a bright white glow.

 

 

_-x-The Second Morph-x-_

One day after Renault had brought back the great spear and sword, he stood with Nergal in the morph-summoning chamber, watching him defile those great weapons, along with Braddock’s personal Basilikos. Perhaps ‘defile’ wasn’t the right word—Renault had no idea of how any of those weapons were created, nor what other significance they may have had besides being very powerful. Even so, however, any warrior had a respect for fine blades, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sorrow as he watched the power of those weapons get sapped away.

 

“N…Nergal,” he said, watching the axe carefully, “Is this really necessary? From what you’ve told me, all of these won’t be what they used to after you’re done with them. When Braddock gets back, he probably won’t be happy about his favorite axe being ruined.”

 

“Without the power of the Basilikos, he won’t be coming back at all,” replied Nergal. “It is a mighty weapon, but only a weapon. Your friend’s life is more important, is it not? Surely he would understand.”

 

Renault couldn’t argue with that. As far as he was concerned, the Divine Weapons themselves were an acceptable sacrifice in his quest to resurrect Braddock.

 

The spear, sword, and axe lay within the same circle Nergal had used to summon the morph, in between the same stone torchstands. Nergal was holding out the Gespenst and chanting, but this time, the words were somewhat different. The weapons began to float in their air, a small distance from one another, and small gales were forming around them, as Renault had seen when they were being used in battle. However, with another flash of light, the gales disappeared, and the weapons fell unceremoniously to the floor. In the air where they’d been floating there was now a brightly colored gold cloud which Nergal absorbed with a satisfied sigh.

 

He turned to Renault. “Remove the weapons and store them. We’ve no further need of them for now. But make haste! Our second attempt will begin soon.”

 

Renault nodded and began to take each weapon back to the throne room, one by one. As he did so, he noticed they seemed…lighter, somehow. Not in the sense of being less heavy—he still needed both hands to heft the Regal Blade and Basilikos—but less potent. There was no longer the slightest bit of magic power emanating from the blue metal of the sword and axe or the gold of the spear. Though they were probably still very powerful weapons given that they were made of materials much stronger than steel or even enchanted silver, they would never again summon the howling winds which had once made them so distinctive.

 

If all went well, though, he’d never need them again.

 

After stashing them in the throne room, Renault returned to Nergal, who had already begun the ceremony. As with the first morph, a cloud of purple smoke in the shape of a man coalesced in the center of the runic circle, but this one was a bit bigger. As with the first morph, Nergal sent out a cloud of quintessence to combine with the dark shape, but this time, after they’d collided in a flash of bright light, there wasn’t a small, frail, hairless abhuman left behind.

 

It was someone much more familiar.

 

It was Braddock.

 

His hair was jet black, and his eyes were gold rather than blue, but everything else about him was _exactly_ the same. His muscles, the set of his jaw, everything else about him was just as he’d been in life, before his body had been ravaged by Yurt’s terrible poison. He wasn’t genderless this time, either—he looked for all the world as if he’d stepped out of the baths in Aquleia they’d shared years ago.

 

Renault couldn’t stop himself. His eyes teared up with joy and he leapt towards his friend, shouting, “Braddock! Braddock, you’re back!” Nergal called for him to wait, but he didn’t listen. He wrapped up the morph in the tightest embrace he could, completely heedless of how embarrassing it would have been.

 

Braddock felt as cold and lifeless as his dead body on the altar did. But even that wasn’t enough to tell Renault something was amiss.

 

No, he only realized his wish hadn’t been granted when, after almost a minute of joyful sniffling, Braddock hadn’t responded at all. He hadn’t returned the embrace, and he hadn’t said anything either.

 

“B…Braddock,” said Renault uneasily, stepping back as his happiness began to recede. “What’s wrong, man? Aren’t you…”

 

“He’s not, Renault,” replied Nergal, somewhat irritatedly. “This is why I told you to wait.”

 

“Nergal!” Renault’s cheer had turned to anger. “What the hell?! Did you trick me? I—“

 

“This is another step towards our goal, Renault, not the goal itself. I wanted to see if I had enough quintessence to re-create your friend’s powerful body. You saw that brittle, small half-thing that was our first try, yes? There was no way it would have satisfied you, and it was useless to me as well. Before we can restore your friend’s mind, it must have a suitable vessel, yes?”

 

Renault grit his teeth. Once again, he couldn’t argue with Nergal’s logic.

 

“I have not once led you wrong, Renault. Look at this wonderful specimen! Your friend’s body, as hale and hearty as it was in life. If I have given you this, surely I can give you more. I just need a bit more time…time, and power.”

 

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Renault snapped. His happiness had quickly given way to disappointment, but even that was giving way to determination. He had to admit Nergal was correct—they’d come this far, so there was no sense stopping now. “So where do I go now?”

 

The sorcerer chuckled. “Get your weapons, Renault, and your armor as well. You’ll need both…”

_-X-The Bow-X-_

Renault had hoped getting the legendary Rienfleche would be as easy as retrieving the Rex Hasta and Regal Blade. He would end up being disappointed, but fortunately, disappointment was something he was used to.

 

It was the 29th Knight, and he had been Warped to Bulgar nearly two weeks ago. Neither he nor Nergal had any idea of where the Rienfleche was located other than “somewhere in Sacae,” so it made sense to begin their search in the country’s largest city. He’d spent the first week among the city’s bars and taverns, interrogating whomever he could find about the famous weapon. It wasn’t a pleasant task—the city was as crowded and smelly as ever, and he didn’t like Sacaen cuisine any more than he liked Sacaen booze (since he didn’t like booze at all, that was to say, not one bit), but he couldn’t think of any other ideas.

 

He didn’t find much. Unfortunately, after asking more bartenders, travelers, and mercenaries than he could remember, all he knew for sure was that the bow was in the hands of a famous traveling mercenary named Garas. Where was Garas now? Well, nobody knew. He was traveling all over Sacae. They were at least kind enough to describe him to Renault if he ever saw him—a tall Sacaen man with honest brown eyes surrounded by long bluish-green hair and an unkempt beard of the same color who rode upon a sorrel stallion reputed to be the fastest in all of Sacae. No-one knew which tribe he was from, but he possessed an almost supernatural skill with the bow and an equally impressive skill with the sword. He kept a Killing Edge at his side and the massive Rienfleche and its oversized arrows strapped to his back. A distinctive appearance, to be sure, but not one which could help find a single man in a land as vast as Sacae.

 

If he was a mercenary, though—and a well-known one at that—there were a few other sources of information on his whereabouts Renault might try.

 

He had spent no small amount of time in Bulgar with Tassar and Braddock as a mercenary. It had been a long time ago, but Renault still remembered the places where he and his friend had received some of their more unsavory missions—deserted alleyways, the backrooms of taverns which smelled of blood as well as booze, or the cellars of houses thought to be abandoned.

 

He spent one more week searching through these places—gaining entry to them via a few pieces of coin slipped surreptitiously into a barkeep’s pocket or a dagger held to the throat of a terrified cut-purse accosted at night. A few more pieces of coin in the right hands ensured he didn’t attract too much unwelcome attention for his queries—and on a handful of occasions, where a few headstrong members of the city’s Assassin’s guild thought this foreigner was too inquisitive for his own good, his Brave Sword was more than enough to fend off their advances—and add their quintessence to the store dangling about his neck.

 

These sources proved to be much more fruitful. After a week, Renault was now fairly certain of Garas’ location.

 

It seemed that the man was currently busy with a personal vendetta. A prominent figure in Bulgar’s underground market, the smuggler Mulor, had managed to offend him in some way—nobody Renault talked to knew the specifics, but it seemed that Garas was a very prideful man, even by Sacaen standards. Mulor had refused to hire him some time ago, despite having the money to do so, claiming he wasn’t “worth it” or something like that. Garas had taken this as a personal affront, and declared that the day Mulor left himself open would be the day he learned personally how “worthy” the Rienfleche truly was. He wouldn’t attack the smuggler within Bulgar, but outside of the city walls he was fair game. Mulor had been desperately searching for bodyguards who could escort him and his illicit cargo out of Sacae, but had thus far met with no luck—none wanted to cross the mighty Garas.

 

It was thus very fortunate for him that Renault was in town.

 

“Are you ready?” he asked the smuggler as the two of them stood near the city’s gates beside his reeking, dingy caravan. Renault had tracked him down just last night and offered his services as a bodyguard for a comparatively low charge (5,000 gold pieces up front, another five when they reached their destination—most individuals with armor and weaponry like Renault’s could command at least double that price). Mulor had very enthusiastically accepted the deal.

 

“Oh, yes, yes,” Mulor replied. “Ah…so you want to leave right now? Garas might attack us the moment we step outside!”

 

“Maybe,” said Renault nonchalantly. “If he does, I’ll take him out then. More likely than not, though, he’ll wait till night to ambush us.” He glared at his employer. “Just do what I tell you and you’ll live.”

 

Mulor gulped and nodded meekly, and together the two of them started their journey north, to Ilia.

 

Garas didn’t come for them—at first. One week passed without event. The two men spoke little to each other. Renault spent most of his time sleeping, distracted only by the strange smell wafting out of Mulor’s wagons. Mulor may have thought he was lazy, but it didn’t matter. When Garas actually showed up would be the time to show him what he could really do.

 

It was the seventh night of their journey when Renault felt something approaching. It was nothing more than a bad feeling in the back of his head, but his warrior’s intuition hadn’t failed him many times before. He immediately woke Mulor and told him to get ready.

 

A few minutes later, an arrow came whizzing out of the darkness and slammed into the blanket on which Mulor would have been sleeping.

 

No-one had heard a sound until then—their assailant had apparently come upon them so silently and quickly that only Renault’s sixth sense had saved them.

And it was clear that it had been no ordinary arrow. The projectile did not merely penetrate the blanket but blew it apart, making a sound loud enough to wake up the caravan’s horses and give them a fright—fortunately, they were still tied to the wagons. However, no blood or body parts lay strewn around the cold, snowy ground as a result of the explosion—instead, there were only pieces of wood and scattered foodstuffs.

 

This was not what their attacker had been expecting. “Eh? What’s this?” came a voice from the shadows, accompanied by a low clopping of heels. A man atop a horse was visible under the light of a half-moon, advancing slowly towards his target. He dismounted and cautiously knelt by the blasted blanket, limbering his huge bow to his back while unsheathing his Killer Sword…

 

Then immediately whirled around when his horse gave out a terrified, strangled cry.

 

“NO!” he yelled as a series of black orbs burst from the stallion’s chest, leaving behind a desiccated husk. He tracked those orbs as they flew up in the air, over his head, and coalesced atop one of the wagons, where a man in full plate armor with a glowing-red visor was standing, holding out a golden blade.

 

“So you’re Garas,” Renault called. “Damn fine horse you had there. Sorry I had to kill it.”

 

It seemed that Garas was as taciturn as most Sacaen men were. He didn’t even bother to respond to Renault’s taunt. Instead, he immediately unlimbered his Rienfleche and launched an arrow.

 

The Mercenary Lord ducked and rolled forwards, Garas’ arrow leaving behind a miniature whirlwind as it just barely whizzed above his head. As he fell from the top of the wagon, he sheathed his Runesword, and landed with a hard, heavy clanking of armor and chain with his dagger and Brave Sword at the ready. By this time, Garas had already nocked another arrow, but not quite quickly enough to get the better of Renault. The Etrurian flicked out his left hand, and his dagger nicked the fingers of the Sacaen’s right hand, forcing him to drop the arrow. Garas didn’t know how his opponent could see so well at night, and Renault wasn’t going to let him find out. He charged forwards, leading with an upwards slice of his Brave Sword. Garas, to his credit, managed to dodge by twirling quickly to the side, but he wasn’t expecting the lightning-fast follow-up strike. With speed enhanced by his weapon’s magic, Renault stopped his arm mid-swing and then brought it to the side, sending the blade cutting through Garas’ throat.

 

“A…amazing!” stammered Mulor, hesitantly stepping out of the shadowy depths of the wagon which contained his stash of stolen goods. Renault had told him to go and hide while stuffing some supplies under a blanket on the ground to serve as a lure for their pursuer. The plan had indeed worked quite well. “Good sir! That was absolutely amazing! The strongest mercenary in all of Sacae, felled in mere moments! Amazing!”

 

“Not really,” Renault remarked, noting with satisfaction that the phylactery hanging in front of his chest had apparently absorbed a great deal of quintessence, judging by how brightly it was glowing. “He was getting sloppy. Relying too much on his reputation. I’d wager he thought that you’d be all alone, or guarded by no-one but stupid rookies who didn’t know who he was. Wasn’t expecting a guy like me would end up defending you. So in the end, it was actually easier to take him out like that, despite his skill and his great weapon. Weird paradox, huh?” He bent down and picked up the massive bow from Garas’ cold hands, regarding it with satisfaction. It was indeed an impressive specimen, as tall as a man, and equipped with a bowstring that looked more like a chain than anything else.

 

“I…I see,” said Mulor, clearly not understanding but not wanting to offend his savior, either. “In any case, with you by my side, this’ll be the easiest trek I’ve ever made! Tell me, sir, after we’ve reached Ilia, would you be interested in continuing to work for me? I can just tell this is the beginning of a _very_ profitable relationship…f-for both of us, of course!”

 

“No.”

 

“W-what? Why not?”

 

He was answered by a flash of blue metal slamming into his chest.

 

Renault spat in disgust as his former employer sank to his knees, and then dislodged his blade with a swift kick that sent the body tumbling away. He took another look at the phylactery—it wasn’t glowing nearly as brightly as when Garas had died, but still, even a sliver of quintessence was easily worth the life of a man like Mulor. Wiping off his blade, he turned to the smuggler’s corpse and rifled through his robes, finding a small pouch that contained the other five thousand gold pieces he would have been paid upon their arrival in Ilia. He then turned to the wagons—one was filled with mundane traveling supplies, but he’d been wondering about what that strange smell was from the other one. When he opened its door, he found his answer.

 

The interior of this wagon looked something like an alchemist’s laboratory or a witch’s hut. It was filled with shelves of strange, pungent concoctions and boxes of equally smelly and unidentifiable dusts, powders, and various other substances. Mulor, it seemed, had specialized in the trade of exotic drugs and poisons, the possession of which was punishable by death in many civilized areas.

 

 _Hmm,_ came Nergal’s voice in his head, _some of this might be useful. Renault, here’s what I want you to take…_

Following Nergal’s instructions, Renault gathered up as many materials as he could, though he couldn’t ransack the entire wagon, being a single man. Even so, he was able to bring along enough pouches of enchanted powders and vials of sinister liquids that Nergal was satisfied. Satisfied enough to summon that field of bright white energy around Renault for the third time, leaving behind nothing but corpses and a caravan full of toxin.

_-x-The Tenth Morph-x-_

“I think it may be time to try something different, Renault.”

 

“I think I agree, Nergal. Especially since after all this time, after nine morphs—nine copies of Braddock, you haven’t managed to make one that can even say a word. I’m losing patience.”

 

Nergal didn’t even respond with one of his typical platitudes on the value of patience—he realized his assistant would only be convinced by results, not words. Therefore, he turned to the runic circle in front of him and began the ritual of summoning for the tenth time.

 

It was the twentieth Wyvern, or about three months after Renault had returned with the Rienfleche and several other useful trinkets for Nergal. During that time, they had constructed several other morphs with the quintessence gained from the weapon, but all were as dumb and mute as the first two. They had continued to pore through the books in Nergal’s library, and Nergal had continued to refine and modify the basic ritual of summoning, but alas, it was all to no avail.

 

Now, however, Nergal was making some rather significant changes to the ceremony. As before, he’d summoned a cloud of black smoke, which Renault now recognized as the basic frame of the morph to be created. Rather than summoning an equal amount of quintessence to give actual flesh to that massless shape, however, Nergal first reached into his robes to bring out a new component to add.

 

It was a small red flask, one which Renault remembered having taken from Mulor’s wagon of poisons and toxins. He peered at it suspiciously, noting an odd dark shape within its depths. It was a… _brain_ , he realized. Nergal had introduced him to several of the trinkets he’d brought back, and told him that this was the preserved brain of a rat, used as a reagent in certain fell curses and incantations.

 

What could Nergal possibly be planning with it?

 

A few more words from the sorcerer brought the flask floating into the air, where it seemingly disintegrated in a small puff of smoke, leaving only what Renault recognized was the shriveled animal brain hovering in the center of the black smoke-cloud which would eventually become the morph’s head. Then Nergal continued the rite as usual, summoning up a glowing gold cloud and smashing it into the black one. And after a flash of light, there stood within the circle a black-haired, gold-eyed copy of Braddock, just as there had been the last few times they’d tried this experiment.

 

This time, however, there was something different about him.

 

The hairs on the back of Renault’s neck stood on end when he heard a very soft, raspy, but utterly unforgettable voice coming from the thing in the circle.

 

“Re…”

 

“B…Braddock?” Renault whispered, not allowing himself to believe what he was hearing.

 

“Re…Re…”

 

“Braddock,” Renault whispered again. It was his friend’s voice, alright, and coming from his body (even if it looked a little different), that was enough to bring tears to Renault’s eyes. He looked at the morph, standing impassively within the circle. “Is…is it really you?”

 

“Re…Ren…”

 

Then things went wrong.

 

“Ren…” the morph quavered, twisting its lips, “Ren…Reglhsrp.”

 

Renault’s heart fell straight to his stomach as his hopes were smashed. “W…what the—“

 

“Ren…Regaiddls. Reuyskal. Retusamds.”

 

The morph continued to speak, trying to say Renault’s name, but after the first syllable, succeeded in forming merely gibberish.

 

“Damnation,” Nergal murmured, “I was afraid of that…”

 

His frustration wasn’t even a candle compared to Renault’s anger, though. “Damn it! DAMN IT! YOU PIECE OF—“ He stepped towards the malfunctioning homunculi, seeming as if he wanted to tear it up with his bare hands, but was immediately stopped by Nergal.

 

“Hold, Renault! Do you have any idea of what we’ve accomplished here?”

 

“What the hell’re you talking about? Haven’t you been listening? This…this is an abomination! It can’t speak a real word! I don’t want to hear it spouting gibberish in my friend’s voice. It’s making my stomach turn!”

 

“Yes, Renault, it can speak only in gibberish. That’s more than anyone has ever done before! And it’s more than any of our previous morphs could do! We’re making progress, Renault. _Progress!_ Don’t throw it all away now!”

 

“Progress…” Renault was still furious, but the sound of that word was enough to make his anger subside a little bit.

 

“I know you’re frustrated, friend,” said Nergal, his voice as smooth and beguiling as he could make it. “I wish things were going faster as well. But I’m doing the best I can. We both are! Anything worth having takes effort to obtain, and anything worth doing takes time to accomplish. How many years did it take for you to become the swordsman you are now? And over how many years was your friendship with Braddock forged? By the same token, bringing him back to life cannot happen in an instant.

 

“But step by step, Renault…Step by step we can do it. First I gave you his voice. Then his body…and now we’ve begun to connect the two. Yes, for now, it may leave much to be desired, but it’s further than we’ve ever gone before. More time and more power, Renault…those are the only things we need to make your dreams come true.”

 

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Renault snarled. “But even so, let’s not waste any more time than we have to. Do you wanna try to make another morph? Or do you need more research, or more quintessence, or—“

 

“Two of the latter, friend. And as it just so happens, it shouldn’t be hard for you to find a very rich source of quintessence…”

 

“Then stop talking and send me there!”

 

Nergal did as he asked.

_-X-Excalibur-X-_

The penultimate fetch quest Renault fulfilled for Nergal was far easier than his second, easier even than his first. It still posed a few challenges, however.

 

It was still the 20th Wyvern, but now Renault was miles and miles away from Nergal’s summoning chamber. He was walking along Aquleia’s main road, having been Warped to a nearby alleyway just a few moments ago, and slipped in with the travelers as easily as he had done in Caerleon. If he went straight, the road would take him right to the Holy Royal Palace. That wasn’t his destination, though. He was heading to a building close by—the Royal Archives.

 

It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to get lost, had he been left to his own devices. He had spent a great deal of time in Elibe’s largest city outside of the Holy Royal Palace. He might have been able to make his way to Khyron’s personal manse, but that was about it. He’d heard of the Royal Archives, as everyone in Etruria (and likely most of Elibe) had, but had never actually been there before. And it wasn’t easy to find even a world-renowned landmark in a huge city that was full of them.

 

Aside from that, Renault couldn’t keep himself from concentrating more on reminiscing than book-hunting. Aquleia had as many memories for him as Caerleon did. It was where he’d given his report to King Galahad, where he and Braddock had spent a happy week relaxing together, and, of course, where his former boss—a man he once respected greatly—had given him the very suit of armor which had been his constant companion ever since, and which was his only companion in all the world, now that Braddock was gone.

 

He stopped in the middle of the road, ignoring the stares of the many passers-by. He didn’t see them, even as they passed in front of his eyes. Instead, he saw Char—Henken holding the Earth Seal above his head, his new armor moving on its own, its chain-dagger flying through the air as he learned how to use it, and most of all…

 

The unbridled joy on Braddock’s face as his friend shared in his triumph—as they both exulted in their newfound power.

 

 _What are you doing, Renault?_ Nergal’s voice echoed through his head, breaking him out of his reverie.

 

“N…Nothing,” he muttered quietly, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

 

He promptly resumed his quest. Stopping a few friendly travelers for directions (while keeping his face concealed under the hood of his traveling cloak, of course), Renault ascertained the location of the Royal Archives—directly east of the Palace, in fact, a domed building so huge he’d find it in a moment if he turned right once he came to the Royal Palace’s north gate.

 

Their advice turned out to be quite accurate. When he reached the gate—reminding him again of the day he left with Braddock for Caerleon—he turned right, and sure enough the first thing he saw was a truly massive dome.

 

Its great size would have been impressive enough, but truth be told it was probably the _smallest_ part of the entire structure. It was about the size of the royal castle itself, but it was sitting on top of a building which was easily twice as large as the entire _palace_ , grounds and all. This main building was circular in shape, sort of like an extremely oversized version of Nergal’s summoning platform, on top of which the massive dome sat. It was made of the same alabaster material as the city’s gates, and dotted with fine stained-glass windows across its entire circumference, but the dome atop it was its most majestic feature. It was covered in gold plating—or indeed, it might have been actually made out of gold entirely, for all Renault knew—so perfectly polished that it seemed to glow in the daylight, almost as brightly as the sun itself. It was topped by a statue of a massive eagle, with golden wings spread wide, opal talons gripping the dome, and a pair of ruby eyes that seemed to be glowing as well. If the icon of Elimine which topped his mother’s cathedral back in Thagaste represented the spiritual authority of the Church, this gigantic statue undoubtedly symbolized the secular authority of the King of Etruria.

 

Of course, Renault wasn’t one to care much about authority, be it worldly or godly. The only thing he cared about was his friend. He didn’t spend much time admiring the view of the giant library, or even pondering its architectural attributes as he used to like doing. He simply joined the long stream of itinerant scholars, researchers, and sages who were also walking the same path. 

 

Renault had also had to endure a bit of waiting-in-line at Caerleon, but surprisingly enough, he didn’t have to wait very long at Aquleia, or even as much as he did back north. For whatever reason, the myriad parishioners of Elibe’s largest library were either finding what they sought or being sent away remarkably quickly.

 

The moment it was Renault’s turn to step through the giant, white-colored stone double doors which served as the library’s entrance, he saw why.

 

In front of him was a very, very long, wooden desk, the longest he’d ever saw. Behind it were shelves upon shelves filled with books, more than he would have thought even existed on the continent. Between the two were milling a great number of clerks—a _very_ great number. Literally hundreds upon hundreds of them were sitting behind the massive desk, dealing with the library’s numerous callers, either leading them directly to where they needed to be or dismissing them angrily if they were looking for something that couldn’t be released (and subsequently encouraged to leave by one of the many guards clad in full plate mail which were hanging around).

 

Renault couldn’t say many kind things about the King of his country, but he had to admit that as far as bureaucracies went, the one in charge of the Royal Library was pretty efficient. Or, at the very least, hard-working.

 

“Oy, mate,” called one guard, pointing his spear at Renault, “Get moving.” He pointed towards a section of the huge desk, behind which a pretty young female clerk was sitting with no-one in front of her. “You’re up. Ask her for what you’re lookin’ for or get out, you’re wastin’ time.”

 

Renault simply nodded and made his way over to her. “Welcome to the Royal Archives, the greatest repository of knowledge in all of Elibe!” she chirped—Renault couldn’t tell if she was just mouthing what her superiors told her or if she really believed that. “What are you looking for, sir?”

 

He got right to the point. “I want the Excalibur tome.”

 

“Sure, we can—“ She stopped, almost choking on her words, before looking back at her caller in absolute shock. “TH-THE EXCALIBUR TOME?!”

 

“Keep your voice down, you idiot!” Renault didn’t like the curious stares he was now receiving.

 

“Eep! Sorry! B-but sir, that’s an impossible request,” she whispered, “that tome is one of the strongest we have! One of the strongest ever created! We can’t just give it away to anyone who asks!”

 

Renault sighed inwardly—it was time for a combination of a bit of bluffing and a bit of intimidation. “And what if the Mage General needs it?”

 

“Well, sure, in that case of course he could have it, but—“

 

“I’m here on his orders. Hand it over.”

 

The girl glared at him now. “Sir, if this is a joke, it’s not funny at all. If you’re just going to play around with me, I want you to—“

 

With another sigh, Renault pulled the hood of his cloak down from his head, allowing the girl a good look at his teal hair.

 

“Th…that hair,” she mumbled to herself, “D…didn’t Renault the Impervious have teal hair?”

 

“Yeah. You’re talking to him.”

 

She was about to let out another squeal, but this time managed to clamp her hands over her mouth before she did so. “R-Renault? The Autonomous Company’s Renault? One of Lord Khyron’s personal confidantes?”

 

“You got it.”

 

“B-but where have you been? Except for Lady Rosamia, nobody’s seen you or the other members of the Company in months!”

 

“Uh…we’ve been on secret operations in…in the Western Isles. Real hush-hush stuff. The boss has been havin’ a lot of trouble over there, and he needs the power of the Excalibur tome to set things right.” This was, of course, pure conjecture on Renault’s part—he had no idea if Khyron was even still on the Isles. He’d have gotten himself into quite a lot of trouble if it turned out that the Mage General had finished whatever he’d started over there.

 

Fortunately, he apparently hadn’t. “O…oh…really? Oh dear…I suppose he really does need our help, then. B-but even so…”

 

“Look, girl.” Renault leaned over to her side of the desk, so much so that he was leaning over her. “You’ve heard the stories about the Company, haven’t you? You know our reputation. Khyron’s not a man to be trifled with, and neither am I. If you don’t want what happened to Garl Vinland happen to you, you’ll get me that book.”

 

This was more than enough to cow the young clerk into submission. “Y-yes sir! Right away, sir!” She immediately rushed off, leaving Renault standing over her position at the desk. This time, he had to wait a bit. It wasn’t easy, either—people had noticed who he was, and a small crowd had formed around him. “Hey, are you really Renault the Impervious,” asked one curious guard. “What was it like at the Battle of Thagaste?” asked another caller, a younger man. “My wife was in Thagaste at the time. She told me there was a big battle at Monica’s cathedral, may God rest her soul!”

 

Renault growled and groaned, but he did his best to deal with the incessant barrage of questions coming from the crowd, at least until the clerk came back to him. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered, “but I can’t let that tome out of this library, not even for Renault the Impervious! Or any other member of the Company, for that matter! ONLY the Three Generals are allowed free access to books like the Excalibur! I-I don’t know what you think you can do to me, but if I break that order, my superiors will do things that’re even worse!”

 

Renault didn’t doubt her—judging from what Harvery had told him while they’d worked together, Etruria took protection of its secrets extremely seriously. He had one last card to play, though. “Alright, if I can’t borrow it, can I at least look at it?”

 

“Huh? Why?”

 

“Khyron needs to develop some new spells for fighting over there. Even if I can’t give him the whole tome, if I can copy a couple of pages from it I might be able to help him.”

 

“I…hmmm,” she said, clearly confused. “Well, I don’t know much about magic, but…maybe. Here, let me show you to my supervisor.”

 

She tapped a section of the desk, which _disappeared_ , and motioned for Renault to accompany her behind it. The library made liberal use of magic, it seemed.  He happily accepted, waving away the crowd that had been listening to his stories, and followed the girl to meet her master, who was currently organizing some of the many hundreds of books on one of the many hundreds of shelves nearby. “Hm, this goes here, and that there,” mumbled the thin, middle-aged man with a monocle, “and this…hm? Dulantha, what is it?”

 

“Master, this is Renault the Impervious! He says he really needs to see the Excalibur tome for something important!”

 

“Renault, hmm?” The man looked down at the mercenary, quite unimpressed. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of you. Khyron visited here often before he went to the Western Isles. He complained about you “freebooters” constantly, but I’d be lying if I said he didn’t seem to be fond of you, beneath all his bluster.”

 

 _He really hasn’t changed,_ thought Renault to himself, with just a twinge of regret for exploiting his old employer’s name as he was. He wasn’t nearly as close to the Mage General as he’d been with Braddock, but he could acknowledge how much the man had grown during the time they’d known each other, and he still owed him a favor for saving him after the battle of Bingham Bridge too.

 

_Do not lose yourself in sentimentality, Renault. Remember, Braddock is waiting…_

 

“Y…yeah,” mumbled Renault quietly. To the master librarian, he said, “Look, I’m working with Khyron on the Western Isles. I really need the Excalibur tome. Can you—“

 

“No,” came the blunt reply. “I’m sorry, but that is non-negotiable. Khyron knows the edicts. If he needed the book _that_ badly, he would have come here himself.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what your friend told me as well. Alright, fine, if I can’t take it, can I at least look at it? If I can copy just a couple of pages, Khyron might be able to get some use out of them. He’s trying to…uh, develop a new spell that’ll be really effective on the Isles.”

 

“Eh? That’s an odd request…Khyron was never much for theory or experimentation.”

 

“Well, that’s the order he gave me! If you don’t want him and the rest of us fighting over there to die, you—“

 

“Fine, fine! No need to get dramatic. Come with me.”

 

Renault followed the master past seemingly endless rows of shelves until they came to a stairwell at the back of the building—and that was when he realized that the huge domed structure he’d entered was actually just the top of the library complex. They entered, went down, down, down—it felt like 10 floors worth of basement to Renault—before finally stopping at a door which led to a dank, torchlight hallway, not so different from the catacombs at Par Massino.

 

Passing through the doors in the hallway, all of which were guarded by armed soldiers, the librarian brought him to one which was barred by a golden lock. Not even a master key, or a thief’s lockpick, would be able to bypass it, but the man took out a small gold seal from his chest pocket and slipped it into a slot on the lock. The door opened without a problem, revealing a small study. There was a table and a chair at the center, along with parchment, quill, and an inkpot. Surrounding it were several small shelves similar to the ones far above, but filled with books radiating arcane power.

 

The librarian reached out and took one of these tomes—a green one—and laid it out on the table. “Here it is, sir. The Excalibur tome. A guard will, of course, be monitoring you at all times to ensure nothing untoward befalls such a valuable book. I’m not sure exactly what Khyron needs, but I am familiar with some of the incantations Excalibur contains. If you need any help, please do not hesitate to call me.”

 

“Nah, I’ll be alright,” Renault grinned. He casually reached out, snatched the tome off the table, and then said, out loud, and with a bit of glee in his voice, “Well, that was easy. Nergal, you can take me back now.”

 

“W-who?” stammered the librarian, utterly confused. “My name isn’t—“

 

He was cut off by a flash of bright light which left him completely alone in the small chamber—and without that most valuable, powerful tome of magic.

_-x-The Thirtieth Morph-x-_

“Go on.”

 

The morph simply looked at him without understanding, without comprehension.

 

“Leave.”

 

The morph looked at the sorcerer, then the sorcerer’s companion, and spoke:

 

“Renault.”

 

This didn’t dissuade its creator at all. “You are worthless to us. Get out of our sight.”

 

As Renault watched, the creature that looked like Braddock, and spoke his name—but nothing more—in Braddock’s voice, followed the orders of the one who had created it. It turned away from the entrance of the hermitage and began to walk—in its unsteady, almost childish gait—down the path which led to Par Massino.

 

“Nergal, you’re sure this is a good idea?” Renault asked. “Those Bernites might still be investigating the monastery.”

 

The sorcerer smiled in response. “Unlikely. It’s been several months now…they’ve likely given up. We can relax a bit, though not too much, of course. While we shouldn’t venture away from our sanctuary unless we need to, anyone who happens on these mute, stupid creatures will be able to gain nothing from them.”

 

“I guess.” Renault gazed down at the wandering morph, continuing to trudge through the snow aimlessly and helplessly. It was the 10th Archer, and nearly another three months had passed since he had retrieved the Excalibur tome. Over that span of time, they had created 10 more morphs, and pored through dozens upon dozens of the other texts Nergal had in his library, but to very little success. That last morph—the one they had let go—was able to speak Renault’s name clearly, which was a first, but that was all. That little bit of progress had been enough to satisfy Renault, though—or at least grant him enough patience to hold out a little longer. Thus, he realized he was just slightly attached to that morph. A frown passed over his face as he thought of what would happen to it.

 

“Do not grow sentimental over failed experiments,” Nergal stated coldly. “Such trifling emotions will only hinder my progress…our progress. Let them wander, and let them meet whatever fate they may. How many of them have we constructed? Thirty? There is no reason to waste space in the summoning chamber storing… _things_ for which we have no use. Now,” and at this, his voice regained its kindly tone, “let us return to the library. Renault, you said you found something interesting?”

 

“Yeah, I did,” Renault said as the two of them began to walk back into the cave and down the stairs at its back. “See, it has to do with what you were talking about…the reason you started using those shriveled brains for the morphs. Um, could you run it by me one more time?”

 

“Hm. Well, as I told you, my experiments indicated that the flesh of a morph alone is…insufficient to maintain a sentient being’s mind. They are really little more than animated dust, you see. Their bodies contain no bone, or even internal organs, and when they die they return to the dust from which they were created. Within that dust one can implant rudimentary commands—enough to allow them to move on their own and follow orders—but not memory, personality, or speech.

 

“Thus, I came up with the idea of using a substitute container for those aspects of sentience. Brains were my first choice…I wanted to imprint what I could on those of small animals, like the preserved rat brains you brought to me, and as we’ve seen, that led us to a bit more success—our morphs can now speak, albeit only in single words. Still, it’s not enough…the brain of a rat obviously cannot contain everything that the brain of a man did.” He shook his head. “I contemplated having you hunt for actual, preserved human brains, but further research told me that would be pointless. For whatever reason, containers which were once alive become much less effective after they die, even if they are preserved. Those rat brains were barely able to contain a single word, and no more. It’s inefficient and impractical to bind them to morph bodies; our recent efforts required almost twice the quintessence of our earlier ones. It is simply too difficult, as far as I can discern, to unite organic materials with artificial ones. But so far it is the best we can do…” Nergal blinked, then turned his good eye towards Renault. “What does that have to do with what you found?”

 

By this point, they’d descended the stairs and reached the library, so Renault walked over to the table and picked up the book he’d been translating before Nergal had sent him upstairs to watch his morph being ‘disposed’ of. “I…it’s probably nothing,” he said, “but reading this book made me think of something.” He showed the cover to Nergal. It was written in High Imperial, and the title translated roughly to “Tales of the Grotesque.” “I know, it’s another work of fiction. But one of the stories gave me an idea. Look at this.” He flipped over to the fiftieth page. “As far as I could tell, this story was about a man whose soul got separated from his body. But look where it says they trapped it in.” He pointed at a line in the third paragraph. “Isn’t this the word for “phylactery?””

 

“Yes, I believe so. What is it you’re getting at?”

 

“Uh…well…” Now Renault was beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed. “The word they used…phylactery. I thought it was similar to…well, this.” He fingered his necklace. “So that made me think…if the reason you started using preserved brains in the making of these morphs was because you needed something…some means of storing intelligence and personality, why wouldn’t these phylacteries work? Isn’t quintessence the same thing? Or at least similar?”

 

Nergal went stock-still upon hearing this. He didn’t move a muscle. Even his eye seemed frozen, unblinking. The entire room went cold as he digested what his assistant said, which made Renault think he’d done something very wrong.

 

“S-sorry! Sorry! Look, I was just thinking, alright? I just want to get my friend back as soon as possible. I guess this wasn’t my best idea. I’m sorry!”

 

“Renault,” he said bluntly.

 

“H-huh? What is it?”

 

“I am pleased, Very, _very_ pleased.” He gave Renault the widest, most satisfied smile ever seen on his face. “You’ve found the solution I never could…that _no-one_ could! This is the answer, my friend! We’ve done it!”

 

“Really?” For the first time in months, Renault felt a surge of elation. Perhaps his quest was finally nearing its end.

 

“Yes! Indeed, I’m ashamed that this never occurred to me before.” Nergal genuinely seemed somewhat angry at himself. “The answer was _literally_ right in front of my nose for all this time, but I never saw it! I never thought phylacteries could be used for anything but the storage of quintessence, but thinking about it…there is no reason that should be so. If a man’s physical _and_ mental strength is contained in the quintessence he gives off, why wouldn’t the contours of that mind be stored within as well? And why wouldn’t a container capable of handling one also handle the other?” His face darkened. “However, that is a work of fiction…as far as I know no-one has ever actually stored a full soul in a phylactery.”

 

“O…oh.” Renault’s face darkened as well.

 

“Do not lose hope, friend. This text is another one aimed at an educated audience, meaning it isn’t complete fantasy. Theoretically, it would be possible to store a soul in such a device, and thus much easier to connect it to the body of a morph. But…that would require experimentation.” He gave Renault a piercing stare, which for some reason sent a shiver down the man’s spine. “But also…more quintessence. I have almost run out of what we’ve gained from the other ascended weapons. But one more should provide me with what I need. Renault…you’ll help me, yes?”

 

He nodded resolutely. “We’re almost done. I can feel it, Nergal. Send me where I need to go!”

_-X-Luce-X-_

This was the hardest mission Renault had ever carried out for Nergal. Fittingly, it was also his last.

 

It was the 27th day of the Month of the Archer, seven hundred and four years after the Scouring. This marked Renault’s 27th birthday, but the significance of the date passed him by entirely. Without Braddock by his side, it made no sense to celebrate anything.

 

Perhaps they could celebrate together after Renault had brought him back…after Renault got his hand on that most powerful of Light tomes, the Luce.

 

At the moment, he was standing in front of the gates of Gosterro’s cathedral—the largest sacred structure (to Elimineans, at least) on Elibe, except for the Tower of the Saint. It was as impressive, in its own way, as the great Royal Archives, though not quite as big. The basic structure of the cathedral was the same as that of Zodian’s Rest, back in Thagaste. A large rectangular area, separated into three parts (the narthex, or entrance, the rows of pews where the parishioners sat, and the altar from which Archbishop Gosterro would perform the sacraments) led to an open-air area, the sanctuary, where a massive, supposedly-holy oak tree grew surrounded by four walls. In the middle of the far wall stood the Archbishop’s personal tower. There were several differences, however. First, the enclosures for the sanctuary were not two-story stone walls, but rather, thick three-story tall halls. Windows were on all three floors and there were doors on the east and west walls (the building faced south)—they were where Gosterro’s many subordinates, his small personal army of monks and clerks, performed their various duties. From the east and west sides of the square-shaped hall protruded two rectangular-shaped dormitories which, Renault surmised, were where that personal army lived.

 

The Archbishop’s Tower itself was similar in shape to Monica’s, with a bell and icon of Saint Elimine at the very top. It was, however, twice as tall—eight stories rather than for. That encapsulated the second great difference between Gosterro’s cathedral and Monica’s—it was about twice as large, in every dimension. And while the many gargoyles and stained-glass windows adorning Zodian’s Rest may have been impressive, they paled in comparison to the decorations this one had. A quartet of golden-armored Generals equipped with sapphire-tipped spears stood guard on each corner of the square hall, and all over the walls and ramparts perched gargoyles larger and more intimidating than those of Thagaste, leering down at the populace below with mouths full of opaline teeth and eyes of ruby and emerald.

 

Renault had not completely lost his love of architecture and his eye for fine designs, and even as a battle-hardened mercenary he had to stop and spend a few minutes admiring the glorious cathedral for a few moments every time he saw it.

 

“Impressive, eh?” Renault was immediately broken out of his reverie by a friendly voice in front of him. He hastily drew the hood of his traveling cloak down in front of his face, not wanting anyone to recognize him—after his theft of the Excalibur tome, he was very likely a wanted man all over Aquleia, if not all of Etruria. Granted, he had colored his hair black before venturing outside today, but he still didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

 

“Truly a work of art,” continued the man in front of him. This fellow was clad in a full General’s raiment, armed with a fine Silver Spear, and he had been guarding the front doors of the cathedral before he noticed Renault admiring it and decided to come over for small talk. “I work here every day but I’m still not tired of lookin’ at it!”

 

“Yeah, I understand,” grunted Renault, turning away. “Wish I had more time to sightsee. You’re a lucky man.”

 

Before the General could respond, Renault had already started walking down the road, back to the small inn nearby. This was not his first day back in Aquleia—he had been here since the tenth, and the friendly General illustrated the reason why. Gosterro’s cathedral—which also served as his personal abode (something which was common for higher clergy in Elibe; Monica’s decision to live in her own home rather than her cathedral was relatively unusual) was guarded extremely well. The General who had been talking to Renault had been patrolling the south side of the building, keeping an eye on the narthex and if anyone suspicious seemed to be taking an interest in it (like Renault). Other teams of Generals—not mere soldiers or mercenaries—patrolled the other sides, making sure that nobody except the monks who worked there or the Archbishop’s guests were permitted entry into the cathedral. They worked both day and night, ensuring Gosterro and his underlings could sleep easy.

 

For the last seventeen days, therefore, Renault had been researching it. He spent hours every day casually strolling around the premises, blending in with the crowds so as not to look suspicious. He carefully watched the heavily-armored guards as they made their patrols, memorizing how long it took them to make full rounds and at what times the guards changed. He took in every detail of the walls, windows, and decorations, making note of which places seemed like they’d be easy to scale or break into. And, of course, he’d been asking questions where he could. Renault the Impervious may have been a recognizable figure in Aquleia, but a man clad in drab robes rather than white armor with hair turned black with dye purchased from a good-natured but unsuspicious merchant in the city’s sprawling slums would attract little attention. Many of Aquleia’s many residents didn’t mind being taken aside for a few moments by a traveling stranger and answering a few questions about the cathedral, since it was one of their city’s most recognizable architectural landmarks. From this series of interrogations, Renault ascertained that Gosterro was protected by not only mundane human guardsmen but a wide variety of magical wards and traps as well. No-one was certain, of course, but many claimed the gargoyles and golden General statues were alive, and that the upper floors of Gosterro’s tower, where he personally made his home, were rigged with a variety of devilish machinations intended to trip up unwary assassins.

 

Such precautions might have seemed unnecessary for a man of God, until you remembered just how tightly entwined Etruria’s ecclesiastical politics were with its secular affairs. And, of course, how Gosterro himself so enthusiastically dabbled in the latter.

 

It was definitely quite a challenge for Renault—but not one he couldn’t overcome. The moment he got back to his modest inn, about fifteen minutes away, he made his way to his room, passed by the table and chair it contained, and opened up the small burlap sack in front of the small but cozy bed. He had been carrying that bag when Nergal had first Warped him back here, and it contained an array of useful magical trinkets which the sorcerer believed would help him overcome whatever enchanted defenses Gosterro was hiding behind. It also contained several other devices Renault had purchased (with the money sold from one of the gems found in Khyron’s treasury) which Nergal said would also be necessary for a successful incursion.

 

Tonight, Renault would see whether or not Nergal was correct.

 

-x-

 

The full moon hung bloated and low behind the massive statue of Saint Elimine which crowned the Archbishop’s personal tower. Renault was thankful for this—without his special helmet, even dim moonlight was better than nothing in the dark. And he didn’t need any more than that for this infiltration.

 

He was currently peering out from behind the corner of a house on the other side of the road facing the east wall of Gosterro’s cathedral. He couldn’t see them clearly, but he knew exactly how the two guards patrolling in front of it were moving. One general moved south while another moved north—when they crossed each other, both their backs would be facing the middle portion of the wall, which was the best time to scale it.

 

Soon enough, after a few moments, he saw them cross, and took his chance. Waiting for them to take several steps away from each other so that there was a decent distance between them, Renault burst into motion. As quickly and quietly as a cat (he wasn’t wearing his heavy armor for this mission) he rushed up to the wall, holding one of the items he’d purchased from an adventurer’s guild nearby—a grappling hook.

 

He tossed it as high and far as he could, listening to it catch on the ramparts of the hall’s roof with satisfaction. He gave it a pull to make sure it was secure, then, gripping the attached rope with both hands, hastily scurried up, over the wall, and onto the roof.

 

Renault didn’t take a moment to relax when he got up there. He knew that the rooftops were patrolled by Generals as well, and that one man should have been walking towards him right now. However, from his observations of the guard, he also knew the fellow assigned to this section of the wall was fairly lazy, given more to snoozing late at night than patrolling. And, much to Renault’s good fortune, this night was no exception. As he vaulted onto the rooftop he looked to his left and saw a large figure in heavy armor leaning against the ramparts, snoring contentedly. A solid push would have sent him tumbling down to his death, but the noise wouldn’t be worth the quintessence gained. Renault simply ignored him, instead latching his hook squarely onto a ledge on the other side of the roof and then swiftly rappelling down.

 

The first stage of his infiltration had proceeded well.

 

Renault landed on the soft grass of the sanctuary with a quiet thump. The massive tree wasn’t its only feature—it was almost like a small park or garden, filled with flowers and shrubbery that made it look extremely picturesque during the day. He quickly scurried behind one of those bushes and peered at the Archbishop’s tower. He could see two guards standing in front of it with torches. He’d have to do something about them if he wanted to get in there. That was where the present from Nergal came into play.

 

Renault knelt down and held part of his cloak open. From within its folds, three black shapes that seemed like they could have been animals slithered out onto the ground. These weren’t rats or mice, though. They coalesced right in front of Renault, taking the appearance of small black circles with golden dots as eyes in their centers. They were the same kind of familiars used by Paptimus and Meris, but Nergal had created these three and given them to his assistant to help with this mission.

 

“Go on. Distract those guards for me.”

 

The tiny creatures did as they were asked. They slid away from their master almost too fast for him to see, towards the pair of sleepy guards in front of the tower’s door. They darted just into the field of light cast by the torches, and then stopped, quivering in anticipation.

 

“Hm?” said one guard, noticing the strange black patches. “Hey, what’s that?”

 

“What’s what?” asked his companion. He pointed towards the three black patches both of them could now see.

 

“Ah, just squirrels or…wait…”

 

The two men advanced closer to the shadowy things, kneeling down to get a better look, at which point the shadows darted back, luring the guards further away from the tower’s front door. One of the shades slid off to a nearby bush on the other side of the sanctuary, causing its leaves to rustle loudly and catching the guards’ attention for sure. “What is this?” one of them called, readying his spear. “Is someone there?” As they advanced, their backs were turned to Renault, and they were far enough away for him to sneak up to the tower quite easily. As they poked at the rustling bush with their spears, Renault brought out his handy Door key, used it, and slipped inside. By the time the bush stopped rustling and the shadow-creatures dashed off to rendezvous with Renault, there was no evidence left at all of any intruder. The guards returned to their posts, thinking they’d been distracted by no more than an animal, completely heedless of the assassin who’d slipped in behind them.

 

Renault couldn’t relax, exactly, now that he was inside, but he could make things easier by giving himself a bit of light. He reached into the sack on his back for a small tallow candle, unsheathed his Brave Sword, and then, holding the candle close, rapped the sturdy, magically-enhanced metal on the stone of a nearby wall, creating small sparks which were enough to light the candle—a trick he’d learned from Braddock, so long ago.

 

Raising the small flame in the air, Renault looked around and saw that the first floor, at least, wasn’t so different than the one in Zodian’s Rest back at Thagaste. Many tables and chairs for bureaucrats and clerks to carry out their duties, assisting the Archbishop in his administration. And, just like at Zodian’s Rest, there was a small stairwell set into the far wall leading to the upper floors. He ascended, coming to a second story which seemed to be just another administrative area. The third and fourth floors consisted of Gosterro’s personal libraries, which were even larger than his mother’s. The fifth was the grand meeting room, similar in design but much more opulent than Monica’s. It consisted of a lavish, cushioned throne in the center surrounded by stained-glass windows and a circle of chairs where the bishop’s guests would sit, all under a gigantic chandelier which would have contained nearly a thousand glimmering bits of flame had it been lit. Needless to say, all of the accoutrements Gosterro possessed were larger and more ornate than Monica’s, but it was a difference of degree, not of kind. Renault passed all of it by and unlocked the door to the next set of stairs with his key, preparing to head up.

 

 _Be wary, Renault,_ came Nergal’s telepathic voice. _There is dangerous magic ahead._

 

His assistant heeded the advice as he cautiously advanced, taking each step slowly and stopping in his tracks when he reached the next door and waiting for a few moments before opening it as well.

 

He entered what seemed to be an art gallery or a museum. Four busts of famous Etrurian historical figures were arrayed on the right and left walls; between them were many incredibly detailed (and famous) paintings produced by Etruria’s most well-known artists. The room’s interior was filled with pedestals and cases containing ancient, rare vases, sculptures, and other examples of high culture.

 

_Stop. Do not enter the room yet. If you touch even one of the objects in the center, an alarm will sound. More importantly, the busts you see there are dangerous. Look at them closely._

Renault did so, and he realized there was something off about their eyes. They were glowing green—not because light was shining off of the emeralds they were composed of, but because they seemed to be generating magic energy of their own.

 

_Those are magic sentries. Step in front of them, and Gosterro will be alerted to your presence. Let the shadows take care of them for you._

“Alright.” Once again, Renault knelt down, and said quietly, “come to me.” Nergal’s pets heard his call—they’d slipped under the tower’s front door after they’d distracted the guards, and now they rushed up to Renault, coalescing in front of him and quivering eagerly.

 

He pointed at the statues. “Cover up their eyes for me.”

 

The familiars did so happily, each skidding across the marble floor and sliding up onto the faces of the busts, expanding and covering them as if the storied men were wearing black masks. The green lights of three of the statues were blotted out, and Renault strode confidently through the room, passing over the valuable pottery and sculptures on the pedestals without a second thought. To evade the glare of the last statue, he simply undid his cloak as he walked and tossed it over the bust, keeping it from seeing him as he unlocked the next door and sneaked up.

 

The seventh floor was Gosterro’s personal bedroom. Thus, it was tightly guarded as well. Specifically, as he ascended, Renault noticed something strange. The stairwell was lit, but not by his candle. There seemed to be something emanating blue light from ahead of him. As he drew closer he saw what it was.

 

The door to the Archbishop’s living chambers was a thick, sumptuous affair of an odd, purplish wood Renault had never seen before surrounded by gold gilding and inlaid with gems of every color. They were placed around a golden keyhole in the center which _seemed_ as if it could be opened by an ordinary Door key like the one Renault had. Next to the door, however, there stood a pair of golden torchstands which were lit with bizarre _blue_ flames.

 

_You will not be able to open that door while those flames burn. They are enchanted, created specifically to ward away unfriendly callers. However, one of the presents Mulor…donated to you will be able to douse them. Take out the phial of dust I told you to bring._

Renault laid down his sack of supplies and rifled through it. After a few moments he took out a small pouch filled with a strange black dust. It had been taken from Mulor’s caravan of evil reagents, and Renault had no idea what it was. The dust was actually the crushed bones of those interred in holy ground, marinated under the light of a full moon with other toxic substances to produce a catalyst capable of undoing holy enchantments. It was very similar to the stuff Yurt had used to break the protections Grigorius had put around the Armor of the Berserk. Obviously, creating the dust was a rather unsavory process—it was easy to see why Mulor was so well-known in Bulgar’s criminal underworld.

 

Of course, none of that mattered to Renault as he poured the dust out of the pouch, blowing it towards the torches as he did so. The black specks floated through the air, and when they made contact with the blue flames the torches went out as surely as if they’d been doused with actual water.

 

 _There are no more defensive enchantments,_ Nergal whispered. _Go, now, and finish your task._

 

Feeling anticipation well up inside him, but not permitting it to take the edge off his skills, he quietly inserted his Door Key into the hole and twisted it, noting a small click with satisfaction indicating it had unlocked successfully. However, he also heard a small, discordant clang from within, indicating that the mechanism inside the multi-purpose key had broken. No matter. He wouldn’t need it after this.

 

Holding his candle in his other hand, Renault carefully pushed the double doors with his left. It was very well-made, and opened without so much as a creak, allowing Renault a clear view of what lay within.

 

It was a bedroom—an incredibly posh bedroom, every bit as luxurious as what he and his friends had enjoyed during their stay in the guest suites of the Holy Royal Palace. Stained-glass windows covered with lush purple curtains, more expensive statues and artwork on the wall, and, of course, a large, exceedingly comfortable-looking bed. Renault could make out two bulges under the covers, rising and falling in the rhythm of a sleeping man and woman.

 

Were Archbishops supposed to take vows of celibacy? Renault didn’t remember or care, but either way, he doubted the Church would smile upon their most influential prelate sharing his bed.

 

After all, it would make for quite the scandal when they found his corpse next to his whore’s in the morning.

 

The Luce tome was not the only reason he was paying Gosterro a visit. For he knew very well the Archbishop was responsible for Braddock’s death, every bit as much as Grigorius was.

 

_Yes, Renault. It’s his fault…it’s Gosterro’s fault. He deserves to die. Make him pay for his sins._

Memories came flooding back into Renault’s mind as he approached the bed. He saw Frampt dragging him and Braddock to Le-Cain’s hideout, the excommunicated bishop telling them where Trunicht was hiding, and most of all, the man Le-Cain said had given Trunicht refuge.

 

_“Gosterro ordered he be kept alive, **protected** , even, because he supposedly holds information the Church might find very useful in the Western Isles.”_

Renault quickly blew out his candle as he approached and set it down, needing nothing more than the dim moonlight filtering through a stained-glass window to make his way through the room. He drew his Brave Sword from the scabbard at his hip and gripped it as hard as he could—he knew Gosterro was sleeping peacefully, comfortable and safe, while Braddock had died in pain and fear. The thought filled him with white-hot rage.

 

He neared the left side of the bed. Silently, he reached down and drew back the thick blanket from one of the occupants.

 

It wasn’t Gosterro—rather, it was a woman, and apparently a very beautiful one too. Her hair was long, silky, and pitch-black, her skin was clear and healthy, and her large breasts were supple and well-formed. Renault could see them quite clearly, for she was naked—it was obvious what she and the Archbishop had been doing earlier that night.

 

She furrowed her pretty brows, but didn’t open her eyes. “Nnngh, Gosterro,” she moaned, “Leave some covers for me.”

 

_Do not let her live, Renault. I sense power in her soul. There’s no point in letting her quintessence go to waste. Besides, she is Gosterro’s whore. She shared in his misdeeds…_

 

The woman’s eyes shot wide open when Renault clamped a hand over her mouth. They then rolled back in her head as he drove his sword through her throat, before she could make a single sound. Her body jerked, then lay still.

 

This was enough to stir her bedmate—a man like Gosterro wasn’t a sound sleeper. Unfortunately, it was already too late. “Ack!” he started, blinking and rising from his pillows. “Damnation, woman, I’m trying to sleep! Why did you—“ He was promptly cut off as Renault caught his throat in a rage-powered grip and yanked him right out of his bed, slamming his naked body against the wall.

 

The Archbishop had been well and truly woken up. He gagged and coughed, clawing at Renault to no avail. His efforts succeeded only in eliciting a vicious smile from the Mercenary Lord.

 

“I only want you to know one thing, Archbishop.” He loosened his grip on Gosterro’s throat just slightly, to keep the man from passing out. “Tell me, do you remember a man named Trunicht?”

 

The prelate coughed and sputtered. “W-what is this?! What are you—“

 

“My best friend died because of him. Died because _you_ gave that piece of filth shelter in one of _your_ monasteries! I want you to remember that, Gosterro. I want you to know that Max…Braddock of Ostia died as a result of one of your God-damned schemes. And I want you to know that I’m exacting his revenge!”

 

With a guttural snarl, Renault slammed his blade through Archbishop Gosterro’s frail, uncovered chest.

 

Just like his lover, the most powerful man within the Church of Elimine jerked, flailed, and then went still.

 

Braddock had been avenged, as far as Renault knew, at least.

 

Yet…even so, he still felt no satisfaction. Just like at Par Massino, killing in his friend’s name brought him no joy.

 

“Pah.” He tossed Gosterro’s corpse aside as if it were a piece of garbage and spat on it. “When Braddock’s back…yeah, when Braddock’s back, I’ll feel better. E…everything’ll be better!”

 

_You will be reunited soon, Renault, very soon. Simply find the Luce tome and we’ll have everything we need!_

Renault peered around the room. The sun was beginning to rise, giving him a bit of light, but it also meant he needed to be quick—who knew if someone would come to wake up the Archbishop, after all? Fortunately, the object of his quest was not at all difficult to find. Renault turned to a large table in front of a window on the other side of the room and saw a large gilded tome lying atop it. As he approached, he felt the raw magical power it emanated. He picked it up, peering at the curious design on its cover—what seemed to be a yellow star inset into a white cross.

 

_That’s it, Renault! We have all of the Ascended weapons! You have done well, very well indeed…_

 

And before he could respond, Renault’s world disappeared in a bright white glow…for the very last time.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

The description of the morph creation room and referring to the morph as a number come from Nergal’s flashback with Kishuna. The fates of the morphs refer to what Renault mentions in his supports with Canas, how they lose their way and wander. I included the fate of the “Ascended Weapons” to explain why they seem so much weaker in FE7 than they did in this fic. :D Now, as for Gosterro’s bedmate…there’s actually a story behind her. See my fic "The Last Red Shoulder" on fanfiction.net for more.


	48. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nergal reveals his true face-both literally and metaphorically.

**Chapter 48: Betrayal**

Renault re-materialized in front of Nergal’s stone throne to see him sitting there, wearing an immensely satisfied smile on his face. “Fantastic, Renault! Utterly fantastic! Truly, it was a most wonderful stroke of luck for me to have come across such a talented assistant…”

 

On another day, Renault might have been flattered, but at the moment his eagerness and impatience to see his friend again far outweighed any other concern. He didn’t even bother to say thanks—he simply held out the Luce tome expectantly. “I fetched your book for you. We should be ready for the next step, shouldn’t we?”

 

“Yes, my friend, you are absolutely right,” rasped Nergal, rising from his seat and then snatching the tome away. “I have everything we need…”

 

“Then get on with it. I remember the last time we talked, you said you had to perform one last experiment before we could bring Braddock back. What is it?”

 

Nergal didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned back to his assistant, gazing down on him with his single good eye. Renault shivered under that gaze. It wasn’t as malignant or seemingly dangerous as some of the other expressions he’d seen in Nergal’s face, but somehow it was the…coldest…he’d ever witnessed. There was a sense of foreboding in that icy visage, an impression of great portent, as if Nergal was thinking long and hard about what, exactly, to say next—because those words would set both of them on a path from which there was no turning back.

 

“Renault,” he began, “Tell me. What do you know of the phylactery which hangs about your neck?”

 

If this was some sort of a test, Renault fully intended to pass it. “It’s a vessel for storing quintessence, or the life-force of living beings. Quintessence comprises both the physical and mental power of an animal, human, or even dragon, from what you told me. At the moment of death, quintessence leaves the body and normally dissipates into the world around it, but this phylactery traps that power, allowing it to be kept in reserve or transferred as you see fit.

 

“Now, you also told me, right before I set off to find the Luce, that a vessel for containing such power could also preserve a person’s mind or personality entirely. It would be much easier to link a phylactery to a morph’s body than something that was once alive, like a preserved brain. At least, if what you said is true…you could implant Braddock’s mind into a phylactery, craft a Morph body around it, and then connect the two, resurrecting him.” He glared up at Nergal. “Did I miss anything?”

 

“Not at all, my assistant. But the connection….that is the difficult part.

 

“How does the mind relate to the body? For men like you, it’s no great mystery—ever since the first sage dissected a fresh cadaver or sutured a terrible wound, the heart which pumps blood, the lungs which bellow air, and the brain which commands them all have been well understood. But it is a different matter for those created by….artificial means. How would a mind isolated in a phylactery interact with a body crafted from dust? No-one knows, not even I. Before we can bring back your friend, I must find the answer to that question.”

 

“How?”

 

Nergal’s lips curled downwards in a very slight frown. “For all my knowledge and power, I can only apply the most basic of strategies to this effort: trial and error.

 

“What I need, Renault, is a test subject, strong in both body and mind, whose life essence is still viable and intact within his physical form. Quintessence drained from corpses will not do.

 

“Using the power of Gespenst, I will separate his mind and spirit from his body, and ensconce it within his phylactery. Then, I will attempt every method I know of…and can think of…to re-unite the two. If…no, when, I am successful, we should be able to use the same method to bring Braddock back.”

 

“Huh…alright, I think I understand.” Renault put a hand to the grip of his Brave Sword. “So, you want me to fetch a test subject for you?”

 

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Renault. The ideal subject is right here.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Nergal looked down, and it was as if his one-eyed glare was piercing right through Renault. “He is standing in front of me.”

 

Renault’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Nergal, what the hell are you talking about? You want _me_ to be your training dummy? Are you insane?”

 

“Listen to me, Renault. You are the ideal subject. For the results of these tests to be applicable to Braddock, they need to be based on someone similar to him. You are as strong as he was, perhaps even stronger. If I can transfer your mind to a phylactery, I will know for _certain_ I can do the same for him.

 

“More importantly, the nature of the container is important as well.” He pointed towards the phylactery hanging in front of Renault’s chest. “How long have you been wearing that necklace, Renault? Truly, it’s been your most constant companion ever since you began working with me. All the fighting it has been through, all the death it has seen…and, of course, all the quintessence it has absorbed, all thanks to you. Over time, I believe that phylactery has been…how to put it… _attuned_ to you. The true nature of this phenomenon would be too time-consuming and complicated to explain, but suffice it to say that storing your mind within that specific phylactery would almost certainly be safer and easier than any other alternative.”

 

“Yeah, and that’s not saying much. What if something goes wrong, Nergal?”

 

“You might die, Renault.” There was absolutely no change in Nergal’s cold, piercing gaze. “Just as you might have died at Par Massino, or in Sacae, or in Gosterro’s cathedral. You are no stranger to risk. Why stop now?”

 

“I’m not fond of stupid risks. Why can’t we find someone else to—“

 

“Well, what alternative do you suggest? You would have to subdue—not kill—a warrior of equal skill and bring him back here somehow. He will not be as attuned to the phylactery as you are, making it much more likely our experiments would fail. You are already growing impatient, are you not? We would progress much, much faster if we simply used you as a subject.”

 

Renault grit his teeth, but he couldn’t really argue with Nergal on that point. “Still—“

 

“Surely you are not so unwilling to risk your life? You are a courageous man, and your friend was just as courageous, was he not? He gave his life for you, Renault. Can’t you do the same for him?”

 

That was something Renault couldn’t get away from. He fell silent for a few moments as he remembered how Braddock had met his end. Traveling all the way to Bern, just for him. Fighting Yurt all alone, just for him. And dying, with a smile on his face, just for him.

 

Helping Nergal with his experiments was nothing compared to that sort of sacrifice.

 

“Fine…fine. You’ve made your point, Nergal.” Renault looked up, straight into the sorcerer’s eye. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your test subject.”

 

“Your bravery is commendable, Renault. But there’s one more thing I must tell you…”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I must warn you, my friend. None of this will serve a purpose if you’re not fully aware of what you are doing. I must tell you that even if everything goes well, even if the experiment succeeds…I can say for certain that you will be forever…changed. Your body, and your mind as well…they will no longer be like those of ordinary men. You will become something…not quite human. No…even less than human. These experiments will require great sacrifices from you. No-one on Elibe has ever even attempted this before.  You will have to give up much of what you take for granted as a living being. The body you will inhabit will not be the one you’re in now. It will be…the mere fact of existence…once all meaning has been stripped away.

 

“Are you still willing to help me?”

 

“Less than human? No meaning?” Renault hesitated, pondering Nergal’s words for a long moment…

 

And then nodded.

 

“I’m already…already less than human. Braddock…I’m not complete without him. Meaning…my life doesn’t have meaning without him by my side. I’ll help you, Nergal. I’ll sacrifice my humanity…I’ll sacrifice _anything_ to bring him back to me.”

 

Nergal smiled.

 

“Then let us begin.”

 

-x-

 

Renault followed Nergal into the summoning chamber, taking off his clothes before he entered. The sorcerer’s very first request as their experiment started had been for him to strip himself, leaving only his necklace. Renault had no idea why he had to be naked for the experiment, and a small, silly part of him wondered if Nergal had been getting unfathomably lonely and wanted to play some kind of perverted game.

 

Of course, it was a ludicrous idea, and Renault had to make an effort to keep from laughing at himself for entertaining it. The moment he stepped into the summoning room he realized that Nergal’s intentions were anything but prurient.

 

As it turned out, however, that made them no less malevolent.

 

The room looked more or less the same as it did the last time he’d been here, with one exception. In the middle of the runic circle there now rose from the ground an altar, similar to the one on which Braddock lay. It was empty, though—as if it was waiting for an offering.

 

Renault figured out what he needed to do without Nergal telling him. He laid himself down on the altar, and was surprised to feel the stone beneath his naked skin was not at all uncomfortably cold, as he’d expected—it was warm.

 

“Renault,” Nergal rasped, sliding up to him, “This is important. Above all, as I conduct the ritual, you must remain silent and _still!_ ”

 

“O…okay.”

 

“This is no joke, Renault. The slightest mistake could send your soul into oblivion. Therefore, do not give me the slightest distraction. And I do not know what will happen to either your body or your mind if you move and interrupt the ceremony. Do not speak even a whisper, do not shift even one muscle. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very well.”

 

Nergal waved his hands in the air, creating small, steadily-rotating circles. He began chanting in the language Renault knew was Shadetongue. The runic circle below him began to glow, the four stone torchstands alit with bright blue flame, and the stone altar he was lying on began to grow slightly warmer.

 

He felt beads of sweat forming all over his body. Indeed, he began to feel distinctly uneasy about the whole thing. With every ounce of his mercenary’s discipline, however, he kept it under control, his body remaining stock-still and his mouth clamped firmly shut.

 

Nergal’s chanting grew louder. And as it did, Renault felt his body…change, somehow.

 

He couldn’t describe it. It wasn’t pain, certainly, though he might have liked it better if it was. It wasn’t nausea or anything like that, though it was just as disquieting. The best word Renault could think of was ‘numbness.’ He wasn’t moving, but it was as if his body was slipping away from him. It reminded him of the way body and mind seemed to disassociate when being Warped, but while that sensation lasted only a few moments, this one was considerably more drawn out.

 

He wanted to scream, but again heeded Nergal’s advice and kept his mouth as still as possible. Even if he didn’t have such self-control, however, he was certain it wouldn’t have made a difference. He couldn’t feel his mouth, or any other part of his body. But his eyes were still working, and he could see what happened next.

 

The phylactery on his chest began glowing, and then rose in the air. The chanting reached a crescendo, and the phylactery’s gold glow grew brighter and brighter, brighter than the sun, impossibly bright, so bright that Renault wanted to look away—but of course, he couldn’t. The light seared into his eyes, enveloping everything else, blotting out all the world, so radiant that Renault felt as if it was burning away his mind itself…

 

And then it winked out of existence entirely, leaving Renault in a field of nothing but black.

 

-x-

 

“Renault…”

 

There was something on his chest. Was there? Did he feel something on his chest? He wasn’t entirely certain. Feeling…what was feeling? This sensation was “feeling,” wasn’t it?

 

“Renault.”

 

That voice. That was Nergal’s voice. He was…hearing it. Hearing? This sensation was hearing?

 

“Can you open your eyes?”

 

Who was Renault, anyways? That was…him, wasn’t it?

 

“Open your eyes!”

 

How could he do that?

 

“Damnation…the ritual should have worked. My theories shouldn’t have been wrong.”

 

He felt that sensation on his chest again, moving upwards, and then felt another sensation. Something…what was the word for it…cold? Cold, not-flesh, pressing against his skin for a moment, then being lifted away.

 

He felt as if he was being lifted with it.

 

“AGH!” His eyes shot wide open, and he had no way of processing what he was seeing. His body jerked and his arms flailed, knocking away those of the other man. He gasped and grasped, somehow remembering how to do both, and his hand clamped down upon that cold thing on his chest—he didn’t know much else, but he knew it was the center of his world, now.

 

“Renault! You can move! Damn it, stay still! Stay _still!_ ” He felt a force slamming him back down below, into the…altar, yes, that was the word for it. It was invisible, irresistible. He knew he’d seen it before…it was…dark magic, yes. Like that used by Paptimus. Paptimus, the enemy of Braddock…

 

Braddock…

 

Everything came back to Renault, now. He knew why he was here. He knew what had happened to him. And he knew why it had all happened.

 

“Uh…uh…” He also knew that something was wrong. His throat was constricted. He needed air! There seemed to be many things he didn’t know about this body…everything seemed so new…but he was absolutely certain it still required air to survive. “N-Nergal…”

 

“Ah! So you can speak!”

 

“C-can’t breathe…”

 

“Yes, of course…foolish of me to forget.”

 

Renault felt the force lift from his neck, and subsequently his entire body. He let out a loud, whooping cough, his lungs expelling stale air.

 

“Gah! Ahh…”

 

“Renault, how are you feeling? Look.” He saw two blurry fingers floating in front of his face. “How many are there?”

 

“Two.”

 

“And who do they belong to?”

 

“N…Nergal.”

 

“Yes, yes, perfect! _Perfect!_ ” The sorcerer’s voice was pregnant with exultation and anticipation. “Can you sit up?”

 

“Y…yeah.” Renault did so, and brought a hand—steady now, as steady as his movements had always been—to his face to wipe at his eyes. He then looked around. He saw Nergal, single eye almost glowing with eagerness, the stone altar below him, and the four torchstands, their blue flames glowing softly. He then looked at himself. He was still naked, but his body _seemed_ to be exactly the same. No wounds, no marks, absolutely no outward changes.

 

But it didn’t feel the same. Somehow, his own flesh felt emptier. It felt almost as if he was looking at…resided in…someone else’s body. And when he clasped the green vial hanging from his neck, he felt as if he was touching a part of himself…the most important part of himself. Perhaps even his whole self. He couldn’t describe that sensation—it wasn’t anything like vertigo, thankfully—but it was like nothing he’d ever felt, or even imagined before.

 

“How are you feeling, Renault?”

 

“A..alright. Just…different.”

 

“Yes, that is to be expected. It seems the experiment was indeed successful, Renault!”

 

“The experiment?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Nergal…what did you do?”

 

The sorcerer grinned slightly, then began his explanation.

 

“I have made you…a morph, Renault.”

 

“W…what?”

 

“The last thing you saw was the phylactery floating in the air, glowing brightly, yes?”

 

“Yeah, exactly. After that, I think I blacked out.”

 

“Indeed. That was the process of transferring your spirit—your quintessence, which contains your mind and personality—to the phylactery. As I thought, it stored you _perfectly_. You’re not suffering any memory loss or anything similar, yes? However, obviously, living things cannot survive without their animating essence. A body without quintessence will turn into dust; that is the principle by which most offensive Dark spells operate. The same thing was just about to happen to yours…but then I reinforced your physical shell with some of my own quintessence, preserving it just long enough for me to re-unite it with your spirit and mind, within this.” He tapped the phylactery contentedly.

 

“So…you mean…that phylactery…my soul…no, mind, is trapped in there? Like what happened to the man from that story we read?”

 

“In a manner of speaking, yes…but also no, Renault. You have your body, don’t you? You don’t feel trapped, do you?”

 

“N…no.”

 

“Your mind is contained within that phylactery, yes, but I have connected it to this body of yours. I could have inserted it within your skull, and I will probably do so for the morphs I create in the future, but for you, that was unnecessary. I have cast a spell which binds the spirit in that container to the body you inhabit now. This bond transcends time…perhaps even space.”

 

“So I’m…in this…phylactery, then? But it…well, it feels different, but it still feels like I’m…operating from my body, is the best way to put it. Nothing at all like the guy from the story. So what’s this thing to me, then? Do I have to wear this necklace all the time for the rest of my life? If it’s destroyed, will I die too?”

 

“The rest of your life may be very long indeed,” chuckled Nergal under his breath. Then, more directly, he said, “Good questions. I…am not _entirely_ certain, Renault. I am fairly sure, however, that you do not need to keep this with you at all times. Look!”

 

Before Renault could react, Nergal reached out with invisible tendrils of dark energy and plucked the phylactery off of his neck and into the air. Renault grabbed at it, but it floated out of his reach. As he did so, he again got the feeling that something…a part of him…had been taken away, but that was all. No vertigo, not even a shift in perception. Just a sense of loss.

 

“Yes, Renault, I’ll give it back to you now.” The phylactery floated back around Renault’s neck. “You don’t have to keep it with you at all times…as I said, the connection between it and your body transcends time and space. You’ve nothing to worry about if you lose it, although you _must_ keep it safe. These phylacteries are not easy to destroy, whether by means physical or magical. If someone does manage to destroy it, though, you will die as well. Needless to say you should also take care of this body…it is as sturdy as yours originally was, but it is not indestructible. The phylactery’s power will fade along with the body it is connected to, taking you with it.”

 

“Got it,” replied Renault. He attempted to sit up, was struck by a bout of dizziness, waited a few moments, and then tried again and succeeded. “Urgh…” He coughed one more time. “I blacked out, I remember…Nergal, what day is it?”

 

“The thirtieth Archer, I believe.”

 

“Eh? I’ve been out for three days?”

 

“Yes. I spent every single one of those hours ministering to you, attempting all sorts of methods to connect your phylactery to a new body, before I finally succeeded.”

 

“O…oh. Thanks, Nergal.”

 

He grinned. ‘Tis not such a great sacrifice for one such as myself. Remember, I have little need for sleep or sustenance.”

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

This elicited another cold chuckle from the dark magician. “Now, Renault, come with me for a moment. I want to make sure your physical abilities haven’t deteriorated. Come dress yourself, and put on your armor as well.”

 

Renault slid off the altar, wincing slightly as his feet landed on the cold floor. He exited the summoning chamber, his steps hesitant at first, but growing ever more confident. This ‘new’ body might take a little getting used to, but not too much. He saw his clothing and armor waiting for him, laid out in front of Braddock’s altar, and equipped himself, feeling a little jolt of satisfaction as he clasped his helmet over his head and felt the enchantment of its magical visor activate.

 

“Can you still fight? Does the armor respond to you as it used to?”

 

Renault responded by snapping his hands down, and with the whirring of gears and a clinking of chains, daggers descended from his right and left pauldrons to slide easily into his hands. He cut them through the air, stabbing, thrusting, and parrying, then deftly hopped back and snapped his arms up this time, sending the twin blades flying at Nergal. The sorcerer didn’t so much as twitch, of course. He simply remained still (except for that grin) as both daggers whizzed right next to his head, both missing him by inches. They embedded themselves within cracks in the stone wall behind him, with Nergal’s head remaining sandwiched between the chains trailing them. Renault drew his arms back, and those chains grew taut as the gears in his pauldron whirred into motion again. They withdrew, taking their daggers zipping past Nergal’s head as they returned to Renault’s hands.

 

“Good as ever,” said Renault.

 

“Excellent, most excellent indeed. I am now sure we are ready to proceed.”

 

“Proceed?”

 

Nergal nodded. “It is time, Renault.”

 

“Time for Braddock’s resurrection.”

 

-x-

 

Once again, Renault stood beside Nergal in front of the summoning room’s magic circle. The altar he’d been lying on just a few minutes before had disappeared entirely, leaving no evidence it had been there in the first place. He was still in his armor, too eager to watch his friend come back to him to take it off. Nergal didn’t mind, apparently, so all was well as far as he was concerned.

 

The blue flame of the torches glowed brightly as the sorcerer raised his hands in the air, beginning his incantation. Though Renault recognized the language as Shadetongue, the words were different from those he had heard in previous summoning rituals.

 

He soon found out why.

 

As Nergal chanted, a glowing gold cloud formed around his body, which floated into the air above the summoning circle. It coalesced into a much smaller but incredibly dense single point, glowing brightly, and then emanated a strong burst of light that forced Renault to shut his eyes. When it was gone, Renault opened them to see something most surprising.

 

A tiny green jewel was now floating in front of him, exactly the same color as his phylactery and about the same size, except in the shape of a diamond rather than a small vial.

Nergal began chanting again, and another golden cloud floated out of his body towards the newly-created phylactery, this time seeming to funnel into it in a spiral rather than simply float and coalesce.

 

A third time Nergal began his chanting, and now the words were very familiar to Renault. A black cloud in the shape of Braddock formed within the circle, the green of the phylactery set into what would become his head, and one more cloud of quintessence merged with the black mass, producing another flash of white light.

 

When that light dissipated, Renault looked up to see…Braddock.

 

Well, a morph who looked almost exactly like Braddock, meaning exactly like most of the morphs Nergal created recently. Entirely naked, with the exact same shape and features as the Ostian, except with black hair and golden eyes.

 

There seemed to be something in those eyes, though. Something which had never been there before.

 

“B…Braddock?” Renault asked hesitantly, uncertain if his quest was truly over or if this was another failed experiment.

 

The morph nodded. “Renault.”

 

He could say Renault’s name! The Mercenary Lord’s heart leapt at hearing his friend’s voice again, but it was tempered by the knowledge that one word might be all he could say. “B…Braddock, you know who I am. Who are you?”

 

The morph paused for a moment, then replied:

 

“My name is Braddock.”

 

His voice was cold and monotone, and his speaking formal and unaffectionate. That should have been the first sign for Renault that something was wrong. But at the moment, it was good enough for Renault, enough to convince him that he might have actually succeeded. Behind him, Nergal was equally pleased.

 

“Good, very good,” he smirked. “This morph should have all of Braddock’s memories, as well as his voice and speech. His fighting skills, too…this is exactly the sort of creature I need to fulfill my plans. Now that I know how to make morphs which can talk, which possess memories and intelligence, everything will proceed much more smoothly…”

 

Renault wasn’t paying attention, and he didn’t care. “Braddock…” he whispered, with a year’s worth of longing in his voice. “Braddock…is…is it really you?” He took off his helmet, wanting to look at his friend with his own eyes.

 

“Yes, Renault. I’m Braddock.”

 

“W…what do you remember, Braddock?”

 

The morph paused again. “We fought together in the Civil War in Etruria. I died in battle at Par Massino. Nergal brought me back.”

 

“Th…that’s right. Wh-what else do you remember?”

 

“I wielded the magic axe, Basilikos. You are an expert with the sword and dagger. Our companions were Khyron, Roberto, Apolli, Keith, Kelitha, Kasha, Harvery, and Rosamia. Khyron was the Mage General’s brother. Roberto—“

 

Braddock said all this in an emotionless monotone. That should have been the second clue something was amiss. But Renault couldn’t—or didn’t want to—see that at the moment.

 

“Braddock…” Tears of joy welled up in Renault’s eyes. “Braddock, it’s…it’s really you…you’re back…”

 

“Yes, Renault. I am Braddock.”

 

“Braddock…BRADDOCK!” He couldn’t restrain himself. His tears flowing freely, Renault leapt at his now black-haired friend and wrapped him up in the tightest hug he could muster, shouting his name over and over again.

 

Braddock didn’t return the embrace, smile, or do anything at all. The third clue.

 

Renault was still oblivious, however. He held on to his friend for more than a few minutes, and in other circumstances (considering Braddock’s nudity) he would have been very embarrassed. Right now, though, he just didn’t care.

 

“Braddock…Braddock…I’m so glad to see you again,” he said, sniffling. “It’s been so long…so long…I wanted to see you so much…”

 

Braddock said nothing in response.

 

“There…there’s so much I have to tell you, man. S…so much has happened since you…since you went. I…I was busy, Braddock. But everything I did…I did for you, man! Sometimes it…it was hard,” he shook his head and thought of Dougran, “but it was all for you. Every last thing. A-and I avenged you! I made everybody responsible for your death pay. Believe me! Now…now…there’s nothing to keep us from enjoying our life together, just like we used to…”

 

Braddock replied with a simple, “Yes, Renault.”

 

It was a response, but not the response it should have been. And now, finally, Renault began to realize something was not right.

 

“B…Braddock?” Renault looked up at his friend’s face with teary eyes, noting its complete lack of expression. He thought at first it might have been just shock from being resurrected, at this point still believing he had brought back his friend. “C’mon, bud! I spent a whole year tryin’ to bring you back! The least you could do is give me a smile, right?”

 

“Yes, Renault,” came the monotone reply. And as ordered, Braddock smiled.

 

And at this, Renault finally started to suspect that something was _really_ not right. He stepped back in shock and a little horror, mumbling, “Braddock…Braddock?”

 

It was a perfectly normal smile, yes. Braddock’s teeth were white and healthy, and they looked just like they used to—no fangs, mandibles, or anything like that.

 

The horrifying thing was how _insincere_ that smile was. No, maybe “insincere” was still too strong of a word. _Mechanical_ would be more accurate. There wasn’t the slightest emotion in that smile—it was simply carried out perfunctorily, as if Braddock was simply following orders rather than genuinely happy to see him. The morph’s gold eyes were flat and dead, with absolutely none of the warmth Renault had so loved in his friend.

 

“What is it?” asked Nergal in a smooth, cloying tone. “Your friend has returned to you. Aren’t you happy?”

 

Renault took another step back, gazing in horror at the morph and its dead smile. “This…this isn’t Braddock. Nergal…THIS ISN’T BRADDOCK!” He whirled to face the sorcerer with an angry snarl, his joy giving way to rage.

 

“What do you mean? Nothing is wrong with him, Renault,” replied Nergal with cool satisfaction. “His memory is intact, as you have seen, as is his voice. You told him to smile, and he did. He follows your orders perfectly, Renault. Surely this pleases you.”

 

“Please me? Nergal, are you stupid? This…this is just a puppet with Braddock’s voice and memory! No emotions, no will of his own…hell, not even a puppet! This is just an empty vessel!”

 

“Yes, Renault. An empty vessel…just as you wanted.” Neither Nergal’s expression nor his voice were at all comforting. They were cold, cruel, and remorseless, creating a ripple of fear in Renault he had only felt in a few isolated instances beforehand. Now, however, he was beginning to realize that this malevolent presence was the _true_ face of Nergal, and was always hiding behind the pleasant, helpful mask the sorcerer usually presented.

 

Renault blinked away the tears in his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about? This morph is just another failed experiment, like all the other ones! Did you lie to me? You’re not capable of bringing back the dead, are you? All you can do is make puppets!”

 

Now, Nergal frowned, and that was enough to mix a bit of fear with the anger in Renault’s heart. “No, Renault. With the knowledge you helped me acquire and the power you have given me, I could easily create a morph with emotions. To call me a mere puppet-maker proves only your own ignorance…”

 

“So then, why have you given me a _puppet_? Come on, Nergal, stop playing around! Make another morph, and this time, give it Braddock’s personality too!”

 

“Why should I? Would that truly make you happy?”

 

“Of course it would, you fool! Now, come on! _Do it!_ ”

 

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Nergal began to laugh, a low, sinister keen filled with malevolence rather than mirth. “Think about it, Renault. All the blood on your hands, all the crimes you’ve committed, and the sacrifices you’ve made, not the least of which is your own humanity…would your friend be at all happy to see you now? Indeed, did you even stop to think for a moment of what your friend actually wanted? No, not at all. It was all about you, Renault. What you wanted, what you desired…not a thought given to what Braddock would have intended. For a man like you, restoring Braddock’s emotions and personality would only cause both of you pain.

 

“No, I have given you exactly what you want, and exactly what you need. A puppet, an empty vessel, capable only of telling you what you want to hear in Braddock’s voice, and obeying your orders with Braddock’s memories. That is the gift most suitable for a man like you.”

 

“Blood on my hands? Sacrifices? Nergal, I was following your advice! Helping _you!_ And now…now you’re telling me Braddock wouldn’t have wanted this? That…that it was all for _nothing?!_ ”

 

“No, not at all, my friend. As I said, I gave you what you wanted. I never forced you to work for me. I never forced you to kill Dougram, or the monks at Par Massino, or to give your mind up to that phylactery which hangs about your neck. All of these things you did of your own free will, with no coercion from me at all. And now you have your puppet, your Braddock-shaped doll, which will never judge you, or doubt you, or tell you you’re wrong. It wasn’t all for nothing. It’s your deepest, most genuine desire, whether you admit it or not!”

 

“Is _that_ what you think I wanted? You deluded, mongrel _idiot!_ ” He unsheathed his Brave Sword and pointed it at Nergal. “This is the last time I’m gonna say it. Bring Braddock back! His mind, body, _and_ personality! I’m not playing any more of your games, Nergal. Do as I say, or I’ll tear you apart!”

 

Another chuckle from the dark magician. “Threatening _me?_ Your erstwhile benefactor, who has given you everything you want? A rather foolish plan, I would say, but if that is what you wish…well, I can let you try.”

 

There was nothing more to say—Renault, even if he wanted to, _couldn’t_ say anything, for he was mad with rage. His pupils shrunk until his eyes seemed as if they were masses of white struck through with streaks of red, his grip on his weapons tightened so much that the joints on his hands audibly creaked, and his cheeks shook as drool streamed from his mouth when he opened it to let out a single, bloodcurdling scream so loud it escaped the hidden sanctuary and seemed to echo across the entire mountain:

 

_“NERGAAAALL!!!!!!”_

Brandishing his Brave Sword and chaindagger, Renault leapt at his former companion, intending to tear his frail, crippled body to many small pieces.

 

It shouldn’t have been difficult for the rage-powered Mercenary Lord. Nergal hadn’t even been able to stand when they first met, and even weeks later he could barely muster up enough dark power to fend off an attack from Dougram. Renault thought he’d go down as easily as any other Druid or frail, defenseless spellcaster.

 

That was why he was quite surprised when he suddenly found himself frozen in mid-air.

 

At first, he thought he’d been bound by those invisible chains of will Dark magicians seemed to be so fond of. He concentrated, and given his anger it would have been easy for him to break such bindings even if they were cast by Paptimus himself. But he couldn’t, no matter how much he tried. And when he looked around him, he gasped in surprise.

 

His bonds were actually quite physical. Reaching out from the darkness of the summoning chamber were _hands_ , dozens upon dozens of them. Pitch-black in color, seemingly constructed out of shadow, and attached to disembodied arms which were not connected to anything, they held Renault’s body frozen in the air with cold fingers far stronger than anything any human being was capable of. No amount of willpower would take Renault from their grasp, and Renault found himself more frightened than he’d ever been in his entire life. Barbarossa, the Armor of the Berserk, even the ghosts of the Reaper’s Labyrinth could not compare to the fear Nergal elicited now. The only thing that kept him from breaking was that his hate and anger matched his fear.

 

It was not those magic arms of shadow which really elicited that fear, though. Despite their hideous otherworldliness, Nergal himself appeared more horrifying than anything Renault had ever seen before.

 

Summoning that many shadow-hands at once had given off a small shockwave of magic energy, and that shockwave had actually done more damage to Nergal than Renault did. It managed to blow Nergal’s turban off of his head.

 

And for the first time, Renault could see what it had previously concealed. He could see clearly the left side of Nergal’s face.

 

And he screamed.

 

What lay beneath the folds of Nergal’s turban was his left eye. His twisted, deformed, grotesque left eye.

 

It was wide, unstaring, and unblinking, for it had no eyelid. Bloodshot and pockmarked, it had swollen to twice the side of his right, apparently in order to occupy a socket which had been partially blasted away. ‘Blasted away’ made the most sense, for the left side of his head was covered in hideous burns and lacerations which indicated someone had tried to murder him—but failed.

 

“Yes indeed, fool,” said Nergal, stepping up to him and smirking. He brought himself within inches of Renault’s face, utterly secure in the knowledge that the Mercenary Lord was utterly harmless. This was humiliating enough on its own, but seeing the twitching, oversized, malformed orb that was Nergal’s other eye within inches of his face was enough to make Renault’s stomach turn. “Do not think I am some upjumped gladiator with delusions of grandeur, like this…Paptimus was. I have been practicing magic for a long, long time. I was a master before you were born…before Paptimus was born…even before the dragons were scoured from Elibe. Against _my_ Darkness, Renault, you have no chance. The little toys you call a blade and dagger cannot so much as scratch me. In the face of my might, you…a man who considers himself to be a mighty warrior, a Mercenary Lord who has lived through a hundred battles…you are nothing more than a _child!_ ”

 

“I…it can’t be,” Renault screamed, “YOU’RE LYING!” Yet his rage was steadily giving way to despair—he knew Nergal was right. The dark energy he felt surging from the sorcerer far exceeded anything Paptimus had been able to produce, anything he had ever felt before, anything he had ever even thought possible.

 

Nergal knew this as well. He didn’t even dignify Renault with a response.

 

“Th…then why?!” he sobbed. “How? Y…you could barely stand when I first met you! If you had all this power, why the hell did you need me? Why the hell did you need _Braddock?!_ ”

 

“Heh, heh, heh,” Nergal grinned. “As I said, Renault, I gave you everything you wanted, but I never said I wouldn’t take what I needed as well. When we first met, I was indeed a pathetic shell of my former self. You may be weak, but Athos was not. You could have killed me easily back then. But then you started bringing me quintessence…and that was the only thing I needed to recover. You don’t think I used _everything_ you brought me on those morphs, do you? Silly fool. I squandered maybe a tenth of our quintessence on those failed experiments. The rest went to me. I’m almost as powerful as I was before Athos drove me out! And it’s all thanks to you, my devoted servant!”

 

“Nergal…you used me…” Renault mouthed in disbelief. The words Dougram had spoke before he died echoed through his head, and he couldn’t stop his tears from streaming once again when he realized he had murdered a friend on behalf of a most devilish foe. His face contorted into a rictus of pain, caught somewhere between pure rage and unfathomable anguish. “Dougram was right! You used me!! _YOU USED ME!_ ”

 

“I merely gave you what you truly wanted, Renault. But if you wish to think I “used” you…well, who am I to disagree?”

 

“ _grrrrrraaaaAAAAAAHHHH!_ ” Renault let out one more ear-splitting scream as he struggled—fruitlessly—against his chains of shadow. “Nergal,” he gasped, staring directly at his now-foe’s twisted eye. His rage had once again overtaken his fear. “Nergal, I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you. You won’t get away with this!”

 

“More threats? Not a good idea from someone in your position.”

 

Now it was Renault’s turn to laugh. “You’re the Dark Master here, right? If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done so already. What’s wrong? If you’re gonna kill me, you better do it now. Because otherwise, I’ll hunt you down to the ends of Elibe if I have to!”

 

Another laugh from Nergal. “How perceptive, Renault! You’re correct. I actually don’t plan on killing you. But,” and both his eyes—his good one and his wounded one—seemed to glow—“I am not leaving you alive for the reasons you think.

 

“You see, Renault, you cannot harm me. You cannot _possibly_ harm me, now or ever. No…there is no reason to kill you. I think it will be much more satisfying to leave you alive, and leave you to wander this world for all eternity. Yes, yes indeed…I will let you live, Renault, so that in a hundred years, or two hundred, or however long it takes, you will be the one to witness my conquest of this world! And you will look at me, sitting upon the throne of the gods, watching me cleanse their creation, fully aware that _you_ were the one who helped me rise!

 

“Yes, Renault…a helpless, wretched witness to destruction you helped wreak. That is the perfect fate for you!”

 

More shadow-hands shot out of the darkness, covering every inch of his body. Inky-black fingers rapped themselves around his head, over his eyes, and then Renault knew no more.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Much of the dialogue references Renault and Nergal’s battle conversation, along with his supports with Canas. The hands are taken from the scene with Ninian and Nils escaping.

 

 


	49. Two Centuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The now-inhuman Renault has not given up his quest to revive his best friend. And for two hundred years he will wander across Elibe, searching for a way to reunite with his friend. These are but a few brief glimpses of his life during that time.

**Chapter 49: Two Centuries**

When he came to, the first thing Renault felt was cold stone beneath him and a ringing pain in his head. The pain was dissipating rapidly, though, and that allowed him to recollect his thoughts. How’d he end up here? What had happened to him? He remembered an army of shadowy hands descending upon every inch of his body, directed by…

 

“NERGAL!” he yelled, hatred flowing back into his mind and spurring him to action. His eyes shot wide open and he leapt to his feet, intending to tear his betrayer to pieces, but then stopped when he noticed that something had…changed.

 

He was still in the summoning room. He was also still clad in his armor, with his helm lying nearby. The room itself, however, was looking much different than it had before he’d been knocked out. The altar was gone, along with the runic circle on the floor. The four torchstands were still there, but they were now dark and dead, without the slightest trace of magic clinging to them. The room wasn’t entirely lightless, though. A few beams of dim sunlight filtered in from the ceiling through cracks that hadn’t been there before. In fact, the floor, the torchstands, and all his surroundings seemed to be eroded and dilapidated, as if they had once been alive…and had now lost their source of sustenance, condemned to rot away.

 

Did that mean his foe had disappeared as well? “Nergal?! Nergal, where are you!” Renault screamed, but his voice only echoed across an empty room. This seemed to confirm his suspicions, but Renault wasn’t certain, yet. He reached down and picked up his helmet, equipping it and allowing its enchantment to make it easier for him to see. The summoning room was indeed entirely abandoned, silent and still as a tomb. How about the rest of the sanctuary?

 

He stepped into the central throne room, once again lit only barely by new cracks in the walls and ceiling. The first thing that drew his attention was his friend. Braddock’s body remained on the altar in the center of the room, quiet and unmoving, but this time there was no blue glow over him. Renault immediately rushed over, leaning over his corpse. A strangled cry escaped from his lips when he saw the condition of the body. It was beginning to bloat and its color was starting to change.

 

“Braddock…Braddock…” He collapsed to his knees in front of the altar, mouthing his friend’s name. Tears again welled up in his eyes, but a waft of fetid air floated up from below him, snapping him out of what would have been a despair-induced reverie.

 

“No…” Renault growled, “NO!” He got up with another vicious snarl. “I’m not gonna stop. Not gonna give up…Nergal used me… _used me!_ And he used you too, bud. Defiled your body…your image…just to manipulate me. I’m not gonna let him get away with that. I’m gonna avenge you, Braddock! Gonna make him pay for using you! And…wait…” He remembered something else Nergal had said:

 

_I could easily create a morph with emotions. To call me a mere puppet-maker proves only your own ignorance…_

Now Renault began to laugh.

 

It started off low, then ascended into a wild, keening crescendo that was as deeply malevolent as Nergal’s own, but much less controlled. It lasted for almost a full minute before Renault finally managed to stop himself.

 

“N-no, I was wrong,” he giggled madly to himself, “I was wrong! I should’ve known! _I_ won’t get revenge, Braddock. We will. _We_ will! Nergal said he could bring you back if he wanted to—he just didn’t want to. Yeah, well, why can’t I do the same? The morphs…I can learn how to create them, and surpass Nergal, and do what he wouldn’t. Or…or…who knows? There are stories…maybe there’s another way to bring you back. Maybe another way to revive you…maybe I don’t even have to deal with all this Morph garbage at all!” He let out another hysterical giggle and lovingly stroked Braddock’s decaying hair. “D-don’t worry, bud. Th-this is no big deal. I wasted a year…a year…but that’s all! I have a lot of years ahead of me…a lot. This is just a minor setback…minor! I’ll figure out a way to bring you back, and _then_ we can hunt down Nergal! Together!”

 

His mind was made up. This sanctuary would serve as Braddock’s tomb, then, isolated on the mountaintop as it was, until he figured out a means of resurrection. In the meantime, he had to get started on finding a way to do what Nergal wouldn’t. First, Renault hurried over to the entrance to the odd dragon-fountain room he’d sometimes used. It was still there, but in unfathomable disrepair. The fountain was dry and cracked, and the dragon’s head was broken off. It seemed to have been abandoned for _years_ —how long had he been out? Braddock’s body hadn’t skeletonized or mummified, so someone must have been keeping the enchantment running until somewhat recently…right?

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Renault muttered to himself. Regardless of whether he’d been somehow thrown through time (either forwards or backwards) it wouldn’t change his single-minded determination to get Braddock back. He turned away from the broken fountain and headed to his next destination. There, unfortunately, he found something a bit more discouraging.

 

Entering Nergal’s library, Renault grimaced when he saw it was as deserted as the rest of the sanctuary. The bookshelves were completely empty, their knowledge lost to him. The “Ascended” weapons were gone, taken by Nergal. Even the supplies he’d brought up here, along with those he’d bought or pilfered over the course of his time with Nergal, were absent. There was absolutely nothing for him to use.

 

He let out a frustrated growl, but that was all. Renault had no idea how Nergal had not only managed to escape but take an entire library and a small armory with him. Then again, dark magic could do all kinds of strange things. No matter how much Nergal could teleport with him, and no matter how far he could take himself, Renault would find him eventually. Renault _and_ Braddock.

 

“No point hanging around here, then,” Renault muttered to himself. The less time he wasted in an empty, abandoned sanctuary, the more time he had to resurrect his friend.

 

He gave an affectionate pat to his Brave Sword, secure in its sheath at his side. Then he strode out the library, up the cracked, crumbling steps that led to the hermitage, and out into the afternoon sun of Bern’s most forbidding mountains.

 

Renault left the darkness of Nergal’s abode behind him. But it would yet remain with him for the rest of his life.

 

-x-

 

If there were any soldiers, or even travelers, left around this part of the mountain, Renault would have been in very deep trouble. As it was, however, it seemed the mountain trail was as deserted as the hermitage it led to. Once again, this made Renault somewhat curious as to how long he’d been incapacitated. Was it 704? 777? 2777? Or had he somehow been returned to a time before the Scouring? He had no idea what Nergal’s dark magic could do, but figured he might be able to find out at his destination.

 

Trying to keep a low profile, as he descended he saw the great walls of Par Massino looming over him. The gates were open, and he hoped the complex wasn’t inhabited. Nergal had told him the soldiers had given up their investigation some time ago, but since the sorcerer had lied to him about so much, Renault wasn’t about to take his word without reservations. Still, at the moment there wasn’t really much he could do.

 

He sneaked up to one gate, pressed his body against it, and peered around it, trying to sneak a look at the monastery’s interior. Indeed, there was nothing there—it seemed to be as silent and empty as the rest of the area. Feeling more confident, he slipped inside and began an examination of the grounds.

 

About two hours later, he had a few answers, along with a good amount of useful supplies. The monastery had indeed been inhabited fairly recently, but not anymore. He’d found fire pits, privies, garbage pits, and worn-out/cast away equipment which were the tell-tale signs of a detachment of soldiers making camp. The fire pits seemed to be about a month old, though. This indicated to Renault that he had indeed been knocked unconscious for only a few hours, and Nergal had spirited away all his equipment in an astonishingly short amount of time. The decay of the sanctuary itself also must have happened at a greatly accelerated rate. And as fortune would have it, scrounging around the barracks provided him with a few spare hardtack rations (still good), a tattered traveling cloak, a total of five hundred gold pieces scattered, dropped, or hidden around the monastery, a usable burlap sack, and an equally usable Steel Sword. The library was even better—he couldn’t carry everything, but the soldiers had apparently left the books alone (they probably weren’t educated enough to realize their true value), allowing Renault to come away with a handful of useful Draconic tomes on Dark magic. It was nothing compared to what he could have found in Nergal’s library, but it was a start.

 

As he exited the monastery and prepared to descend the rest of the mountain—alone—he stopped as he took a step outside its gates. Something had just occurred to him.

 

He wasn’t hungry.

 

He’d taken a few of the rations he’d found, of course, but he wasn’t in the mood to eat them. He wasn’t hungry at all. Given how long he’d been knocked out, that was somewhat strange.

 

Still, he didn’t much care. Perhaps he simply didn’t have much of an appetite after all he’d been through. Renault simply shrugged and continued on his journey.

 

-x-

 

Renault was standing alone on the deck of a small schooner heading from Grimley to Lycia, pondering the stars in the night sky above him. It had taken him about three weeks to get on this boat, and according to the captain, it was the 18th Sword, providing absolute confirmation that he’d indeed spent only a few hours unconscious in Nergal’s sanctuary. The real trouble had been getting back to civilization from Par Massino. The mountain trail leading up to it was even more battered and dilapidated, since no visitors had come to it for some time. Additionally, the lack of a guide meant he’d had to navigate it without any knowledge at all of which areas were crumbling and unstable, where to best take refuge against snowfalls and avalanches, and so on.

 

Still, Renault had been living in these mountains for so long that he had very much become acclimated to them. Treacherous as the trail was, by moving slowly and methodically he’d been able to leave the mountains behind him after about a week. The fact that the great winter snowstorms hadn’t hit yet made it much easier. From there, it wasn’t difficult to simply follow the road leading to Grimley. The name ‘Renault’ was still suspicious in these parts; the memory of what had happened to Par Massino had not faded entirely. Still, so long as he hid himself under his pilfered cloak, no-one would ask questions, and the captain of the dingy little schooner taking him out of the country wouldn’t either so long as he had the money to pay for his passage. A few years in foreign lands—Lycia, Sacae, wherever—would probably be enough for the people of Bern to forget the name of the man who had supposedly wiped out Par Massino.

 

And, in all likelihood, a few years was nothing compared to how many he had ahead of him. Renault turned his eyes from the sky above him to peer down on his reflection below. He looked exactly the same…but he certainly didn’t feel the same.

 

In all of the almost-month it had taken him to get to Grimley, he hadn’t eaten once.

 

His stomach didn’t rumble. He felt no pangs of hunger. And he felt absolutely none of the other tiny indications of humanity, or even life. No clouds wafted from his mouth when he exerted himself—his breath was as cold as the air around him. He didn’t sweat. And he hadn’t felt the need to relieve himself once in all the time he’d been traveling. The only thing he really felt was tiredness—every day, at about the same time, he would catch himself yawning, and then lay himself down to sleep in his cloak next to the fire he’d built, waking up again at the exact same time next morning, every morning.

 

He spat into the water below. At least his mouth still seemed to be working. “Nergal,” he muttered, watching his reflection shimmer, “what have you done to me?”

 

But as the tiny ship continued to drift across the River Hartmar, he simply shrugged once again.

 

It really didn’t matter.

 

_-X- Bluemoon Tower -X-_

Renault stood in front of the small puddle, again watching his reflection within its depths. He’d been doing that less and less often these days, but since tonight was also a clear, moonlit night, he couldn’t resist the temptation this time.

 

“Quite some magic, Nergal,” he mumbled. The anger he’d initially felt at his betrayal had subsided, though a deep, burning resentment and loathing remained. But it had been so long since Nergal had cast him into this form, and Renault had to give the sorcerer credit—he meant every word of what he had said 10 years ago.

 

For it had indeed been 10 years, yet Renault still looked exactly the same, as if he hadn’t aged at all.

 

“Oi! Mercenary! You comin’, or ‘ave ye lost y’r guts?”

 

“Yeah, I’m coming,” growled Renault, turning away from the small puddle and putting on his helmet. He tramped across the wet grass to join the man who’d called for him, and the two of them marched off to rejoin the larger troupe they were a part of—a small, scraggly band of knights in the employ of Marquess Katz of Santaruz.

 

It was 714 years after the Scouring. Renault had spent the last decade taking on odd jobs for all sorts of employers in the country of Lycia, where Braddock had been born. Why had he chosen Lycia? It was a small nation concerned with its own affairs, not given to the imperial games of Bern and Etruria, which meant he’d be able to lay low and let his reputation—as a hero of the Etrurian Civil War, but also as the thief of the Excalibur tome and the murderer of Par Massino—slide into irrelevance and gradual oblivion. Lycia was also relatively civilized and urbane compared to Sacae, Ilia, or the Western Isles, so he hoped to find at least some scholar or repository of information which could teach him more about morphs, the unification of a body and mind, or, of course, any other method of resurrection, no matter how far-fetched.

 

Thus, he had been wandering the country, taking odd jobs wherever he could find them, particularly seeking out magicians, to either work for or against. He had little trouble finding employment, for virtually no mercenary in Lycia—or, indeed, most places in Elibe—could beat his prices. He asked for no more than necessary to repair his arms and armor. Money held little appeal to him, now. He cared about resurrecting Braddock, and absolutely nothing else. He didn’t even have any use for food. He still hadn’t felt hungry—or sweaty, or itchy, or anything, really—even once after his final departure from Nergal’s mountain sanctuary. Though he never stayed in one place long enough for his employers or his allies to question why he didn’t seem to need any of the normal forms of sustenance living creatures required, all of them grew somewhat suspicious of a mercenary who seemed to be working for so little reward. But as long as he fought well, they didn’t ask any questions.

 

Such was the case with his present mission. Over the past month there had been a rash of strange disappearances among the cantons in the southern part of Lycia, particularly Badon, Caelin, and Santaruz. All of them involved young girls from 10 to 16 years of age vanishing at night. Several witnesses had reported sinister men in black robes adorned with strange purple runes skulking around the villages and towns reporting these disappearances.  Ostian spies subsequently strange activity around an abandoned edifice called Bluemoon Tower nestled at the southern coast of Lycia. The local nobility, thinking they were dealing with nothing more than an annoying band of slavers, called upon the closest canton (which was Santaruz) to investigate. The investigation team thus consisted of ten professional knights and mercenaries, of which Renault was one.

 

The band tramped up the trail leading to the ancient tower, supposedly the abode of a great magician who had died during the Scouring. It had been thus abandoned, and suspected to be cursed, ever since then. If any band of thieves or manstealers had really made refuge here, they could only be up to no good.

 

That conviction was confirmed when they reached the tower’s entrance.

 

Passing through an ancient cobbled road that seemed to be composed of more dirt and grass than stone, Renault and his comrades knew they were nearing their destination when they began to notice large chunks of rock and rubble strewn around the area that looked as if they had once been part of great arches, columns, or statues. Pushing forwards, they arrived at an ancient—but still standing—barbican or gatehouse guarding a long bridge over the waters of the Gulf of Lycia, out of which protruded the massive tower. Looking at how it was highlighted behind the light of the full moon—the very top of the cylindrical structure seemed to have four points arching upwards that made it seem almost like a claw grabbing the moon—Renault figured the “Bluemoon” moniker was quite accurate.

 

The tower, however, was supposed to have been abandoned since the Scouring. Why, then, were there a trio of men holding torches in front of the barbican?

 

“Oi,” called one of them, “Who’s there?”

 

“Loyal knights of the rightful lord of Sataruz,” replied the leader of the expedition. “What business have you here?”

 

“Damnation,” yelled one of them, “They’re onto us! Call the boss!”

 

One of the trio dashed back through the gates, onto the bridge, and into the tower, while the other two drew their weapons—an axe and sword—and prepared to attack. Before they could even advance, though, they were already dead. Renault had dashed past his comrades, unsheathed a Silver Sword (even his Brave Sword and Runesword had worn out several years ago) and cut them both down before they could react.

 

“Damn, man! It’s like you’re not wearing any armor at all,” whistled the leader. “Glad you’re on our side!”

 

“Yeah,” Renault grunted in response. He looked down at the bodies—these two seemed to be nothing more than bandits or ordinary hired thugs one could see anywhere on Elibe. These weren’t the black-robed men supposedly responsible for the abductions. However, the one that had got away mentioned something about a “boss.” Perhaps their quarry lay inside? “Look, one of ‘em got away, and I think more’re waiting in the tower. We’ve got a fight ahead of us, it seems. No point letting them get their defenses ready. Let’s move in and see what’s in there!”

 

The leader agreed, as did the other soldiers—they all raised their weapons in the air, and with a resounding cheer, charged forwards, across the bridge, and into the tower.

 

There was indeed a welcoming party waiting for them. Beyond the bridge and up a small set of crumbling stone stairs lay the first floor main chamber of the tower, a large room broken by columns which helped to hold the rest of the structure up, around which twisted a stairwell leading to the upper levels. Another half-dozen bandits were waiting for them, armed with bows, swords and axes. They were cheap and ill-trained, and even without Renault’s help the knights of Santaruz could have exterminated them easily, but it didn’t even take half a minute for the Mercenary Lord and his friends to slaughter them all. No more compliments were forthcoming, though—all of them were beginning to sense that they needed to get to the top as quickly as possible.

 

On to the second level they advanced, where this time a few magicians stood in their way. The Bluemoon Tower was not the simplest affair but not the most complex either; while there were many side rooms and passages around the circumference of each floor, the stairs themselves wrapped around the height of the tower. Each floor, however, was well defended--the knights and mercenaries had to fight through spearmen and Fighters on each flight of stairs. Fortunately, they had a pair of archers in their entourage, who picked off the annoying cultists from a safe distance. On to the next levels.

 

Now it seemed the true masters of this tower were beginning to show themselves. As the team rounded another set of stairs, they caught sight of a pair of menacing goons wearing thick black robes which would have concealed them from sight within the shadows if not for the glowing purple runes all over them. “C…Curses,” one of them hissed, “The hired help was too weak! I’ll inform the master!” He immediately ran away, while his friend took out a small black tome which Renault recognized was a dangerous book of Fenrir spells. He opened it and began to chant, but was promptly stopped by a chain-dagger embedding itself into his eye; a moment later Renault had rushed up to him and put him out of his misery.

 

“What manner of…” one of the Knights gasped, “By the Saint! Dark Magic?!”

 

“And a pretty advanced tome, too,” Renault concurred. “I don’t think these guys are just ordinary slavers. What the hell are they after?”

 

“Let’s not give them enough time to show us! Onwards!”

 

Renault and his comrades couldn’t argue with that. They continued to push upwards through the tower, slaughtering anyone they came across, which now included a few Shamans along with the bandits.

 

They advanced up the final spiral staircase to the second-highest floor of the tower. This was similar in architecture to the top of Zodian’s rest, actually. Renault found his head popping out of the staircase into open air—there were no walls, the roof and last floor of the tower was held up by four columns on the penultimate floor. Unlike Zodian’s Rest, however, the roof was an open space of its own rather than being occupied by an icon of Saint Elimine, and rather than church bells hanging from its ceiling, there were two awnings on the east and west sides of it, both forming staircases without rails spiraling perilously in the air (Renault couldn’t understand how they’d been built, save through sorcery) leading up to the roof, where the four curved spires pierced the night sky.

 

There was only one person guarding this floor--a young-looking Shaman, who provided them a small tidbit of information about what was going on.

 

“The summoning ritual will be completed,” he crowed. “The full moon and the blood of a maiden will call back the demons! You can’t stop it now! Hee hee h—“ He was promptly cut off by a Knight’s spear through the head.

 

When they ran past him, up the stairs (being _very_ careful not to fall) and onto the very top of Bluemoon Tower, it seemed as if he was right.

 

The tower’s pinnacle was a large, flat, unenclosed circle, completely open to the night sky around it except for the four claws curving around and above it. From the center of that circle arose an altar—a strange one, unlike any that Renault had ever seen. Carved out of the same stone as comprised the rest of the tower, it was covered in grotesque reliefs depicting _dragons_ , of all things, as if it was intended for their worship. On top of that altar lay a young girl covered with nothing more than a white cloth—one of the unfortunate abductees, Renault surmised. She was breathing, but her eyes were closed; apparently they’d put her into some kind of magic-induced coma or trance. Around her was a circle of twelve black-robed miscreants, all holding their hands in the air and chanting, while over her loomed another, taller man in the same black garb, clutching a knife over her chest as he chanted in a language Renault recognized as the human approximation of Draconic.

 

“What in God’s name are you doing?!” yelled the lead knight. “Stop!”

 

The worshippers, however, were too engrossed in their ritual for anything to stop them now. The lead sorcerer, the one holding the knife, raised his Draconic chant to a crescendo, and then, in the common language, shouted at the top of his lungs,

 

_“O Great Lords of the Dark! Heed my call! Under thy holy moon, I render unto thee this sacrifice! Let this maiden’s blood bridge the gap between our worlds!”_

With those words, he plunged the knife straight into the girl’s chest.

 

Her eyes shot wide open, the magical sleep cast upon her dispelled, just long enough to let out a single, heartrending cry that seemed to echo all across the coast.

 

Then, as her bright red blood spread across the cloth covering her and began to drip down across the altar, she fell silent.

 

And after that…

 

Nothing happened.

 

Both the cultists conducting this vile ceremony and the knights who had failed to stop it stood frozen, waiting breathlessly for what was coming next…

 

Nothing did.

 

“T…Typhus,” stammered one of the shamans in the circle, addressing the man holding the knife, “What the hell? _Another_ failure?”

 

“I-I don’t know what happened!” he replied frantically. “The texts say that if we sacrifice a pure maiden on a moonlit night on top of this tower, demons will descend and grant us their power!”

 

“This is the third girl we’ve killed in the past two months, and we haven’t seen anything happen at all!” groaned another. “We’re just wasting time and blood here!”

 

“W-well, it’s not my fault! Maybe the conditions aren’t right!”

 

“It’s a completely full moon, Typhus, just like it was the past two times. We won’t get any better than this.”

 

“Maybe the girl wasn’t pure! You’re the one in charge of collecting them! Why didn’t you check to make sure she hadn’t been—“

 

“Check?! If I did, she _certainly_ wouldn’t be pure anymore, you idiot!”

 

The head cultist—“Typhus”—was just about to deliver a scathing retort when the lead knight decided he’d heard more than enough. “You vile curs!” he screamed. “Kill them all!”

 

The ten soldiers descended upon the demoralized, disoriented cultists and showed them all the mercy they deserved—that is to say, absolutely none. Renault, however, wasn’t as filled with righteous anger as his fellows. While the rest of them were hacking apart Typhus’ underlings, Renault dashed right up to the man and knocked him out with a heavy punch to the head. When the battle was finished, he handed the unconscious Druid over to the knights.

 

“You didn’t kill him? Good work!” smiled the leader. “After what happened to that poor girl, the rest of us would’ve torn him apart if we got our hands on him. Thanks to your cool head, though, we’ll be able to interrogate him!”

 

“Damn cold-blooded, that one is,” muttered one of the archers quietly. Renault heard, but paid no attention. He simply nodded, then turned to head back down the tower.

 

“Ay! Wait,” called the Knight, “Where’re you going? You haven’t even been paid yet!”

 

“My job here is done,” Renault called back, and continued his descent into the shadows, leaving the confused warriors behind him.

 

It was well and truly done, indeed. When the knights brought Typhus to the dungeons of Santaruz, a few moments on the torturer’s rack were enough to make him confess everything. He was nothing but a lowly wizard’s apprentice from Etruria who had managed to steal a rare, ancient tome of obscure black magic from his master’s library, one which supposedly contained the secrets of summoning creatures from other worlds. He fled to Lycia and began a cult of sorts, promising his adherents unlimited power if they helped him break the walls between dimensions and summon monsters to serve him. However, as it turned out, he could only understand parts of the book which were written in Draconic. Much of the rest of it was written in a language he had no understanding of, most notably the summoning ritual. Having attained a small following, he didn’t want to lose face, so he invented a ritual involving the sacrifice of “pure maidens” he thought would work, based off what he’d heard in various fairy tales and bard’s songs back in Etruria. Of course, the fake ritual didn’t work at all, meaning he’d utterly wasted the lives of all the young girls his stooges had abducted.

 

Before he was hanged, the interrogators asked him where that tome went. He had no idea—they didn’t believe him, but even after having all his fingernails removed he continued to maintain that he didn’t have the tiniest inkling of what had happened to it.

 

Of course he wouldn’t know. Renault had removed it from the folds of his robes right when he’d been knocked out. And the Mercenary Lord could make much, much better use of it.

 

-X- _The Wisdom of the Plains_ –X-

 

“I’ve completed your test. Now let me see the elder.”

 

Renault tossed the bloody head of the wolf unceremoniously onto the prayer mat before him, drawing gasps from the Sacaen tribesmen gathered in a circle around him.

 

“C…chief,” stammered one, whispering into the ear of the largest man of the gathering, “It can’t be—“

 

The older, bearded man simply shook his head. “The law of the plains is what it is, and we must obey it. Those who have a Sacaen’s bravery are Sacaens. He has proven himself so, and so he shall pass.”

 

The chief waved a hand and stepped to the side, and the crowd around Renault dispersed in the same way, leaving the way open to the small, unassuming ger in front of him.

 

With great satisfaction, Renault stepped inside. He’d definitely earned the privilege, after all. Not because killing the so-called “Great Wolf” was any real challenge for him. Sacaens, with their silly superstitions and focus on honor, would never think of luring their prey with poisoned meat set out in the middle of the forest; even a wolf larger than Renault was easy to kill when it was paralyzed and wracked with pain. No, he earned it because he had spent twenty years in this barren land of savages and barbarians.

 

After the incident at the Bluemoon Tower, it occurred to him that he probably wouldn’t gain much by staying in Lycia. The tome of summoning he’d acquired was interesting, but didn’t contain much information directly relevant to the process of revivification. And he wouldn’t be able to find much more in Lycia; though that country had a few decent magic schools, such as in Ostia, it had none of the great libraries of Etruria and Bern. Sacae, however…strange as it sounded, such an uncivilized land would actually not be a bad place to study. Renault had heard many stories of Sacaen Druids and shadow-masters of terrifying power—even the strongest tribes bowed before their wisdom and desperately avoided their wrath.

 

Going off everything he had learned from Nergal, this actually made sense, and for fairly mundane reasons. Of the three great schools of magic, “Elder” was the most dangerous, not only to its wielders but to those around them. A failed incantation from a Dark mage could spell death (or worse) for many people if he lived in a city or any kind of densely populated urban area, which is why the civilized (and therefore urbanized) nations distrusted Dark magicians at best and drove them out at worst. On the wide-open plains of Sacae or deep forests of Ilia, however, the sparse, thinly-spread population meant that Dark magic did not spell quite as much of a risk, and was therefore somewhat more tolerated.

 

For that reason, Renault had spent many years among the plainsmen, though this time far away from Bulgar. His first few years had been…troublesome. His loathing of Dark magicians was very deep-set, and only after nearly being killed by a mob of them after threatening their chief’s advisor did he accept the fact that he’d have to treat both the shadow-lords and the beliefs they represented with a degree of deference, if not genuine respect, if he wanted to get what he needed from them.  


He could live with that. He wasn’t dumb enough to trust any of them, not after how Nergal had betrayed him, but he only had to exploit their knowledge to help him resurrect Braddock.

 

And that knowledge, gleaned painstakingly for so long, had led him to some rather interesting conclusions. The Dark of the Shamans and Druids of Sacae was a distinctly different art than Nergal’s. While he sought to simply dominate the world around him, particularly through the manipulation of quintessence, these savages took a distinctly different approach. They seemed to almost _revere_ the power of the Dark rather than seeing it as something to be twisted and broken to their will, and more importantly, they saw it as only one part of a greater magical whole. In their view, there were sources of power in the world that Nergal was either unaware of or had completely overlooked. For instance, they claimed many of Elibe’s non-human residents (legendary or not) possessed strange powers. The Pegasi of Ilia were reputed to serve a goddess who could grant wishes. There was also the legendary Phoenix of the Western Isles, who (Renault was _very_ interested to hear) supposedly revived itself after death.

 

The most potent source of power, however, was held to be that of creation, and unfortunately, it was the one which the druids seemed to know the least about. They all believed in “Father Sky” and “Mother Earth” (and seemed to be alternately amused and annoyed by Eliminean monotheism, which Renault heartily agreed with) from which everything else, including magic, originated. Humans were incapable, by themselves, of wielding this power, but the gods—held to be the firstborn children of the Sky and Earth, and intercessionaries between the Great Parents and their distant descendants, mankind—had put some of this power into the Divine Weapons which had destroyed the dragons.

 

If anything could resurrect Braddock, that sort of power was a good way to start.

 

That was what brought him to this elder of Kutolah today. He stepped into the small dwelling and immediately started coughing. It was thick with the smell of incense, and looking around he could see why. Six strange candles giving off weird multi-colored smoke were arranged at the points of a hexagram on the floor, in the center of which sat a funny old man in dirty black robes. He looked rather pathetic, and it would have been surprising to hear he was a man of any influence, much less power, were it not for the intimidating magical aura emanating from him.

 

Renault was not impressed, though. This man’s power was nothing compared to the terrors Nergal had shown him.

 

Even so, however, he would not be able to escape the wrath of a tribe as strong as the Kutolah when he was right in the middle of them. Even now he could hear them tittering outside: “Who is this stranger? Who does he think he is? Such disrespect he has shown to our Elder!” In response, Renault immediately bowed his head, and biting back his hatred for the Dark magician in front of him, mouthed the Sacaen words of apology he had learned a long time ago:

 

“Forgive this young one’s impertinence, Grandfather. Politeness is one of the many things I wish to learn from you.”

 

This seemed to satisfy the audience outside, and brought what seemed to be a genuine smile out of the old man’s wizened face. “He is more than happy to teach, youngling. Come, sit, fear not. You have brought with you the head of the Great Wolf, who has terrorized my people for many moons. You have earned my respect.”

 

Renault nodded and kneeled before him, folding his knees as the tribesmen did. “Grandfather, I seek knowledge.”

 

The seer quirked an eyebrow. “Of what kind? I already have an apprentice. The secrets of the Dark are not meant to be given away promiscuously, you know…”

 

“Yea—I, I mean, yes, Grandfather. But it is not magic itself I seek, but knowledge of it.”

 

He quirked his other eyebrow, inviting Renault to go on.

 

“I require…power. I _must_ grow stronger,” and Renault said these words with genuine determination, for they were in fact true.

 

“Why?”

 

“My friend…I lost a friend.”

 

“Mmm.” Thought Renault didn’t provide any details, the Druid knew what he was talking about. “Many have lost loved ones, youngling. Those important to you…they cannot be replaced or brought back. The holes they leave in your heart…you will simply have to bear them for as long as you live.”

 

Renault’s mouth twitched. “Maybe. But I’ve heard tales from the other wise men…Grandfather Olom of the Djute, Grandfather Ysilna of the Lorca. The gods…did they not have the power of creation?”

 

“Indeed they did. But such power is not for either you or I to wield.”

 

“Then, Grandfather, how did the Eight Heroes, including Hanon herself, triumph over the dragons in ages long past?”

 

“Those days are indeed long gone. We of Sacae have no need of such power, with the disappearance of the Dragons. A good bow and a strong horse are all we require.”

 

Renault clenched his teeth. “So there’s nothing more you can tell me?”

 

The elder stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Hmm…in Sacae, you may find nothing. But elsewhere…”

 

“Elsewhere?”

 

“You’ve heard of the Phoenix and the Pegasi, yes? Everyone has. Such creatures were supposedly imbued with Godly power…”

 

“So I’ve heard.”

 

“Do you know where those may be found?”

 

“Pegasi are all over Ilia, but the Phoenix?”

 

“I consider myself a sage of the natural world, and I’ve heard many tales of these legendary creatures…be forwarned, though, you pursue them at your own peril…”

 

“That’s fine.”

 

“The Spring of Pyrene, in Illia…near their capital city, Edessa. The top of Mount Helius, in the Western Isles…that is where the Phoenix supposedly nests.  And on a tiny island off the eastern coast of Bern…there, the Deathrose supposedly guards a treasure of great power. If you wish to regain something you have lost…those places may be as good as any to start your search.”

 

“That’s your advice, then? Thank you, Grandfather,” replied Renault, resisting the urge to spit as he nodded, got up, and turned to leave.

 

“One more warning, though,” the elder called after Renault. “Even if you find answers, they may not be what you seek.”

 

Renault simply shrugged as he tramped out of the ger, past the curious stares of the plainsmen, and out of the Kutolah campsite.

 

“I’ll take my chances.”

 

With those words, he disappeared into the night.

 

-X- _The Lady of the Black Grove_ –X-

 

“Sir, it’s not too late. I can take you back now, if you wish. I won’t even charge you!”

 

Renault didn’t even bother dignifying that with a response. He simply hopped off the deck of the little dinghy moored by the beach and onto the sand. He then turned back to the vessel and tossed a pouch of gold to its proprietor, a Bernese fisherman desperately in need of money (if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have agreed to what he considered a mad quest).

 

“S…Sir,” he stammered, but Renault cut him off.

 

“You’ll get the other half of your payment when I come back. Just stay put.”

 

“B-but, don’t you know this island’s reputation? None who’ve ventured into the garden have ever returned!”

 

“Well, that’s my problem. Nobody’s gonna get you on this beach, are they?”

 

“I don’t know! Nobody in Bern’s ever been foolish enough to even come near this island!”

 

“If something comes at you, or I don’t return within a day, then feel free to leave. Otherwise, if you want enough money to pay off those debt collectors, stay _here!_ ”

 

He was done talking. Over the fisherman’s protests, Renault strode resolutely forwards, into the strange, verdant grove which looked completely out of place on such an otherwise desolate island. The place was tiny, too, not much larger than the small graveyard on which Paptimus and Braddock had their final battle, so many years ago. It didn’t show up on any maps; it had taken Renault twenty years of wandering through Bern, eavesdropping on every sort of conversation in every sort of seedy tavern, to both figure out where Deathrose Isle was and find someone willing (or desperate enough) to take him there.

 

After all that work, he wasn’t going to turn back now.

 

He stepped over a thick root, brushing foliage away from his head as he advanced. He’d never seen plants quite like these before. Some were taller than any tree he’d ever seen on the mainland, jutting up far into the grey sky above him, while others came just to his knees. All of them, however, had bright green leaves…with strange designs on them. The veins and creases on those leaves seemed to be arranged in patterns that looked almost like _faces_.

 

A trick of the eyes, Renault wagered. Still, as he passed them by, when they swayed in the gentle sea breeze, he could have sworn it looked like those faces were screaming. And if he were more superstitious, he might have said he heard a faint sound beneath the wind—something like a thousand tiny voices, screaming in unison.

 

Unnerving as all this was, he pressed on, towards what he knew must be waiting at the center of the grove.

 

Even tripping on a human skull—and noticing dozens more lying on the ground around it—wasn’t enough to break his resolve. He simply unsheathed his sword and continued onwards.

 

Soon enough, then, the line of trees suddenly stopped, as if some unearthly force had arrested their growth, and Renault stepped into the clearing which served as the abode of the master of Deathrose Isle.

 

Or mistress, as it turned out.

 

In the center of the clearing, surrounded by a pile of what seemed to be enough human skulls to fill an entire catacomb, was a flower. A _gigantic_ flower, larger than Renault himself. It was shaped as a rose, but its titanic petals were pitch-black rather than red, and at its center, rather than a stamen and pistil, there protruded the upper torso of a human being.

 

A lovely human woman, at that. Her skin was brown, darker than any Bernite or Nabatan he’d ever seen. Her hands were modestly crossed over her naked chest, her eyes closed in deep sleep, and she was crowned by a shock of long white hair.

 

Other men might have been entranced by her beauty, but not Renault.

 

It didn’t do him much good, though. He took one more step forwards, and then found himself hanging in the air.

 

“W-what the—“

 

Faster than the eyes could see, green vines as thick as his legs burst from the ground and wrapped themselves around his body. They rose, taking him with them, and Renault felt a surge of dark magic emanating from them, similar (though not entirely the same) to energy produced by a Nosferatu spell. That explained where all those skulls came from.

 

Oddly enough, however, it didn’t seem like Renault would be joining them.

 

The energy from the vines crested for a moment, but Renault didn’t feel his life draining away. He got the feeling they _couldn’t_ , for some reason. Their owner wasn’t expecting this. The sleeping woman at the center of the black rose began to stir. Her brows furrowed, as if she was having a bad dream, and then she opened her eyes. Bizarre, they were—yellow with vertical pupils, like a cat’s. She peered at Renault with an expression that looked like she’d tasted something unpalatable.

 

“You” _…_ she hissed in a strange, sibilant voice. “What are you?”

 

Renault didn’t respond. He simply thrashed around, trying in vain to free himself.

 

“A tough little morsssel, you are,” she smiled, revealing a mouth full of sharp fangs. “You interest me, yess…your life-force is…odd, sssooo very odd. I sense it, I do, yet I cannot take it. Let me get a better look at you…”

 

The vines lifted Renault closer to her, where she reached out and undid his helmet with delicate, dexterous fingers. She peered at the Mercenary Lord, drawing her face up to his and sniffing at it as if she were a cat. “Interesting…what is this? Let’s see…” A smaller vine rose from the ground and wormed its way into Renault’s armor, much to his discomfort—which rapidly turned to panic when he felt it sneak up his chest and yank away the phylactery which contained his essence.

 

“Ah-hah! So that is your trick,” she grinned, eyes wide with delight. “My, how inventive! Truly inventive indeed!” She laughed, loudly and freely, and to his surprise, Renault found the vines loosening from him and lowering him to the ground. He didn’t know why this woman—the Deathrose—had shown him such mercy, and he planned to make her regret it, but was immediately stopped by a vine leveling itself at his throat, razor-sharp thorns all across its surface threatening to behead him if he made any threatening moves.

 

“Now, now,” she pouted. “Don’t do anything foolish, especially after I’ve been sssooo very nice to you. Stupid men are the least interesting of all.”

 

“A-alright, fine,” Renault stammered, lowering his weapons. The vines, in return, drew back, but not far enough to make him feel comfortable. He glared at the plant-woman, not knowing what she was playing at. “What the hell’s up with you, lady?”

 

“I like you, I do,” she smiled. “For ten thousand years I have rested here, watching the foolishness of both man and dragon. Most visitors are ssssoooo _terribly_ boring…the only fun I get out of them is hearing their _screams_. But you…what is your name?”

 

“Renault.”

 

“You, Renault, are _interesting_. Never before have I seen a manling who bound his soul to a soul-stealer’s crystal. How _delightfully_ droll! Mmm-hmm…’twould be a pity to gobble up someone as interesting as you. For the first time in a century, then, I think I’ll entertain a visitor. What, pray tell, brings you to my humble garden?”

 

“I want to bring someone back,” Renault stated resolutely. “My best friend died in battle, many years ago. The Deathrose can take life, so I’ve heard. Can’t she return it?”

 

“Alasssss…” came the reply, and Renault was somewhat surprised to see his hostess looked somewhat sympathetic. “The first is true, but the second…not quite. I grow fruit in my garden that can extend a manling’s life for many years, but to bring him back from the dead? Hmm…how long ago was he lost?”

 

“’bout 50 years ago.”

 

“Alas! Truly, I can do nothing for you, my interesting little visitor. I can reanimate corpses, but…” Renault heard a series of rustling, scraping sounds behind him and turned to look at bones lifting themselves into the air and forming a small band of skeletal warriors. “I presume this is not the ssssort of resurrection you would like?”

 

“Not at all,” growled Renault. “Damnation…even _you_ can’t do anything for me?”

 

“Oh, don’t be ssssad,” she purred. “I can give you some advice…”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Tee hee…have you ever heard of something called a Gate?”

 

“Gate?”

 

“Not a mundane gate, I mean. A Gate!”

 

“Are you still playing with me?”

 

“No, no, dearie. Weren’t you people fighting with the Dragons a little while ago?”

 

“A long time ago, but yeah.”

 

“Where did they go after you defeated them?”

 

“I…I dunno. I don’t think we managed to exterminate all of them…I heard they just went ‘elsewhere.’”

 

Her eyes glowed. “Yes, manling, ‘elsewhere’ is where you need to look. The Dragons disappeared to a land called Archanea.”

 

“Is that another continent?”

 

“Not just another continent, another _world_ entirely. That’s why it can only be reached with a Gate.”

 

“Okay. So what’s there?”

 

“In that land, so I hear, there are staves which can revive the dead. The Ohm staff, held at the Fane of Raman…Oh, and across the sea, in the continent of Jugdral, the Valkyrie Staff, resting at the Tower of Blaggi.  


“If you can find a Gate, and pass through it, you may be able to find the power to bring back the dead. However, keep in mind that such a task is much easier said than done…”

 

“That’s all you have for me? Pfeh.” Renault shrugged. “Well, better than nothing, I guess.” He looked at the vines around him, noticing they’d receded further. “So you’re telling me to look for a Gate to Archanea, or Jugdral?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“And you’re just gonna let me go?”

 

“Indeed,” she giggled. “I like you, Renault. I’ve never seen a body like yours before. Sssuch a shame to destroy it here… Still, you’d best not stay too long. I might get hungry, you know.”

 

Renault took the hint, and after picking up his helmet and weapons, promptly turned and began jogging out of the clearing and back into the surrounding grove.

 

“Oh, one last question.”

 

He stopped for a moment, hearing the woman’s sultry voice in his head. “Huh?”

 

“What year is it?”

 

Renault thought for a moment. “It’s 754 A.S.”

 

“A.S?”

 

“After the Scouring.”

 

She let out another peal of laughter. “My, such a long time to sleep! Ahh, I _must_ thank you for awakening me with such a _fun_ conversation. Dear Renault, if you should ever revive your friend, please pay me another visit. I would _so_ like to meet him…”

 

Renault laughed, shook his head, and strode out of the trees, where he could see the fisherman waiting for him with an astonished look on his face.

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he called back.

 

And those were the last words the Lady of the Grove would hear for a long time.

 

-X- _From Beyond_ –X-

 

“You almost done, Professor?”

 

“Yes, yes, be patient, boy! Just let me get a better look at these…”

 

“Make it fast, ‘sir.’ I’m getting a bad feeling about this, and I don’t think I’m the only one.”

 

The other four members of Renault’s entourage nodded in agreement. Kelden the General, Gaminar the Sniper, Trent the Priest, and Zenith the Hero all clutched their equipment nervously, glancing around the dank, slimy sewers as if they expected an army of the dead to burst out and attack them at any moment.

 

It wasn’t an unreasonable suspicion. The sewers below Aquleia had acquired an extremely nasty reputation over the years, which was precisely why Professor Tillinghast, a scholar of ancient history at one of the city’s largest universities, had hired a quintet of mercenaries to accompany him on his latest expedition. Etruria was the most advanced country on Elibe in terms of both magic and technology, as its intricate canal system and magically-purified seawater used for drinking proved. However, its achievements in civilization lay below the surface as well, specifically in its sewage system. Eliminean precepts placed an extremely high importance on physical cleanliness as well as ritual purity, and the Archbishops of the church had placed pressure on Etruria’s government to maintain high standards of public hygiene for centuries. Consequently, Aquleia possessed an expansive system of large, well-maintained sewer pipes, storm drains, and even several “Purity Shrines,” where specialized mages called Hydromancers separated waste from water to be used as fertilizer on the farms which fed the great city. It worked extremely well—there had not been a significant outbreak of cholera, typhus, or similar epidemic diseases for a very long time.

 

The sewers, however, consisted of more than pipes and tunnels. Aquleia, much like Thagaste and other large cities in Etruria (and Bern) was built over the ruins of an even larger settlement which had been destroyed during the Scouring. In those days, Aquleia had been a sprawling metropolis, one of the centers of human industry, and had been sunk below the earth by the dragons. The new settlement had been built over it, but its sewer pipes often ran into the ancient ruins. Many thought the ruins were haunted (at least), and it was possible that experiments escaped from the labs of Aquleia’s less principled magicians and sorcerers found their way down here as well. People who spent too long in the sewers tended to disappear, which did nothing to combat those sorts of rumors.

 

On the other hand, anyone brave enough could reach the dead, buried city of Old Aquleia if they were willing to venture through New Aquleia’s septic system.

 

It was slow, smelly going, but an inconvenience Renault was happy to deal with. Taking the Deathrose’s advice, for half a century he had sought out a Gate—a connection between Elibe and other worlds, not just other continents but other _worlds_. Bluemoon Tower was supposed to be one, but the book of summoning he’d taken from Typhus gave no clues on how to activate it—the parts he couldn’t read, in Shadetongue, described the denizens of other worlds, but not how to bring them here. Thus, Renault had searched long and hard for someone with the sufficient expertise, and he found such a man in the person of Professor Crawford Tillinghast. A brusque, short-tempered man with a passion for archaeology, he had a fascination for dragons and had spent most of his adult life trying to find out where they’d gone after the Scouring. He’d recently put out a call for brave bodyguards to escort him down through the sewers and into the ruins, where he hoped to find an artifact which might lead “Elsewhere.” Most mercenaries had ignored his job offer…except for Renault. If anyone knew how to operate a Gate, Tillinghast certainly would.

 

Still, it wasn’t as if he enjoyed waiting around in a stinking sewer. Renault and his companions stood behind the professor, keeping an eye out for trouble as he peered at some strange inscriptions carved into an equally strange door which seemed to be built into the wall of one of the sewer pipes. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, causing everyone to start (and Gaminar to jump straight into the air). Heedless of how much he’d surprised his men, he put a hand to the slime-covered door and quietly intoned an incantation in High Imperial. Everyone (except for Renault) received another surprise as the door swung open. With a whoop of joy, the Professor hopped into its shadowy depths, greatly displeasing the men who he’d hired to protect him.

 

The mercenaries chased after him, torches in hand, and luckily they caught up quickly—he was old and not too fast. It wouldn’t have been easy to get lost, for they were going down what seemed to be a straight and narrow corridor. The Priest asked, “Professor, do you know where we’re going?”

 

“Hm? Yes, yes,” came the disinterested reply. “I got a map from the leaders of the last expedition that came down here a few years back. We shouldn’t have any problems getting to the Gate.”

 

“Last expedition? What happened to ‘em?”

 

“One of them came back alive. Great success!”

 

This did not make anyone feel better.

 

Professor Tillinghast, of course, didn’t notice. He continued to press onward, mumbling to himself about “The Beyond” until they finally came to another stone door that seemed to be sealed by the same incantation. It opened up to reveal another batch of corridors, but the Professor’s map was apparently accurate, and he led them through the twisting passages to one more ornate door which led to their destination…or, at least, which they hoped led to their destination.

 

There was a depression at its center, which seemed as if it were waiting to be filled by a sphere or ovoid object. The Professor had just the thing, apparently—he reached into a pocket, plucked out a perfect ruby orb, and fit it into the socket. It glowed bright red for a moment, and then the entire door slid _down_ into the ground. An impressive little feat of engineering, but not as interesting as what lay behind it.

 

At first glance, Renault was struck by the similarity between this room and the pinnacle of Bluemoon Tower, which he’d visited almost 90 years ago. It was circular, with the ceiling held up by several pillars, and held an altar at its very center. And just like the one at Bluemoon Tower, this altar was decorated with busts and depictions of Dragons.

 

Professor Tillinghast seemed to like them quite a bit. “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed, rushing over to it for an examination, running his hands all over its surface and mumbling to himself excitedly. His mercenaries watched this display for about a minute, before one of them finally broke his reverie.

 

“Professor,” said Renault, loudly and harshly enough that he finally gained the obsessive academic’s attention.

 

“Eh? What is it?”

 

“What is this place?”

 

“Didn’t you pay attention to the job posting? It’s a Gate!”

 

Renault looked around. “I’ve seen one of these places before, and it didn’t look like a gate of any kind.” _Or act like one_ , he thought, stifling a chuckle when he remembered Typhus’ failure.

 

“Well, looks can be deceiving. With the right sacrifice on one of these altars, and with sufficient power, you should be able to open up a portal to another world.”

 

“Is it possible to pass through one of those portals?”

 

“I…well, I don’t know. What kind of question is that?”

 

“What the hell do you mean, you don’t know?”

 

“As far as I know, most Gates can only be opened by Dragons. They set it up that way after the Scouring so humans wouldn’t be able to chase them down. But I’ve heard of a few Gates created by human magicians. I’ve only ever heard of them, though…now it’s finally time to see how they work!”

 

“So you have no idea what you’re doing,” Renault grumbled under his breath. “Great.” Still, it couldn’t hurt to stick around and see what this professor came up with. The man was genuinely intelligent, even if he didn’t act like it. If anybody could figure out how these things worked, Tillinghast could.

 

And it seemed like he definitely had some good ideas.

 

“Alright, everyone, stand back,” said the Professor resolutely. “I’m going to try something.”

 

“Like what?” asked Renault, as he and his fellow mercenaries heeded the order.

 

“You wouldn’t under—“

 

“Try me.”

 

“From everything I’ve read, a Gate requires tremendous amounts of energy to open—another reason only Dragons were able to do so. Never underestimate the power of human ingenuity, though! A few scholars thought of ways to create smaller portals using less energy. Still, even these require a great deal of power. The altar you see here is supposed to be able to absorb that power, and create a vortex which represents the intersection of two worlds.”

 

“What kind of power does it need?” asked Zenith.

 

“Quintessence. That—“

 

“Is life force,” Renault finished for him. “Humans, animals, even Dragons…we all possess that life force. It’s possible to use it for fodder in spells and enchantments.” _Maybe that’s why the Bluemoon Tower didn’t activate_ , Renault thought to himself as he said this. _It’d take a lot of quintessence to open even a small Gate, and civilians have barely any. Typhus would’ve been better off sacrificing soldiers or mercenaries._

 

“Y-yes…that’s right,” stammered Tillinghast, somewhat surprised. “How did you know that?”

 

Renault shrugged. “I get around. So, if you’re talking so much about quintessence, I take it you’ve already got some ready for use? Or did you bring us all down here for nothing?”

 

“Oh, ye of little faith! Take a look at this!” Reaching into another pocket, Tillinghast took out a little artifact which Renault noticed was familiar… _very_ familiar.

 

It was, without a doubt, a phylactery. Somewhat larger than the one hanging from Renault’s necklace, and in the shape of a small cube, but the distinctive greenish glass and the odd glow from within confirmed beyond any doubt that it was a phylactery.

 

“By the Saint…what is that thing?” asked Trent.

 

“A phylactery,” Renault answered for him. He turned back to his employer. “I’m not even gonna ask where you got it, but I can tell you’re storing energy inside it. Where the hell did you find quintessence for it?”

 

Tillinghast clutched it to his chest, eyes darting back and forth among the mercenaries in front of him. “W-well, we’ve all got our secrets, right? Don’t ask, don’t tell, and so on. I trust you mercenaries know to keep your mouths shut when your swords are out, yes?”

 

None of them (except for Renault) felt very good about that sort of thing, especially from a “respectable” professor, but they’d all had enough experience in the business to accept his explanation. One by one, they all nodded their assent, then motioned for Tillinghast to begin his ritual.

 

Except for Renault, who had one more question.

 

“Professor,” he coughed.

 

“What is it now?”

 

“Does this Gate lead to Archanea? Or Jugdral?”

 

Now the professor was _really_ surprised. He was starting to suspect Renault was no ordinary mercenary. “My word, how do you know those names?”

 

“Just answer the question.”

 

“I…well, it _might_ …Archanea is where the dragons were supposed to have gone, after all. But there’s no way to tell for sure without opening it.”

 

Renault sighed. “Okay, so I guess it’s time to find out. Work your magic, Professor.”

 

Tillinghast began chanting another incantation, deeper and more guttural than the ones he’d used to open the doors, and held the phylactery above his head. It began to glow, and a golden cloud emerged from its depths and descended onto the altar in front of the caster. The altar itself began to glow, and Renault felt a surge of magic as a purple sigil similar in shape to those used in Dark magic spells appeared in the air. A white light emerged in the center of that sigil, which quickly expanded to become to become a small vortex, rotating quickly. They were all deep underground, but somehow, they felt _wind_ rushing past them—and they all realized that wind was coming from the glowing white vortex in front of them.

 

“I’ve done it!” yelled Tillinghast. “This is indeed a portal! We can—“

 

He was cut off by some _thing_ blowing a hole in his chest.

 

It happened far too quickly for any of the mercenaries to react. Out of the swirling vortex something surged forth, slamming through the professor and embedding itself into the ground behind him. As he gurgled and coughed up blood before going still, the thing in his chest began to squirm, and Renault could see clearly what it was.

 

A pitch-black tentacle covered in sharp spines. Renault had no idea what it was, but it was _definitely_ not a Dragon.

 

Its owner began pulling itself out of the vortex to its world. It withdrew its appendage from Tillinghast’s body, allowing him to drop to the floor, and sent several more writhing into the world of Elibe. Two, four, six became a dozen sable thorn-covered tentacles anchored to the floor of the room, pulling forwards something huge and black…

 

Wherever that thing was coming from, it wasn’t Archanea or Jugdral, and even if it was, Renault knew there was no way he could survive for long in a world full of such monstrosities. “Damnation,” he grunted to himself, “guess I’ll have to give up on those staves.” His fellow mercenaries were frozen in shock, and that would prove to be their undoing. Renault hastily hid himself behind a nearby pillar, and as the rest of them stared in horror, the creature continued to pull itself forwards. With another lightning-fast sweep of its tentacles, it reached out and grabbed the General and the Hero. They screamed as the creature’s spines cut through their armor and through their flesh, and when it dragged them back to its side of the portal, their even louder and more terrified screams told Renault he didn’t want to know what was happening to them.

 

This proved too much for the remaining two mercs—they definitely didn’t think they’d been hired for this. With another pair of screams, the Sniper and Priest dropped their weapons and dashed straight out of the summoning chamber.

 

It was all up to Renault, now—who knew what destruction this creature could wreak if it escaped to the outside world, especially if it brought more friends with it? Granted, Renault didn’t really care, but he did realize it would be harder to resurrect Braddock if the entire continent got eaten by otherworldly cosmic horrors. He’d have to work quickly, too. It seemed like the thing had almost succeeded in pulling itself out of the portal. Peering out from behind the pillar, Renault could now clearly see the dozens of black, thorn-covered tentacles were attached to a bulbous, lumpy body of the same color covered in what seemed to be a multitude of moaning, screeching mouths filled with fangs and dripping a nauseating, smelly green ichor.

 

He almost certainly wouldn’t be able to hack it to death. However, long experience had taught Renault that there was one thing big beasties usually didn’t like—fire. Thinking quickly, he reached into his traveling pack and took out a flask of oil. Then, as quickly as he could, he dashed out from behind the pillar. Before the beast noticed him, he tossed the flask at its main body, covering it in oil. _Now_ it was angry, a loud squeal emanating from all its mouths and drew back its tentacles to tear Renault apart…

 

Before he tossed his torch at it.

 

Renault’s guess had indeed been correct. Big, supernatural monsters were typically highly flammable, and this one was no exception. It screamed in agony, flailing its tentacles all around, forcing Renault to hop, dash, and roll away to avoid getting sliced apart. He wasn’t entirely successful—one of the tentacles clipped his arm, its thorn cutting through the chainmail and gauntlet and leaving a very deep gash. Renault didn’t feel hunger, but he still felt pain, and groaned as he felt blood streaming down his arm. He’d lost none of his composure or discipline, though, and ignored the wound as he continued to back away from the burning beast.

 

Backing away turned into full-on flight after what happened next. One of the creature’s arms slammed into the glowing altar, blowing it into a thousand pieces. This was most fortunate for the rest of the world, for it resulted in the portal disappearing with a massive explosion, blowing Renault back and completely disintegrating the monsters who were trying to get through. On the other hand, this was a bad thing for Renault, as the blast demolished several of the pillars holding up the ceiling, meaning a collapse was imminent.

 

“Aw, hell!” He turned and started running as fast as he could, dashing through the door right before the summoning room imploded. His magic helmet allowed him to see in the dark, which was more than helpful when it came to navigating the corridors through which he’d entered. He needed the help, because the entire complex seemed to be coming down. Rushing through the narrow tunnels, escaping the sound of falling stone and rubble rapidly catching up to him, he could only hope he remembered the path through which his party had initially entered. He was gratified to see a small spot of dim light ahead of him—the entrance back to the sewers, where a few small rays of sunlight beamed down from a manhole overhead.

 

With one last burst of speed, Renault jumped through the door a moment before the tunnel collapsed behind him.

 

“Haah…haah…Agh! Damn!” he muttered as he was reminded of the wound on his arm. He removed his helmet a fetched a vulnerary from his belt. He quaffed it without any trouble—one thing he was very glad to learn over the course of the last century was that healing spells and potions were just as effective on this body as they’d been on his previous one, but he no longer had a sense of taste, meaning that once-vile concoctions like vulneraries and elixirs went down his throat quite easily.

 

He grinned when he felt the wound on his arm close and the bleeding stop. He raised it and flexed it, then put his helmet back on. Beginning his trek back to the surface world, he didn’t return to the manhole through which his party had initially entered but rather passed it by, searching for another egress farther away. The collapse of the ruins had probably set off a small earthquake up above, and the King’s soldiers and repairmen would be milling around the area, almost certain to ask inconvenient questions of anyone who popped out of a sewer drain.

 

Unpleasant as the stench of the sewers was, dealing with all that was even worse, in Renault’s estimation. As he made his way through the slimy pipes, he found he wasn’t actually very discouraged, even by this latest failure.

 

After all, he still had all the time in the world.

 

-X- _Burning Desire_ –X-

 

How far had he traveled up the mountain? How far did he have to go? The ever-present fog made it nearly impossible to tell, but Renault pushed forwards nonetheless. He slammed his climbing pick into the sheer rock wall in front of him. The mountains of the Western Isles were almost as forbidding as those of Bern, made even more dangerous by the mists which perpetually hung over the entire region. Renault was climbing the tallest in the country—Mount Helius.

 

Not only was it massive, but there were supposedly immense deposits of many precious metals—iron, tin, and even gold—along its heights. One would therefore expect it to be completely covered with miners and prospectors exploiting it for everything it was worth. Mount Helius, however, was completely deserted. Not even the natives dared to approach it. It was, according to them, far too dangerous. A mighty, terrifying beast of flame inhabited it, they said, burning to cinders any man foolish enough to climb. That may or may not have been true, but the mountain itself was exceptionally treacherous, and that alone would have been enough to dissuade even the greediest gold-hunters. Only the most experienced mountaineers had even a sliver of a hope at reaching its peak.

 

Fortunately, Renault was very experienced. He had been wandering the Isles for another fifty years, seeking what he was always seeking—a way to bring back his friend. Always on the lookout for any “Gates” to other worlds, be they Archanea or any land of the dead, Renault had also started paying more attention to folk tales and stories of legendary creatures, such as those the Sacaens had spoken of, so long ago. He was currently in search of the legendary Phoenix, which supposedly nested at the very top of Helius. Many residents of the Isles said they saw it soaring through the sky on cloudless nights, but of course could provide no corroboration. The stories from the island natives, however, claimed that the great beast revived itself once every one hundred years, and that one of its feathers could bring back the dead. This was enough to convince Renault to give the peak a look.

 

The air here was thin, but happily, this caused his strange, lifeless body no problems. Of course, that body wouldn’t survive a fall from these heights or a crushing from falling rocks, so Renault continued with his progress as cautiously as he possibly could. Another chop of the pick, a pause to make sure the stone was steady and no noises indicated something was falling towards him, and another small boost upwards. Now, through the fog, Renault thought he saw…something. A faint, dim orange spot in the distance, flickering weakly. Was it another mountaineer challenging these forbidding peaks? Or was it perhaps the object of his quest itself? Nothing to do except continue onwards and find out.

 

Up and up Renault climbed, the tiny spark in the distance growing bigger, bigger, and bigger. Renault still couldn’t make out what it was, though. It didn’t seem to be moving farther away, though, which meant it probably wasn’t another climber. He came closer and closer, closer and closer, until his pick hit on a cliff edge beyond which the light seemed to be burning—no longer flickering, but burning very brightly.

 

He clambered over that edge to see what he’d come across. And in over a century of wandering, he’d never seen anything quite like this.

 

It seemed as if a great _temple_ had been built into the very top of Mount Helius. It was nothing like Par Massino, however. In fact, its style of architecture was not Eliminean at all, or similar to _anything_ Renault had ever seen anywhere on Elibe—not Sacae, not Lycia, not Etruria…nothing.

 

First was its massive size. Only the peak of a gigantic mountain such as Helius could have accommodated such a great edifice. About as large as his mother’s cathedral complex, it rose four stories into the sky in the shape of a ziggurat—a sort of pyramid that was tiered rather than entirely triangular. It had one entrance, from which poured the orange light Renault had seen. That entrance was gigantic, more than large enough to admit a creature like Barbarossa or a swarm of the tentacled beasts Renault had seen beneath Aquleia.

 

The fact that Draconic letters which Renault could recognize—and read—were etched over it was enough to convince him that this temple had been wrought not by human hands but the talons of ancient dragons.

 

He peered at the inscription, and had learned just enough of Draconic to make it out:

 

_Here is buried Life, here is Death birthed._

 

Renault paused for a moment, considering those words, then stepped through the threshold.

 

The first thing he noticed as he entered the temple was heat— _extreme­_ heat. It was quite cold at the top of such a tall mountain, especially on the Misty Isles, but inside the ziggurat it seemed as if it was as hot as a scorching afternoon in Nabata.

 

The second thing he noticed was the light—so bright he had to close his eyes. The orange glow he’d seen from afar burned as bright as the sun within this massive chamber. The heat surged, and he was afraid he might be cooked inside his armor. He heard a pained cry so loud that he covered his head with his hands to shield both his eyes and ears. It shook the ground beneath him, and sounded as if it was the death knell of a titanic beast. He blindly staggered to the side, bumped into something hard and round, which he assumed to be a massive stone pillar, and scuttled around it, feeling some relief as it seemed to shield him from the heat and noise of whatever terrible thing occupied this temple.

 

The cry reached a fever pitch, almost shattering Renault’s ear drums despite his best efforts, along with the light and heat which scorched him even behind his bulwark. Then, however, the noise faded away, seeming to echo down the mountain and across all of Elibe. The light and heat, too, began to subside. Not immediately, but after a few minutes Renault could finally take his hands away from his head, emerge from the little ball he’d twisted himself into, and get a decent look at his surroundings.

 

Smoke wafted up from the stone floor, as well as from his armor and gauntlets, Renault noticed. He turned and saw he had indeed been hiding behind a great pillar, its strange shape and great size fitting for something sculpted by Dragons.

 

Renault peered out from behind it to see what he had been hiding from.

 

In front of him, dominating the room, was a gigantic brazier, large enough to accommodate easily a monster the size of Barbarossa. And lying inside of it, still glowing faintly, was a monster which very much looked like it could have been Barbarossa’s match—while it was alive, anyways.

 

Lying within the massive brazier, still and unmoving, dense gray smoke pouring from its body, was the corpse of the largest bird Renault had ever seen. Its blackened, charred feathers were each the size of greatswords, and he saw a few flecks of red and faintly glowing orange still among them—those must have been the colors of the great beast before it had died. It was shaped roughly like an eagle, with a stout body possessing two broad, titanic wings attached to a pair of feet with four toes (three pointing forwards, one back) tipped with black talons that looked like scythe blades.

 

The head itself was similar to an eagle’s—stout, strong, and fierce, with two golden eyes as large as Renault himself set above a curved, vicious obsidian beak. That beak was motionless and those eyes were lifeless. Thus, Renault thought it was safe to approach the brazier, cautiously, at least.

 

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, “am I too late?” He’d heard that the Phoenix came to this temple once every few centuries—to die. From the light and noise earlier, Renault estimated he’d arrived just in time to watch the bird immolate itself in its own funeral pyre. Now it seemed as if it was entirely burned out, and whatever magic it possessed was gone. There were a few charred, giant feathers scattered around the floor, but those were just powerless debris. If this Phoenix truly did have the power to bring the dead back to life, Renault would have to wait until it revived and regained its strength to acquire that power.

 

How long would that take? He didn’t know. In fact, he had no idea if the legendary bird actually did have the power of resurrection, or if it just died, like any other creature.

 

He got his answers sooner than he thought he would.

 

When he heard a crackling noise coming from the huge corpse, he immediately jumped back and scurried behind the pillar again, thinking he’d be in serious trouble if the beast woke up and caught sight of him.

 

He needn’t have worried.

 

The crackling sound came from the corpse _disintegrating_. As he watched in astonishment, the black body of the Phoenix began to crumble. It started at the wingtips, the feathers there falling into flecks of grey ash and flying away, carried by the cold mountain wind. It spread to the rest of the body, which imploded into a pile of black and grey cinders right before Renault’s eyes.

 

The wind, too, blew these away. The breeze carried them upwards in a spiral, spinning straight into the misty skies of Fibernia through a large opening in the center of the temple’s ceiling. The huge pile grew smaller and smaller, and when it finally disappeared entirely, Renault noticed something else.

 

There was still something inside the brazier—or at least, so it seemed. There was once again an orange glow coming from inside it, though much, much fainter than it had been at first. Indeed, it was barely noticeable. It was still enough to pique Renault’s interest, though. With the help of his climbing equipment, he managed to haul himself over to the lip of the brazier and tumble in. Getting to his feet and shaking off some of the dust, ash, and cinder which now covered him, Renault advanced towards the source of the glow.

 

It was indeed tiny—much smaller than he was, nothing more than a speck at the center of the fire-holder. And as he got closer, he noticed it was making a sound. A small, tiny, barely audible sound, but a sound nonetheless:

 

“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!”

 

Staring up at him from the bottom of the brazier, giving him the most puzzled gaze it could muster, was what struck Renault as perhaps the cutest thing he’d yet encountered during his century-long sojourn across Elibe.

 

He was standing in front of what could only be a Phoenix _chick_. Small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, and covered in soft, fuzzy down that glowed faintly orange, the pint-sized creature looked absolutely nothing like the legendary monster which had died to give birth to it. Its little fluffy, stumpy wings looked vaguely like those of a young chicken, its golden eyes seemed more designed for searching for food than the content of a man’s soul, and from its stubby little beak emanated cries which seemed plaintive, not terrifying or majestic.

 

Renault couldn’t help himself. _This_ was what he’d spent fifty years searching for? _This_ was the legend which so terrified the people of the Western Isles? As the chick stared at him in utter confusion (and if he didn’t know better, he would have said it looked somewhat insulted) Renault began to laugh. It was long, loud, and very genuine, echoing all throughout the great temple. For the very first time since Braddock had died, a hundred and fifty years ago, a true smile spread across Renault’s face and sincere mirth echoed through his voice.

 

“Braddock,” he chuckled, “Oh, man, Braddock, you gotta see this—“

 

That was enough to still his laughter and quench his joy. Braddock was still dead, after all, and he could feel no true happiness until his friend was back at his side.

 

“Alright, little guy,” Renault said harshly, his former good cheer having completely disappeared, “You’re comin’ with me. I have a job for you.”

 

“Cheep?”

 

He reached out for the little ball of glowing fuzz, cupping it with his hands and raising it to his face to get a better look at it. He intended to take it back with him to Bern and show it Braddock’s remains—though his friend was now nothing more than a skeleton, he hoped the power of the Phoenix, even if it was just a baby, could do something for him.

 

Unfortunately, the bird had other plans.

 

“Cheep! Cheep! _Cheep!_ ”

 

“What the—OW!”

 

The dim glow from within Renault’s fingers intensified for a moment, accompanied by a burst of heat so great that he had to let go of his prize. The Phoenix chick dropped to the floor, now glowing as brightly as the sun, while Renault noticed his gauntlets were glowing red hot—he immediately stripped them off before they scorched his hands.

 

Apparently, even baby Phoenixes didn’t enjoy being held.

 

Now, Renault was angry. “You little—“ he grunted, but his quarry cut him off with another series of angry cheeps. The tiny bird, still glowing brightly, turned and scampered away, beating its little wings as quickly as it could. To Renault’s surprise and fury, it actually succeeded in lifting off. Perhaps aided by magic (sparks flew as it left the ground), the Phoenix floated into the air, its glow intensifying further into a tiny flame which enveloped its entire body, but didn’t burn it.

 

“Wait! No!” Renault shouted. “Come back!” The firebird, of course, did not heed its order. With a final, mocking, “cheep cheep!” the burning baby shot upwards, turning into a tiny red meteor soaring up into the sky through the opening at the top of the temple through which its ashes had escaped. After a moment, it was gone, and there was no way Renault could track it down.

 

“Damn it,” he grunted, and then slammed his bare hands into each other. “DAMN IT!”

 

After that little outburst, however, he took a deep breath, and then shrugged. He then picked up his gauntlets, which had cooled down, and then exited the temple and began heading back down.

 

What was the point of getting angry? It was just a minor setback, wasn’t it? He knew where the Phoenix lived, now, and when it returned to die again in one hundred years, he’d be waiting for it. Until then, he could try to see if there were any other ways to bring Braddock back, or any other legends which might prove useful to him.

 

After all, he still had all the time in the world.

 

-X- _The Spring of Dreams_ –X-

 

“You know, Renault, you’re pretty strange for a foreigner.”

 

“I get that a lot.”

 

The Mercenary Lord said this on the 14th Sun, 927 A.S. as he was led through the trail leading to a landmark that almost no man, much less a non-Ilian, had ever seen. Pegasi were a national symbol for Ilia as well as the country’s main source of income (its Pegasus Knights were the only thing keeping its citizens from starving), and they gathered at the Spring of Pyrene. Every year, full-fledged Pegasus Knights would bring their mounts to the spring to recuperate, and young cadets would find themselves a foal to train with at the same time. Since the beasts weren’t fond of men, it therefore made sense to keep men as far away from the area as possible.

 

Sometimes, though, the Union was willing to make exceptions.

 

There was one thing the Ilian government prized above all, and that was money. If one brought them enough money, one could convince them to do very nearly anything. For the past eighty years Renault had been amassing more and more gold from mercenary work, along with acquiring all manner of magical artifacts in pursuit of his ultimate goal. When those artifacts turned out to be useless to him, as they always did, he sold them for even more money. Decades of this had made him into a millionaire, and when he offered up all that cash to the Union for the low price of being allowed to see the legendary Spring of Pyrene, they were not inclined to turn him down.

 

Renault and his guide (a perky, purple-haired woman named Maryline) crunched up the snow-covered steps which led up to a great walled enclosure on the outskirts of the city of Edessa, capital of Ilia.

 

The wall was set in the shape of a great circle, seeming to enclose an area about twice as large as the Holy Royal Palace of Aquleia. The surface of the wall was grey, and absolutely smooth. It was also made out of more than mere stone—Renault wasn’t certain what materials had been used in its construction, save that it had stood there since the Scouring, and that it was quite literally impregnable—no known force, magical or physical, could even scratch them. The walls stood twenty stories high, meaning they were impossible to breach with siege towers or any other land-based equipment. Only those who owned the sky would be able to clear them—which made sense, given what was apparently their primary group of occupants.

 

Pegasi flitted through the air over the walls, an entire flock of them, more than Renault had ever seen in his life. Some descended down towards whatever the walls concealed, while others floated up and away, high in the sky, whatever business they had there finished. This was indeed the gathering place of the winged horses.

 

What so attracted them? Renault would soon find out. He and his guide approached the only door leading through the walls. It was a massive affair of gold and bronze, entirely covered in statuettes of winged horses flying about beautiful women with spears and armor. At the very top of the door was an icon that looked somewhat similar to that of Saint Elimine, except the woman had even longer hair, was dressed in a loose, flowing tunic rather than sacred robes, and had a pair of wings not unlike those of the Pegasi sprouting from her back.

 

“Stand back, please,” said the guide. Renault nodded and she stepped towards the gate, holding a pair of large golden keys in both hands. Long, heavy, and covered with sparkling jewels of every color, they were no mere Door keys or even Master keys—Renault wagered there were none in the world quite like them. She inserted those keys into twin sockets at the base of the titanic gate…and then it began to move.

 

It had to be magic. Renault could not figure out how those doors could possibly move otherwise. No mechanism could possibly shift them even an inch. Yet the power of those keys energized the golden gate somehow, and with an ear-splitting creaking of stone and metal, a thin line appeared in the center of the door, growing larger and larger as the double doors opened inwards. After almost a full minute of laborious motion, the gate was fully opened, and the guide motioned for Renault to follow her.

 

Their way was blocked by a herd of Pegasi—even more were milling about the interior than were floating overhead. Yet as Renault and his guide approached, the beasts took to flight, lifting off with a thousand puffs of snow and gusts of wind and floating upwards in a great white fluttering cloud. Renault wasn’t sure if they were fleeing one of the men they supposedly so despised or if they were heeding the commands of a countrywoman who wanted to see the spring.

 

It wasn’t important. Renault didn’t care. All that mattered was that the way to his destination was clear.

 

The Spring of Pyrene itself didn’t appear to be much, at first glance. It was, of course, quite large, occupying enough space that it seemed to be almost a decently-sized lake: The Holy Royal Castle of Aquleia could have been submerged in its depths quite comfortably. At the center of the pool was a grand, bubbling gush of water, discharging what had to be hundreds upon hundreds of gallons of water every moment into the air and ensuring that small waves rippled forth constantly across the spring. The strangest thing was the mist it gave out. It was cold in Ilia, ice-cold. Renault and his guide were both wrapped in the thickest furs they could find and still felt the chill in their bones; any sort of water should have been frozen entirely solid. Yet these springs gave off mist—perhaps steam—as if they were hot springs, or “onsen” as the Sacaens called them. They gave off no heat, however, and Renault felt not the slightest bit of warmth as the “steam” rolled over him. This was a place of great magic indeed.

 

“Isn’t it wonderful? Maryline laughed. “You, Renault, are one of the luckiest men in the history of Elibe. A man _and_ a foreigner…almost no-one else like that in the whole world has been allowed to see our nation’s greatest treasure with his own eyes!”

 

“I’m very grateful,” said Renault perfunctorily and insincerely. “Maryline, can you tell me the legend of the Spring again?”

 

“The legend? Hmm…oh, yes, I know what you’re referring to.

 

“We in Ilia have many gods, you see. Not quite like those of the Sacaens, and certainly not like the one God of the Elimineans. There’s Carlsbrant, the Laughing Herald, Byelsert, the Lady of Ice…they all live in different places, you see. But here, at the Spring of Pyrene, rests one of the very greatest. Pyrene, the Queen of the Northern Winds!

 

“She was living here since the world was made, she has seen the rise of both men and Dragons, and will live here long after the world has turned to dust. To keep her company, and to spread beauty across the world, she created the Pegasi, who to this day serve their sisters of Ilia. However, the Scouring hurt her deeply…she was filled with love for all of Elibe’s creatures, man and Dragon alike, though of course her Pegasi were her most favorite. She never, ever wanted war between us to break out, and indeed, we Ilians were the last to join the fight. Great Barrigan only took up his lance when he saw there was no other choice.

 

“Lady Pyrene saw that war could not be avoided, and she gave Barrigan her blessing before he set out. The Dragons were driven from Elibe, however, and that broke her heart. She cried and cried, and her tears penetrated the earth and gave rise to this great spring. Pyrene then locked herself away from Barrigan’s eyes and sealed off the spring where she resided with great magical walls. From that point on, she declared that she would never again show herself to human eyes until man and Dragon had learned to live in peace. She sank under the waves of her spring, to rest until that day came. She instructed her Pegasi to watch over and guide Barrigan’s children. He had no sons, only daughters—thus, for that reason, the Pegasi have taken their lady’s last command to mean they should serve the women of Ilia, not the men. This is why they will accept only females as riders.”

 

“Interesting,” said Renault. “So this Pyrene…she liked Dragons, eh?”

 

“Yes, indeed.”

 

“Hmm…let’s see how she likes this, then.”

 

“Eh?!”

 

Casually, Renault reached into his thick fur cloak to pull out strange object. He held it in the air, and it glowed under Ilia’s cold afternoon sun. Maryline looked at him curiously. “What is that? I’ve…never seen anything quite like it before.”

 

“This is a Dragonstone.”

 

“A dragon…WHAT?!” She nearly fell over. “A Dragonstone?!”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Where in the world did you get such a thing?”

 

“There’s a funny Sage down in Lycia. Green hair, blue eyes, sort of a weird expression…his family was close to the dragons, I guess. Been close for literally generations. They learned a lot of their secrets, and gained some of their artifacts for themselves. I helped him out with a little…issue a few years ago.” _Twenty years ago_ , Renault thought. “He was so happy that he gave me this stone in return. I thought about selling it, but I had a hunch it might come in handy. Guess we’ll see if I’m right.”

 

As if he was tossing an ordinary pebble, Renault drew his arm back and threw the Dragonstone right into the spring.

 

Maryline could only gape at him in astonishment. Then she really _did_ fall over as the ground started to quake.

 

It came from the spring. The waters of the Spring churned and roiled, as if it was boiling, and out of those waters arose a form—massive yet graceful, and radiating an aura of immense, unearthly power.

 

It was a woman—a huge woman, thrice as tall as Renault. She was very beautiful, with a perfect, porcelain-skinned face accompanied by a pair of ears which tapered off into delicate points and framed by an incredibly long wave of hair the same color as the spring water which hung down, down, and down, falling the full length of her body down into the pool itself, which it seemed to be joined to. She was clad in a flowing gold-colored tunic, and it was obvious she was the woman represented by the icon. Her lips were ice-blue, and when she opened her eyes to look at the man who had given her this gift, she gazed down at him with irises of the same color set in sclera as white and pure as snow. She rose until her toes touched the water, as if she was standing on it, at which point the churning ceased and the spring resumed its normal bubbling.

 

“Who are you,” she whispered in a voice as cold—and commanding—as the air around her. “What is this you have given me? Is it true? Have dragons returned to this world?”

 

Maryline was too astonished—and terrified—to give any response other than panicked babble. It would take more than the appearance of a ‘goddess’ to surprise Renault, though, and he knew very well what he wanted to say to Pyrene.

 

“I’m sorry,” he began, “The Dragons are still absent from Elibe. I gave you that offering because I thought you would like a keepsake from your long-lost friends.”

 

She raised her right hand and opened it—Renault could see the Dragonstone he’d thrown lying in her palm. “You would be correct, manling,” she said, sounding quite sad. “Ah, how this stone reminds me of better days. The Dragons did not need them. Only after the Ending Winter did they find it necessary to conceal their power in these stones. I had hoped that the Winter would be enough, and that both man and Dragon would finally see the lunacy of their war, and return to living in peace and happiness with each other. Alas, it was not to be…” She clenched her hand around the stone, and then looked down on Renault again, the softness and sympathy gone from her cold gaze. “Your gift is thoughtful, human, but millennia of experience with your kind tells me that no gift from you is free. For what reason would you seek my gratitude?”

 

“I’ve given you a great treasure, haven’t I? There are very, very few stones like that left in this world. In return, I want you to grant me a wish.”

 

“A wish? And what does this little bag of flesh desire?”

 

“I want you to bring back a friend of mine.”

 

“Bring back a friend?”

 

“Braddock…Braddock was my best friend. But he died in battle…died for _me_.” Renault knelt, bowing his head before Pyrene. “Please! _Please_ , Spring Goddess! Braddock was everything to me! He was all I had! I don’t care what I have to do! I’ll find a hundred more Dragonstones if you want! I…please, just give him back to me!”

 

The goddess stared at him a moment, and then shook her head.

 

“To take life is easy. Man, Dragon, and spirit of nature such as I…all are capable of killing. To return it, though? ‘Tis not in my power. Even the other great spirits…the Phoenix and the Deathrose, the Basilisk and the White Whale…none can restore the dead.”

 

“No…” Renault slammed his fists into the ground, once, twice, thrice. “No! NO! _NO!!_ I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! I WON’T! THERE HAS TO BE A WAY TO BRING HIM BACK! THERE _HAS_ TO BE!!”

 

“The powers of Elibe cannot return life, for we have not created it. What you seek lies beyond…”

 

“Beyond?” Renault spat. “Elsewhere? I tried that. It didn’t work!”

 

“Not beyond this world, manling. _All_ worlds.”

 

“W…what do you mean?”

 

“The power given to man to destroy the Dragons…”

 

“The power…you mean the Divine Weapons? You mean power given from God…or the gods, or whatever?”

 

She nodded.

 

“But those have been asleep since the Scouring! Nobody knows where they are, or even if they have their power anymore!”

 

“There are those who know…”

 

“Then where are they? Tell me!”

 

“Go to the desert, manling. Many secrets are buried within the swirling sands. Even I do not know of all it contains. There, you may find what you seek…or you may find your own death. I know not…I only know it is your risk to take.” She closed her eyes. “I have nothing more to tell you. I have repaid your generosity as best as I am able. Continue with your quest, or abandon it. It is no concern of mine.”

 

The waters of her Spring began to roil and churn once again as she lowered herself beneath them. They only quieted when she had sunk herself out of view entirely, and once she did, and once the waters returned to their usual state, it was as if she had never appeared at all.

 

“W…whaa…” stammered Maryline, lying in a shocked heap on the ground and still unable to move.

 

Renault didn’t even give her a parting glance as turned his back to the spring and began to march away. He passed through the great golden gate, which closed behind him, and stepped onto the trail leading to Edessa.

 

He needed to go back to the city, but he didn’t intend to stay long. Renault only needed to buy a few supplies, and then he’d return to his journey. He would head west, and south.

 

To Nabata.

 

-X- _Sea of Sand_ –X-

“Haah…Hhhahhh…”

 

Renault staggered through the endless sea of sand underneath the burning afternoon sun of Nabata, one arm hanging limp and bloody at his side, the other cradling the giant, bloodstained hole which had been punched through his stomach. His armor was covered in pits and scratches, and another hole had been bored through his right pauldron—the mechanism within was destroyed and he wasn’t able to use the chain-dagger attached to it.

 

He had managed to punish the ones who’d done this to him. The corpses of twenty bandits were strewn about the bloody sand around him, axes, swords, and magic tomes scattered on the ground like discarded children’s toys. For Renault, however, revenge was a cold comfort. Their ambush may have cost them much more than they’d thought, but they had succeeded in injuring Renault quite badly. Indeed, he would likely die from his wounds. His body may not have needed food, and its breath may have been cold, but it still required blood pumping from its heart. That lifeblood was steadily spilling onto the ground from the wounds in his shoulder and stomach.

 

“D…Dammit,” he gasped, collapsing to his knees. He reached to his belt to clutch at a Vulnerary—then tossed it away in disgust when he saw it was empty. “Damn it…it…it can’t end like this…I’ve lived for over two hundred years…and this is how I die?”

 

He fell forward, the green glow of his helmet’s visor flickering out as his head hit the sand. “Braddock…I wanted to bring you back…so…so much. I’m…”

 

As his vision dimmed, he thought he saw a shadow fall across the ground in front of him. He managed enough energy to raise his head one last time, and thought he could make out a black shape which looked like it might have been a man standing over him.

 

Then his strength ran out, his world turned black, and he knew no more.

 

-x-

 

“Mmm…”

 

Renault felt no pain. Oddly enough, he was comfortable; the most comfortable he’d been in years, centuries even. He felt like he was lying on a very soft bed. He didn’t feel any pain at all—it was as if all his life-threatening wounds had been completely healed. For a moment, he wondered if he had been wrong about the nonexistence of an afterlife, and that he’d finally gone on to the beyond.

 

If he had, he’d start his search for Braddock again.

 

Still, he had to test that hypothesis. With another groan, he opened his eyes—and then shut them again to protect them from the bright light streaming into them. After a few moments, they’d adjusted, and as he sat up he could now get a decent view of his surroundings.

 

He was indeed occupying a bed with soft, pure white sheets, pillows, and mattress. He looked down to see he was naked—and quite healthy, there wasn’t a scratch on his body. He then looked around to see he was in what appeared to be a small, cozy, one-room cottage made out of a pleasant-looking reddish material; Renault thought it might have been clay or adobe. The bed was snuggled away in a corner; in the center of the dwelling was a hearth, a few chairs, and another chair and table nearby. From the open windows on each side of the house filtered a cheerful afternoon sun, which was hot, but not nearly as hot as the tyrant of the desert usually was. He could hear snatches of conversations and laughter outside, which told him he was in a town, and a seemingly peaceful one at that.

 

In that chair sat an old man who seemed to be sleeping. A _very_ old man. He didn’t appear to be extraordinarily wizened or decrepit, but his gray hair and beard were the longest Renault had ever seen on a man, falling to the front of his chest and far down his back, respectively. He was fair-skinned, the same shade as Renault, and was clad in modest brown sandals, a dark blue robe and a sort of golden pendant hanging ‘round his forehead.

 

He also seemed to be radiating an aura of immense magical power. Renault shivered the moment he laid eyes on the snoozing fellow. He’d never felt anything like it since…since he’d faced off against Nergal. This aura, however, seemed to be benign rather than malignant. Then again, Nergal had seemed to be well-meaning before he’d shown his true colors.

 

Renault came to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t dead, and had been rescued by the man sitting in front of him, or at least the man’s allies, if he had any. Was this magician—Renault knew for sure he was a magician—planning to betray him or use him like Nergal was? The Mercenary Lord’s fists tightened, and he prepared to launch an assault on the sleeper; even naked he could do a lot of damage against an entirely unprepared opponent with his bare hands. He immediately thought better of it, though. He had no idea of where he was, and attacking a town resident would likely result in him being skewered by the guards before he could get a chance to put on his equipment. Additionally, he remembered how miserably he’d failed to even scratch Nergal, two hundred years ago. If this man, whoever he was, possessed similar power, Renault could do absolutely nothing to him.

 

Thus, he tried a more diplomatic tack. Coughing audibly, he called, “Hey, old man. Wake up.”

 

The elder opened one eye, and it seemed Renault’s suspicions were correct—he actually hadn’t been sleeping. “Ah, you’re awake. I’m quite glad to see you’re well…you lost a great deal of blood. You’re lucky to be alive, you know. If I hadn’t found you when I did, you would have never woken up at all.”

 

“So, you’re the one who brought me here?”

 

“Indeed I am.”

 

“I guess I owe you my thanks. What’s your name? And where am I? How’d you get me here?”

 

“I…” He furrowed his brow. “Let’s talk about that later. First, how are you feeling?”

 

“Fine, geez—uh, I mean, sir. Better than I’ve ever felt. The last thing I remember was being cut up real badly by nearly two dozen bandits. Who patched me up?”

 

The old man smiled, and his dark brown eyes glowed with genuine good cheer. “I did. Though I am known for my mastery of Anima magic, it’s good to see these long years haven’t dulled my skill with a staff!” The cheer disappeared in lieu of a more serious expression. “Now then, traveler, I must let you know that I am the elder of this village, and am responsible for its safety. What were you doing out in the desert?”

 

“Um…” Renault thought carefully. If he gave the wrong answers he might end up dead, or at least thrown back into the hostile desert. On the other hand, it probably wasn’t a good idea to let this man know too much about him, where he came from, or what his goals were. “My name’s Renault. I…I’m an adventurer. I’ve heard stories about magic treasure hiding in the ruins and under the sands of Nabata, so I came here to see for myself.”

 

“An adventurer? That makes sense…your arms and armor are certainly well-suited for dangerous business.”

 

“Y-Yeah. I’ve been traveling around the desert for…a few years, visiting the little oasis towns and the wandering nomadic tribes to see if they’ve got any information on buried treasure here. At my last stop, they told me of some ruins buried to the west, and I was headed there when I got ambushed by some bandits. I got careless and let my guard down…I really would have died if it weren’t for you. I guess you were in the area?”

 

“Yes. I actually wanted to pay those ruins a visit myself, for research purposes. I suppose it’s fortunate I happened upon you, eh?”

 

“Yeah, exactly. Look, sir, trust me, I’m not a threat.” This was true, for the most part—as long as they didn’t get in his way, Renault wouldn’t do anything to this strange old man and his villagers. Indeed, most of Renault’s story was true. He had indeed been wandering around Nabata, looking for relics or artifacts which might aid him in his quest for Braddock, and he had indeed been ambushed by an unexpectedly large and tough band of desert bandits. The only thing he didn’t mention was that he’d been wandering through the desert for over a decade, ever since he’d got here from Ilia after listening to the goddess Pyrene’s advice. “Now, can you tell me where I am and who you are?”

 

The old man stared at him for another long moment, as if he was looking at Renault’s mind, rather than his face. At last he nodded. “Very well. I do not believe you mean us harm.

 

“You are in the village of Arcadia. We are a tiny, peace-loving settlement within the most inaccessible region of the desert. The people here are kind, hardworking, and friendly, and they are all protected by my magic. For the most part, outsiders cannot find their way here, especially those with ill intentions. However, lost wanderers…travelers gone astray, or unfortunates waylaid by villains, as you were…those often manage to stumble upon our community. For those people, Arcadia is a paradise, a refuge of perfect peace for them to rest and recuperate from their struggles.

 

“As for me? I am, as I said, the elder of this village. You may call me Athos.”

 

 _Athos?_ Renault thought. He remembered the name from Nergal’s journals, but knew it would be a bad idea to mention the evil sorcerer at the moment. Instead, he tried a different tack. “Athos? So you’re named after one of the Eight Legends?”

 

Athos chuckled again. “Yes, you could say I’m named after him…though it’s more accurate to say I _am_ him.”

 

“What the hell? Look, I’m grateful you saved me, but don’t play games with me. If you really were Athos, you’d have to be over nine hundred…” Renault trailed off as he realized how strange such words were coming from his mouth. He himself was over two hundred years old. He had no idea how old Nergal was. The wielder of the ultimate Infernal Element, Forblaze, would almost certainly have the ability to extend his life as well.

 

“The Divine Weapons affect their wielders in different ways,” said the master mage, a hint of sadness in his voice. “An irony, I suppose. They were created to save mankind, but those who used them became distant from their fellow men. In my case, it seems that time simply passed me by. One century, two, then three…it has all become the same for me. My hunger for knowledge knows no bounds, and until it is sated, the magic I possess will not let me die.”

 

 _Or you use quintessence to extend your life,_ Renault thought cynically. However, he remembered that Athos was Nergal’s adversary. That alone meant that he could possibly be a worthy ally. On the other hand, if he found out Renault had once served Nergal, he could turn into an enemy as well. Best to treat him as a neutral party, then. “Alright, I can believe you’re a living legend. But what would someone like you be doing all the way out here?”

 

“That…how to answer that…” Athos stroked his beard. “First, Renault, let me ask you a question. What do you know about dragons? How do you feel about them?”

 

“What kind of a question is that? Dragons are humanity’s enemies. I’ve never seen one, but I know they’re fearsome monsters. If you really were Athos, you’d know better than anyone! You fought them!”

 

“Yes, I did. But what if I were to tell you that it was possible for dragons and men to live in peace?”

 

“I…well, that’d be hard to believe.” Renault thought again of what Nergal had written in his journals and logbooks. Where had he learned to speak Draconic? And what did the Ilians always say about having a close relationship with dragons? “Still, I’ve heard of stranger things.”

 

Athos beamed. “Good, Renault. I’m glad to hear that. I think you can take a look outside, now.” He motioned to a pile of clothes lying at the foot of Renault’s bed. “Get dressed and I’ll show you around.”

 

Renault did as he was told, dressing himself in a pair of comfortable, loose brown pants and an equally comfortable, soft white tunic. He followed Athos out of the cottage’s single door…

 

And stopped in his tracks when he saw what was before him.

 

Arcadia didn’t look much different than an ordinary desert town—small, humble homes surrounding a clear and clean oasis, though the architecture looked much more advanced than the huts and tents one saw in most Nabatan settlements. Rather, the truly amazing thing was the town’s populace.

 

Mingling in with regular people, as if there was no difference between them, were men and women with _wings_ —batlike appendages sprouting from their backs, in red, green, blue, purple, and all sorts of other colors. Renault knew those were Manaketes, or Dragons in human form. And even more astonishing, there were plenty of Dragons in _Dragon_ form. Another difference between Arcadia and other desert settlements was that the streets were very wide, and it was to accommodate the town’s largest denizens. A huge red beast as large as Barbarossa tramped through one road, taking care not to step on the humans who walked underneath it as if they saw this creature every day—which, judging by the way some of them talked to it, they probably did. On another street sat a plump white dragon with a long, sinewy neck, similar to the statue in Nergal’s bathing chamber. It puffed and growled in a language Renault surmised was Draconic, and it seemed the young couple standing beneath it could understand and converse in their own language.

 

“What…” Renault stammered, “How…”

 

“Following the Scouring,” Athos began, “The world was devastated. I thought it had no need of a warrior like me, and that its reconstruction should be passed to the hands of the next generation. For centuries I wandered the continent, content only to slake my own thirst for knowledge, until I entered Nabata.

 

“Five hundred years ago, I…met a friend.” His voice grew very sad. “Together, we combed the wastelands, searching for knowledge…and discovered something…extraordinary.

 

“It was a village, but not like any other we had ever seen. There, man and dragon lived together in peace. It turned out that this village had been founded by refugees from both the Human Empire and the various dragon tribes. They had not wanted to fight in the Scouring, and retreated to the most isolated spot in Nabata they could find.

 

“My friend and I joined them. We created an oasis for them and a magical barrier to shield this town from the outside world, and called it Arcadia. Together, we created a paradise, where the wisdom of both man and dragon was contained in our great libraries to be used for the benefit of all. And here we are today.”

 

“You mentioned a friend,” replied Renault. He had a good idea of who that friend was. “What happened to him?”

 

The expression on Athos’ face indicated he did not want to talk about it. “He is no longer here.”

 

 _It must have something to do with the wound on Nergal’s eye,_ Renault thought to himself. He could find out the specifics later, it wouldn’t do to give too much of himself away right now.

 

“Athos,” said Renault. “You also mentioned the libraries of the Dragons…I take it this village is a repository for their knowledge?”

 

“Indeed it is.”

 

“Are they open to humans as well?”

 

“Indeed they are.”

 

“Athos…I want to stay here for…for a while. I…I’ll find myself a job or something, if you want, but I want to study the knowledge of the Dragons. I want to learn about their magic, and I want to learn more about the Scouring you and your friends fought in. Would you allow me?”

 

The Archsage nodded. “I would never hamper another’s quest for enlightenment. Consider yourself one of us, Renault, for as long as you wish.”

 

The mercenary smiled.

-x-

 

10 years went by surprisingly quickly.

 

Renault sat in his favorite chair in the corner of Arcadia’s great library. It actually wasn’t very big—not even a fraction of the size of Aquleia’s Royal Archive—but its librarian seemed to own just as many books. The shelves of the average sized and otherwise nondescript stone building seemed to lead into a tiny “void space,” or pocket dimension—stick your hand into one of them and it would disappear rather than hitting the back of the shelf. In that space one could store almost an unlimited number of goods, and it was in this way the librarian—a Manakete, or Dragon, named Dukat—kept an immense catalogue. Renault had thus spent almost every day in here, studying book after book possessed by the Dragons. Next to the tome he was currently studying was a scroll upon which he had inscribed everything he’d learned over the past decade. The scroll was quite long, but could be roughly summarized as this:

 

_The Divine Weapons were bestowed upon humanity following the destruction of the Empire’s 8 Superweapons. Not even the Heroes themselves understood the true nature of the Powers which had given them their salvation. Athos spent his entire life trying to figure out what, Elimine thought she had the answer in the form of a singular God, while Bramimond was convinced the answer didn’t matter and hid himself in seclusion. In any case, though, what they all agreed on was the power of the Weapons was far too great for human hands to wield. The Weapons were scattered all over Elibe, and their power was sealed away by Bramimond. Only he is capable of releasing them, and he rests beneath the Shrine of Seals. No-one except Athos and the King of Bern knows where it is located._

If Athos was willing only to tell him the location of the Shrine of Seals—or even the Holy Weapons, at least—his job would be much easier. And, ironically enough, it meant he might be able to spend more time in Arcadia. The Archsage, however, was keeping his lips shut. And his reactions to Renault’s questions convinced the Mercenary Lord that he’d learned all he could in this desert. It was time to go.

 

Arcadia truly was a paradise, and if his heart had not been rendered barren by his friend’s death, Renault thought he might have been happy here. The people—man and Dragon alike—had accepted him unquestioningly, and with open arms. It took him some time to get used to the Dragons, granted, but after a year or so he came to regard them as not at all different from the town’s human inhabitants. To be fair, it wasn’t as if he had inserted himself heavily in community life—he rarely talked to anyone aside from Dukat and Athos, and only left the library to fetch his armor and weapons from where they’d been stored (the blacksmith had been happy to repair that rare, expensive armor, and was one of the few on Elibe who could work with equipment from the Scouring) to train occasionally. Still, he had managed to strike up a friendship with a couple of people, most notably the wise old Wind Dragon Dukat, in whose library he spent most of his time. Athos also often visited him to see how he was doing, and the Archsage was a friendly and interesting conversationalist. Spending his days reading history and literature of the sort he’d loved ever since he was a child, chatting with people who had more than expert knowledge on the subjects…if Braddock were here, they both would have been having a wonderful time.

 

But all good things had to come to an end, and Renault had gotten the impression that he would not be welcome in this paradise for much longer.

 

First was the matter of his physical appearance. He knew his face hadn’t changed a bit in the ten years he’d been here, and no-one had ever seen him shave, eat, drink, or relieve himself. All of these were explainable—Dragons and half-Dragons aged very slowly in human form, and many people in Arcadia prized their privacy. Still, he could tell Athos, at least, was beginning to suspect something was not quite right about him.

 

More recently, the questions he’d began to ask had also served to alienate him from his newfound ‘friends.’ He’d had a few close calls before that—his blood had run cold when Dukat had asked him if he’d ever seen a young man named Dougram, but believed him when he lied and said he’d never even heard the name (though Dukat looked very sad about that). However, a few weeks ago, Renault had asked Dukat if he had any books written in Shadetongue. The librarian had reacted in horror and made it clear he did not. Renault was almost sure he was lying, but didn’t press the issue. After that, during one of his conversations with Athos about the Holy Weapons, he’d finally asked where the Shrine of Seals was located.

 

The legendary hero had stared at Renault for a long time, and asked, “Why do you want to know?”

 

“Curiosity,” Renault had replied. “Didn’t you tell me that you’d never stand in the way of someone’s quest for enlightenment?”

 

“That is true, but the power of the Holy Weapons is too much for an individual to bear, at least in this day and age. A reckless quest for self-destruction is a very different beast than the search for knowledge. I can offer you no assistance with the latter.”

 

“What if I told you I wanted to use that power for good?”

 

“What sort of good, Renault?”

 

“I…I want to save someone.”

 

“If they need the power of a Divine Weapon to save them, they are likely beyond salvation, friend,” came the Archsage’s sad reply. “Eight heroes we were, but even with our weapons, not a single human being could we save.”

 

“Is that really true? Aren’t there stories of the dead things being brought back to life with these weapons? There’s a legend that states that Roland turned the burned wastelands of Lycia to verdant fields with the power of Durandal. Can’t Bramimond undo the seal and use the Durandal’s power to bring back one person?”

 

Renault had raised his voice and lost control of his emotions, for just a moment—but it still doomed his attempt. Athos sat back in his chair, brow furrowed. “So, you wish to bring back a dead friend, yes?”

 

“Yeah, there’s no point in denying it now. That’s exactly what I want.”

 

“I won’t lie to you. I am not entirely certain, but…it may be that the Divine Weapons, in the right hands, can bring back the dead.”

 

This was exactly what Renault wanted to hear—he began to grow giddy. “Yes, yes, _yes!_ Alright, Athos, let’s go find Bramimond and undo that seal! I’ve been waiting long enough! Come on, let’s—“

 

“Let’s not,” he said sternly. “The power of the Divine Weapons was not meant for such purpose.”

 

“ _What?!_ Why the hell not?”

 

Athos sighed. “As powerful as they are, their power is not limitless. If it was, if the divine power really could fulfill _any_ wish, we eight heroes could have just wished for everyone who died in the Scouring to come back and for civilization to be restored in an instant. But it’s not that simple.

 

“The weapons have a limited store of power, and every time they’re used, that power is weakened. It has weakened, bit by bit, ever since the Scouring…even now, the Weapons are nowhere near as strong as they once were. To use their power indiscriminately would be to cripple them. And who knows when we may need them again? Restoring a single life, whether it is a man’s or a dragon’s, costs an incredible amount of energy. If we were to squander that energy on an ordinary man, the weapons would be that much weaker when we might need them again to save mankind. It is a waste I cannot allow.”

 

“Squander?! Waste?!” Renault grew angry. “Braddock wasn’t an ordinary man! He was my best friend! And you’re telling me that bringing him back would be a waste?!”

 

“It is the truth,” replied Athos calmly. “I do not wish to belittle your feelings for your friend. But the Divine Weapons are tied to the fate of the entire _world_. Bramimond may use them to revive someone on whom the fate of Elibe hinges. But neither you nor your friend are so important.”

 

Those words enraged Renault. He grew angry, as angry as he ever had. He balled his fists, prepared to lash out…

 

Then remembered how ineffective that had been against Nergal, and that Athos could likely defeat him just as easily.

 

Instead, he took a deep breath, unclenched his hands…and then stood up.

“I see. Thank you.” He turned to leave. “You’re right. Sorry for wasting your time.”

 

It was obvious, of course, that he hadn’t learned anything from what Athos had said. So the Archsage had left him with these parting words:

 

“There was one before you who wished desperately to bring back someone he had lost,” said Athos ominously, and though his voice was still kind, there was a note of suspicion in it. “He fell to the darkness…and to his own doom. I will say this only once, friend. This obsession with undoing death…it will bring you only ruin, and I want no part of it. You will find no answers from me, or anyone else in this village.”

 

Renault had simply ignored him. Instead, he’d concluded that his time in Arcadia was over.

 

It had been three days since he’d had that conversation with Athos, and they hadn’t spoken since. He hadn’t talked much with anyone else, either. He’d simply bought some supplies, began to pack up what little gear he had, and spent his remaining few hours here doing a last-minute review of what he’d learned in Dukat’s library. As expected, he didn’t find anything new—it only reinforced his belief that he needed to find Bramimond. Renault sighed and put the scroll away, back into the void space it came from—he knew there was no point in stealing anything here. He got up and prepared to leave.

 

“Heading to bed, Renault?” Dukat gave him a kindly smile.

 

“Y…yeah.” Renault felt a bit guilty about his lie, and a bit bad that he wouldn’t see Dukat again, most likely. He’d grown somewhat fond of the Dragon…

 

But not as fond as he was of Braddock. He exited the library, entered the dark, moonlit streets, and made his way back to the small house he’d been living in for the past 10 years. He’d miss it too, somewhat—not that it mattered now. Quietly, he put on his armor (the desert was always dangerous at night), checked his weapons (A Brave Sword and Lightbrand, purchased from one of Arcadia’s vendors) strapped his traveling pack to his back, and made his exit.

 

Thankfully, nobody was around at the moment—Dragons needed their sleep too. The roads of Arcadia were completely clear. There was no-one blocking his way to the small village’s main gate…

 

And thus, no one to watch him begin his trek east.

_::Linear Notes::_

 

A few things I should mention about this chapter. First off, the “From Beyond” section is a reference to Lovecraft’s short story, and the Bluemoon Tower a reference to Dragon’s Dogma. However, I’ll warn you, this won’t be the last time you see ‘em. ;) Secondly, make note about what they say concerning Bramimond and the Shrine of Seals. This is to keep compliant with canon, where Ninian is revived at the end of FE7, and it will also be a significant plot point later…VERY significant. But I won’t give too much away. Just keep reading ;)


	50. Caelin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Searching for a way to revive the dead, Renault makes a brief stop in Caelin, and catches a hint of something very interesting. He soon ends up staying longer than he initially expected...

**Chapter 50: Caelin**

“Braddock! Braddock!!”

 

Renault ran as fast as he could through the burning ruins of what had once been a monastery, ignoring the twisted shapes and hideous voices of what had once been human beings which surrounded him. All of his attention was focused entirely on the blue-haired man walking steadily away from him. He seemed to be in no hurry, but even so, Renault never seemed to come any closer. No matter how hard Renault pushed himself, the distance between him and his friend never lessened.

 

“Braddock, wait! Please, wait!”

 

At this, the Ostian finally stopped, and turned to look at Renault.

 

He was not happy to see his best friend. In fact, he was wearing the saddest, most disappointed expression Renault had ever seen in his long life.

 

And then he disappeared.

 

“Braddock! _Braddock!!_ ”

 

Renault jolted up in his bed, eyes wide in shock and despair. He gasped desperately for breath, and only calmed when a glance at his surroundings reminded him of where he actually was.

 

He was sitting on the bed of his small cabin inside the nondescript merchant schooner sailing towards the Lycian port of Badon. He had purchased passage on it several weeks earlier, at the town of Daphira, located on the eastern coast of Nabata. He didn’t plan on staying in Lycia—instead, he wanted to take just a brief stop there. Renault had made the journey out from Arcadia alone, and it had not been easy going, though fortunately he hadn’t run into any extremely dangerous enemies as he did when he first arrived. He planned to purchase a few supplies at Badon, and then take another boat up the River Hartmar and into Bern, where he’d begin his search for the Shrine of Seals.

 

Judging by the dreams—more like nightmares, actually—he’d been having every night, though, his stay would not likely be restful.

 

“Braddock…why?” Renault brought a hand to his brow, and felt nothing there—though he knew that before Nergal’s experiments, it would have been covered in sweat. “Why…why’re you lookin’ at me like that, man?”

 

Ever since he had left Arcadia, he’d been having that exact same nightmare over and over again. He’d always be chasing Braddock through the ruins of some church or castle, never managing to catch up to him, and when his friend finally heard his cries, the expression on his face was sorrowful—so very _sorrowful_ —rather than happy.

The first few times he’d had the dream, Renault had just shaken it off. The next few times it only strengthened his resolve to bring Braddock back. But the dream hadn’t stopped, and it was beginning to affect Renault’s mentality. He wasn’t the type to put much stock in dreams, but seeing the same one again and again had begun to wear him down. Why did Braddock always seem so sad? So disappointed in him? Was he failing in his quest? Was it too late to bring Braddock back? Or was he simply taking too long?

 

“No,” growled Renault. “No! Not too late…’s not too late. Bramimond’ll always be there…the Divine Weapons’ll always be there. Just need to find them and Braddock will be back. He’ll be back, and he’ll finally be happy. He won’t look at me like that anymore…not anymore…”

 

Just distractions. That’s all those dreams were, Renault knew. Nothing but distractions. Sometimes he wished Nergal had robbed him of his need to sleep, along with the need to eat and drink—then he wouldn’t be annoyed by these stupid dreams. All he needed to do was find Bramimond and acquire the power of the Divine Weapons—then Braddock would return, and smile at him once more.

 

Renault shook his head and sighed. It was still early in the morning—the sun hadn’t risen and the stars were still bright. Braddock had loved looking at the stars—Renault thought that doing so now might soothe his nerves. He picked himself up, exited his cabin, and headed to the deck of the ship so that he could see the sky.

 

As it turned out, this decision would end up doing much more than relaxing him.

He _was_ feeling better, of course. He had been standing on the deck, watching the dim constellations above him for several minutes, and took a small amount of comfort from the fact that the spots of light above him had not changed at all in two centuries. His stargazing was interrupted, however, when he heard the stepping of feet upon the wooden deck behind him and a pair of worried voices murmuring to each other anxiously.

 

Judging by their dress, they were a pair of merchants, and they were too absorbed by their conversation to even notice Renault was standing there, staring at them, in the darkness ahead of them. They both sounded agitated and nervously, and Renault figured they’d come up here because they thought fresh air and stargazing were relaxing as well. They seemed like they needed something to calm them down even more than he did.

 

And, ironically enough, Renault learned for more from their discussion than either of them learned from each other. He learned enough to convince him that he would not be heading straight to Bern—no, he’d be taking just a little detour in Caelin.

 

“My word, Marcelus, I think we should have just stayed in Nabata,” one of them sighed. “Have you heard how things are in Lycia?”

 

“Yes, yes, but they’re only rumors. Surely the situation can’t be that bad!”

 

“Don’t delude yourself. Whenever you hear talk of golden-eyed demons, the situation is _always_ that bad!”

 

Golden-eyed demons? This piqued Renault’s interest.

 

“As I said, they’re just rumors. Probably spread by the Northern Cross themselves, in fact! Any common band of bandits would like to pretend they are ‘demons,’ and these terrorists are no different.”

 

“The reports and casualty figures I’ve read say otherwise. Ostia and all the other cantons have finally started taking these Northern Cross hooligans seriously, but ever since those golden-eyed soldiers appeared, more and more knights have been returning to their lords with injuries—or not at all. Those men…if they are men…don’t fight like men! They’re silent, they have no fear, and they’re far more skilled than any petty bandit or highwayman has a right to be. This is what a Lycian knight told me, mind you—no credulous peasant or overdramatic bard!”

 

“Well, not all Lycian knights are created equal. Where’d you hear that tale from? A Caelin man? All know that canton breeds nothing but cowards and oafs. Put no stock in his words!”

 

“Perhaps so, but they do good business with us. Insult not our patrons so loudly, Marcelus! More importantly, however unmanly they may be, they would know more than any other of what Lycia is truly facing. The Northern Cross has made their base within that canton, and its soldiers have as yet been unable to find it. They almost own the place, from what I hear—ambushing Marquess Hausen’s men, pillaging villages, and then slipping into the night with their ill-gotten gains. I’d say that knight has as much of a right as any to be afraid.”

 

“Pfeh,” snorted Marcelus. “Well, let us assume you and he _are_ right to be afraid. What can we do? We’ve no contacts outside of Lycia, and the nobles there are the only ones willing to buy Nabatan trinkets. We either do business in that country and take our risks with the Northern Cross, or we starve. I see no other options.”

 

His friend sighed. “Yes, yes, I cannot argue with that. Come, let’s head back down and get some sleep. Whatever we may face, ‘tis not best to do so with heavy eyes and a weary heart!”

 

The two of them left the deck, entirely ignoring the nearby Mercenary Lord who had found their conversation so intriguing.

 

“Braddock,” he mumbled to himself, leaning back on the railing of the deck. “Is…is something going on in Lycia? Is Nergal there? Maybe…maybe that’s why you’re looking at me like that. Maybe there’s something there I have to do…something you want me to do.”

 

He blinked, looking back to the stairwell that both merchants had disappeared into. It was a strange thing—they hadn’t even looked at him, and may not have been aware he even existed. Entirely concerned with their own affairs, they had no idea that they had just changed the course of his long life.

 

-X-

 

The world had changed.

 

For perhaps the first time in his two centuries of drifting across Elibe, this simple fact struck Renault as he stepped off of his ship and onto one of the many piers making up the port city of Badon. At first glance, it might have seemed that everything stayed the same. Badon was not much different from many other lawless port towns in Lycia, Etruria, or anywhere else. Crowded, dirty, and smelling of fish, it was filled with dilapidated, rowdy taverns home to whores, beggars, and thieves, while milling mobs of human detritus of all colors from all across the continent mingled freely in its streets.

 

But in a wide number of smaller details, the world Renault lived in now was not the one he’d been born in.

 

First off were the ships. He’d taken passage from Nabata on a small, nondescript merchant vessel, but many of the boats in the harbor were like nothing he’d ever seen before. Earlier in his life, the largest vessel he’d ever seen had been the two-masted merchant caravel Paptimus had been hiding on back in Lordsport. Here, however, many had three or even four masts which towered over their decks, carrying a half-dozen sails in some cases. Renault had never been much of a mariner, and he was astonished that boats that large could actually float. The people of Elibe had apparently made great advances in seamanship while he’d been wandering.

 

Second were the buildings. Naturally, given that this was a port town, many were run-down, but even so, they were bigger and sturdier than he would have expected anyplace outside of a large, prosperous city. There were fewer structures made out of wood and more two and even three story dwellings constructed out of stone and brick—it seemed that even in a settlement so close to water, Lycians had learned the benefits of constructing fireproof buildings. That a Lycian port could take architectural cues from the greatest cities of his homeland, Etruria, was something which profoundly impressed Renault.

 

Enough to make him pause for a moment, taking in all the sights and sounds he could, and ignoring the handful of puzzled glances busy travelers gave him…before heading off to search for answers to his questions.

 

His first stop was the largest tavern he could find. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but he had equipped his armor under his traveling cloak and had his weapons at the ready, just in case anyone wanted to start trouble. Fortunately, he was able to make his way through the crowds and into a relatively busy pub without attracting anyone’s attention. He took an open seat and motioned for the bartender.

 

“Aye, what d’ye want? Food? Drink? Both?”

 

“Neither, actually,” said Renault, slipping the man a few coins—enough to pay for a meal. “I’m looking for information.”

 

“That so? Ye’re a strange one. But I’ll humor ye. Watcha wanna know?”

 

“I’ve heard rumors about a terrorist organization called the “Northern Cross.” Specifically, I’ve heard talk of strange golden-eyed warriors who are assisting them. Can you tell me anything more?”

 

“Well, sure I can! ‘Tis all th’ rabble have on their mouths these days. Jes’ listen here an I’ll tell ye all about it.

 

“If ye ask any King or Marquess ‘bout how the world is doin these days, they’ll say we be livin’ in mighty fine times. Haven’t had a big war since m’ daddy’s daddy’s daddy was alive. Erryone’s tradin’ with each other, crops’ve been good since we c’n all remember, and th’ coffers o’ just about erry King are burstin’ at the seams.

 

“But it ain’t as if we’ve all been benefitin’!” he snorted. “Jes’ lookit Badon. Nice lil’ hovel, aye? ‘s the same all over Lycia, at least. Th’ Marquesses…and th’ merchants, for that matter, ‘re doin’ great. But the smallfolk? Not so much. Now, they’re doin’ okay in Pherae and Ostia, so I hear. Th’ rulin’ families in those places’ve always put their people first. But in Santaruz? Tuscana? Caelin? Nobody c’n find a job, nobody’s doin’ much business, and th’ Marquesses spend more money on themselves than governin’. Caelin’s pretty bad off, even comparatively. Lord Hausen’s a good man, but his father n’ grandfather…” The barkeep shook his head. “Even a good man can’t undo years o’ bad leadership in the blink of an eye.

 

“Now, you didn’t hear this from me…’specially if any o’ them Ostian spy spooks’re listenin’ in…but more’n’more people’re getting’ fed up. With their Marquess, with Ostia, with th’ Alliance in general. There’s a group called th’ Northern Cross for those guys. They think they’re a bunch o’ “chivalrous bandits,” and honestly, they lived up to their reputation. They got branches all across Lycia, but they never dabble in slavin’, drugs, or any o’ that bad stuff. They rob the Marquesses’ knights an they mug nobles, sure, but they give th’ earnin’s to th’ poor. Folks say they make the nobles scared, and maybe if they cause enough ruckus th’ marquesses’ll finally start payin attention to the people again.

 

“Helps that th’ leaders are a pair o’ nice guys. Well…a pair o’ nice guys and one creepy fella. The head o’ the band is a Rogue named Cross. Handsome fella, and I don’t even swing that way! Got a heart pure enough t’ be a knight—won’t raise his blades ‘gainst women an’ children, and whatever he steals he gives away. Second is his right-hand man, a real famous Bernese mercenary named Lucian. I hear that guy did some pretty tough work over’n the mountains a few years back. Th’ king liked him so much that he might’ve been made a Wyvern General, but he was born in ‘Truria, so they didn’t wanna give th’ privilege to a foreigner.

 

“The last leader, though…his name’s Cypher. Nobody’s seen him, but we’ve all heard tell that he’s a mighty creepy Druid. If y’ ask me…and again, don’t tell nobody I told ye this…he’s where all the trouble started. I dunno where or when, but I’m sure he had somethin’ to do with it.

 

“See, just a few months back, th’ Northern Cross started getting’ ruthless. And I mean _ruthless_. They used to be content w’ just humiliatin’ knights and embarrasin’ nobles. Knock em out, disarm ‘em, maybe hold ‘em ransom, but wasn’t often that they’d really kill people. Nowadays, tho…well, you see a man wearin th’ colors of th’ Northern Cross, you c’n be sure blood’ll be spilled. Anybody who opposes ‘em, knights, nobles, merchants, or whatever, will get their throats cut. And they don’t give much to the poor nowadays, either. Spend most o’ what they pillage and steal on hirin’ more men and mercenaries.

 

“And their new hires ‘re mighty strange. _Mighty_ strange. Now, lemme tell ya, livin’ in Badon, I’ve seen all kinds o’ people. Blue eyes, green eyes, purple eyes, whatever. But I never heard of a man with golden eyes till a few months ago, when _they_ showed up.

 

“Knights, Myrmidons, an’ Mages…they all wear helmets or robes to keep their faces hidden, but they’ve started showing up whenever th’ Northern Cross does. They don’t make any sounds when they fight—no screams, no yells, nothin’. They follow orders _without any_ question. And here’s the weirdest thing. You’ll jus have to take my word for it, ‘cause I ain’t never fought one m’self, but I got a friend who’s faced off against em once. He managed to get one, or so he said. He wanted t’ prove it t’ me, but couldn’t. Why? Cause the one he killed just _disappeared into dust!_ Craziest thing. Only left ‘is equipment behind. Body was just BOOM! Gone t’ the air! Now, maybe he was pullin’ one over me, wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. But somethin’ tells me he was tellin’ the truth…

 

“Now th’ powers that be are gettin’ real serious ‘bout all this. Th’ League hasn’t been formed as one—not yet—but they’re all dealin with it in their own way. Hirin’ mercenaries, conscriptin’ young men…’specially bad in Caelin. They lost a lot o’ their best knights in a big battle with some o’ them Northern Cross golden-eyes a little while ago. Say, mate…you look like a pretty tough guy from th’ way you carry y’self. Why dontcha head off to Caelin an’ see if they’ll hire you? Hausen and his brother, Lord Lundgren, ‘re tryin’ to get every able-bodied man they can. They’ll need em just to keep the peace! Y’ could likely fetch a high price.”

 

Renault sat there for a long moment, digesting everything he had heard.

 

Then he nodded.

 

“I think I’ll do that. Thanks,” he said, and left a couple of extra coins as payment. He got up to leave, paying no attention to the barkeep when he asked if he was sure he didn’t want a bite to eat. Renault passed through the crowds outside, and he didn’t head back to the docks.

 

He went north.

-X-

 

Caelin didn’t actually seem so bad. At least not at first glance.

 

Renault was walking along the road to Hausen’s castle under a mild, pleasant spring sun on the 16th Horse, 950 A.S. It was easy going—the scenery truly was a treat for the eyes. The grass was soft and verdant, the native fauna (small songbirds common across Lycia, along with rabbits, pheasants, and the occasional deer) common and healthy, and the land seemed generally taken to lush meadows and soft, rolling hills rather than the hard soil and crags found in countries like Bern. Lycia also seemed like it was a relatively civilized nation, now. The roads were numerous and well-maintained, much more so than Renault recalled the last time he was in the area. It seemed as if the country and its people had well and truly recovered from the civil war which had devastated them over two and a half centuries ago.

 

Granted, overcoming the problems of the past didn’t mean one had to contend with none at all in the present. Though he fortunately had not been accosted by bandits (either regular ones or the Northern Cross he’d heard so much about) many of the other travelers he’d come across had been quite sullen, and always ready to complain about taxes, unemployment, or worsening law and order. Though almost everyone spoke highly about their new marquess and believed he genuinely cared about them, few thought Lord Hausen could solve their canton’s problems, no matter how much he tried.

 

“Braddock…don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about you,” Renault mumbled to himself. “But I just need to find out if Nergal is up to something or not.”

 

Renault wasn’t interested in helping them either. Resurrecting Braddock was still his primary goal. However, he still remembered how Nergal had so cruelly tricked him and kept him from achieving that goal. If the sorcerer truly was plotting something in this region, Renault wanted to put a stop to it. After all, if he could wrest away even a little bit of Nergal’s forbidden knowledge, it could go a long way to reviving Braddock—if he had been Athos’ friend, he or his underlings might know the location of the Shrine of Seals, for instance. It was worth a detour to see what was going on, and even if nothing came of it, Renault was in no hurry.

 

He crossed the bridge across a small river to the south of the castle and came to the outpost in front of it. “Hold,” said the chainmail-clad, spear-wielding guard in front of it. “What’s your business?”

 

“I’ve heard your Lord is hiring mercenaries. I’m offering.”

 

“Aye. Anyone with a strong arm and loyal heart is welcome here. We could use the help.” He nodded and let Renault through.

 

The Mercenary Lord came up to the front gates of the castle—a rather small, nondescript affair not particularly different from those of other Lycian castles and somewhat less impressive than Eturian ones, even those he remembered from his youth. After the guards there asked him the same questions and he gave the same replies, they told him to head to the castle courtyards, where Hausen and Lundgren were looking over the many men who had come to fight against the Northern Cross, hiring them based on both their displays of skill and how trustworthy they seemed to be.

 

As he entered the courtyard, it seemed as if there was some argument over how much they should be paid as well. There was a small crowd of Myrmidons, Knights, and other soldiers centered around two middle-aged men yelling at each other. They both had black hair, but one kept it short, stood a bit shorter than the other, and had solid, chiseled features and calm brown eyes. The other had longer hair, falling down to below the nape of his neck, and a more angular face framed around a pair of narrow, flashing eyes, which seemed to be perpetually suspicious.

 

“Damnation!” yelled the long-haired man. “Hausen, your weak will shall breed nothing but disgrace and decay for our canton! Mercenaries aren’t a waste of money! In this day and age, they are an _investment!_ ” This was, naturally, greeted with cheers from the assembled crowd.

 

“Only if they are worth their pay, Lundgren,” came the shorter-haired man’s calm reply. He turned to the angry sellswords. “Listen to me, I appreciate you coming here, and I appreciate your offers. However, as much as my brother may wish it were not so, we do not have the money to hire all of you.”

 

“We would have the money if you’d stop wasting it on your damned ‘building projects,” Lundgren growled. “If the Northern Cross kills us all, none of it will do us any good.”

 

“Economic force might be a more effective weapon than military strength against the Northern Cross,” came another even reply from Hausen. “Lundgren, you may grow to understand this as you age, but swords and soldiers are not the only measure of a country’s power, and they cannot solve every problem either. Have you never wondered _why_ the Northern Cross has gained such wide appeal? Because the lives of the common people are so miserable! Better bridges mean more trade and fewer highwaymen. That means more money in our coffers and more food on the people’s tables. And _that_ means fewer recruits for an organization like the Northern Cross, which feeds off the misery of commoners!”

 

 _The more things change, the more they stay the same,_ thought Renault. Lundgren reminded him more than a bit of King Galahad, who had caused so many problems for Etruria so long ago.

 

In this case, however, Lundgren may have had a stronger justification for military spending than Galahad did. “You clearly do not understand the nature of the threat we’re facing, elder brother,” he retorted. “The golden-eyed villains who almost slew Sir Edmun are not petty cutthroats or disgruntled rabble-rousers. They’ll not be swayed from their course no matter how much you improve the people’s lives, because it’s likely they’re not even people at all! Edmun himself told you how they disappeared into dust as if they were phantoms. Their assault will not relent even if this canton is made as prosperous as Etruria!”

 

Hausen sighed—this was an argument he couldn’t refute so easily. Renault, for his part, was growing more and more interested in Caelin’s woes—if even the lords of the canton were taking these rumors seriously, they likely had at least a grain of truth.

 

“Yes, Lundgren, you may be right. Even so, we’ve many fine knights of our own. Should we—“

 

“I am as proud of our soldiers as you are, but we are desperately undermanned. We managed to save Edmun’s life, but it’ll take him months to recover from that wound, and Sir Jarvan and Sir Garen won’t be coming back at all. Our untrained squires won’t last five minutes against these Northern Cross phantoms, whoever they are. We _need_ to do something!”

 

As the two brothers continued to argue, Renault turned to one of the mercenaries nearby. “Hey, you’re here to get hired, right? What’s the asking price?”

 

“None of us’re willing to accept less than two thousand gold a month,” he replied. “The Northern Cross is a serious fightin’ force, not just a bunch of stupid bandits. Cross is a dangerous foe, Lucian is one o’ the best mercenaries on Elibe, and ever since those Goldeneyes showed up there’s this big guy with an axe that _nobody_ wants to fight. We ain’t cowards, but if you want us to give up our lives you’ll have to make it worth our while.”

 

“A big guy with an axe? What do you mean?”

 

“A few months ago a guy in pitch-black armor signed up with the Northern Cross. He’s as big as two men and carries a blue axe just as large. It can cut through _anything_. We haven’t seen him in Caelin yet, but I heard he took out a whole squad of knights single-handedly in Santaruz. He’ll probably show up here if this is really where they’ve built their base.”

 

Renault froze when he heard that description of the axe. “It…it couldn’t be,” he mouthed to himself. “It…”

 

“Eh?”

 

That did it. Renault was _absolutely_ sure he had a job to do in this canton. Without hesitation, and completely heedless of the reactions of the mercenaries around him, he pushed his way to the front of the crowd, yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hausen!”

 

This got the attention of both lords, and drew them away from their argument. “What?! Who the devil are you?!”

 

“My name’s Renault. I’ll fight for you for free.”

 

“What?” blinked Hausen incredulously. “What are you—“

 

“I said you can hire me for free,” repeated Renault. “I just need room and board, and somebody to keep my armor fixed up. That’s all.”

 

“Stop playing games,” growled Lundgren. “Anyone who hires a free sword will likely get what they pay for.”

 

“Yeah? Sometimes you’d be surprised.” Renault removed his traveler’s cloak, and everyone—Hausen, Lundgren, and the gathered mercenaries—gasped when they saw his fine equipment. His trusty Scouring-era armor with the chaindaggers in the pauldrons, along with an excellent Brave Sword and Lightbrand, both enchanted weapons he’d bought in Arcadia, glinted in the sun. It was obvious he wasn’t an ordinary mercenary.

 

Hausen was impressed, but not quite enough. “You’re obviously a man of quality, but that makes your offer even more suspicious. Your armor looks similar to a General’s, especially the mechanism in its shoulders. No General would ask for less than ten thousand a month. What explains your charity?”

 

Renault wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘General’s armor,’ but he answered the question. “I’ve heard about a giant man with a blue axe serving the Northern Cross. I…I know that guy. I want to face him. That’s worth more than a million gold to me. I swear, no matter what happens, if you’re fighting against him I’ll be more loyal to you than Barrigan.”

 

Hausen didn’t seem entirely convinced, but Lundgren seemed to accept Renault’s explanation. “Revenge, is it? That’s something I understand quite well. Brother, he looks capable, and at such a low price there’s no reason not to take his offer.”

 

“Fine,” said Hausen. “Renault, from this day forth consider yourself a member of the Caelin guard. Does anyone else wish to match his price?”

 

A low murmur of dissent rumbled across the gathered crowd of mercenaries. One man, however, stood forward.

 

It might have been more accurate to call him a youth rather than a man—he was only about 14 years old, it seemed. He was tall for his age, though, with a well-formed jaw, a dusting of stubble on his face, and light green hair arranged into a single braid, which was enough to mark him as a Sacean, since such a hairstyle was common for the men of that country. His clear, honest blue eyes, the way he carried the strange sword at his hip along with the peculiar bow on his back, and how toned and muscular his body seemed to be even at his age indicated he was worthy of being called a warrior.

 

Unfortunately, his race seemed to matter more than his skill to his prospective employers. “A Sacaen?” Both Hausen and Lundgren frowned in disgust. “Begone. We’ve no need of a barbarian like you.”

 

He shook his head, undeterred by their insults. “I am Hassar, of the Lorca. I just need food and a place to sleep. I’ll fight for you for that.”

 

Lundgren laughed. “Why? Are you that desperate?”

 

“The elder of my tribe saw evil rising in this land. I must stop it.”

 

The two nobles were about to dismiss him again before he received a bit of help from a rather unexpected source.

 

“Hey, Lord Hausen,” Renault said contemplatively, “As your newest recruit, lemme give you a bit of professional advice: I’d hire him. The Sacaens are better than anyone when it comes to archery, and they put a lot of stock into what their elders say. They don’t like going back on their word, either. This kid will probably give you both expert marksmanship and unmatched loyalty. If you’re as pressed for manpower and money as you say, I don’t think you can afford to pass up that deal just ‘cause of his birth.”

 

“Hmm…” Hausen paused for a moment to think. “Very well, we’ll take him.”

 

“Come, Hausen—“

 

“Yes, I’ve no love for Sacaens either, but if the boy’s as good a shot as they’re supposed to be, I can tolerate him. At least until Edmun recovers.”

 

“Fine, fine.” Lundgren glared down at the lad. “What was your name…Hassar? An ugly moniker from an ugly race. You may remain here, so long as you serve us. But stay out of my sight!”

 

Hassar just nodded. He was apparently used to this sort of treatment, and it didn’t bother him that much. He turned to Renault, and seemed as if he was about to give a heartfelt thanks, but the Mercenary Lord simply grunted.

 

“Don’t get any ideas, kid. I don’t particularly like Sacaens either. But if Sir Black Knight is who I think he is, we’ll need all the help we can get, especially in ranged combat. You better be good with that bow.”

 

“Well, there it is,” declared Hausen. “Any more takers?”

 

Another rumble of dissent coursed through the gang of mercenaries. Five men stood forward and agreed to lower wages, but that was all. The rest of them had apparently had enough, so Hausen declared the selection process over. The crowd began to disperse, heading out of the courtyard and out of Caelin to seek less stingy employers.

 

“Your funeral,” one of the mercenaries laughed at Renault as he passed him by. “You might look tough, but that axeman’s gonna cut you in half the moment he sees you.”

 

Renault simply laughed right back and cast him a cold smile.

 

“We’ll see.”

 

-X-

 

“This is the armory, Sir Renault. We can store your equipment here, if you’d like.”

 

“Alright.”

 

A few minutes after he’d been hired by Hausen, one of the castle guards promptly offered to escort him to the armory so he could take off his equipment and also see what Caelin itself had to offer (though they both knew nothing in the storehouse could compare to his Brave Sword and Lightbrand. Still, Renault was fairly pleased with what he saw—in addition to a better-than-expected-of-a-Lycian-canton variety of weapons (including Silver Spears and Swords), there were several suits of armor near the back wall which reminded Renault quite a bit of his own.

 

They were similar to the very heavy plate mail common to Generals and other armored warriors of his own day, but their helmets and pauldrons were different. Old Etrurian armors had helms similar to those of Paladins or Black Knights, but these new ones were more cylindrical in shape and lacked visors. Renault got the sense that they were faintly imbued with magic, since he could see a very faint glow emanating from their empty eyeports, though nothing as strong as his very useful visor. The pauldrons, on the other hand, were most impressive. Large, ornate affairs with golden rims, they were as large as his own shoulder plates and, most tellingly, they had chains attached to them. These chains were much thicker than his own, because they were attached to axes and spears rather than small, lightweight throwing daggers. Anyone wearing this armor would be a force to be reckoned with.

 

“Impressed, eh?” The guard smiled. “These things are a shining example of Lycian ingenuity. About fifty years ago we excavated a suit of armor from the Scouring that had a very advanced chain mechanism in its shoulders. We couldn’t replicate it exactly, but a scholar in Ostia figured out a way to make a simpler version that could be easily mass-produced. The chain can fit on spears or axes, and soldiers all across Elibe absolutely love them. They’re very heavy, so not everyone can use them, but for those who can, their defense _and_ offensive power is unparalleled. The plate is thick enough that blades and magic will have a difficult time penetrating it, and the chain launchers in the shoulders give its wielder a bit of extra range, better balance, and slightly strengthens their attacks. Even those haughty Etrurians have ordered hundreds of these suits already! We can barely keep up with the demand!”

 

“I can see why,” mused Renault. _My own armor’s served me well for a long, long time. Guess I should’ve expected other people would come up with a similar idea._

 

“Anyways, would you like to keep it in here? This is the most secure part of the castle.”

 

“Alright. I’ll keep my weapons in my room, though.”

 

“Of course, sir. Want help taking it off? Sir Edmun’s in no condition to leave his bed, so his young squire’s had nothing to do lately. Young Wallace has experience maintaining this sort of armor, so he’d probably be of great help to you. He can also show you around the castle, if you’d like.”

 

Renault shrugged. No sense taking more time than he had to getting himself equipped. “Alright, send him in. I’ll get started.” He started to remove his gauntlets while his guide called for Wallace; when he heard light footsteps padding up behind him he turned to see who his assistant was.

 

It turned out to be a rather familiar face.

 

The newcomer was short, barely coming up to Renault’s midsection. Clad in modest brown pants and a blue doublet, the youth was slight of frame and had narrow, dark brown eyes which were almost black. Renault didn’t notice that, however. What really captured his attention was the youth’s green hair, which was long enough to fall over the ears but not touch the shoulders, and was the exact same shade as a certain someone’s hair he’d once seen, so long ago…

 

“Keith,” he mouthed without comprehension as both the newcomer and the knight looked at him curiously. “Keith, it can’t be…Keith?” He took a step forward to look at the squire’s face and reached out a hand to touch that familiar green hair.

 

The child had no idea what was going on. “S…Sir? Is this Sir Renault? I was told to come and help one of the new mercenaries…”

 

“Yes, that is Renault. Do you know this lad?”

 

“Huh? Lad?” Renault blinked as he was snapped out of his reverie. He took another look at the squire’s slight, slender form. There _was_ a very strong resemblance to Keith, his ‘little sister’ from so long ago, but of course, now that he was thinking clearly, he knew it was impossible. Keith was long dead, and anyways, the boy’s face was more masculine even if his hair was almost the same.

 

“Oh, right. Right. Sorry, kid.” He sighed and turned away. “You just look like someone I used to know. A _lot_ like someone I used to know.”

 

“O…oh…” Neither the squire nor the man who’d called him in knew how to react.

 

“So your name’s Wallace?” Renault’s tone was softer and kinder than it usually was. Even if he only looked like Keith, that was enough to make the Mercenary Lord warm up to him a little bit. “C’mon, try to earn your keep. Unlatch my chestplate, if you can.”

 

“H-huh? Oh, yes! Of course, Sir Renault!”

 

Renault waved off his guide, who nodded and left the two of them alone as Wallace began undoing the clasps of Renault’s cuirass. The boy was indeed efficient, and soon enough Renault’s fine armor stood alongside the other ones on a stand at the back of the room.

 

“Nice work,” said Renault approvingly. He took a look down and shook out the rings of the suit of chain mail he was still wearing—it was a good idea to keep it on and close by even when one wasn’t in his armor or expecting a battle, since it provided a degree of protection from sudden ambushes and wasn’t heavy enough to really distract someone of Renault’s strength. “Should be good for now.” He looked at Wallace, again struck by the boy’s resemblance to his long-departed friend. “Guess you’re gonna be helpin’ me a lot while I’m stayin’ in Caelin.”

 

“Yes, Sir Renault. I…I’ll try my best!”

 

He gave Wallace a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Good enough for me. Now, you think you can show me around this place? I need to know the layout of the castle I’m defending.”

 

“Sure!”

 

Wallace seemed extraordinarily pleased that his new friend was treating him with a measure of kindness—the spring in his step and the big smile on his face compared to his less happy expression when he’d first entered told Renault that he probably didn’t have many friends here.

 

Well, now that Renault had arrived, that would probably change.

 

The Mercenary Lord grinned as his assistant led him out of the armory. Morphs and terrorists, a man matching Braddock’s description and a young squire with hair just like Keith’s…

 

Renault usually wasn’t one for fortune-telling, but he knew this for certain: His time in Caelin was going to be more than a little interesting.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

ALRIGHT EVERYBODY, IT’S WALLACE TIME!

 

Haha, seriously though, at this point in the series hardcore FE7 fans are gonna be happy. We’ve finally reached the point where Renault’s story begins to intersect more directly with the main plot of FE7. We’ve not yet reached the point of his redemption—there are some very dark parts ahead—but by Chapter 60 we should finally see him begin to break out of the darkness he’s in. Now, a couple notes:

 

Daphira is a ref to Bahamut Lagoon.

 

Jarvan and Garen are references to League of Legends XD

 

Aside from that, please enjoy :D


	51. Impervious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault earns his nickname, and then some.

**Chapter 51: Impervious**

_What an uneventful week,_ Renault thought to himself as he watched the scene playing out below his window. _This is the most exciting thing I’ve seen since I came to Caelin. Guess those Northern Cross guys must be biding their time._

Down in the courtyard, four young men were having a quarrel. Renault recognized one as Wallace, the green-haired squire he’d met on his first day here. The other three were boys around his age, Renault wagered they were squires as well. They were arguing about something, and then one of the other three boys shoved Wallace to the ground. To Wallace’s credit, he got back up and tackled one of them, but he was outnumbered three to one. The other two boys dragged him off of their friend and then one of them (the largest of the three) held him up, as the two others proceeded to give him a beating.

 

Renault wondered if he ought to intervene—he couldn’t help but feel a little bit of affection for the kid, given how much he looked like Keith. Still, he knew that it was best to let boys deal with their little struggles on their own. For now, then, he just watched.

 

Wallace was getting pounded pretty badly, though his foes seemed more interested in humiliating him than really hurting him. To his credit, he didn’t break down and cry, though it seemed like he was on the verge of doing so. Before that happened, he received some help from an unexpected source.

 

Renault caught someone moving from a distance—when he focused on it, he was able to track it, and saw it was another young man jumping into the fray. This one had green hair as well, along with a slightly darker complexion than the others. It was Hassar.  He slammed into one of the boys punching the helpless Wallace and drove him to the ground. The other two squires were distracted, which allowed Wallace to wriggle out of the big boy’s grip and even manage to bring him to the ground. Though Wallace was much smaller and slighter than he was, when he dropped to the ground he immediately whirled and drove an elbow as hard as he could into his captor’s gut, right above his groin. The big one wasn’t expecting that, and the attack thusly caught him off guard, sending him staggering back and then falling on his behind with an “Oof!”

 

Renault let a small grin creep across his face. Wallace, it seemed, had some pretty decent battle instincts.

 

Hassar was doing well against the boy on the ground, and Wallace had turned to face the last remaining attacker. All five boys, however, quickly broke up their fight when they noticed another set of newcomers…

 

Three knights, all armed.

 

 _Now_ Renault thought he might have to get involved.

 

From the room in the second-floor dormitories he’d been given, he rushed down and into the courtyard just in time to see how the argument was progressing.

 

“Th-this _savage_ attacked us, m’lord,” one of the boys sniffed. “We didn’t even do anything!”

 

“Of course, as I thought,” snarled one of the knights. “You filthy barbarians _are_ unsuited for civilized life. Don’t bother defending yourself, Sacaen! We’ll kick you out of our canton ourselves and tell Lord Hausen what you did later!”

 

Hassar simply shook his head and pointed at Wallace. “They ganged up on him. I wanted to help.”

 

“Hm?” said one of the knights. “Is that true, lads? You know such dishonorable tactics are below knights.”

 

“Wallace started it,” grumbled another kid. “Dunno what’s his problem. We didn’t do anything to ‘im!”

 

“Th-that’s not true,” retorted Wallace, “They were the ones who wouldn’t just leave me alone!”

 

“He’s lyin,” yelled the big boy who’d been holding Wallace down. “He’s a coward just like that Sacaen! You can’t believe anything he says!”

 

“Yeah,” sneered another of the youths. “Maybe if he could fight, Sir Edmun wouldn’ta gotten hurt like he did!”

 

This apparently enraged Wallace, and he balled up his fists and looked as if he was going to charge at the boys again. They just sneered at him. “It’s our word against yours, and there are three of us to you and your weird buddy.” They turned to the knights, who they apparently served. “You believe us, right?”

 

The knights were about to nod and grab not only Hassar but Wallace as well for their disturbance of the peace, but were in the end stopped by the last actor in this little drama.

 

“Don’t,” said Renault, casually striding up to them. He wasn’t wearing his armor, but he did have an extra Steel Sword strapped to his belt; he knew better than to go anywhere unarmed. “I was watching them fight from my window upstairs in the dorms. I didn’t catch what started the argument, but it ended with that big kid holding Wallace from behind while the other two hit him as much as they liked, all while he couldn’t do anything. They only stopped when the Sacaen over there got tired of it and took matters into his own hands. I thought the plainsmen were supposed to be stupid and savage? Looks like this one knows more about honor than you Lycians, at least.”

 

That last bit made the knights very angry. “And what would _you_ know about honor, mercenary?”

 

Renault shrugged. “I may be just a mercenary, but I know a fair fight when I see one. Aren’t you knights supposed to be big on chivalry? You might wanna give your squires some lessons about it.”

 

“I think it’s you who needs some lessons in respect,” replied the lead knight. “Neither we nor our squires need to take this from some uppity foreign sellsword!”

 

“You don’t? From what Lord Hausen said, you guys are pretty hard up for trained fighters.”

 

“You think you’re a ‘trained fighter?’ You’re working for us for no more than room and board!”

 

“And Hausen hired me anyways. Apparently, a lousy freebooter—emphasis on the ‘free’—is worth more than whatever you boys have been doing.”

 

“Cur!” yelled the lead knight, his ire transferred from Wallace and Hassar to Renault. “I’ll show you the might of Caelin’s men!” Before his friends could yell for him to stop, he unsheathed his own sword and charged at Renault.

 

Renault didn’t even bother moving an inch until the knight was almost on top of him and swinging his blade down. He actually wasn’t bad—the charging slash had been delivered from a picture-perfect Roof stance, and he maintained his grip on and control of the weapon; despite his anger he wasn’t swinging blindly in a rage.

 

It still wasn’t enough against Renault. Far quicker than the knight could see, the foreign mercenary gripped his scabbard with his left hand and whipped out his sword with his right, turning the motion into an upwards slash aimed right at the tip of his foe’s descending sword. The slash had enough force behind it that it knocked the sword straight from the knight’s hand, cleanly stopping his charge as he stumbled and tripped, looking at his blade as it flew far away.

 

“L-lucky strike,” growled one of his friends angrily, limbering his own weapon—an Iron Spear. “You won’t get away with this!” He charged as well, and his attack was even less effective—Renault just smirked, shifted his body slightly so the spear passed by inches of him, and stuck a foot out, causing the second knight to trip and fall unceremoniously to the ground.

 

Renault then immediately ducked, feeling wind whoosh above his head as a horizontal slash passed over it from the third knight, who’d also charged behind his friend and wasn’t expecting Renault to dodge. The look of surprise was still on his face when Renault rose and took his left fist along for the ride, connecting it solidly with the third man’s chin in a mighty uppercut that sent him literally flying into the air and tumbling to the ground a few feet away, stunned and very much out of the fight.

 

“G-gah!” stammered the first knight as everyone looked at him curiously, Hassar and Wallace both quite amused with the three other squires looking quite dismayed. “W-Who the hell are you?”

 

“A hired sword. Not much more.” Renault glared not only at the knights he’d just defeated but his friends along with their ne’er-do-well squires. “Now, I won’t tell you again. Leave these two boys alone. I’ll be nice and not tell anyone about how you—you cowardly squires _and_ your masters—humiliated yourselves today. But if I hear of _any_ of you causing trouble again, embarrassment is gonna be the least of your worries.”

 

“W-we won’t forget this!” yelled the spear-wielder as he got to his feet and helped his friend and the three squires pick up the third knight, still unconscious as they dragged him away. Renault just laughed as he turned his attention to the two youths he’d rescued.

 

“S…Sir Renault,” said Wallace in astonishment, “Th…that was _awesome_!”

 

“You…you are truly a great warrior,” concurred Hassar.

 

Renault grinned. “I’ve been in this business for a long time.” _Longer than you can imagine_. “In any case, Wallace, it wasn’t just me. Hassar really saved your ass.” He gave Wallace a meaningful look, then turned to Hassar.

 

“Hassar?” Wallace asked. “W…why did you help me?”

 

The young Sacaen held out his hand to Wallace, a small, subdued, but genuine smile on his face. “Plainsmen cannot abandon someone in need. We do not gang up on our enemies like jackals. Those boys had no honor. I wanted to help you.”

 

Wallace stared at him, then at the proffered hand. He didn’t take it, even after several moments of contemplation.

 

The smile disappeared from Hassar’s face, but he gave no other indication of emotional response. He simply turned and began to walk away.

 

“What the hell, Wallace?” Renault asked, clearly disapproving.

 

“Well, he’s Sacaen! I’ve never seen one before, and everybody says they’re dumb and, and, unciv…uncivilized.”

 

“Don’t tell me _you’re_ dumb enough to buy into that ‘Lycian Suprenacy’ crap, kid,” Renault growled in irritation. “First off, aren’t you training to be a knight? I’ve fought with and against those types before, and they all say that spitting at someone who’s helped you is the most dishonorable thing you can do, regardless of race. Secondly, I was born in Etruria. To us, you and your cantons look just as stupid as the plainsmen. You don’t have any right to look down on anybody, Sacaen or not. I don’t think much of their backwards culture and silly superstitions either, but a strong ally’s a strong ally. If you’re gonna piss off a friend just cause of his race, you’re gonna find yourself without backup sooner or later…and probably sooner, just when you really need it. I sure don’t have time to waste on children who can’t see that!”

 

The sight of Renault taking out three trained knights was still fresh in Wallace’s mind—he did _not_ want to anger such a man. More importantly, he knew Renault was exactly right, and that Hassar had acted like a much better knight than _anyone_ today, including him. Thus, he immediately turned away from Renault and called out, “Hassar! Hey, Hassar! Wait up! I’m sorry!”

 

This got the archer’s attention, and Wallace rushed up to him, grabbing his hand and shaking it, apologizing for not accepting it earlier, and thanking him again for his help. Hassar didn’t say much in response, but that smile reappeared on his face, and it was genuine this time as well.

 

Renault couldn’t keep a smile of his own from breaking out, either, as the two walked up to him. “Good man, Wallace. Anyways, what time is it? Either of you had lunch yet?”

 

The grumbles emanating from both boys’ stomachs indicated the negative.

 

“All right, come on,” laughed Renault. “Wallace, you know where the kitchens are? I’m still new here.”

 

The squire did, and promptly led both of his new friends into the castle and towards the great hall. It was just about lunchtime, which meant that Caelin’s many servants, bureaucrats, and soldiers were filtering in for their afternoon meal. The sounds of conversation, laughter, and music from a pair of knights who liked the lyre and lute as much as the sword and spear filled the air. Caelin was actually known for the skill of its chefs and the diversity of its culinary offerings, and this was apparent in the plate Renault received from a serving girl as he and his friends took their seats. His armor alone told his employers they’d do well to treat him well, so he got a plate full of potatoes, tarts, and delicious fresh fish taken from the streams which crisscrossed the canton and kept the land green, fertile, and healthy. Wallace and Hassar, on the other hand, received smaller plates with just bread, a bit of mashed potatoes, and bowls of stew. It was enough for them, though, and they dug in with gusto, not noticing that Renault hadn’t touched his own food.

 

“So, um, Renault,” asked Wallace between gulps of stew, “I was wondering…”

 

“Eh? What is it?”

 

“Why did _you_ help me out?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, Hassar did ‘cause he’s Sacaen.” He looked across the table at Hassar, who nodded. “But what about you? You’re not Sacaen, and you’re not a knight either. Um…do you still believe in chivalry?”

 

Renault laughed. “Nah. You just remind me of Keith.”

 

“Keith? I remember you calling me Keith when we first met.”

 

“Yeah, you have the same green hair. Same kinda look in yours too, a little.”

 

“So…um, who was Keith?” Wallace’s eyes seemed to grow a bit hopeful. “A great warrior or something?”

 

“A great warrior? Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he replied sadly. “She died in battle a long time ago…long before you were born. She was brave, loyal, and looked up to me, too. Almost like a little sister.” He lowered his voice, losing himself in his memories. “And she’s not the only one I’ve lost. Braddock…Braddock…I’ll get him back someday. I’ll bring him back…I will…”

 

Wallace didn’t hear this last part, so his next question knocked Renault out of his reverie. “W…wait, Sir Renault, did you say ‘she?’”

 

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir,’ but yeah, she. Keith was a Pegasus Knight, from Ilia. They’re all women.”

 

The happy expression on Wallace’s face cracked like glass. “S…so you’re saying I reminded you of a girl?”

 

“Huh? Um…yeah, I guess so, now that I think about it.”

 

“Dammit,” Wallace swore under his breath, looking down at his empty plate. “D…dammit!” He was trying to hide it, but it was obvious his eyes were watering up.

 

“What the hell,” grumbled Renault, looking around and hoping nobody was paying attention, “Stop crying! What’d I say?”

 

“E…everyone…everyone says I look like a girl!” sniffed Wallace disconsolately. “It’s all I ever hear! Everybody picks on me ‘cause I don’t have muscles, cause I’m not that strong, cause I’m not as big as the other boys…” He sniffled again. “It’s why I got into that fight! They said if I wasn’t so girly, if I could fight better, Sir Edmun wouldn’t have gotten hurt like he did…”

 

“Oh, is that it?” Renault didn’t seem too sympathetic. “If it’s that much of a problem for you, stop whining and do something about it.”

 

“What d’you mean?” Wallace wiped at his face, his tears seeming to have stopped.

 

“It took me years to become a mercenary like I am today. Given enough time, you could get as big, strong, and tough as I am eventually. _If_ you put in the work, that is. First off, are you still hungry?”

 

“I cleaned my plate…”

 

“I asked if you were still hungry.”

 

“Well, a little.”

 

“Ugh, I thought so. Do they usually just give you that bread and stew?”

 

“Well, yeah. I’m just a squire. Only the real knights get all the good stuff.”

 

“That’s not nearly enough for you to grow. Here.”

 

Without a second thought, he reached out and spooned some of his fish and fruits onto Wallace’s plate. “You need some too, Hassar,” he said as he did the same for the surprised Sacaen, who had been watching curiously.

 

“Renault, you didn’t eat a bit!” exclaimed Wallace. “Are you really—“

 

“Yeah. I don’t eat much. Just shut up and accept my kindness, both of you.”

 

They both certainly knew better than to argue with that and promptly dug into their new meals with gusto. Confident that Wallace had cheered up a bit, Renault took the opportunity to ask him a couple more questions.

 

“Anyways, Wallace, that’s another thing I wanted to ask you. I’ve only ever seen you around by yourself. Don’t you serve under a knight? He ought to be teaching you more about fighting and being a knight, not me.”

 

“I do.” He seemed to grow a bit sad. “I’m supposed to be Sir Edmun’s squire.”

 

Renault tried to cheer him up again. “Edmun, huh? I’ve heard that name before. Wasn’t he the best knight here?”

 

“He _is_ the best!” replied Wallace defiantly.

 

“How’d you end up with him?”

 

“Munch, munch—I never thought I could do it, but one day they had a test to see who could become a knight. My parents’re just farmers, and I’m a nobody, but…even though I’m small, the first time I picked up a spear, it felt like I’d been holding one my whole life. I…I can’t really explain it, but I managed to knock out the other boys and actually got a good hit in on a real knight before the sparring match ended! After that, Edmun was so impressed that he selected me himself!” Wallace was beaming with pride.

 

“How long ago was this?”

 

“J-just a week before you arrived, sir.”

 

“So what happened to him? Why hasn’t Edmun been around?”

 

Once again, Wallace looked sad. “Just a couple of days ago, Edmun took me along on a bandit hunt so I could watch him fight. He was amazing, just like I heard…they couldn’t touch his armor and his spear just blew them all apart. But then some new guys came…I think they were Northern Cross, ‘cause they had these funny yellow eyes. They were a lot tougher…but even then, m’lord didn’t give up! I was staying back, cause he told me to—he ordered me to—and watched as he killed ‘em all as easily as he killed the other ones! But I think they had some weird tricks or something…a couple of them in the back with weird clothes started throwing fire at him.”

 

“Mages, huh?” Renault made a mental note to himself to get some Pure Water as soon as possible.

 

Wallace continued. “I remember his right shoulder was glowing red hot, he had to remove the armor to keep it from burning his skin. He killed the mages, but then an archer shot him with an arrow. He killed that guy too, and everybody thought the battle was over…but on our way back to Caelin, he just collapsed! We managed to drag him back to Caelin in time for the healers to get at him, and I think they managed to save him, but…”

 

“But?”

 

Wallace shook his head. “He hasn’t opened his eyes since then. He’s still breathing, but it’s like he’s sleeping. The healers say that arrow that hit his shoulder was covered in poison or something. If he’d taken an antidote right then, he might’ve been alright, but the poison’s seeped into his body…even after they purged him, even after they used those staves, his body’s still really weak. They say he should wake up soon, but I…I just don’t know…”

 

 _Poisoned weapons, too. This isn’t gonna be fun,_ Renault thought to himself. Wallace agreed--the young man looked like he was about to burst into tears again, and neither Hassar nor Renault knew what would comfort him this time.

 

Some good news would do the trick, it seemed. “Wallace! Where’s Wallace!” called the unctuous voice of a Caelin manservant rushing into the Great Hall. When he spotted the young squire, he immediately ran over, brushing past a few indignant serving girls.

 

“W-what is it?” asked Wallace. “Oh, no…I’m not in trouble for fighting, am I?”

 

“Sir Edmun has woken up,” the manservant informed him. “He wants to see you. Oh, are those the new mercenaries?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“You should come as well. Edmun wants to see the caliber of men they hired to replace him.”

 

Wallace’s troubles were forgotten as all three of them immediately got up and followed the messenger to their next destination.

 

-x-

 

“Nnn…”

 

Wallace, Renault, and Hassar were led up the stairs to the second floor of Castle Caelin, past the dormitories, and into a bedroom considerably larger than most others in the castle. The personal chambers of a very influential man of this canton, Renault surmised. Considering the large bed in its center was occupied by a strong-looking man with bushy red hair and beard who nevertheless was lying on his back and seemed to be suffering from a fever (judging by his expression and the sweat dripping from his brow), Renault suspected it was Lord Edmun, going on everything he’d heard.

 

The room was filled with several other people. Lord Hausen and Lord Lundgren stood on the left side of his bed, very relieved to see their best warrior wasn’t dead, at least. On the right side stood two women—an older, matronly lady in cleric’s garb, and a cute young girl about Wallace’s age who looked to be her assistant. She had black hair, along with bright, clear eyes. She seemed overjoyed to see Edmun waking up. Behind Renault and his friends trailed the handful of other mercenaries who’d been hired—Edmun wanted to see them as well.

 

“Nnngh…” Edmun opened his blue eyes, focusing on Lundgren and Hausen. “My…my lords?”

 

“Glad to see you remain in the land of the living, Edmun,” smiled Hausen. “How do you feel?”

 

“Terrible, but not as bad as when that arrow first hit me.” He coughed. “H…how long have I been out?”

 

“About a week.”

 

“A week?! Damned poison! But at least I’m still alive. Was it your tender ministrations I have to thank?”

 

Hausen—and the rest of the room—laughed. “No, my friend, you owe it to these ladies here.” He smiled at the girl and the cleric. “It’s only thanks to Her Excellency Althenia’s skill with a staff that we were able to purge the poison when we did. If it had remained any longer, your sleep would have been permanent.”

 

The woman looked down at her companion and smiled proudly. “I’m not the only one who deserves credit,” she said in a soft voice. “Young Madelyn is as fine an apprentice as a cleric could hope for. She tended your other wounds while I purged the poison, and has kept you cool and clean for all the rest of the time you’ve spent asleep. Were it not for her, you might have died of your fever or an infection.”

 

“Ah…wonderful! My lord Hausen, you’ve raised a fine daughter…”

 

Hausen beamed and patted his daughter’s head—she put on a big smile of her own. “Indeed I have.” His smile turned sad. “I only wish her mother could be alive to see this…”

 

“Lyndis’ passing was pain for us all,” remarked Lundgren with a bit of bitterness. “In any case, Edmun, you’ll be out of commission for some time. Althenia says the poison has damaged your muscles. You’ll be bedridden for a month, _at least_.”

 

“Damnation! I can still—“

 

“Doctor’s orders,” said Althenia, _quite_ firmly.

 

“Fine, fine. Damn this Northern Cross! Where’d those yellow-eyes come from? And where’d they get their poison? Ugh.” He sank back into his bed. “Wallace…where’s Wallace? Where is my squire?”

 

“I’m here, sir,” Wallace said, walking up to his bedside.

 

“Ah! Truly you’re a good lad.” Edmun let out another cough. “I’m sorry, Wallace. You…it must be a terrible disappointment for you. You finally have an opportunity to become a knight, but the man responsible for training you has gone and got himself injured…”

 

“No! Lord Edmun, it’s not your fault at all! It’s…if only I was stronger, maybe I could have—“

 

“No, Wallace. Let this be my first lesson—don’t blame yourself for what happened to me. I made an error in judgment, and I paid for it. No-one else is at fault.

 

“But you’re also right, Wallace. You need to become stronger…not because you failed me, but so you can protect the people of this land…so you can be a man your parents would be proud of. You want that, don’t you?”

 

“Yes…of course, m’lord!”

 

“Then go. Don’t be afraid…” He shut his eyes and grit his teeth as another wave of pain washed over him. “You won’t be alone. You mercenaries…my lord hired you to replace me?”

 

Renault, Hassar, and the others nodded.

 

“Ah…I should apologize to you as well—“

 

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” said one of the mercs, a jovial Myrmidon. “I needed some extra money. Misfortune for you means a job for me…wait, hell, I sound too much like a mercenary!”

 

Hausen and Lundgren seemed irritated at the uncouth joke, but Edmun just chuckled—the poison hadn’t taken away his good humor, at least. “It’s not a bad thing to be able to laugh in the face of adversity. It takes a strong spirit to wield a strong sword. What’s your name, friend?”

 

The Myrmidon introduced himself, along with his companions, and then Renault and Hassar. When it was Hassar’s turn, Edmun raised an eyebrow in surprise. “A Sacaen?”

 

“Yes,” said Hausen disinterestedly, “He knew how to ride a horse and he could shoot well. He was willing to work for almost nothing, so we saw no reason not to hire him. Even barbarians have their purpose.”

 

“H-he’s a good guy, Lord Edmun!” Wallace cried out, drawing surprised glances from everyone else in the room. “He’s strong, and he’s honorable! He’s not a savage or anything!”

 

“Peace, lad,” Edmun chuckled. “I could see it in his eyes. Those are the clear eyes of a worthy man, regardless of race. Just like you, Wallace.” He was about to say something more when yet another servant burst into the room.

 

“Lord Hausen,” the messenger stated tersely, “Forgive my intrusion, but we’ve received word of suspicious individuals loitering around the village to the east. We suspect they may be Northern Cross…a merchant caravan is scheduled to leave that village soon and they may be planning to ambush it.”

 

“Escort mission?” asked Renault. “Sounds fun.”

 

“I would not send all of you,” warned Lundgren. “We can’t be sure if they’re planning to hit the caravan or if this is a feint. Edmun is in no condition to leave the castle. Renault and Hassar, I want you to accompany three knights as an escort for the caravan. The other mercenaries will stay here in case the Cross tries to launch a sneak attack.”

 

“I-I’ll go too!” Wallace exclaimed. He didn’t say it out loud, but everyone knew he wanted a chance to prove himself.

 

“Fine,” said Lundgren disinterestedly. “If Edmun can’t fight, you will do so in his stead.”

 

“I agree with my brother’s analysis,” said Hausen. “A team of six to protect the caravan while the rest of our forces prepare for any possible assault sounds wise to me.”

 

“It’s settled, then,” said Edmun. He turned to his squire and smiled. “Wallace…You’re a good lad indeed. I’m glad I chose you to be my squire. Renault, Hassar, and the rest of you…watch over him. He has great potential. And…don’t waste your lives, either. All of you, mercenaries and knights alike, are the shields of Caelin’s people. We’re depending on you.”

 

“Yep,” said Renault. “Alright, that caravan’s gonna be leaving soon, isn’t it? We should all get ourselves equipped. Wallace, come with me.”

 

-X-

 

“We’ll be surrounded soon,” said Hassar.

 

“Just as I thought,” groaned Renault. They’d just arrived at the village, where the merchant caravan was waiting for them. It was lead by Marcelus and Nestor, the two harried, nervous-looking merchants whose conversation on the boat had actually spurred his journey to Caelin. He didn’t remember at all, of course—he was just annoyed that the Northern Cross was after them, now. The moment they’d linked up with the caravan and began their journey from the village to its destination (Kathelet, in the north), Hassar yelled that he saw something.

 

Renault looked to where Hassar was pointing. From the three small watchposts to the southwest, on the other side of the river crossed by two bridges, Renault saw movement. Men were emerging, and they weren’t Caelin men. And perhaps not men at all.

 

“P-Paladins!” stammered Wallace. “And there might be more coming, too…”

 

“I see Bandits and Mercenaries to the north,” added Hassar. “I think there’s a woman in strange robes at the head of our road. She looks like a Sage…”

 

“She may be their leader,” grunted Renault. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. I don’t think any of you are capable of taking on the guys coming out of the forts.  Let’s cross the bridge to the north of us as quickly as possible. Once we do, I’ll stay behind to hold off the Paladins.”

 

“Alone?” asked one of the knights incredulously. These three Cavaliers were actually the same ones who’d attacked Renault just a few hours earlier, but their previous animosities were forgotten in the face of a new enemy. “You think you can hold all of them by yourself?”

 

“I’ve got a better chance than the rest of you,” he replied. “While I’m busy with them, try to break through the axe and sword-wielders. If you can, try to capture that Sage. Don’t kill her. We might be able to learn a lot from her if we interrogate her. Either way, I’d bet the rest of them will flee if their leader is incapacitated.”

 

“Renault…” murmured Wallace, clearly quite worried, but Renault just shook his head. “Let’s go! _Move!_ ”

 

The Paladins from the Southwest were swift indeed, and they’d galloped close enough that Renault could see them clearly. His blood surged when he saw how familiar they looked…

 

The riders were clad in pitch-black armor with their visors held down, so he couldn’t see their faces. Their mounts, however, were grayish-black, and had eyes unlike those of any other horse he’d ever seen.

 

Their eyes were pure gold.

 

Renault stood and faced them as his companions and the caravan wound around the east side of the village, having to slow their pace due to how sluggishly the merchant’s wagon moved. Several Bandits and Mercenaries were already filtering through the northern bridge. Renault could only hope Wallace, Hassar, and the Cavaliers could deal with them, because these Paladins would be keeping his hands full.

 

The first of them was charging across the bridge, and he was ready for it. He hadn’t yet unsheathed his Brave Sword or Lightbrand. Instead, he cast his chaindagger into his left hand and tossed it at the first Paladin. He swept his hand so the chain arced, for his didn’t want the blade to hit the man’s helmet, but the chain to wrap around the neck. It did so, and before the horseman reached Renault, he reached over his right hand to yank on the chain with both his hands. The golden-eyed horse immediately stopped in its tracks—Renault had never seen anything quite like it—as its rider was torn from his saddle and fell to the side, plunging over the bridge and into the water. As Renault’s chain unwrapped itself from his neck and returned, the horse promptly dove in after him, completely heedless of its own safety. Neither man nor beast had uttered a single sound while this was happening.

 

These were most definitely morphs—no living creature could follow orders so mindlessly and mechanically. The only question was whether they’d been created by Nergal, or had someone else figured out there secret?

 

No time to dwell on it now, though. The moment the bridge cleared up again, the other two Paladins charged.

 

 _Now_ he unsheathed his Brave Sword—he’d have to deal with both of them quickly. He hopped to his right (their left) just in time to avoid getting skewered by the first Paladin’s Silver Lance, and as he did so he spun, holding the Brave Sword away from his body and bringing it up. The weapon managed to slice through the horse’s foreleg, its enchantment providing not only speed but enough power to cut artificial bone as well as flesh. The beast collapsed to the ground, throwing its rider off as well, leaving Renault free to deal with the last one. Right after he’d cut through the second horse, Renault continued his spin and used the motion to re-sheath his Brave Sword, stopping to prepare himself for the last assault. He ducked low and darted to the left this time, dodging the third Paladin’s thrust, but as he did so he reached out with his free hand and grabbed the Morph’s spear as tightly as he could. He was nearly dragged off his feet, but he had enough strength and control to drag the rider off his saddle—a human opponent might have let go of his weapon, but not a Morph. The creature fell to the ground with no more than a dull thud, allowing Renault to grip its head, thrust it back, and jam a dagger into its exposed throat.

 

There was no blood. Instead, with what seemed to be a hiss of air, the creature jerked, and then crumbled into dust. Its horse did the same, perishing along with the rider. Nothing was left of them except weapons, barding, and black armor. Behind him, Renault heard the last remaining Paladin getting to his feet and preparing to charge at him on foot with his spear, but Renault didn’t give him the opportunity. The Mercenary Lord turned and jumped on him, savagely driving the Brave Sword through his cuirass. Both the Paladin and its wounded mount disappeared into dust as the others did.

 

It seemed that whoever had created had apparently tied two beings together—artificial horse and artificial horseman. If it was Nergal, he must have learned a few tricks over the past two centuries.

 

He’d also apparently made a _lot_ of Morphs in that time. As he turned from the remains of the third Paladin, Renault saw more black-clad warriors approaching his bridge. Heroes and Sages, it seemed. Thankfully, they were on foot, meaning it’d take longer for them to reach him than the Paladins did, but more were coming behind them. Renault knew he needed to fall back, and so he did.

 

-x-

 

Meanwhile, to the north, Wallace, Hassar, and the three knights were doing well against the highwaymen. These men were very much human, with normal hair, normal eyes, and normal screams of pain as they were hit. It was apparent that the Northern Cross regulars were nowhere near as skilled as their mysterious Morph allies, and that they’d been expecting those creatures to break through easily and provide the assistance they desperately needed. They hadn’t counted on a single Mercenary Lord holding his own against so many of them. Thus, the three knights were able to clear the area just in front of the north bridge handily, swords and spears flashing as they cut through Mercenaries and allowed their horses to trample over bandits. Even Wallace managed to score a lucky victory—he was far from a master with the spear, but with adrenaline pumping through his body he saw a mercenary sneaking up on Hassar, who had set his horse still to allow him to fire arrows at the axemen threatening the wagon with greater accuracy. Yelling as loudly as he could, he charged forwards, holding his spear horizontally in front of him, and slammed its shaft into the man’s midsection. They were standing next to the bridge, near the edge of the water, and Wallace saw an opportunity: Before the swordsman could recover, he slammed the shaft of his spear into the man’s midsection again, sending him staggering back again, and this time falling into the river.

 

“I got one!” Wallace cheered, and Hassar grinned at him, grateful for the save. They were interrupted, however, by Renault clanking up to them as fast as he could.

 

“Get that wagon across the second bridge!” he roared. “The Paladins’re gone, but enemy reinforcements’re pouring in through the south! Get the wagon to safety and get that Sage as quick as you can!”

 

“Renault,” gasped Wallace, honestly not entirely expecting to see Renault again. “D…Did you really take out those Paladins? All of them? On your own?”

 

“Don’t worry about it! Just get on Hassar’s horse and capture that woman!”

 

“He’s right, Wallace,” called Hassar. “Get on!”

 

Wallace promptly did so, and followed the three knights across the bridge as their wago clunked along behind them. Renault was last off, and the moment he crossed to the other side he turned to face the enemy reinforcements. Wallace turned back to see what was happening, and before Hassar’s mount took them too far away to see anything more, he was treated to the most impressive display of swordsmanship he’d yet seen.

 

Advancing towards Renault were three Heroes wielding Silver Swords and Axes, followed by three Sages with blue and red tomes in their hands. The first Hero broke into a run, to which Renault responded by dropping his body low and pointing his Brave Sword up (his right hand on the part of the blade right over the crossguard, i.e the ricasso, rather than having both on the hilt). The Hero thrust forwards with his blade, but Renault responded by bending his knee, bringing his body even _lower_ , and then rising with a thrust of his own. The Hero’s attack managed to graze the armor of Renault’s shoulder as he bowed, but Renault’s thrust found its way past the Hero’s shield and into his unprotected neck, killing the thing and causing it to crumble away into nothing.

 

Not even a second after he’d dispatched the first Hero did Renault hop swiftly backwards, out of the radius of a great explosion formed by two Elfire spells crashing into the crystal generated by a Fimbulvetr spell. From the smoke and steam charged another Hero with a Silver Axe, jumping into the air and descending with a mighty chop. Another swift sidestep brought Renault not even an inch to the left of the scar the Silver Axe left on the stone bridge. With his free hand, Renault immediately reached out and gripped the Morph’s head, hopping back once again and letting go. The Morph had been dragged to where Renault had been standing, meaning he was blown apart by a second batch of Elfire and Fimbulvetr spells launched by his magic-wielding friends. It almost seemed as if Renault’s luck had run out when the third Hero barreled into him, leading with his shield rather than his Silver Sword, which he slammed directly into Renault’s helmet. The Mercenary Lord staggered back, seemingly stunned, as the Hero raised his blade and then brought it down. Quicker than Wallace could see, though, Renault produced his chaindagger in his left hand and crossed it and the Brave Sword over his head in an X, blocking the Morph’s slash. He pushed back with a sudden burst of strength, forcing his enemy to stumble a few steps away from him, then rushed forwards in a shoulder slam that forced the morph back even further _and_ again brought him just out of the way of a third magic barrage. Two slashes of the Brave Sword then severed the Morph’s arms from its body, and a third took its head clean off, each appendage disappearing into dust as well. Now it would be easy for Renault to deal with the Sages—a toss of his chaindagger into the throat of one followed by another charge ended with a flurry of slashes turned them all into dust.

 

“A…amazing,” gasped Wallace, and while Hassar had to keep his eyes on the road in front of him, he’d heard the commotion behind him and was just as impressed. He didn’t take his mind off the fight, though. “Wallace, get ready,” he said. “We’re coming near her. When I shout, jump off my horse and knock her out!”

 

“W-what?! I can’t—“

 

“Get ready!”

 

Hassar’s horse was galloping north, then west through a copse of trees, heading towards the area’s last bridge. The three knights were doing a good job of keeping the bandits away from the terrified merchant caravan behind them, allowing them to break through, but Hassar’s horse had outpaced them—it was now just him and Wallace against the Sage who seemed to be their leader, and who was standing at the other end of the bridge. She raised her hand and cast a bolt of fire at the two boys, but Hassar’s steed was swift enough that he’d already galloped past it by the time it hit the ground. The woman opened her mouth to scream, and Hassar shouted, “Now!”

 

Wallace didn’t stop to think. He released his Sacaen friend and jumped off the horse, crash-landing onto the woman. With a wild yell he attempted to pin her to the ground, but even a female magic-user was larger and stronger than he was. They struggled for a few moments, but she eventually succeeded in throwing him off.

 

“How _dare_ you!” she spat. “Manhandling a lady like that! Have you knights of Caelin no chivalry! I’ll teach you a lesson!” As Wallace got to his feet, she picked up her Elfire tome and prepared to fry him, but then…

 

“Wait…wait,” she murmured, forgetting her spell, “My, my, you’re a small one! What’s a boy like you doing in a place like this?”

 

“H…huh?” asked Wallace, picking himself up. He hadn’t quite heard.

 

“Why, you’re just so _cute!_ What are you doing here?” The woman seemed to have forgotten that she was in combat entirely. “I can’t believe they’re forcing a sweet little specimen like you to go out and fight!”

 

Now Wallace was totally confused, and had no idea what was going on. “L-listen, m-maa’m,” he stammered, holding up his spear defensively, “I-if you’re trying to trick me, it won’t work! Just surrender!”

 

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said somberly. She walked up to Wallace, and she was swaying her hips in a very strange manner he didn’t know _what_ to make of. She was close enough for the young squire to get a better look at her, and he noticed that she seemed to be a middle-aged-looking, slightly chubby woman clad in a Sage’s typical raiment, with long red hair that fell to the middle of her back, brown eyes, and a rather large chest (her blouse had a slit in it that allowed him to see most of it). “What have they done to you, that you’d be so eager to fight? Little boys should be running, joking, and playing, not marching all over the land pretending to be knights. You must be so tired and scared…don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything…”

 

She reached out as if she was going to embrace him, and he simply didn’t know how to react. “G-get back!” he sputtered, poking at the woman with his spear, but she apparently wouldn’t be dissuaded.

 

This distraction gave Hassar time to succeed where Wallace failed.

 

While Wallace and the Sage were occupied with one another, Hassar had brought his horse around for another charge. He’d put away his sword and bow, and instead taken out a new weapon, one popular with many tribes of Sacaens. It was called a bola, and consisted of two heavy rocks tied together with a rope. By swinging them around, an experienced hunter could use the momentum generated to hurl them at a target in such a way that they’d tangle up its legs and prevent it from fleeing. Usually used to capture game, they could also capture people as well, which Hassar demonstrated wonderfully. The Sage was too concerned with Wallace to notice Hassar galloping up behind her in time, and could only utter a shocked cry when he tossed the bola right at her legs, tangling them up and sending her crashing to the ground, her book flying from her hands. Wallace quickly took the opportunity to scoop it up and then level the point of his spear at her throat. There was nothing she could do now…and her allies realized that.

 

-x-

 

Another slash from his Brave Sword, another Sniper crumbled into dust. Renault had no idea how so many Morphs could be hiding in just three forts—there seemed to be no end to them, and even he couldn’t keep this up forever. Snipers, Heroes, and Paladins had continued to pour ceaselessly towards him, ignoring the village to the south in favor of hunting him down at the single bridge. Happily, with no forewarning whatsoever, the morphs suddenly…stopped.

 

“Hah!” He took advantage of their distraction to slay a couple more of them, then noticed they seemed to be retreating. The Snipers were ignoring him entirely to fall back into the copse of woods to the west of the village, where they seemed to be disappearing into the shadows. The Heroes coming up from behind them were doing the same, and no more foes seemed to be pouring in from the forts.

 

“Huh…guess Hassar and Wallace must’ve taken out that sage,” Renault muttered to himself. As if on cue, he heard hooves behind him and turned to see the two boys on Hassar’s horse riding up behind him, looking very, very pleased with themselves. The knight trio was accompanying them, and one of them had a middle-aged woman riding on his horse as well, tied up and looking very annoyed. They had won that battle very well and were all justifiably proud of themselves. That pride turned to awe, however, when they saw Renault.

 

He was standing among several piles of dust, broken equipment from the many Morphs he had killed littering the ground around him. By themselves, those Morphs were enough to give even the best knights of Caelin a fair bit of trouble. Renault, however, had exterminated a squadron of them as if they were nothing.

 

“Amazing,” gasped one of the Cavaliers—ironically enough, the same one who’d intended to teach Renault a “lesson in respect” earlier in the day. “You…by yourself…you held them all off by yourself! You saved our lives, sir! None of us would’ve lived through this battle if we’d had to fight all of those golden-eyed bandits!”

 

“Without a single scratch on him!” added another one. “He’s…it’s like he’s invulnerable!”

 

“Impervious, he’s completely impervious to all attacks!” cheered the third knight. “Renault the Impervious! Renault the Impervious!”

 

“Renault the Impervious,” cheered the knights in unison, and then Wallace, and even a grinning Hassar joined in. “Renault the Impervious! Renault the Impervious!”

 

Behind the green-glowing visor of his magic helmet, Renault could only smile.

 

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

The ‘battle map’ for this chapter is exactly the same as Chapter 10 of FE7 (the final chapter for Lyn’s Tale) so look at that if you’re confused :D Renault’s musings on how so many morphs could pop out of so few fortresses is a reference to how in all the FE games generally, there’s like 50 units of enemies hiding inside a single fort one panel big XD XD XD

 


	52. A Beautiful Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault gets to know his foes a little better.

**Chapter 52: A Beautiful Foe**

Renault thought that last battle had been tough. He hadn’t considered that making it back to the castle with their new captive might be just as hard…or, more accurately, much, much more annoying.

 

“Oh, nooooo~!” moaned the Sage, from the back of one Cavalier’s horse (who Renault now knew as Sir Varde). “A delicate maiden like me, in the blush of her womanhood, fallen into the hands of such a rough and unrefined band of soldiers…what did I ever do to deserve this?” He grimaced as he heard her voice. He was riding on the back of another knight’s mount, with Hassar and Wallace riding beside him. After the Morphs had retreated, they’d tied up their prize, made her ride with Varde, and proceeded to head back to Caelin so they could interrogate her. She hadn’t stopped whining for a single moment since they’d started, and it was irritating Renault.

 

Everyone else was annoyed as well. ”You were working for the Northern Cross, the most notorious band of cutthroats and villains in Lycia,” grumbled Varde in response. “You’re lucky we’ve kept you alive!”

 

“Saving me for a fate worse than death, I’d wager,” she snapped. “Y-you’re planning to have your way with me, aren’t you? Perhaps even sharing me with your lord, is that it? Oooh! You brutes!”

 

Varde almost fell from his saddle. “By the Saint! We are knights, not thugs or highwaymen! Both the codes of chivalry and the lessons of blessed Elimine tell us we are not to mistreat captives taken in battle. We’d never violate a woman, foe or not. Now, just be quiet and no harm will come to you!”

 

“Trying to ply me with honeyed words, are you? You’ll just take advantage of me when my guard is down, I know it!”

 

“You’re assuming anyone here actually _wants_ to take advantage of you,” Renault sighed. He hadn’t intended her to hear his mumbled insult, but alas, she did so anyways, and swiveled around on her seat behind Varde to glare at him.

 

“And why _wouldn’t_ you, hmm? No proper, red-blooded man on Elibe could ever resist me for long! Perhaps you prefer the company of men, is that it?”

 

Renault pondered the question for a moment, then gave what he thought was an appropriate reply: “If I were to say yes, would you shut the hell up?”

 

Lamentably, this accomplished the exact opposite of what he’d hoped. Prudence let out a delighted squeal loud enough to make the unfortunate Varde’s ears ring. “Really?! This is just like one of my novels!! Who do you think is handsomer, Lucian or Cross? Oooh! Oooh! And are you a seme or an uke?”

 

Prudence no longer seemed to be angry at them, as she now was entirely occupied with gushing about how “lovely” Lucian and Cross were and which of them would make a better “pairing” with Renault. Thankfully, the Mercenary Lord didn’t really care about what she said about him so long as she stopped calling him names. The knights, for their part, were more amused by this turn of discussion than anything else. One of them even chimed in with his own suggestions about who looked best with Renault before being reminded _quite_ sharply by Varde that Prudence and her friends were still their enemies. In any case, the rest of the trip to Caelin was happily much less stressful. Of course, it was also a bit more confusing for the youngest members of Renault’s troop.

 

“Um…Sir Renault,” Wallace called, struggling to be heard over Prudence’s chatter as they neared their destination, “Uh…me and Hassar were wondering…”

 

“What is it?”

 

“What does “preferring the company of men” mean?”

 

Renault sighed, and he would have brought a hand to massage his temple if he wasn’t wearing a helmet. “Don’t worry about it, kid. You’ll figure it out when you’re older.”

 

“Oh, okay. Um…Hassar has another question.”

 

“What?”

 

The Sacaen blinked, and then asked, “What is a…see-may? And an oo-kay?”

 

Renault honestly had no idea, and he shrugged his armored shoulders. “I don’t think any of us will _ever_ figure that out.”

 

With that exchange, they passed through the gates to Caelin.

 

The victorious knights and mercenaries drew many curious stares from onlookers, most of them admiring. There had been a few civilians, hiding in their homes along the road which connected most of the villages in the area, who had witnessed the previous battle, and tales were already circulating about the prowess of the white-armored swordsman. A few reports also had the leader of the bandits being captured by a pair of young men, so even the young squires of Caelin, who had previously looked down on Wallace and Hassar, had to look on with grudging respect as the two of them passed by.

 

“We’ll take you right to Lord Hausen and then decide what to do with you,” said one of Varde’s companions—a larger man named Ector—gruffly. “Down you go.”

 

Still pouting, the woman hopped off of Varde’s horse and took her place between Hassar and Wallace as they, too, dismounted and escorted her behind Renault and the knights. They took her straight to Hausen’s throne room to see what their lord thought should be done with her.

 

“Renault! Ector! Varde! Gibson! You’ve returned!” said the Marquess, immediately rising to greet them. Lundgren was there too, wearing a more neutral expression—the two had evidently been discussing something before their soldiers had greeted them. “I’ve already seen reports of your valor and strength. You three knights have served your lord well, and Renault…if even half of what they’ve said about you is true, you’re worth a price of a million gold a month!”

 

“Thanks, but the squire and the Sacaen deserve some of the credit,” he replied. “If it wasn’t for Wallace and Hassar, this lady might’ve escaped.” He pointed behind him to the two boys and their charge, who stuck her tongue out at Hausen and made everyone wonder if she was actually less mature than the boys who’d captured her.

 

“Is that so? My word, Wallace, I think I understand what Edmun saw in you now. And, Hassar…” He sighed. “Perhaps my estimation of your people was incorrect. You have my gratitude, plainsman. This is the first time we’ve been able to capture a Northern Cross leader of any importance. The information we glean from her is certain to aid us greatly in defeating them.”

 

Lundgren seemed less than convinced—Renault noticed his face curl into a slight sneer as he looked at Hassar. Still, he seemed more interested in the new prisoner than mockery.

 

“Bring her forth,” he ordered. “First of all, woman, what is your name?”

 

She blew him a raspberry this time.

 

Hausen struggled to suppress a snicker, but Lundgren was not at all amused. “Aren’t we a mouthy little thing. The torturer’s rack will take care of that!”

 

“Do your worst,” she spat. “For the sake of Caelin’s children, I’ll never give in to you!”

 

“What on Elibe are you talking about!”

 

“Don’t you dare act innocent! Sending young boys like sweet little Wallace over there into combat…what kind of Marquess do you think you are!”

 

“H-hey!” Wallace spoke up. “Listen, ma’am. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I fight for Lord Hausen ‘cause I want to! He’s a good man who treated my parents well. Maybe I’m not as old as you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Don’t talk down to me like I am!”

 

“Old as me?” Her previously sweet, motherly expression turned much darker. “Just what are you implying, young man?”

 

“Bad move, Wallace,” Renault smirked. “Never make fun of a woman’s age or weight. Whether you’re a mercenary or knight, that’s the first lesson _any_ man’s gotta learn.”

 

“He meant no disrespect,” Hassar hastened to defend his friend. “I know not the customs of this land, but I know that he and his lord truly care for it.” He bowed his head and clasped a hand over his chest, a gesture Renault recognized as being of great importance to Sacaen. “On my honor as a man of the plains, I swear to you that we are not as bad as the Northern Cross has said.”

 

“Oh, my,” she said dreamily. “Another poor, lonely youth, so far from the land of his birth…you’re just like Wallace! You just need someone to take care of you too, don’t you?”

 

Hassar had never heard anything quite like this before (the women of Sacae were almost invariably much more…reserved), but to his credit, he thought quickly. “…this lonely youth would be grateful if you told him your name, sister.”

 

“I haven’t introduced myself? Oh, my! I’m setting such a bad example for you kids.” She drew herself up haughtily. “My name is Prudence. I am the beautiful, youthful, and of course talented right hand of Cross, the handsome and valiant leader of the most noble band of vigilantes on Elibe!”

 

“Noble?” Lundgren repeated incredulously. “In what sense is a bunch of thieves and cutthroats ‘noble?’”

 

“Of course _you_ wouldn’t understand. We take from the rich and give to the poor! We protect the innocent from the predations of the greedy nobles! We stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves! And most of all, we’re giving _you_ a message: That the common people of Lycia cannot be ignored!”

 

Before Lundgren could deliver a blistering retort, his brother cut him off. “You are right, Miss Prudence. The common people of Lycia can _not_ be ignored.”

 

“I knew you’d say that, you cruel, uncaring—wait, _what?_ ”

 

“For too long have the leaders of our many cantons treated the smallfolk like things to be exploited or nuisances to be disregarded. The mightiest marquess—or even King—is nothing if the people do not follow him. My ancestors forgot that, and I am doing everything in my power to rectify their mistakes.

 

“Yet, Prudence, in light of that, do you not think the actions of the Northern Cross might be misguided? I will admit there is still much work to be done, but the lives of my people have improved under my rule. I have built bridges, roads, and schools. I have levied no harsh taxes upon the peasantry and allow them to keep nearly all the fruits of their labor. I ask no greater share of their crops than necessary to feed the knights who protect them. Why attack my canton? And even if you hate the nobility that much, why waylay a pair of honest merchants who have done nothing wrong? The prices for their wares were fair and they cheated no-one. What have they done to deserve your ire?”

 

“Well…umm…” Prudence was apparently stumped, and it was obvious she hadn’t really thought about her orders much before. “Well…there must have been a good reason! Cross and Lucian wouldn’t have ordered us to otherwise!”

 

“I’ve heard of this Cross, and his friend Lucian. Both seem like good men. Cross never harms women or children, and Lucian is known far and wide as an honorable mercenary…at least as honorable as they get. Why, then, would these two men target a pair of humble merchants?”

 

“Well, those merchants had a lot of money we could use! Cypher said we needed it!”

 

“Hm?” Everyone in the room raised an eyebrow at this. “Who is this Cypher? We’ve never heard that name before.”

 

“Eep!” Prudence slapped her hands over her mouth. “You…you tricked me! I wasn’t supposed to mention that, but you made me do it! Schemers! Villains! You won’t get anything else out of me! And don’t even _think_ of trying to talk me out of my maidenhood, either!”

 

“Let me guess,” said Renault. “Cypher’s probably the guy responsible for those ‘phantoms,’ right?”

 

“I think so, but there’s no way _you_ could know that!”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Eep!” Another clap of her hands. “You did it again! You-you must have cast a spell on me! Are you a wizard?”

 

“Nah. It’s just something easy to figure out, going on everything I’ve heard and what you’ve said. Let me make another guess: You don’t like Cypher or his morphs very much, and you think he’s planning something…something that could end up hurting Cross and Lucian too.”

 

“Th-that’s wrong! If Cross agreed to Cypher’s help, it must mean…”

 

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

 

“Well, he _is_ creepy…and I don’t like him very much…and those phantoms are scary…and ever since they showed up it…it hasn’t been as much fun anymore…and sometimes Cypher seems really mean, like he asks us to do things which are just…which won’t help anybody, not even the people!”

 

“Looks like I was right again. In that case, though…Prudence, why don’t you think about helping us a little? I can be a nasty guy if I want, but that’s only if you stand in my way. And as you’ve just seen for yourself, Lord Hausen, Wallace, and the rest of ‘em are stand-up guys. It may be too early for you to give up on the Northern Cross entirely, but if you think those morphs are the start of something really bad happening, I’d say you’re right. Maybe we can work together to save your friends from whatever it is Cypher’s planning—and he’s planning something, no doubt about that.”

 

“I…” She looked down. “I…I’m not sure…”

 

Hausen nodded. “Understandable, I suppose. In any case, I don’t believe I’ll lock you in the dungeon. You do not seem to be much of a threat.”

 

“Brother, are you mad?” Lundgren sputtered. “How do you know she’ll not sneak away and stab you in your bed in the dead of night? Why does she deserve _any_ amenity?”

 

“It is something of a risk, but look at this woman, Lundgren. She is not a stone-hearted criminal or cold-blooded murderer. I am not a blind fanatic of the codes of chivalry; if a woman is evil she deserves to be punished every bit as much as a man. But this woman does not seem to mean anyone harm. There is no need to treat her cruelly.”

 

“Many a villain has ‘seemed’ innocent at first.”

 

“Perhaps so, but we will allow her to prove herself one way or the other. Miss Prudence, I will keep you in one of the castle dormitories. You will be under guard at all times, and you’ll not be free to come and go as you please, but you will be provided for and you’ll not be mistreated.”

 

This was very much not what she had been expecting. “Um…thank you…you…wicked noble?”

 

Hausen rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome. Varde, Ector, take her up, please. Renault, Hassar, and Wallace, take the day off and enjoy yourselves here in Caelin. You’ve more than earned it.”

 

Renault smiled, and Wallace and Hassar cheered. The subsequent course of the day, for them at least, would turn out to be as nice as Hausen had promised.

 

The night, however, would be a different matter.

 

-X-

 

“Braddock! Braddock, wait!”

 

His best friend turned back to look at him, completely oblivious to sounds of screams and clashing metal echoing through the burning battlefield around them. He wasn’t as far away, this time, and his face wasn’t as sad—but the Mercenary Lord couldn’t get close enough to touch him before he disappeared…

 

And Renault woke up.

 

“Braddock,” he mumbled to himself, reaching up to massage his neck. It was the same nightmare he always hand, but this time Braddock seemed a little closer. Renault couldn’t help but think it meant he was on the right track. He had to be, after all. What else could Braddock want?

 

Surviving the battle which would rage tonight, of course.

 

When he heard another yell and the sound of clashing blades from outside, Renault’s eyes shot wide open and he jumped to his feet. He was standing on the same floor he’d been sleeping—that of Castle Caelin’s armory.

 

Quick access to his equipment in case of attack was more important to him than comfort for tonight, and it seemed his concerns were very well placed. Renault had expected a surprise attack from the Northern Cross, and he’d told his employers to expect one as well. He allowed himself a tiny bit of satisfaction at seeing his prediction come true, then went over to the stand where his suit was stored. While he would have been able to don it faster if Wallace were here, he was as used to it as he was with his own body, so even in the pitch-black darkness he dressed himself in under five minutes.

 

The moment he clasped his helmet over his head, he heard a few shouts and clangs of metal from outside. Hausen was indeed a wise ruler—when Renault had told him the Northern Cross would likely send infiltrators to rescue their captured friend sooner rather than later, he’d ordered a stronger night guard than usual, which meant that the Northern Cross would not have the advantage of surprise they expected. An alert had already been sounded across the castle, but from the noises he was hearing it seemed that the battle had been joined _inside_. That was troubling—not even morphs could infiltrate that quickly. Had they been Warped in?

 

Likely so. Renault burst out of the armory, and the first thing he saw was a flash of golden eyes. Without hesitation he cut the creature into dust. Right afterwards, he heard a very familiar voice:

 

“Renault!”

 

“Wallace! Hassar! What are you doing here?” He turned to his left to see the two boys running up to him, spear and sword at the ready.

 

“We heard fighting going on and came running as fast as we should. Th…there’s so many of them…”

 

“Yeah. Probably magic. Alright guys, come with me. The morphs are probably Warping in through the dungeons, but by now they’ve probably figured out Prudence isn’t down there. Let’s go to her room upstairs and keep ‘em from getting to her. After all the work we did to catch her, we don’t want them to take her!”

 

“Right!”

 

As they rushed through the halls and up the stairs, they unhappily came across a few dead Caelin soldiers, but fortunately, several more piles of dust which indicated dead Morphs. When they reached the second floor and approached Prudence’s room, however, they caught sight of someone who definitely wasn’t a morph…but wasn’t an ally, either.

 

It was a Swordmaster, clad in the similar style of light, flowing robes that Renault’s one-time ally, Dougram, had favored, though colored blue. However, this Swordmaster had fair skin and a _very_ beautiful face. Framed by long blond hair that fell to his (or perhaps her) back, she (or he) had bright blue eyes which seemed to sparkle with good cheer, even while fighting. The results of this were apparent in the battlefield around them. The soldiers and mercenaries guarding the prisoner’s room were lying on the ground, thoroughly incapacitated, but their groans indicated they were still alive. Whoever this person was, they’d managed to take out three good men without killing one.

 

That was a fairly impressive feat, especially given their arms—a massive Silver Blade, not as large or powerful as the Regal Blade, but very much in the same class of two-handed swords. It seemed unsuited for such a slim frame, but the warrior held it with such ease and grace it seemed like part of his (her?) body. Renault could see something glinting on one of the hands in which the sword was held. It was a small copper ring, which would have seemed unremarkable to most people, but Renault recognized immediately. It was called a Body Ring, and it greatly enhanced the wearer’s strength. That ring was almost certainly what allowed the interloper to wield such a large blade so easily.

 

“Th…that’s not a Morph,” stammered Wallace, “but is it a guy or a lady?”

 

“What have we here? New visitors?” The Swordmaster turned to look at them, smiling widely. “Your eyes must be untrained, young one. How could anyone mistake a mighty warrior like me for a woman?”

 

That answered their question. “Damn pretty face for a man,” Renault had to admit.

 

“Perhaps so, but I think you’ll find my blade-arm is as strong as my face is beautiful.” He settled into a unique fighting stance Renault had never seen before. With his right hand firmly gripping the hilt of the huge blade, he turned to the side, shifted his right leg and slightly bent its knee while keeping his left leg extended, then moved his left hand to hold his weapon under its ricasso—the duller portion of sword’s blade right above the crossguard. It seemed like he could make a very strong thrusting attack from this position. “Care to see for yourselves? All of you can attack me at once, I don’t mind.”

 

“Wallace, Hassar, be careful,” Renault stated. “He’s confident, but with a weapon like that he’s got good reason to be.” Both boys nodded.

 

“Hassar, keep him distracted with arrows. Wallace, let’s charge!”

 

“YAAAAAH!” Sweating profusely, Wallace followed Renault’s orders as the two of them rushed towards the swordsman, Hassar firing arrows over their heads to keep him from jumping over them.

 

As it turned out, unfortunately, he wouldn’t need to.

 

The swordsman lowered his body even further, and then pumped both his legs. He moved so quickly he seemed to almost _glide_ across the ground, and before either Renault or Wallace could do anything, he’d already slid past them, speeding through the distance between both of them. He ended up right in front of Hassar, who couldn’t maintain even his strong discipline—he could do nothing but gasp as his enemy materialized right in front of him, still keeping the Silver Blade in the same grip he’d started out with, but now with its tip directly in front of Hassar’s throat.

 

“Kill you? Bah, you’re too young,” he said. “It’s late. Why don’t you take a nap?”

 

Before Hassar could react, the Swordmaster flipped his weapon with blinding speed, bringing both his hands to the Silver Blade’s grip, and proceeded to bop Hassar squarely on the head with the weapon’s pommel. The Sacaen slumped to the floor, very much alive but also very much out of the fight.

 

“Damn it,” Renault grunted, “He really is good! Wallace, stay back! You can’t handle him yet!”

 

“I…I…” Wallace had never seen anything like this before, and watching his friend get knocked out so easily did not do much for his state of mind. He simply couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stand and stutter.

 

“Poor lad,” the Swordmaster clucked sympathetically. “The battlefield’s no place for you!”

 

“AAAAH!” Wallace brought up his Iron Spear to block as his foe charged at him again. Renault swore loudly, knowing that he was the only one who could save the squire. He dragged a chaindagger down to his left hand and tossed it at the interloper’s legs, hoping to tangle them up. The clinking of the chain gave him away, and his foe leapt deftly over it—and twisted in the air to avoid Renault’s second right-hand dagger soaring past. The Mercenary Lord could only swear again as the mysterious swordsman landed in front of Wallace with a mighty vertical swing. It didn’t so much as scratch Wallace…but it did chop the wooden haft of his spear clear in two.

 

“I think you might have more fun if you just watch, my little friend,” he laughed as he gave Wallace a playful shove. That sent him stumbling back and onto his behind, dropping his bisected spear. For the remainder of the battle, there was nothing he could do except watch a pair of far more capable men do what he was supposed to—while holding back the tears welling in his eyes as he berated himself for being so weak.

 

“You’re only doing me a favor. You realize that, right?” The daggers had returned to Renault’s pauldrons, and he set one into his left hand again while unsheathing his Brave Sword with his right. “Now I’ll be able to fight without worrying about a couple of kids.”

 

“You were worried about them?” The handsome (well, beautiful) Swordmaster laughed. “You don’t need to be. I don’t kill children—personal policy. Hell, I’m not fond of killing at all.”

 

“You’re one of the fastest Swordmasters I’ve seen in years and armed with some pretty exotic equipment. I get the feeling your hands aren’t entirely clean.”

 

His expression hardened as he returned to his charging stance. “Alas, you’d be right. Sometimes we all have to do things we dislike every now and then. Let’s hope this isn’t one of these times, eh?”

 

“Don’t bet on it. I play for keeps.”

 

“Ah, well. Pity.” He shrugged, and then charged forwards at Renault in a speeding thrust again. Wallace covered his eyes, thinking his friend was going to get skewered, but thankfully Renault was a bit more formidable than he and Hassar were.

 

The Mercenary Lord deftly hopped to the side, allowing his foe to pass him by cleanly. The Swordmaster was going so quickly he only stopped and turned several feet in front of Renault. Another toss of a chaindagger at his legs forced him to leap into the air, with his Silver Blade held over his head for what he hoped would be a devastating two-handed chop which would bisect his opponent as he descended.

 

To his surprise, however, Renault, despite wearing such heavy armor, jumped right up at him with a thrust of his Brave Sword—which would skewer him before he had time to bring down his larger Silver Blade. With a loud yell he abandoned his leaping strike and twisted his entire body in mid-air, so that the Brave Sword which would have impaled him instead left only a cut on his side. The weapon’s enchantment gave Renault enough speed to turn it over in his hand and stab out to the side, hoping to catch the Swordmaster by surprise, but now he’d had enough time to bring his great blade from over his head to the front of his body, and blue metal connected only with silver. The two men landed on their feet and promptly turned to face each other again, this time with a wary respect for one another.

 

“Excellent moves! Haven’t had a match like this in a while,” smiled the intruder. “Can I ask your name?”

 

The visor of Renault’s helmet glowed red for a moment to indicate his suspicion. “Why do you care?”

 

“I can tell you’re a damn good fighter. My leaping attack would have cut anyone else in half. So, you’ve gotten me curious.”

 

“Renault.”

 

“Hah! An interesting name for an interesting guy.”

 

“Interesting? I get that a lot. Anyways, what’s yours?”

 

“Lucian. Probably heard of me by now, haven’t you?”

 

“I have, actually.” To Lucian’s surprise, Renault lowered his weapons from an offensive stance to a defensive guard. “I’ve heard a lot about you. They say you’re pretty decent for a mercenary, and both your words and actions tonight bear that out.” He cast a meaningful glance at Wallace and Hassar, who were both incapacitated (the former with fear, the latter with unconsciousness) but who were also still alive, thankfully.

 

Lucian returned the favor, lowering his blade while still keeping it ready to parry any oncoming attack. “Well, they say a lot of things. Can’t blame me for trying to live up to my reputation, eh?”

 

“You’re damn good at that. Didn’t you fight for the Bernese government a while ago?”

 

Lucian had to raise his voice to be heard over a scream and a loud clamor of weapons coming from the other side of the hallway. “Word travels fast! They’re already talking about it in Lycia?”

 

“Uh-huh.” Renault lowered his weapons entirely, an even more surprising show of good faith. “Hey, Lucian, listen. I’m fighting against the Northern Cross, but I have nothing against you personally. If you could help me out with something, I’d make it very much worth your while.”

 

“A job offer from a soldier—a _mercenary himself_ —on the other side? Damn, you **are** an interesting fellow, Renault. But I can’t accept it, sorry.” He raised his blade again. “I rather like Cross, and I’m having a lot of fun in his organization.”

 

“It’s not about that. I’m not asking you to join our side. I want information from you, and I’m willing to pay a lot for it.”

 

“Hmm.” He was now in his familiar attack stance for a third time, leveling his Silver Blade horizontally at Renault, indicating he wasn’t going to stop. “We are in the middle of a battle, you know. Not the best place for negotiations!”

 

Faster than one could have imagined for a slender man wielding such a large weapon, he charged forwards at Renault with a strong thrust, which Renault avoided with another quick sidestep. He didn’t counter—he very much wanted to continue the conversation. “Just hear me out. I’ve been in the business for a long time, and I’ve gotten my hands on a whole lot of artifacts, relics, and straight-out gold. I can give you whatever you want, and if I don’t have it I’ll get it for you. I just need to know something.”

 

“I’ll hear your question,” said Lucian, readying his blade again. “But I’ve never heard an odd request like this before. You might not like my answer.”

 

“I’ve heard you almost became a Wyvern General due to your skill. If so, do you know where the Shrine of Seals is?”

 

“The Shrine of Seals? You’re no ordinary mercenary, Renault. Where in the world did you hear of it?”

 

“I have my reasons, and I _need_ to find it. When your business with the Northern Cross is done, if you can lead me to it I’ll give you everything I’ve managed to get my hands on over the years. Gemstones, Dragonstones, magic weapons…anything.”

 

Lucian laughed. “Strong words, friend, but I am afraid _that_ is a request I can’t fulfill.”

 

“Why the hell not?”

 

“It’s true, Renault. I have been to the Shrine of Seals. But I _earned_ my way there. A hundred missions, a thousand victories, and five years of loyal service to Bern were what made me worthy to stand upon that holy ground, and gave me the responsibility of protecting it from defilers. Unless you can prove you’re worthy as well, I’ll never tell you where to find the Shrine!”

 

 _Two centuries of struggle have made me worthy,_ thought Renault bitterly to himself, though he knew Lucian wouldn’t believe him. “Alright, then. How could I prove myself?”

 

“By defeating me!”

 

Lucian charged forwards in one more thrust, to which Renault responded with one more sidestep, but this time, as Lucian passed by, with speed possessed only by Swordmasters, he turned his massive blade in his hands and swung it around in a circle—at least that’s what Renault thought he’d do. The Mercenary Lord immediately dropped to the floor, expecting the blade to pass over his head…but then noticed Lucian was standing right in front of Prudence’s door. He stopped his spin, leveled the Blade at the door, then thrust forwards and blew it open.

 

“Dammit,” Renault growled, realizing that the dormitories were Lucian’s real target—he would have found out Prudence wasn’t in the dungeons by now and figured out she would have been elsewhere.

 

“Dearest Prudence,” he proclaimed as he entered, “Everything’s all right now!”

 

“EEEEEK!” wailed Prudence, drawing up the blankets on her bed to cover herself. “I knew someone would try to take advantage of me! Savages, all of you!”

 

“Wait a second, Prudence,” laughed Lucian nervously, “I’ve come to rescue you!”

 

“Like hell you will!” growled Renault from behind, who tossed another dagger at him as Prudence screamed again. The Sword Master dodged this with another twirl to the side, and tutted at Renault in consternation. “Come on. What kind of scoundrel would try to foil the rescue of a captured maiden?”

 

“You said I had to beat you if you’re gonna tell me where that Shrine is. You can rescue her after that!”

 

“Shrine of what?” pondered Prudence. Behind her, having managed to pick himself up and peer through the now-shattered doorway, Wallace wondered the same.

 

“Er…don’t worry about it, dear. Quick, hurry and escape while I distract Renault!”

 

“Wait, Lucian,” said the would-be rescuee contemplatively, “I…I’m not sure I want to be rescued?”

 

“What?!” he cried as he hopped away from another dagger-toss. “Prudence, I thought you loved the Northern Cross! And Cross too, for that matter!”

 

“Oh, I do, Lucian! I always will, please don’t forget that! But…but…I can’t _stand_ how the Cross has changed!”

 

“Let me guess,” he replied sympathetically, dodging a Lightbrand blast this time, “It’s those Morphs, right?”

 

“Yes, exactly!”

 

“Hmm, I have to admit I see your point…they creep me out too. I’ve told Cross over and over that I see no good coming from them, but he never listens! Well, alright.” With a heavy sigh, he turned to face Renault. “If this dear lady doesn’t want to be rescued, she won’t be rescued. Time for me to make my exit!”

 

“W-what the hell,” Renault stammered, “you’re just leaving?”

 

“I’m not just any mercenary, Renault. I’m the great, famous Lucian, remember? I do what I want, when I want!”

 

“Wait! What about our duel?!”

 

“Sorry, friend. Maybe later!”

 

With that, the Swordmaster fetched something from a pocket of his robe and threw it upon the ground. It was some sort of smoke bomb, apparently—with a flash of light, the room filled with thick, grey, impenetrable fog. Prudence started coughing uncontrollably, and while Renault wasn’t as affected, not even the magic visor of his helmet could penetrate the smoke. When it finally cleared, he and the prisoner were alone in their room.

 

The sounds of battle all across the castle were dying down. The Morphs, whoever had sent them, apparently realized their infiltration had failed. Renault and Wallace, walking up to her, heard confused shouts all around them, soldier’s voices yelling that the creatures had disappeared and that there were no traces of any of them, except for the weapons they’d dropped.

 

Just as there were no traces left of the Swordmaster named Lucian…except for the open window of Prudence’s room.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

I actually re-wrote Prudence’s dialogue a few times to really get across the humor I wanted it to. I might make a blog entry about it later. And on that note, I actually do have a blog~! Gunlord500.wordpress.com. Not many people hang around livejournal these days, so I started one on wordpress as a platform for my less whimsical thoughts. My first entry is all about fanfiction and why I write it (for Fire Emblem, at least), and I may write some other stuff later. :D

 

Also, just as a note, Lucian’s fighting style is loosely based off of Hajime Saito’s from Rurouni Kenshin. And yes, keep in mind his name and appearance. He may be related to someone…;_;


	53. Squire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault gives some guidance to a disheartened squire.

**Chapter 53: Squire**

“Braddock…”

 

Renault blinked as he got up, the last vestiges of that constant dream washing away from his consciousness. Once again, it seemed that his friend wasn’t as far away from him as he was last time. And once again, he took that as an encouragement. The dream was no more pleasant than always was otherwise, but the mercenary clung desperately to any hope of any sort of progress. Thus, as he opened his eyes fully, he was in a much better state of mind than most people would be after a nightmare.

 

“Ngh…” he grunted, lifting himself from his bed and peering out from his window, fingering the phylactery he always kept around his neck as he did so. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon. Not a sound could be heard elsewhere in the castle—everyone was still asleep. That made a lot of sense; yesterday night’s battle had been a brutal affair. Thankfully, Caelin casualties had been kept to a minimum, but the knights and guards were still exhausted after some very hard fighting, and would certainly need a long rest to fully recover their strength.

 

That was why Renault was so surprised to see a small form creeping along the courtyard below him.

 

It wasn’t light enough to clearly make out who it was, but Renault could definitely perceive movement. Was the Northern Cross launching another attack already? He doubted that very much, but still, better to make sure. He grabbed his sword and quickly donned the shirt of mail he always kept nearby, then rushed downstairs and out of the keep.

 

The small figure was not moving particularly quickly, and Renault was able to soon catch up. As he approached, he caught a flash of green hair beneath the hood of an old spare traveling cloak, and figured out who it was.

 

“Wallace, where are you going?”

 

He stopped in his tracks, and turned back to face Renault, a sad and disconsolate expression on his face. “Renault? W-what’re you doing up so early?”

 

“I don’t sleep much. You, on the other hand, do. What the hell are you doing out here?”

 

“I…” Wallace hung his head in shame. “Sir Renault, I…I’m leaving.”

 

“Leaving the castle? Where’re you going?”

 

“N-not just the castle. Everything.” His eyes watered and he started sniffling.

 

Renault didn’t say anything in response.

 

“I…I’m not cut out to be a knight!” Wallace yelled, loud enough to be heard throughout the courtyard—it was a good thing it was deserted. “I…I can’t do it, Renault! I’m going back home!” He quieted down again. “I’m really sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. You saved me from those bullies…and you saved my life last night. I’ll always remember you, Renault. I wish I wasn’t so useless, but—“

 

“Here’s a question for you, Wallace,” Renault interrupted him. “Where’re you gonna go?”

 

“H-huh? Home, like I said!”

 

“You’re gonna walk? Alone?”

 

“Yeah, it’s not far…”

 

“And what’re you gonna do when you get there?”

 

“My parents will—“

 

“You think they’ll take you back?”

 

He fell quiet for a moment—he knew how proud his mother and father had been when they heard he’d been accepted as a squire.

 

“And do you think the lords of Caelin will let you go back?”

 

“W-what do you mean?”

 

Renault rolled his eyes. “First off, let me guess. You haven’t talked to anybody about this yet, right? Not even your master Edmun? You were just sneaking off early in the morning hoping nobody would notice you?”

 

“It’s not like I could talk to anybody,” Wallace replied defensively. “Sir Edmun still needs a lot of rest. He slept through the whole battle last night, and the apothecaries say he’ll spend most of the next few weeks sleeping, too. I…I already messed things up enough for everybody. I don’t want to disturb him just to—“

 

“Bad plan. Didn’t you swear an oath to serve him when you became a squire?”

 

“Um…yeah.”

 

“Well, if you up and leave now, you’ll be breaking that oath.” Renault sneered. “You know what they do to oath-breakers in Lycia? Even the Bernites think it’s barbaric.”

 

Wallace went pale.

 

“Things don’t usually work out so well for an oath-breaker’s family, either…”

 

“Al right,” stammered Wallace, “All right! I’ll talk to Sir Edmun the next time he wakes up!”

 

“Think they’ll let you go? Not when Caelin’s so hard up for manpower. They need every warm body they can get. Face it, kid. You’re just not getting out of this.”

 

“It’s…I can’t…” He couldn’t contain it anymore, and started sobbing openly. “Th…then what can I do? What am I supposed to do?”

 

“Cutting out this whining and crying would be a start.”

 

He looked up at Renault, continuing to sniffle.

 

“I’m serious. Becoming a squire may have been a mistake, but there’s nothing you can do about it now, for the reasons I just told you. You can try to run away, but that’ll just end with you on the gallows and your family in shame and dishonor. If you don’t want that to happen, the only way to go is forward. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and self-doubt, work on becoming a competent squire instead of the pathetic mess you were last night. As far as I can tell, that’s what you’re supposed to do, and that’s the _only_ thing you can do.” Renault glowered down at him. His expression was firm and stern, enough for Wallace to pay attention, but not hard enough to terrify him. “I’ll tell you one more time: Stop crying. I can give you a minute for that, but no more.”

 

“I…I…” Wallace continued to sniffle and sob, but his desperate desire to please his mentor resulted in his tears slowly quieting.

 

“Good. Secondly, what are you supposed to be doing as squire right now?”

 

“Um…I take care of the knight’s armors and their horses.”

 

“That’s all?”

 

“I…I’m supposed to train, but since Lord Edmun is injured…nobody has time to teach me anything. Nobody thinks I’m worth the trouble.”

 

“Thought so. Alright, Wallace. I want you to finish up your other duties by the afternoon. Then I want you to meet me at the castle drill grounds. I won’t be pleased if you’re late. As for me…I’ll be getting things ready for you.”

 

With those words, he turned to leave.

 

Wallace called to him, asking him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He disappeared into the castle, leaving the young squire standing alone in the courtyard to think about what he’d said. And the longer he pondered those words, the more he realized that standing around crying would be much less helpful than getting started on feeding the horses, at least if he wanted to get to the drill grounds on time.

 

Renault said he “wouldn’t be pleased” if Wallace was late, and the squire already knew that angering such a man was bad idea indeed.

 

-x-

 

“You’re actually early! Maybe you’re not entirely hopeless after all.”

 

Renault grinned as he as he leaned against one of the wooden dummies on Castle Caelin’s drill grounds, watching his green-haired friend walk up to him. It was quite early in the afternoon (almost still morning) and Wallace had apparently made good on his promise.

 

That was a start. “Alright, Wallace,” Renault said, reaching out to grab a long Iron Spear on the ground nearby. “Take this.”

 

“A-a spear? Why?” When Wallace reached out for it, however, he found that its point was blunted. It was clearly meant for training purposes.

 

“I’m gonna teach you how to use it.”

 

Wallace just stared blankly.

 

“If you want to be anything other than a helpless child, someone has to teach you how it’s done,” Renault stated coldly. “That’s Edmun’s job, but he’s in no condition to do it. He’s barely woken up since he’s last talked to us and he can’t even leave his bed when he’s lucid. If none of the other knights are willing to do this, I guess it’s up to me.”

 

“Y…you’re helping me? But Sir Renault, why?”

 

“I told you the other day. You remind me of someone I liked. Besides, when we’re not fighting I don’t have much to do. Now, do you want my training or not? It’s either that or continuing to be a failure. You could try to run away again, but as I said, it won’t do you any good.”

 

“Alright! _Alright!_ ” said Wallace, and at last there was ire in his voice rather than just sorrow and self-pity. Renault smiled inwardly, for it seemed the lad had a bit of fire in his belly after all. “Stop calling me a loser! I…I won’t run away! I mean it! I’ll show you what I can do!”

 

“Sounds good to me, boy. Let’s get started.”

 

Thus, for the next few hours Renault walked the inexperienced squire through the basics of spear combat. Though he himself was a swordsman, he’d fought beside and against enough lancers to have a very good grasp of how to use the weapons. And of course, he was more than capable of teaching Wallace foundational skills any soldier should have—positioning and footwork, the balance between defense and offense, looking for openings and vulnerabilities, and keeping oneself in a state of readiness at all times, on the battlefield and off.

 

“Very nice work, Wallace. You’re not perfect yet, but your stances are solid.” He grinned as he watched the youth hold the training weapon in the position he’d been taught—both hands firmly on the wooden shaft, though not gripping it too tightly, right hand over left with his body perpendicular to his imaginary enemy, keeping the tip of his spear up so that it would pierce his foe’s neck if he got too close.

 

“R-Really?” Wallace looked overjoyed, as happy as Renault had ever seen him, and it looked like he’d almost drop his weapon…before determination set back in his face and he resumed his stance…though he kept the smile on his face. “W-wait, I should never let my guard down, even when it seems I’ve won, right?”

 

Renault couldn’t help but laugh. “Exactly right, Wallace. It’s our first day of training and you’ve already taken my lessons to heart.” He really was impressed. _Very_ impressed. The kid caught on fast. He was every bit as much of a quick study as Keith was. “You’re not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Why the hell were you thinkin’ about leaving? Doesn’t seem like you’re totally unsuited to the soldier’s life.”

 

“Well…” Wallace looked down, his smile fading. “Last night…last night…it was like when Sir Edmun got hurt. _Exactly_ like it.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I…I was scared, sir! I was too scared to do anything! When it’s just training, or sparring, I’m alright, b-but in real battle, where I could actually die…I…I just freeze up! I couldn’t do anything for Edmun, and…and last night, I couldn’t do anything for you! The only thing I could do was watch…” He lowered his head. “I’ve never been so ashamed in my life…”

 

“I can see why,” Renault said, and his voice was more thoughtful than condemnatory, “but in that case, rather than running from your fear like you tried to do this morning, you’re better off facing it, and learning how to deal with it.”

 

“How can I do that?”

 

“It’s different for everybody, Wallace…that’s one thing I might not be able to teach you.”

 

“Well then, how do _you_ deal with it, Sir Renault? Everyone’s talking about you…everyone knows how brave you are, and everybody thinks you have no fear of death. Why?”

 

“No fear of death?” Renault chuckled. “I guess you could say that. There’s one reason I don’t fear death, though. I have something I’m fighting for…something I _have_ to fight for. Something that’s more important than anything else, including my own life. When you have something like that…you just don’t care about death anymore. I guess that’s the closest thing I have to a source for my courage.”

 

Wallace was somewhat confused. “Something more important than your own life…what could that possibly be? I don’t understand.”

 

“My friend,” Renault growled, losing himself in his memories. “My best friend…”

 

“S…Sir Renault?”

 

“I lost him…I lost him a long time ago. He was everything to me…the only thing I had, the only thing I’ve ever had, and the only thing I’ll ever have. I haven’t forgotten about him, not once in all these years.” Renault was talking to himself as much as Wallace, now. “Braddock…I can still see your face…still hear your voice. I’ll bring you back…bring you back…we’ll be together again…and for that…I’ll do anything. _Anything_ to see you again…”

 

“R…Renault?” Wallace reached out to touch him, causing him to jerk away ferociously.

 

“G-gah! Wallace!”

 

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to—“

 

“Whatever. Just don’t do it again.” Renault’s face returned to being surly rather than pleased. “In any case, you have your answer. My friend was…is…more important to me than life. So until I get him back, I’m not gonna care about death.” He cast a crooked grin at Wallace. “Guess that doesn’t help too much, eh?”

 

“Um…”

 

“Be honest, kid.”

 

“N…no, not really…”

 

He winced, expecting a reprimand, but Renault just laughed. “Of course it wouldn’t! You don’t have anything like that in your life. You’re too young. That’s why I said it has to be different for everybody. But if you see enough combat, and manage to survive through it all, I think you’ll find it.”

 

“What should I do until then? H…how’ll I ever survive in the first place if I’m too scared?”

 

“You’ll just have to get used to it,” Renault shrugged. “Maybe if you spar enough, they’ll seem enough like the real thing that you won’t be as afraid when you actually go to battle. Maybe concern for your parents or Edmun, or just a desire to save your own skin will be enough to see you through. Hell, maybe you can even trick your own mind into thinking you’re a great warrior instead of just a squire.”

 

“Trick my own mind?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Renault was actually half-joking, but he didn’t know if Wallace realized that, and didn’t care either. “If you find yourself facing a tough foe and end up getting scared out of your mind, just puff up your chest and shout, ‘I’m the mighty Wallace! None of you fools will ever be able to even touch me! Come closer, and break your weapons against my impenetrable defense!’ Then you have to laugh as loudly as you can.”

 

“H…how would that help? That sounds crazy!”

 

“Yeah, and most men won’t be expecting to fight a crazy person on the battlefield. Well…not most of the time anyways,” he corrected, thinking of Yazan and Kasha. “In any case, worst that’ll happen is you manage to distract them for a second or two. If you’re luckier, maybe you’ll even start to believe your own bluster! That would be a first step towards backing it up.”

 

“I…I don’t know…”

 

“Well, just think about it. You’ll figure it out eventually. Just don’t be too hard on yourself, Wallace. You’re definitely not the first or the only fresh recruit to be worried about this kind of thing, and you won’t be the last.”

 

As if to prove his point, a mutual friend appeared at just the right moment.

 

Wallace and Renault heard footsteps behind them, and both turned to look at who was approaching. It was Hassar, a distinctly somber expression on his face.

 

He glanced at Wallace, then gave Renault a piercing stare. Before the mercenary could ask what he wanted, he unsheathed his sword, dropped to a knee, and held it out to Renault.

 

Wallace had no idea what he was doing, but Renault did. “Renault,” said Hassar, getting right to the point, “You saved my life last night, and a man of the Lorca never forgets his debts. I offer you my blade as atonement for my failure.” He closed his eyes and mouthed a word in the Sacaen language that couldn’t be translated exactly into the common speech, but meant something between a thank-you and an apology.

 

 _Damn Sacaens and their superstitions_ , Renault thought, but wisely kept it to himself. Instead, with a smile he held up his hand. “Thanks, Hassar, but I don’t really need it.” Knowing it would offend the plainsman, he added quickly, “I appreciate the thought, and I don’t mean to insult you—I saw this ritual before when I was in Sacae. But the thing is, I don’t think I’d be able to use that blade too well.” This was true—throughout his long life, Renault had exclusively used straight swords common throughout Ilia, Etruria, Lycia, and Bern. Sacaens, however, preferred an unusual form of craftsmanship which produced lighter, curvier blades that Renault had no experience with. Hassar’s weapon was one such blade.

 

“I cannot live as a man until I have repaid what I owe,” Hassar continued resolutely. “If my blade cannot satisfy you, please tell me what can.”

 

Renault’s smile grew wider. “I was hoping you’d say that. I actually got a real nice proposition for you.” He looked at Wallace, who was looking at him curiously. “See, I’m trying to give Wallace a bit of training as a soldier. He’s been doing well, and he’s caught on to the basics really quick. I think he’s ready to move on to sparring. Thing is, it’d be more helpful if he had a partner closer to him in skill.” He turned back to Hassar. “How about it? If you help me teach this kid, I’ll consider us even. Sound good?”

 

“R-really?” Wallace looked at Hassar, then matched his teacher’s smile. “That sounds great! I mean, if you want, Hassar…”

 

The Sacaen thought for a moment. Then another smile joined those of his friends, and he held out his hand.

 

Renault nodded in satisfaction as the two boys shook on it. “Great, we’re set! Before we start, though, we’d best replenish your energy. You haven’t eaten yet, have you, Wallace? Follow me. It’s lunchtime!”

-X-

 

Despite his disdain for those Morphs, Lucian had to admit they had their purposes. He likely wouldn’t have been able to get away so easily if many of them hadn’t remained in the castle, keeping the guards occupied as he made his escape. Thanks to his almost supernatural agility, he had jumped straight out of Prudence’s second-floor window and hit the ground as skillfully and quietly as a cat. The smoke bomb he’d left behind had kept his enemy—Renault was his name—from pursuing. He promptly sped off to disappear into the many shadows of the castle, and when he found a nice, dark corner in which he could hide, he knelt down and called out with his mind.

 

 _Cypher_ , he thought, and he couldn’t (or even made an attempt to) hide the distaste he felt, _I’ve done all I can here. Return me back to the base._

 

As expected, he was lifted out of Castle Caelin the same way he’d entered—through a ball of white light surrounding him and then bringing him up into the air, sending his mind and body someplace far away…

 

But not too far.

 

“Urgh!”

 

He felt himself land on a hard stone floor with a resounding ‘thump’—his rescuer gave little thought to his comfort, it seemed, though considering how much they disliked each other it was understandable. Still, the sights and sounds he heard around him were more than enough to cheer him up.

 

“Hey! He’s back! Lucian’s back!”

 

“Yee-haw! Time to party!”

 

“But wait, where’s Prudence?”

 

“He didn’t manage to bring ‘er back? Impossible!”

 

“Well, he’s okay. That’s the most important thing!”

 

“Well, I’m sure he’s got a good reason for it. That means he’s got a helluva story to tell us, right, mates?”

 

“And you know what goes best with any good story, right, mates?”

 

“RIGHT!”

 

Lucian couldn’t help but laugh as he was greeted by the loud, thunderous cheering of the men he’d grown to consider not just his friends but his brothers over the course of his time in Lycia: The Northern Cross.

 

He was standing in the Great Hall of their hideout, a series of hidden caverns and tunnels which sprawled underneath the eastern part of the canton of Caelin. The nobles didn’t even realize it existed. The only entrance was a large hole in the middle of an obscure farmer’s field, which was easily covered up with tree branches and other debris. There were enough caves and side-tunnels to fulfill every need a revolutionary “terrorist” organization needed—the complex had dormitories, armories, and storage chambers. The Great Hall was at the center of it, a massive subterranean hollow large enough to comfortably accommodate a thousand people, lit by perpetually burning torches all around its perimeter and filled with tables and chairs. This was so the many members of the Northern Cross could enjoy their favorite pastimes, when they weren’t making life difficult for the nobles: Drinking and partying.

 

As far as they were concerned, any mission—whether it was a success or a failure—was cause for celebration so long as one of their own didn’t die. And while Cypher may have wasted many of his ugly little morphs on the assault on Castle Caelin, at least Lucian hadn’t been hurt.

 

The man who did his best at keeping the attitude of the Northern Cross so positive was standing right in front of him. “What-ho?” Cross smiled, a mischievous glimmer sparkling in his grey eyes. “Miss Prudence still languishes within the dungeons of Caelin? My good Lucian, this is most unlike you!” He winked. “Worry not, though. If word of this failure gets out, we’ll just say we never planned to rescue her in the first place!”

 

“I think she might not mind,” Lucian laughed. One of the reasons he ended up falling in with the Northern Cross was that Cross himself never failed to make him laugh. He seemed like the sort of man much more suited for a jester’s life than a Rogue’s. It wasn’t his physique or physical appearance, mind you—in those respects, he looked every bit the part. Standing almost six feet tall (just a bit shorter than Lucian), his frame was slender but not at all weak. Compact, wiry muscles rippled under flesh tanned and weathered enough to demonstrate he’d seen his share of hard travel. His clothing was outlandish, but similarly suited to his profession. On his feet were sturdy brown leather boots which had seen him through adventures across both burning deserts and freezing tundras. Above them Cross wore loose red pants held up with a bright blue sash, attached to which were a pair of fine silver daggers he wielded with amazing skill. The pants matched the bright red vest with golden trim and buttons which covered his torso; albeit not well, since Cross never kept it buttoned (even in cold weather), allowing all the world a good look at the supple muscles of his chest and abdomen along with the ostentatious jewelry hanging from his neck—gold necklaces attached to expensive gemstones like rubies and sapphires. His hands and wrists were similarly adorned with gold bracelets and rings, which weren’t _entirely_ for show. Several of them (though Lucian couldn’t tell which) possessed enchantments which were weak but occasionally useful.

 

All this sounded strange enough for a Rogue, since those in the black business typically tried to keep as low a profile as possible. It was Cross’ face, however, which really set him apart from all the other burglars and thieves across Elibe. First was his advanced age. His short, spiky hair, which occasionally hung over his red bandana when he hadn’t cut it for very long, was entirely grey, along with his well-trimmed moustache and goatee. He still had a very handsome visage—no wrinkles or wattles anywhere, and his strong jaw, fleshy cheeks, and aquiline nose gave no impression of ever having been ravaged by the passing of time. When Lucian had first met Cross, he thought the man was in his forties. It turned out Cross was 60.

 

Even more off-putting was his demeanor. Most burglars and pickpockets were shifty, dour men and women, rarely smiling and constantly hugging the shadows, even if they weren’t engaged in anything illegal. Not Cross. His deep, booming voice could echo throughout the entire hall, and it was almost always couched in good humor and good cheer. Lucian could count on one hand the times he’d seen Cross without a smile on his face, and the leader was always ready to tell a joke, laugh at one, and let everyone know when he’d done either. He was fiercely loyal to the members of his organization and considered all of them to be almost like children…and indeed, he loved women and children, liking nothing better to put a smile on a boy’s face with an innocent joke and another smile on his mother’s with a lewder jest. This kind of chivalry was more the province of Paladins than cutpurses, but Cross had never given the slightest indication he cared…or was even capable of acting in any other manner.

 

All these traits, then, combined to make Cross a most interesting man. And Lucian liked interesting men…at least those which were interesting in the right way.

 

The person (if he really was a person) who spoke next was interesting in all the _wrong_ ways.

 

“Why might that be, Lord Lucian?” came a mellifluous, almost cloying voice from beside Cross. “I, too, would be most interested in hearing why Lady Prudence would not want to return to us.”

 

With an unhappy grimace, Lucian turned to look at the speaker. He was as tall as Cross, but his entire body was covered by a sinister-looking black robe. Only his pale, golden-eyed face and a few strands of his black hair could be seen.

 

He was the man who had brought them the Morphs, and he was also the man who had Rescued Lucian—the staff was still in his hand.

 

The Swordmaster wasn’t feeling very grateful, though. Cross may not have agreed with him (entirely), but he was still certain that creepy Druid was up to no good.

 

“It has to do with you, actually,” he said as the noise around him quieted down, everyone listening to his story with rapt attention. “The mission went perfectly. I ended up in her room, though I had to fight a tough mercenary named Renault to get there—let’s watch out for him, Cross. But when I told her she’d be out of there before the night was over, she told me she _wanted_ to stay!

 

“It’s you and those Morphs, Cypher. She doesn’t like them, and she doesn’t like the direction you’re taking the Northern Cross. And you know what? I can’t really blame her.”

 

This was met by a handful of cheers and shouts of agreement from the surrounding rebels and cutthroats. Cypher, however, did not lose his cool. He never did, and Lucian was not sure he even could.

 

“What harm have I and my servants done to your cause, Lord Lucian? Three months ago, your organization was nothing more than a nuisance to the overlords of this land. When I first contacted you, offering my magic and money, Cross was suspicious, and understandably so. But after such a short time, look at how everything has changed! Thanks to my patron’s money and sorcery, you are in a position to make real change in Lycia. And while I would be the first to admit my morphs can be…off-putting, they do have their purposes. How long has it been since you lost a man? If your soldiers had tried to rescue Prudence, many of them would not be here to celebrate.”

 

Lucian opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t really argue with that. Risking expendable, mass-produced homunculi rather than human lives wasn’t something he could really oppose.

 

“Prudence was always a flighty woman,” said Cross after several moments of deliberation. “We can’t be sure it’s just because of Cypher that she doesn’t want to come back. For all we know, she might have found a nice guy in the castle.”

 

A ripple of laughter surged throughout the room, and Lucian had to concede it wasn’t entirely undeserved. Prudence was the sort of woman who’d do that, after all.

 

“In this case, then, I think we can keep Cypher and his morphs around for a little while longer.” Cross’ face grew as somber as it ever did, which meant he still had a smile, but a smaller one. “If those puppets can keep my brothers and sisters safe while showing the nobility a thing or two, they’re alright with me. But enough of this talk. Time for some drinking!”

 

Yet another loud cheer echoed throughout the chamber as the barrels of beer and wine were rolled in. Smiling in satisfaction, Cypher slipped into the shadows alone as the men of the Northern Cross promptly forgot about him.

 

Except for one. Even after the reassurances of his friend Cross, and even after he’d joined the Rogue in a drinking game, Lucian carefully kept an eye on the spot Cypher had disappeared into.

 

-X-

 

When Wallace and Hassar dueled, they usually didn’t have any spectators besides Renault. Today, however, was an exception.

 

“C’mon, Hassar!” Wallace panted as he poked and jabbed with his training spear. “Is this the best you can do?”

 

Hassar didn’t say anything in response, but his grin indicated he was more than willing to meet the challenge from his friend and rival. He sidestepped another thrust from Wallace, then darted behind him, moving as swiftly as the wind. He intended to catch the squire from his undefended back, but Wallace was ready for him. He didn’t bother twisting his spear around, but rather by shifting his right foot and pivoting his left, he turned and managed to bring the butt of his spear up to Hassar’s head, giving the older boy a painful (but not too painful) bump and forcing him to stagger back. Had Wallace been fighting for real, he could have knocked Hassar out.

 

“Good work, Wallace,” Renault said with pleasure as the youth gave the teenager a hand to help him to his feet. “That’s the second time you’ve beaten Hassar! Three more and you two will have even records for your sparrin’ matches. You’re definitely improving.”

 

Wallace looked incredibly pleased, and Hassar shared his happiness—if his rival was improving, that meant he was a good teacher and sparring partner.

 

To their surprise, it seemed a couple of other people were happy with their progress as well. All three of them turned when they heard a man’s good-natured laughter, and saw their lord Hausen walking towards them, clapping his hands and smiling. His cute black-haired daughter was trailing behind him, peeking at the warriors with great curiosity.

 

“Good show, lads!” laughed Hausen. “Edmun would be proud!” He looked at Hassar, his gaze souring for a moment…then smiled again. “Of both of you. I’ll admit I didn’t think highly of Sacaens at first, Hassar, but I’ve heard about your exploits. You’re not only an excellent bowman, but brave as well—and a strong heart makes a strong man, no matter his race! I’m glad I hired you.”

 

“Thank you, Lord. It is an honor.”

 

“Daddy,” murmured Madelyn, “Where’s Sacae?”

 

Renault, Wallace, and Hassar all chuckled at the question as Hausen laughed again and gently grabbed her hand, encouraging her to step out from behind him.

 

“To the northeast, my girl, just beyond the Taliver mountains. It neighbors our land of Lycia, you see.”

 

“Neighbors? So Hassar’s sort of like our neighbor?”

 

This brought another round of laughs from the men, though Madelyn didn’t quite understand why. “You could say that, dear. He’s certainly here to protect us. All three of them are, in fact. I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced, have you?”

 

She shook her head earnestly.

 

“This is my only child,” said Hausen proudly. “You saw her when you were meeting with Lord Edmun the last time he woke up, didn’t you? She’s Lady Althenia’s star pupil in the healing arts, and I don’t just say this as a proud father, either! The bishop herself has said she’s not seen anyone with Madelyn’s talent at so young an age!”

 

“D-Daddy, you’re embarrassing me,” she murmured again, shifting her feet uneasily, bringing forth yet another round of chuckles.

 

“Now, don’t embarrass yourself, in that case,” said Hausen kindly, but firmly. “Remember your manners, dear.”

 

“Mm!” She took a deep breath, and then stepped forwards. “My name is Madelyn. It…um, it is my honor to meet all of you!” She bent down in a picture-perfect curtsy.

 

“M-Mine too! Uh, um…milady!” stammered the squire, immediately bending a knee before his liege. He held out his weapon to Madelyn, mouthing the words of a Lycian oath which were among the first things any knightling was taught. “My name is Wallace. As long as my strength lasts, my spear will always be at your service.”

 

The Mercenary Lord grinned at hearing his pupil’s excellent response, then provided one of his own. “They call me Renault the Impervious,” he stated gruffly. “Watch me in battle and you’ll see how accurate the name is.”

 

“Wow…” Even though Renault really did have the bite to back up his bark, Madelyn still seemed to be a bit more impressed than he’d expected.

 

Now there was only one more. The Sacaen joined his friend and rival on one knee before Hausen and Madelyn, and swore, “I am Hassar of the Lorca. By the honor of the plains, my bow and sword will never fail you.”

 

“Really?” said Madelyn, seeming even more impressed. She gave Hassar a piercing stare, which he met with his own calm, clear blue eyes. “So…so you’re from Sacae?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She pondered him for a few more moments, and nobody—not even her father—knew what she was going to say next. Finally, she admitted:

 

“Does everybody from Sacae look like you? I hope so…you’re handsome!”

 

Wallace tried to stifle a laugh, while Hausen and Renault didn’t even bother, guffawing loudly. Hassar, for his part, seemed to have met his match—for all of his training, and for all the stoicism men of Sacae were supposed to display, he couldn’t hide the bewildered expression on his face nor its reddening color.

 

“My daughter thinks you’re handsome? Well, as far as I’m concerned, that’s earned your whole country my respect,” chortled Hausen. “You should be proud of yourself, Hassar. Most proud!”

 

“Y…yes, my lord. I am honored.” He did the only thing he knew, which was to bend his head further to Hausen and Madelyn; the latter of whom didn’t know what was going on either.

 

“Ah, youth,” Hausen grinned, then turned to Wallace. “That reminds me, lad, of the reason I came here. Edmun’s woken up again. His recovery is proceeding well, and he wishes to see his squire.”

 

“Yes, Lord Hausen! I’ll be there right away!” Suddenly, Wallace froze solid. “Wait…oh no…”

 

“Hm? What is it?”

 

“L-Lord Hausen, I…I’ve been training with Renault and Wallace! Won’t Sir Edmun be…”

 

“Hah! You’ve got it all wrong, Wallace. He wouldn’t mind a bit. Edmun’s first concern is your growth, after all. Telling him how much you’ve improved would cheer him, not anger him. Now, come! Let’s see if we can speed up his recovery!”

 

“Yes…yes, m’lord!”

 

Wallace hastily returned his spear to Renault, who accepted it with a grin. That grin grew wider as he and Hassar watched the youth run after Hausen and Madelyn, heading off to Edmun’s hospice with a wave and a great big smile on his face.

 

 

 

-X-

 

“Eeeeeyaaaaah~! Althenia, you’re so _mean!_ ”

 

As he, Wallace, and Hassar heard the loud, plaintive yell from across the courtyard, Renault knew it would be best to ignore it, and he knew he should have told the boys to continue with their training. They had just started, and didn’t really need a break. Even so, all three of them recognized that voice, and they knew that whenever they heard it, something interesting was going to happen.

 

They turned to the east, where one of the other squires, a stout-hearted youth named Eagler, was supposed to be practicing with a training dummy. He had been…until he’d been interrupted. For reasons known only to her, the “prisoner” Prudence (who had been given essentially free rein of Castle Caelin, since she had very much proven she was not a threat to anyone and her skill with staves was actually very useful, taking a great deal of pressure off the formerly overworked Bishop Althenia) had wandered up behind him and started giving him a backrub. Eagler wasn’t sure what to make of this, of course, but given he was just a squire and required to show deference to both adults and women, he thought it best to just keep his mouth shut and accept the massage (which, truthfully, wasn’t bad at all). Unfortunately for him, Prudence’s “best friend” strongly disapproved of him taking a small break, at least in that fashion.

 

“You’ve got some nerve to call me mean, miss,” yelled Althenia, who was still wearing her white Bishop’s vestiary, having stormed out of the castle keep into the courtyard just a few moments earlier. “You’re supposed to be helping the apothecary! You’re the only one here besides me and Madelyn who can use a staff! What are you doing out here? You’re not training to be a knight!”

 

“Well, of course not! I could never hold a sword, it would be _murder_ on my lovely skin!”

 

Althenia put her hands on her hips and began tapping her foot impatiently. “Well then, miss, care to explain what you’re doing on the training grounds, manhandling one of the squires?”

 

“Manhandling? _Manhandling?!_ ” Prudence stopped her backrub and leaned forwards, resulting in her ample bosom enveloping the top of her charge’s head. The expression on Eagler’s face was somewhere between befuddled and blissful. Prudence, naturally, did not notice. “I think you ought to get your mind out of the gutter, you so-called holy woman! I’m just giving this poor boy some much-needed rest and relaxation! I saw him out there hacking at this dummy with all his strength, and I just got so worried…wasn’t he getting tired? What if he strained himself? This poor child should be at home, nestled safe and sound in the embrace of his mother…surely he deserves to know that feeling, even just once!”

 

“I like having a mom,” said the squire, seeming as if he was very much enjoying himself.

 

“Well, he has work to do, you do too, and you’re _not_ his mother!” Althenia yelled. “Now, come with me! I need to make twenty orders of that herbal poultice on the morrow and I won’t make it in time without some help!”

  
“Well, I—yowch!” Before she could react, Althenia had taken hold of one of her charge’s ears and pulled her away. As much as she protested, Prudence had no choice to follow, leaving a somewhat disappointed Eagler behind her.

 

“I wonder if I’ll ever get to have a backrub someday,” Wallace pondered after watching the scene play out.

 

Renault just rolled his eyes. “Take my word for it, kid. Women like Prudence are more trouble than they’re worth. Anyways, back to work!”

 

Neither Hassar nor Wallace grumbled a bit as they went back to their training—though Renault did push them particularly hard, or at least it seemed to them.

 

By the end of the day, both of them would have actually really liked a backrub. But of course, neither received one.

 

-X-

 

It had been no more than a month, and already Wallace and Hassar were stronger. _Much_ stronger.

 

They were still tied neck and neck with each other—Wallace would win one duel, Hassar the next. Both, however, displayed a great deal of improvement as warriors. Wallace, for his part, was much more confident and assured than he’d been when he first started out. Part of that was just physical. The three men ate lunch and dinner with each other every day, and Renault always made sure to divide him his portion between Wallace and Hassar, since he didn’t need to eat. Neither of them knew that, of course, but they accepted his kindness nonetheless. The result was that Wallace was better fed now than he’d ever been before, and that combined with his training meant he was putting on muscle. He still had quite a ways to go before even approaching Renault’s physique, as he still received jeers about being “girly” occasionally, but such jeers were less common now. If he’d grown this much in just a month, a year of training hard and eating well would ensure he would never receive such mockery ever again.

 

His skill with the spear was just as heartening. Though Renault couldn’t teach him as well as a true master of the weapon would be able to, Wallace was at least able to learn how to fight against swordsmen. He had also began to learn a bit more about armor—though he was still a squire and hadn’t been given a proper suit of plate yet, watching Renault had taught him how to keep the weak points in an armor’s joints and exposed areas from being targeted by an enemy, as well as methods of pacing himself in combat that would keep him from getting exhausted, even when fighting in heavy armor for long periods of time.

 

Hassar had gained as much from Renault’s tutelage as Wallace. Though the Mercenary Lord wasn’t much good with bows either, he could teach Hassar more than a bit about how to use a blade. Sacaen and Etrurian styles of swordplay were different in some respects, but similar enough for Hassar to figure how he was either vulnerable or advantaged against other weapons, and how to minimize his weaknesses and maximize his strengths.

 

The two youths illustrated their progress in their latest sparring match. No longer did Wallace simply charge straight at Hassar, and no longer did Hassar forget about the range Wallace’s spear gave him. The two poked and feinted at each other cautiously, Wallace remembering well Renault’s advice to keep Hassar as far from him as possible, and Hassar remembering Renault’s advice to concentrate entirely on avoiding any attacks until he was certain the spearman had left an opening. This match wouldn’t end quickly.

 

Or would it? It seemed as if they wouldn’t be sparring any more today—or would at least be taking a break—when they heard a familiar voice calling out to them. Familiar to Wallace, at least.

 

“Still keeping yourself sharp, lads! May the Saint bless you both! A week’s more rest and I’ll finally be able to join you!”

 

Renault and his charges turned to look at their caller. His bushy red beard and equally bushy head of red hair unmistakably marked him as Edmun. Lady Althenia had at last allowed him to get out of bed and leave his room last week, though he was still too weak for serious exertion (he was currently hobbling around on a wooden cane) and thus was in no condition to help Wallace train. He was more than happy to watch, though, and give the youth—and his Sacaen friend—advice as they sparred. Renault didn’t mind at all, and in fact, he and the senior knight had grown to respect each other a great deal. Edmun wore heavy armor like him, and was very, very good at fighting in it; though he preferred the axe and spear to the sword, their counsel to the younglings almost always agreed. They looked forwards to fighting with each other side by side, and by the pace of Edmun’s recovery that day might come soon.

 

Sooner than Renault thought, in fact—judging by what Edmun was about to say.

 

The grin disappeared from his face, replaced by a more serious expression, as his gaze shifted from the boys to Renault. “Alas, I haven’t come here to watch your training. Milords Hausen and Lundgren want to see us.”

 

“What is it, Sir Edmun?” Wallace asked. “Has…has something happened?”

 

“You could say that. We just got word from the Marquess of Ostia himself. Their spies have found out the location of the Northern Cross hideout. They’re sending a battalion of their best men. Together, we’re to destroy the terrorists and bring Cross and his allies to justice once and for all. I’d like you to attend the briefing, Renault. You too, Wallace. This kind of strategy is important for a knight to learn.”

 

“Exactly,” replied Renault. “But, Edmun…what’s Hausen thinking? Is he really set on heading off to wherever the enemy headquarters are supposed to be?”

 

“He is. Ostia has ordered us to do this. We don’t have much choice.”

 

“Damn it.”

 

“Wait, what’s wrong?” asked Wallace. “Isn’t this a good thing? We finally know where they are, so we can go and fight them out in the open, fair and square!”

 

“It’s not that simple, lad. I strongly suspect this is a trap.”

 

“A trap? Why?”

 

“Wallace, Hassar, tell me,” mused Renault. “What have we been doing for most of the past month?”

 

Hassar just pointed to the training weapons he and his rival held.

 

“Uh-huh. We’ve had plenty of time to do that, haven’t we? Have there been any Northern Cross attacks this whole month?”

 

Both he and Wallace pondered the question for a moment, then shook their heads.

 

“Exactly right. No attacks, no attempted kidnappings, nothing for a whole month. It’s like the whole organization’s went quiet. So that means, more likely than not, that they’re planning something. Amassing their forces. And waiting to lure us in to something we can’t get out of. Why were the Ostians never able to sniff out their main base before now? I’d bet my sword on Cross leaking the information to them, knowing we’d come and chase after it.”

 

“Of course, the Ostians don’t see it that way,” said Edmun. “In their eyes, this is just an opportunity far too good to pass up.”

 

“So…so then what do we do, Sir Edmun?”

 

“What a knight always does, Wallace. Anything he can.”

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Couple of things to note in this chapter, friends. First, Lucian goes for both guys and girls, in case you’re wondering about his “interesting men” line. He’s a cheerful bisexual, though that won’t be a plot point here. Second, that was indeed Eagler, the boss of FE7. Aside from that, keep reading! Also check me out at gunlord500.wordpress.com for more stuff on my writing process and fic ideas.


	54. Kidnapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caelin's forces launch an assault on the Northern Cross, but it proves to be a trap!

**Chapter 54: Kidnapping**

“I keep telling you, Lord Hausen, I have a real bad feeling about this.”

 

Renault said this as he stood next to Hausen and Lundgren, looking down the black, seemingly endless pit that (according to Ostian intelligence) served as the entrance to the stronghold of the Northern Cross. It was mid-afternoon on the 2nd Lancer, and a small army had descended upon the fields of an obscure farmer in eastern Caelin, where they had removed a large sheet of debris which had covered up the hole. Their force was composed primarily of Caelin men (Hausen had taken almost all of his soldiers, leaving only a token force for defense of his castle), but it also had about a thousand armored knights from Ostia. Not a huge number, but the Ostians fielded the best heavy infantry in Lycia, and perhaps all of Elibe. A thousand ought to have been enough to deal with whatever was waiting for them down there.

 

Of course, Ostian men were very valuable, and Hausen was thus loath to risk them. That was why Renault was there, along with the other mercenaries Hausen had hired, and a small force of sellswords brought by the Ostian knights. It was also why Renault could only sigh with resignation as Hausen responded to his query exactly as he expected.

 

“Yes, I understand,” said the Caelin lord, “but we haven’t a choice. Ostia simply does not want to let this opportunity go to waste.”

 

“But you also don’t want to take any risks, right? I understand that, too. I’m used to it.”

 

“Renault—“

 

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, Lord Hausen. I’m good at this sort of stuff.” His visor flashed green. “You’re gonna be glad you hired me. I’ll take a detachment of mercenaries down there to scout it out before you send in the rest of the troops. That way, those expensive Ostians won’t have to worry about any nasty surprises.”

 

Hausen breathed a sigh of his own—of great relief this time. “Thank you, Renault.”

 

The Mercenary Lord turned back to the troops and called out to them, repeating what he’d said to Hausen. The mercenaries, to their credit, obeyed without question—they knew this was what they were getting paid for. Hassar stood just behind Renault as he and his fellow mercenaries prepared to descend.

 

Surprisingly, though, he’d be joined by one of the regular Caelin troops. “Lord Hausen! Lord Hausen!” yelled a young boy’s voice as a green-haired squire named Wallace burst out from the assembled crowd. “L…let me come too, milord! I want to fight with Hassar and Renault!”

 

“I admire your enthusiasm, lad, but this is dangerous business. You still need more training before—“

 

“But Hassar’s my friend, Lord Hausen! I can’t just let him face whatever’s down there alone!”

 

“The more scouts we send down there, the more information we can send back up, and the better prepared we’ll be,” said Lundgren coldly. “Better to risk a squire than an experienced, full-blooded knight. Let him go.”

 

Hausen found no fault in this line of reasoning, and Wallace joined Hassar right behind Renault.

 

“I’m first in, last out,” he ordered the men. “All of you, follow me. The Ostian spies were able to give us this stronghold’s location, along with a half-complete map of the underground complex. You all should have familiarized yourselves with it by now.

 

“We’ll split up into ten groups of ten, and the first thing we’ll do is comb through the labyrinth of passages on the first level. So far, we haven’t seen any evidence that the Northern Cross is even around; you’d think they’d have noticed a big army like this and tried to set up a defense. They might’ve abandoned this place or they’re waiting to spring a trap. Either way, we’ll deal with the front set of hallways first. If you find anything strange or encounter any enemies, send a runner up from your group to notify our commanders. If the halls are as empty as they seem to be, all of you gather at the next point marked on your maps—the entrance to the cave system’s largest cavern, which seems to serve as their Great Hall. We’ll wipe out anything that’s in there, send reports back to our lords, and then discuss what we’ll do from there, since the rest of the complex is unmapped. Everyone clear?”

 

The assembled mercenaries shouted their agreement. And with Renault, Wallace, and Hassar leading them down, they began their descent.

 

-x-

 

The moment he stepped from the bottommost rung of the ladder onto the cold stone floor beneath, the visor of Renault’s helmet began to glow and provide him a good view of the corridor in front of him. He lit a torch in his left hand, though, for the benefit of the men climbing down behind him, most notably Wallace and Hassar. There was nothing much to see, at least not at first. The rock was bluish-grey and uneven, with small stalactites jutting from it here and there, leading straight ahead into more darkness. It seemed like the sort of tunnel one would find in any regular cave complex on Elibe; the only indications it had ever been inhabited were the empty torch stands on the walls.

 

This, of course, further whetted the suspicions of Hausen’s troops. There should have been _some_ resistance—traps set at the base of the ladder, Northern Cross troops set as a welcoming committee, anything. But so far, as the old yet true cliché had it, it was quiet. Too quiet.

 

Not that it mattered.  Renault strode forwards, leading his two wards along with the other hundred mercenaries single-file through the long, winding corridor. After a minute or so, they came to their first detour—to their left, an opening led to another tunnel. They knew it was there, having been marked on their maps, and Renault just continued forwards, seeming to ignore it. Only the last ten mercenaries at the back of their line departed to investigate it. As complicated and labyrinthine as the layout of this stronghold would have been to interlopers who were completely unprepared, the Ostians had provided several copies of an excellent, detailed map, meaning the troops had much less to fear from being lost or surprised. They all had a decent grasp of the general layout of the cave system—one main tunnel leading to the huge central cavern, from which sprouted ten side-tunnels which were either dead ends used for storage or interconnected with each other in various ways. Each time they passed by an entrance to a side-tunnel, the last ten members of Renault’s force would split off and head down while the rest continued forwards, until only Renault’s group was left marching straight ahead, to the doors of the main cavern.

 

Another ten minutes and Renault’s group was now alone, having passed by the entrances to all ten side-tunnels. It was still eerily quiet. They hadn’t seen anything—not even bats or rats—aside from abandoned, broken barrels and remnants of food and other detritus of inhabitation here and there. It seemed the fortress of the Northern Cross was well and truly deserted…and that was what really unnerved Hausen’s men. Where had everybody gone?

 

At last, however, the silence was punctuated by a startled yell followed by a clash of steel. Everyone stopped and hastily gripped their weapons, and Wallace almost jumped into the air, but Renault raised his hand to both calm everyone down and indicate that they shouldn’t panic and break their orders.

 

“We can’t tell where that sound came from. It could have been anywhere, given the ways these tunnels are connected, and if we try to find the source we’ll probably be too late for the battle, wherever it is. Just stay calm and follow orders—keep moving straight ahead. Our mercenaries are strong and well trained. They should be able to handle anything they encounter while scouting, and if they can’t, they know enough to retreat and send a runner to us as a warning, since they know where we are. Just stay calm.”

 

Wallace gulped and did as he asked, and he was somewhat cheered to see that the trained mercenaries around him—even the stoic Hassar—weren’t entirely unfazed either. He wasn’t trailing behind his fellows _too_ badly, at least.

 

Unfortunately, his psyche was not helped when more shouts and sounds of battles erupted in the distance, echoing from the entrance to another tunnel connected to the first side passage they’d encountered. The first group was nearby, and had encountered something as well. Still, Renault made no motion to assist; his discipline absolute and directing his men to keep going straight forwards to the great hall, as they’d been ordered.

 

They were coming close—the tunnel was growing wider and wider, becoming more of a large natural hallway of sorts. However, as they advanced, they all heard something moving up ahead of them, beyond the light of the torches.

 

“Damn,” said Renault—thanks to his helmet’s visor, he could see whatever was coming up to them. “Wallace, Hassar, get up beside me.” Both knew what he was planning. The tunnel was now wide enough for three men, meaning the three of them standing in a line would block it off. The other seven members of their group were archers, mages, and spearmen with Javelins, meaning they could provide long-ranged attacks if there was an ambush waiting for them.

 

Despite feeling the fear creeping up on him, Wallace gulped and forced it down. He was more afraid of disappointing Renault and Hassar than he was of whatever was waiting for him.

 

The answer to that soon became clear. The indistinct noises from ahead resolved into something clearer—steps, thumping against the floor in a steady rhythm. Someone—or something—was running up to them. And before Wallace thought he was ready, they’d arrived.

 

“Ah!”

 

Renault had trained him well, very well. Wallace’s body acted faster than his mind could—without even thinking, he immediately dropped into the spearman’s stance Renault had so assiduously drilled into him. About seven men rushed into the perimeter of the torch Renault was holding—seven men with glinting steel swords and faces covered entirely by their helmets. In a fluid motion Renault dropped one of his chaindaggers to his right hand and tossed it at the closest phantom, burying the weapon in its neck and reducing it to dust. Even as it crumbled, though, its next two companions had reached Wallace and Hassar.

 

The Sacaen dealt with his morph quite easily. When the creature reached him it brought its weapon down in an overhead swing; Hassar responded with a quick, deft sidestep, an upward sweep of his curved blade that took both the thing’s arms off at the elbows, and ended the battle even more swiftly, with a straight thrust through the phantom’s unarmored chest.

 

Wallace’s fight was just as easy. The pale thing rushing at him seemed to be a Mercenary, but it apparently wasn’t too well-made—Hassar was much, much faster on his feet. As if his sparring matches with his friend were memorized in his body, not just his brain, Wallace reacted exactly as he’d been trained to do. He lowered the point of his blade to the floor, not in a thrust as his enemy likely expected, then swept it across with the intent of taking the attacker off its feet. The routine worked perfectly, and just as quickly Wallace stepped forwards, lifting his weapon as the creature fell, then pointed it down and jabbed it straight at its chest.

 

Hassar would never have been taken by such an attack so quickly. He would have immediately rolled away and got back onto his feet. But this enemy was much slower. It was a couple moments before Wallace blinked, fully returning to consciousness rather than instinct, but when he did he noticed the phantom crumbling into dust beneath him.

 

By this point, the battle was already over. The other mercenaries didn’t even have to do anything—after Renault had finished off that first creature, he’d dashed forwards and chopped apart all the other ones following it in a matter of moments.

 

It took Wallace a moment to realize what had just happened.

 

He’d won his very first battle.

 

“You did well,” said Hassar with a small but very genuine smile, wiping some of the…not blood, but dust from his blade. “You are indeed a worthy rival.”

 

“R…really?” As the other mercenaries around him laughed, it dawned on Wallace just what he’d accomplished. “Renault! D-did you see that? I did it! I won! I really won!”

 

“Keep your guard up, Wallace,” came Renault’s gruff reply. “Victory is not ours yet. We don’t have any idea what’s waiting for us in the main hall.”

 

“Oh…oh,” said Wallace, lowering his spear and looking somewhat disheartened. “R-right, sorry.”

 

Wallace couldn’t see his mentor’s expression behind the helmet, but Renault’s visor glowed slightly for a moment, seeming to reassure the young lad. “Still, that was pretty damn good for your first real fight, kid. I’m proud of you.”

 

Wallace was about to respond with another excited “R-Really?” but promptly remembered that losing his combat-ready mindset was why Renault kept chiding him. Thus, he simply readjusted his grip on his weapon, said, “Thank you, sir!” and pointed it forwards, at the huge wooden doors which terminated the corridor.

 

This time, he got the impression that Renault really was smiling.

 

The Mercenary Lord didn’t much dwell on their small victory, though. “That was too easy,” he said. “Just a handful of half-formed puppets? There should have been a lot more down here, along with the actual humans of the Northern Cross. In any case, like I said, we don’t know what’s waiting for us in that main hall. If you look at the map, all the side tunnels eventually converge here. We’ll wait for all the other groups to arrive and see what they’ve run into.”

 

And so they did, and they had their answers sooner than they expected. Not long after they’d finished off the phantoms, the first group of ten mercenaries which had originally broken off from the force arrived through the entrance to the side tunnel on the east. Behind it was the third group, and coming from one of the western tunnels was the second. After just about ten minutes, all of the mercenaries had assembled in the large, long corridor leading to the great hall. None of the groups reported any casualties. They had all encountered small groups of weak phantoms scattered throughout the tunnels, some waiting for them in various locations while others hiding in small side passages or storage areas. They had all been dealt with easily, with no problems. Still, as Renault had commanded, each group had sent up a runner, who had later returned with instructions from Lord Lundgren. The army commanders were indeed beginning to suspect something strange was going on, judging from the almost complete absence of any meaningful resistance. Still, nobody was sure of what, exactly, it was. The orders they’d sent back, therefore, were for the mercenary scout force to continue combing through the apparently deserted complex, make absolutely sure it was as empty as it seemed, and if possible find out where the Northern Cross had went.

 

None of the soldiers were particularly pleased, of course, but they all realized they had no choice. None voiced any protest when Renault pushed open the huge wooden doors closing off the next section of the complex, and all followed him bravely and obediently inside.

 

None of them knew what was waiting for them in there.

 

And none of them knew what was happening back at Caelin, either.

 

-X-

 

“So, Miss Prudence, how are you enjoying Caelin?”

 

“Oh, I love it,” she replied enthusiastically between bites of her sausage, “It’s wonderful! Everyone is so nice—well, except for maybe Miss Althenia—and there are so many _cute_ young boys around, I just don’t know what to do with myself!”

 

“Uh…huh. Er, yes,” said Edmun diplomatically, taking another bite of his own meal. He wasn’t able to entirely mask the puzzled expression on his face and the bead of sweat forming over his brow, though.

 

The General had been feeling much better as of late, as if the poison which had once flowed through his veins was now completely gone. He had thus grown tired of taking his meals alone in his bed, and now tried to eat with his comrades, either in the great hall or in personal conversations in his quarters when he could. The first few days of this had been spent with Lundgren, Hausen, and Althenia, but now that the former two were out facing the Northern Cross at their hideout, and the latter busy with her tutoring of Madelyn, Edmun thought this lovely afternoon would be a good time for him to make a new friend. Prudence, the Sage his squire had helped capture away from the Northern Cross, did not seem at all like a bad sort. However, she was admittedly somewhat…quirky. Indeed, judging from what Althenia had told him (with a bit of affection mixed in with her exasperation), she was less a prisoner now than a member of the castle town. Anyone who could use a staff was useful in Lycia, and both the knights and the children liked her quite a bit (particularly the squires). Thus, Edmun had invited her up here for lunch, in order to get to know her a little better.

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” he continued. Then, his face grew a bit more somber. “I’ve heard many things about you, you know. The people here love you, and my Lords like you as well. Do you think you’ll be staying with us?”

 

“Huh?” She pondered the question for a moment, ignoring the scrap of bread falling from her mouth onto Edmun’s table. “Hmm…I’ve never really thought about it before. I always assumed I’d just be here forever.”

 

“Really? Forgive me if this seems too forward, but what about the Northern Cross?”

 

“Oh! Them! Oh my, I almost forgot about them!” She seemed to grow a bit sad. “Well…I still agree with a lot of what they said. But now that I’ve met the people we’ve been fighting myself, seen them with my own eyes…I think that maybe neither of us is as bad as the other makes us out to be. I wish there was some way we could come to peace, and Cross and Lucian could live happily with the rest of you.”

 

“I see. I agree, milady.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. I am a knight, but knights have no love for war in and of itself. Quite the opposite! We are, after all, the first ones to get sent out to die on the front lines. Would that my Lords could come to some accommodation with your Cross! Perhaps all this could be avoided.”

 

“Yes, I wish we could have done that as well.”

 

“Indeed. I’ve given it some thought myself, actually. Prudence…and perhaps this is getting ahead of myself, and in that case I beg your forgiveness for my lack of manners, but I must ask. What does Cross want? What are his goals? And what are _your_ goals? Why did you join the Northern Cross in the first place?”

 

“Why, I could talk about that all day!” Prudence did not seem offended at all, to Edmun’s considerable relief. “Cross doesn’t really want that much. More than anything else, he likes excitement and adventure! But he also cares about the people a lot. He hates it when somebody around him isn’t smiling! And there are a lot of people who aren’t smiling in Lycia. Nobles don’t care about anybody else at all! They just spend all their time at those _horrible_ coliseums, watching other people die for their pleasure! The taxes are spent on clothes and jewelry instead of food for the poor! Yes, I know Hausen is trying to make things better, and so is Elbert of Pherae. But the same can’t be said for the other cantons!

 

“And beyond that, the lives of the people themselves are so _terribly_ circumscribed. Unless we’re nobles, we are bound to the land, unable to choose where we can live or who we can serve, and that only changes with marriage or the death of our lord!” She gave an indignant huff. “That’s why _I_ joined the Northern Cross. Have you any idea

how women are treated here? We’re considered nothing more than property to be given away to whomever desires it, noble or not! The marquesses marry their daughters off to each other to forge their alliances, and their knights do the same—that’s how Lycia’s supposed to be run, they say! I was the daughter of a knight, and my father always told me to marry someone from the same station, whether they were from Caelin or not. “Look at that nice Cavalier! Or that handsome armor knight! Why not choose him?” But I never wanted to sell myself off to _any_ of them! They were all old, ugly brutes!

 

“But just as my father had arranged a marriage for me—against _my_ objections—Cross came. He told me he saw a Lycia where everyone was equal, and where people could choose their paths in life, regardless of gender! So I ran away and joined up with the Northern Cross, and I haven’t looked back since! Well…except for now…”

 

“I…I see. Thank you for your honesty, Prudence,” Edmun said. More quietly, he whispered, “perhaps I misjudged you.” He meant that—Prudence’s reasons for joining the Northern Cross were much more well-considered than he thought they’d be. Though his loyalty to Caelin was absolute, at times he’d often entertained the same reservations about their style of governance. “I am grateful we had this conversation. I say this sincerely.”

 

“Well, you’re very welcome.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You’re not bad at all for such an old geezer. Still not as cute as dear little Wallace or Eagler, but not bad at all.”

 

Edmun’s growing respect for her quickly fell to its previous levels. “Old geezer?!” he repeated incredulously. “My lady, I’ll freely admit I’m not as young as I used to be, but you’re no spring chicken yourself!”

 

She seemed as if she’d respond with an angry, blistering retort, but her indignation was replaced by shock at the noises which suddenly broke through the afternoon calm.

 

The loud clash of weapons, a scream from outside, and most of all, the blaring horn which indicated the watchmen had seen enemies approaching.

 

“By the Saint,” gasped Edmun, “what’s happened?! Prudence, come with me. We’re under attack again!”

 

“B-but how?” she stammered, completely forgetting her meal and her argument. “And why? The first attack already failed, and Hausen and Lundgren aren’t here! Why would Cross—“

 

“We’ve little time to find out. Come!”

 

He leapt from his seat, rushed over to stand at the far end of the room where he always kept a good weapon (In this case, a Silver Spear), and then bolted out the door. He would have liked a chance to put on some armor, but there obviously wasn’t time. Prudence was right behind him, keeping a hand on the Elfire spell tome she carried with her—a symbol of how much the people of Caelin had come to trust their “prisoner.”

 

The moment they left the room, they ran into one of the castle guards in full armor, rushing downstairs. “Hold a moment, man!” Edmun yelled. “What’s going on?!”

 

“It’s a Northern Cross attack, m’lord! It’s those phantom soldiers, just like last month! Some sort of magic portal appeared outta nowhere in the courtyard and started spewin’ out enemies! Caught us completely by surprise. We’re quick on our feet, though. Holdin’ them off on the first floor, just by the castle gates, but more of them keep pouring through that damn portal!”

 

“It’s the middle of the afternoon!” Edmun was shocked. “Not even the pretense of stealth, but—“

 

“Who cares?! There’s no time to waste talking! Let’s go down and torch a few, Sir Edmun! Those morphs are _so_ ugly, and I _hate_ them!”

 

The veteran knight was about to agree when he heard a loud BOOM coming from the floor above him.

 

“What now,” he groaned, then immediately realized where the noise had come from. “Wait…th-those are Madelyn’s quarters!”

 

“Hausen’s little daughter?” Prudence was definitely concerned. “They…they wouldn’t do anything to her. Cross hasn’t sunk so low as to attack _children_! He…he couldn’t have!”

 

“We can’t be sure. I’ll go downstairs to help with the defense. Prudence, make sure Madelyn’s alright! Althenia was tutoring her, so she should have some protection, but still…”

 

“Okay! Understood!”

 

She and her host went their separate ways, Prudence up, Edmun down. _It can’t be that bad,_ the Sage thought to herself as she rushed up the stairs to Madelyn’s room on the castle’s third floor. _Sure, Althenia’s jealous of my youthful good looks, but deep down she’s a nice lady. And she cares about Madelyn just as much as Hausen does! If someone’s after that little girl, they’re in for a whole world of trouble!_

Unfortunately, she would be proven very wrong.

 

As she neared Madelyn’s room, the first thing she noticed was the odor of burning flesh. The second thing she noticed was the flaming wreckage of the door. The third was the loud screaming of a young girl’s voice. And as she barged in, she almost tripped over what was lying on the floor.

 

The corpse of Althenia, almost burnt beyond recognition.

 

“A…Althenia…Althenia! Miss Althenia! NO!!” Prudence wailed, dropping to her knees and cradling the still-smoking body. For all the fights she’d gotten into with the woman, she had more than a bit of respect for her fellow magic-user, and had come to consider her a friend.

 

The screams were still coming, though, and she looked up to see who was producing them. As expected, it was the young Lady Madelyn, but she was not in her bed. No, she was in the arms of a black-robed figure standing on the sill of the room’s large windows, preparing to make a quick getaway. His black hood concealed his eyes, but she didn’t have to see his face to know who he was…and to figure out he was almost certainly behind this atrocity.

 

“Cypher… _Cypher?!_ ” she yelled. The intruder clapped a hand over Madelyn’s mouth as he turned to look at the Sage.

 

“Ah, Prudence,” he replied nonchalantly, in the same cold, condescending voice which had always unnerved her. “So good to see you. Are you thinking of rejoining us?”

 

“You…you…what have you done?!”

 

“Secured victory for the Northern Cross, of course! Lord Hausen loves his daughter so dearly, so very dearly. With her as a hostage, it shall be child’s play to force him to accede to our demands!”

 

“But…you killed…”

 

“That old woman? Yes, I did. The girl is most broken up about it, but she’ll recover. Children are such resilient creatures, aren’t they? In any case, that’s what happens to those who oppose the Northern Cross. If you don’t want to come back, you’d better learn that lesson!”

 

“Come back…come back?!” Prudence’s face reddened in anger and her hands trembled with rage. “You _VILLAIN!_ Cross would NEVER have approved of this! He’d NEVER harm a child, no matter what! You’re trying to use us for your own gain, whatever it is, and I _won’t_ stand for it! May your soul rest in peace, dear Miss Althenia! I’ll avenge you and put a stop to Cypher’s evil!”

 

She brandished her Elfire tome, preparing to blow away the sinister foreigner, but was forced to stop when he turned his body, maintaining his balance on the windowsill with catlike agility, to keep his hostage in front of him…and in the way of any spell Prudence might have cast.

 

“Ah-ah-ah! I don’t think so, Prudence. Not unless you want to kill poor little Madelyn as well.”

 

“You…you…” Prudence grimaced, but no matter what happened, she couldn’t allow a child to come to harm.

 

“I’d very much like to finish things with you—you always annoyed me, even more than humans usually do. But I’ve got some appointments to keep—first at our old hideout, and then at the Bluemoon Tower. Farewell!”

 

With that, Cypher leapt from the windowsill. Prudence’s breath caught in her throat as he plummeted to the ground, and she thought both he and Madelyn would die from the fall. But in a flash of light, he disappeared—he must have been Warped away by one of his shadowy associates.

 

And as he disappeared, so, too, did the other phantoms assaulting Castle Caelin, at least judging by how the sounds of battle downstairs quickly ceased, followed by yells of confusion and calls for healers. Madelyn had been their true target—everything was just a diversion.

 

A diversion that had worked very well.

 

It wasn’t Prudence’s fault—she couldn’t possibly have known. But even so, as she turned again to Althenia’s burnt body, she felt as if she had failed, and failed horribly.

 

So she did the only thing she could.

 

She broke down and started to cry.

 

-X-

 

“God _damn_. This place is huge.”

 

The mercenaries around Renault shared his estimation—Wallace and Hassar certainly did. All of them were standing inside the gigantic cavern which served as the main hall for the Northern Cross. It was even larger than Castle Caelin’s great hall. Renault wondered how the ground above it hadn’t collapsed yet, but it seemed as if the many huge columns of stone—naturally formed—which joined the floor and ceiling seemed to be adequate supports. Scattered between them were tables, chairs, and of course, barrels and casks of ale and spirits lining the walls of the room. It had clearly been intended for revelry and merrymaking—once. Now, like the rest of the complex, it was silent and deserted.

 

The area was more than large enough to accommodate all 100 mercenaries and allow them to have a meeting, but first they wanted to give themselves some light.  Thankfully, there were still torches attached to the many holders on the walls, though they seemed as if they’d been blown out before the Northern Cross had evacuated. It was therefore easy to re-light them. Even so, Renault stayed ahead of all of the other mercenaries, his enchanted helm scanning the darkness ahead of the torch-bearers, and as light vanquished more and more of the darkness he saw something waiting for him.

 

“Everyone! Wait!” he called, his voice echoing through the stone cavern. The mercenaries obediently did so, gathering up behind him, with Wallace and Hassar the closest, to see what he’d found.

 

Even his magic visor was only good for a few feet in front of him—it wasn’t as if the darkest tomb would be as bright as day while wearing it. However, he could make out a very large shape which seemed to be moving—and it was much bigger than any of his men. As his mercenaries went still and quiet, they also began to hear something—the sound of heavy metal gauntlets tramp-tramping on the floor.

 

The heavy footsteps came closer, closer, and in the darkness, visible to Renault and the mercenaries, a red glow resolved itself, burning malignantly as if it was a will-o-wisp from hell. It floated over six feet above the floor, and seemed as if it was the glow of a visor not at all unlike Renault’s. Soon enough, it revealed itself to be exactly that.

 

“Th…The Black Knight!” one mercenary screamed from behind Renault, and all of them backed away as the Great Hall’s single inhabitant finally stepped clearly into the perimeter of their torches.

 

Renault, however, didn’t move an inch. Because he was very sure he knew why the Black Knight elicited such fear in Lycia. Because he was very sure he knew exactly who that man was.

 

He stood about six and a half feet tall, and was clad head to toe in pitch-black armor. Thick boots and greaves protected their wearer's feet, and thick cuisses and a fauld protected the thighs and groin. The gauntlets were impressive work—not merely pieces of metal slapped over a glove, they were entirely made out of metal yet had extremely flexible joints and enough points of articulation that anyone wearing them could move his hands as if he was wearing nothing at all. They extended up to the forearms and thickened as they went, which provided even more protection. The pauldrons did the same thing—they extended down to the upper arms, and they were rounded as well, and both of them boasted a trio of sharp, nasty spikes protruding from their tops.

 

The chestplate and helmet were the armor's most distinctive features. The cuirass was extremely ornate—it was very large, looked to be very heavy and cumbersome, and didn't look like it just protected the chest. It was very thick and seemed to consist of two pieces, one fitted snugly over the man’s large chest, which had a gap in its center into which fit another plate of metal which would protect his abdomen. Both pieces were adorned with a small red jewel that was glowing brightly. The helmet was shaped much like Renault’s, though colored black, and the protrusions on his head pointed straight up. Its visor also glowed red rather than green.

 

Most strikingly of all, was the Black Knight’s weaponry. In his left hand he held a Kite Shield. And on his back was a weapon Renault knew very, very well.

 

Behind him could be seen the handle and blade of a giant blue axe almost as big as he was. The Basilikos.

 

“Th…this is…” Wallace had been feeling good, but now his previous confidence had been shattered into pieces. He could tell just by looking at his newest opponent that there was no chance of even lasting a moment against him. Hassar, for all his experience and Sacaen stoicism, felt the same way. His legs were trembling, even though he tried to hide it. To their credit, though, they seemed to be no more frightened than the older mercenaries standing behind them.

 

Renault, however, fully realized that they wouldn’t be fighting in this battle. “Wallace. Hassar,” he said, and his voice was colder, more threatening, than either of them had _ever_ heard before. “Get back. _Now_. You can’t handle this one, and I don’t want you to.

 

“He’s _mine_.”

 

Both of them obeyed, falling back even further with the other mercenaries, when something even more unexpected happened.

 

The Black Knight—the silent behemoth which had slaughtered an entire troop of the finest Lycian warriors without making a sound, according to the reports— _spoke_.

 

And even more shocking, he knew who he was speaking to.

 

“It’s been a while, Renault,” he said in a pleasant, boyish voice which nonetheless seemed cold, emotionless, and inhuman. “I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me!”

 

“Braddock,” Renault growled—and Wallace couldn’t tell if he was angry, sad, or _happy_ at the reunion. “Braddock…it can’t be…”

 

In response, the Black Knight reached his right hand up to his face and unclasped his helmet, allowing everyone a good view of his face for a brief moment.

 

Renault didn’t even move an inch. Everyone else, however, gasped loudly.

 

His face seemed human at first glance. It was very handsome, framed by long black hair which fell past his shoulders. His eyes, however…glittering gold, there seemed to be no warmth, emotion, or basic humanity in them whatsoever. They passed over all the mercenaries, then rested on Renault once again.

 

“But it is, Renault.” His grey lips twisted in an insincere smile. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

 

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” There was more concentrated anger in Renault’s voice than Wallace had ever even imagined possible, and the Mercenary Lord’s visor was glowing red as brightly as the Black Knight—Braddock’s had been, indicating his emotional state. “You’re not Braddock! You never were!” He unsheathed his Lightbrand and pointed it directly at the big axeman. “All these years, and that filthy sorcerer still thinks he can get away with mocking me. Well, at least now I know for sure that he’s got his hands in Lycia’s troubles. And I have the perfect opportunity to do to you what I should’ve done right after he made you. Tear you to pieces!”

 

A beam of light crashed down upon Braddock, and he evaded it by raising his shield, the energy bouncing harmlessly off the black metal. “Renault, that’s no way to talk to your old buddy,” he remonstrated, but once again, there was no genuine emotion in that scolding. It seemed as if he was just a puppet, mouthing lines someone else had given him—and Renault knew that very well. He re-equipped his helmet, then reached to unlimber the massive blue axe. And as he did so, just as the mercenaries had gathered enough strength and confidence to attempt to help Renault fight the behemoth—they outnumbered him 100 to one, after all—the room around them exploded.

 

Or, more accurately, the barrels and casks did. Wallace let out a loud yell as he jumped back, splinters of wood flying like clouds through the air. He had no idea how Renault knew the Black Knight, didn’t know who Braddock was, and didn’t know why his mentor was so mad, but he knew they’d been led into an ambush.

 

Out of the clouds which had once been barrels and casks of ale charged phantoms. The inhuman puppets had been _stored_ in those barrels, somehow, replacing the spirits and foodstuffs they’d once held. It was a very ingenious plan, although one they should have seen. The mercenaries which had dealt with the masses of weak creatures in the tunnels so easily now found themselves on the defensive, caught off guard by the sudden onslaught. Several of them fell immediately, and Wallace might have been one of them if Hassar hadn’t saved him.

 

He stood there, shocked, and a myrmidon wearing a cloak reared up in front of him, preparing to strike, until an arrow through its head turned it into dust. That arrow was followed by a smack right to the face—but a friendly one.

 

“W-what?!” Wallace gasped, snapping out of it. Renault and Braddock were busy fighting each other, and thankfully the rest of the mercenaries were still able to regain their footing long enough to keep the masses of phantoms occupied—this gave Hassar just enough time for a brief pep talk.

 

The Sacaen had followed up his shot by rushing up to Wallace and slapping the youth out of his shock. “Get ahold of yourself!” He didn’t yell, but his voice was as loud as a Sacaen’s ever got. “If we die today, we’ll die as men, not frightened rabbits. Fight with me, Wallace! Let’s make Renault proud!”

 

“I…” that was enough to bring him back to reality. “I…alright, Hassar! Let’s do it!”

 

The Sacaen nodded in satisfaction, and Wallace regained his grip on his weapon, and together, the two of them charged back into battle. The human mercenaries, though reeling from the surprise attack, had managed to reform themselves into a ring, providing a perimeter against the waves of phantoms, previously hidden in the barrels, which were now rushing at them from all directions. The two boys immediately jumped to fill in a hole in that ring nearby, where one mercenary had fallen, slain by an inhuman spearman.

 

 _I believe in Renault_ , Wallace repeated in his head over and over, thrusting and jabbing wildly at any phantom he could see. _I believe in him! I believe in him! He’ll beat the Black Knight and see us through. I know he will!_

He didn’t know if that was the truth. He could only hope it was.

 

-x-

 

It was the absolute worst kind of combat: chaos in a confined, poorly lit battleground (the torches on the walls didn’t provide nearly as much radiance as Renault would have liked). Even so, though, he didn’t let up. He hadn’t forgotten how Nergal had betrayed him two hundred years ago. And seeing the evidence of that betrayal right in front of him provided him with enough rage to send him head-long against an entire army.

 

Controlled rage, though. Even as screams and clashes of steel echoed all around him, Renault didn’t lose his focus on Braddock, and his men had managed to form a defensive ring around him, holding their own against the morphs despite their surprise, and allowing him and Braddock to have a decently sized arena in which they could concentrate entirely on each other.

 

The Black Knight—or, more accurately, Warlord—lunged forwards with a two-handed overhead chop of the Basilikos which Renault easily dodged with a deft hop to the side. It had been two hundred years, but Renault hadn’t forgotten how his best friend had moved—and indeed, he could _never_ forget. They’d sparred together far too many times. This Braddock-shaped morph moved almost exactly as he had in life. Yet there were subtle differences in their fighting styles, and that enraged Renault.

 

First was the obvious. There were no gales of wind surrounding the Basilikos. Though it still possessed enough raw power to slice Renault apart if it ever made contact with him, the fact that its wielder could no longer generate those hurricanes and shockwaves (thanks to the quintessence which had empowered the axe being absorbed by Nergal) made him much easier to fight. More importantly, however, was how predictable his moves were. He let loose with another series of chops that succeeded only in destroying the chairs and tables around Renault; the Mercenary Lord evaded all of them with ease. Not because they were poorly executed; indeed, the Morph moved with inhuman precision, and all of his attacks looked exactly like the ones Braddock would have used were he training a soldier. “Training,” of course, was the operative word. Despite the raw power behind his blows, there were no improvisations, no original additions, nothing that differentiated a true warrior from a particularly skilled adept. It was as if he really was just an oversized puppet, capable of nothing except rote repetition of what he’d been programmed with. This enraged Renault more than anything else. If the only thing Nergal could replace his best friend with was a mindless puppet like this, the sorcerer truly had been manipulating him all along. And a puppet armed with the Basilikos and clad in impenetrable armor might have been enough to give the regular troops of Caelin a great deal of trouble, but against Renault, it was worthless.

 

The swordsman knew that he couldn’t even harm the morph as long as it was clad in that Warlord’s armor. Thus, he immediately set about dismantling it. Aside from the new color and the addition of decorative spikes on the shoulders, the Morph’s armor was essentially the same as it had been in life. Renault didn’t know if Nergal had created it himself, modified Braddock’s original armor, or simply found a similar treasure from a ruin of the Scouring, but it didn’t matter. Renault knew every weak point on that armor, and it would be easy for him to exploit them.

 

Following the failed trio of attacks, Renault leveled his Lightbrand at the Braddock-morph and summoned a blast of holy energy—not at his large body, but directly at his right shoulder, and with pin-point precision at the joints which attached them to the rest of the armor. He had enough time to let loose two of those blasts, and those were enough to destroy the link between the pauldron and the rest of the black armor. It fell off, along with a good section of blasted chain, revealing the pale grey flesh beneath it.

 

Renault ducked to avoid a horizontal swing of the axe this time, replacing his Lightbrand with his Brave Sword as he did so. After the blade passed over his head, he hopped into the air, bringing him into just the position he wanted—directly over the Warlord’s exposed, vulnerable right shoulder. As he descended, Renault brought his sword down in a mighty slash with enough force to sever the Morph’s right arm entirely.

 

Renault landed cleanly on the ground in front of the Braddock-morph as he staggered back, the Basilikos falling from his right hand as it and the arm it was attached to dissolved into dust. The Mercenary Lord thought he’d won…until he felt a black plate shield slam into his head.

 

He’d gotten careless. Morphs may have lacked human creativity and quick-thinking, but they had other advantages. Their artificial, inhuman bodies did not bleed and could suffer much more abuse than human ones, or even Renault’s own half-human body. Braddock may have been crippled from the loss of an arm, but not his Morph. Only the destruction of its head or torso would dispel entirely the enchantment keeping it together. This meant the Warlord wouldn’t even notice the loss of its right arm and its axe; it could fight just as well bare-handed. Braddock had been strong enough to crush stone with his fists in life, and the Morph shared that strength. He had lashed out with a powerful shield bash that might have cracked Renault’s skull entirely had he not been wearing his helmet, and even with that protection he was still sent reeling.

 

He hadn’t been stunned, though. He rolled with the blow as he stumbled back, turning it into a duck which allowed a follow-up shield strike to sail harmlessly over his head. The Morph seemed to be getting desperate. His fellow mercenaries were doing well, and despite the element of surprise, the waves of phantoms—likely Morphs as well, he knew—flowing in from all directions were beginning to thin. Regaining his footing, Renault once again traded the Brave Sword for the Lightbrand. The Morph, for his part, had taken the opportunity to discard his shield and pick up the Basilikos in his left hand, now. Was he ambidextrous? Braddock hadn’t been, but perhaps this was an improvement Nergal had made. No matter. Renault sent another blast of light at his foe, aimed at his left shoulder this time, but the Morph twisted his body so the bolt fell upon his back, where it would do less damage. He then lunged forwards in a charging tackle, intending to slam into Renault and crush him under his weight.

 

Renault, however, expected such a move. Still keeping his body low, he slid to the left, allowing the Warlord’s body to pass him by with just a few inches to spare. As they passed each other, Renault slipped his chaindagger from his space in his left pauldron into his hands, and then tossed it ‘round the charging Warlord’s legs. The Morph had not expected this, and promptly went tumbling to the ground. He didn’t lose his grip on the Basilikos, but that wasn’t important. Renault now had his enemy right where he wanted.

 

Before the Warlord could get to his feet, Renault rushed over and leapt atop his back, pinning him to the ground for a moment. In that time, he was able to focus on another of the vulnerable spots he knew was located on Braddock’s armor.

 

There was no metal bridging the gap between the back of the cuirass and the back of Braddock’s neck. The gap was just large enough to admit a blade the size of Renault’s daggers.

 

He let go of the sword he held in his right hand and replaced it with the second dagger held in his right pauldron. And in the same lightning-fast motion, he jammed it into that gap.

 

Exultation, joy at a well-earned kill surged through him as he felt the small blade cut through the Morph’s neck, thoroughly dispelling the magic which gave it life. At the same time, though…it was strange. Renault felt a surge of grief run through him as well, far stronger than the ambient sadness that had always been his companion in the centuries following Braddock’s death. It was as if his friend had died once again, though he knew, rationally, that this was just a puppet.

 

The Morph beneath him went limp. Renault didn’t let his guard down—perhaps the creature still held some surprises. Even as a small cloud of black dusted wafted from the wound where a human would have simply been bleeding out, Renault discarded his weapons and quickly undid the clasps on the Morph’s helmet, tearing it off to let the long black hair fall free. When he attempted to turn the body over, however, to his shock, the head came off in his hands—the neck had already disintegrated into dust.

 

Renault stood up, holding the decapitated head of the creature created in his best friend’s image before him. He brought it up to his own face, peering at it with the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

 

He didn’t say anything, even as the rest of the Morph’s body dissolved beneath him. He kept his bleary eyes locked onto the creature’s golden ones.

 

For the first time, he thought he saw a flicker of humanity in those eyes. He could have sworn those lips turned up into a smile—a genuine one, not something commanded by his creator, as if the creature had finally, _finally_ been released from a terrible burden. And he thought he saw those lips move one last time, mouthing a single, voiceless word:

 

_Renault…_

 

Then the eyes closed, and the head crumbled within his hands, leaving Renault with nothing but fine black dust falling from his fingers.

 

He stood like that, uncomprehending, for some time. It took him a few moments to realize everyone around him was cheering.

 

“You did it, Renault!”

 

“You beat the Black Knight!”

 

“Renault the Impervious! Renault the Impervious!”

 

“Eh?!” He snapped back to reality, watching the scene around him. The moment he’d destroyed Braddock, it seemed that the same had happened to all the other “phantoms” which had caged in his men. The Warlord had been their leader, and they were tied to him: his death was theirs as well. Wallace was screaming wildly, wrapping up one of the Mercenary Lord’s legs in a great hug he hadn’t even noticed, and even the normally quiet Hassar could not keep from laughing and clapping with joy.

 

Unfortunately, their good cheer was not to last.

 

“Watch out!” came a loud yell from one of the mercenaries. “There’s sorcery afoot!”

 

“Not _again!_ “ Renault and all of his gathered men immediately forgot their celebrating and readied themselves once again for battle. Renault’s twin daggers returned to his hands, Wallace detached himself from his leg and picked up his spear, and Hassar readied his bow. It wasn’t a physical enemy that they were concerned about, though. Rather, it was something a bit stranger.

 

The Basilikos lay abandoned near the black armor which was all that remained of its wielder. It had not been forgotten. As if some angry ghost had claimed it, the weapon rose several feet into the air, above the heads of Renault and his mercenaries. The could only watch in surprise and confusion as it floated over them and away from them, further into the darkness, before it finally stopped, at the very edge of the light cast by the last torch they’d lit.

 

It remained hovering in the air, and neither Renault nor anyone else made a move to claim it. It might have been trapped or cursed—but as it turned out, it was actually coming back to its true owner.

 

“What an excellent show! I’m very impressed,” came a calm, mellifluous voice from the darkness behind the Basilikos. “That was one of our most powerful warriors. His axe would be a worthy reward for defeating him, but unfortunately, my Lord still has need of it. I’m afraid I can’t let you have it!”

 

There was a flash of white light, and the axe disappeared.

 

“Who the hell is this?” growled Renault, anger dripping from his voice. “Show yourself!”

 

“Hmm…how interesting. That teal hair, those two daggers…you…you’re…Renault, aren’t you?”

 

He tightened his grip on his weapons, and Hassar, Wallace, and the mercenaries could only stare at their leader in shock—he _knew_ these villains?

 

“Yeah,” Renault said, his anger once again burning over into rage, “Yeah, that’s right. I figured you’d know me. I figured you were working for that shadow-sucking piece of _garbage_. I figured _he_ had something to do with all this. So what does that make you, then? One of his lackeys? Did he dupe you into serving him too? Or are you another one of his creations?”

 

The voice only laughed, and this time it stepped into the light from the torch. It was a sinister man in black robes, though Renault could just catch a glimpse of his face—black hair and golden eyes. His hands were concealed inside his robes, though, and he seemed to be hiding something large in there, away from view. There were ripples in his robes, as if he was carrying a large animal or something. “I prefer to be called a servant. A servant of the man who will soon control all of Elibe!”

 

“I”ll kill him before that happens,” growled Renault, and he readied his daggers. “Looks like I can get some practice on his worthless little slaves!”

 

“A bad idea, Renault. Let me show you why!” Before Renault moved, Cypher threw back the folds of his robes with a magic-generated burst of wind, allowing everyone to see what he had been holding while his arms were hidden behind them.

 

Even Renault had to stop, and everyone else in the room let out a collective, audible gasp of shock.

 

Cypher was holding something in his arms, all right. It wasn’t an animal. He had been holding a young, terrified girl, not even a teenager, whose cute face was covered in tears and her mouth clamped shut by one of her captor’s pale grey hands. In his other was held a knife, which lay ever so gently by the side of her throat.

 

It was Count Hausen’s daughter—the young Lady Madelyn.

 

“I highly suggest _none_ of you make any sudden moves,” Cypher sneered. “While it was somewhat difficult to fetch her from her castle earlier today, I am more than willing to kill her if you force me to. If you are wise, however, you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

 

“Lady Madelyn!” Wallace yelled, “You _scum!_ We can’t—“

 

“Wallace! Shut up!” Renault barked. To the rest of his men, he yelled, “Nobody say anything! Nobody move!” Lowering his voice, he turned back to Cypher. “Alright, you’ve got a hostage. If you’re even bothering with that kind of stupid game, though, we must have something you want. What is it?”

 

“Nothing much,” he laughed. “Simply tell Lord Hausen that the Northern Cross has his daughter. If he wants to parley for her life, he can meet us at our new headquarters: the Bluemoon Tower!”

 

Those were Cypher’s last words for today. As “Bluemoon Tower” echoed within the confines of the great cavern, another flash of light swallowed up both Cypher and his hostage. And before Renault or anyone else could do anything about it, they were gone.

 

The only people left in the cavern were Lord Hausen’s men. They all knew that they were the only ones left in the entire complex as well. They’d completed their mission, as well as anyone could have hoped. The events that had just transpired, however, had left them all as stunned as if they’d just been dealt a crushing defeat.

 

Renault was the first to break the silence. “We’ve got to report this to Lord Hausen,” he stated.

 

Still, no-one moved. They were all staring blankly at the darkness, shocked and unsure of what to do next.

 

“What the hell are all of you waiting for?!” Renault roared. “Let’s get the hell out of here! _Move!_ ”

 

All of them obeyed, their haste driven as much by fear for Madelyn as respect for Renault. Each and every one of the men in that cavern knew one thing for certain:

 

The fate of the lost princess of Caelin would mirror their own.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Poor Madelyn and Althenia ;_; As you can tell, things are getting real in this chapter. Also, the “Victory is not ours yet!” line is from Wallace and Renault’s A support. Braddock’s morph’s death was also inspired by the deaths of the morphs from the end of FE7. Keep readin, my friends…


	55. Battle of Bluemoon Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nergal's evil schemes come to a head at the Battle of Bluemoon Tower. Will Renault and his friends be able to stop them?

**Chapter 55: Battle of Bluemoon Tower**

 

Truth be told, Lucian rather liked Bluemoon Tower. It wasn’t entirely a bad hidehout. Not as good as their previous one had been, since it was situated by the coast rather than at the center of Lycia, but it was a pretty defendable location. They could set up mages and ballista at each level of the tower, raining death on any hostile forces which dared to approach, and since it was near the sea, if they needed they could get away easily via boat. Most Lycians wouldn’t even come near the place because they’d all heard scary stories about it. And, last but not least, it wasn’t bad at all to live in. Despite their old stronghold’s virtues, living in a cave got depressing quite fast. Here, at least, the soldiers could enjoy the fresh sea breeze and an absolutely lovely view from the top of the tower itself.

 

Lucian and Cross were currently on the pinnacle of that tower, but they weren’t enjoying the lovely view of the moon and the starlit night sky. No, they were engaged in a very angry argument with their “friend” Cypher—and the person they were arguing about was sitting on the floor in front of them, legs and arms tied up and propped up next to the strange altar at the center of the open top floor.

 

Cross was angry, far angrier than Lucian had ever seen the normally jovial Rogue. “What the hell’s the meaning of this, Cypher? I never authorized an attack on Castle Caelin! And to kidnap the Marquess’ daughter…have you gone mad?!”

 

“Not at all. I have simply ensured the victory of the Northern Cross,” came the sinister man’s cold reply. “The Caelin fools were distracted by the chance to take out our main headquarters…just as we’d finished evacuating it. The spies of Ostia severely underestimated how quickly we could move. What better opportunity to strike at their castle, while it was almost completely undefended? Think about it. Hausen loves his daughter more than anything else. He will go mad with grief upon hearing of her abduction. In his rage, he’ll send his army over to the Bluemoon Tower without thinking, likely leading it himself. Given how defensible this location is, we will be able to destroy his army easily and take him as a prisoner. We’ll not harm a hair on the girl’s head, and father and daughter will be reunited. With one of their own held as a hostage, the other members of the Lycian League will be forced to acquiesce to our demands. I’ve given you victory without spilling a single drop of friendly blood. Aren’t you happy?”

 

“Not if we get that victory through such foul methods,” said Lucian angrily. He cast the girl a sympathetic look, and she returned it with a whimper and a stifled sob. “I didn’t join the Northern Cross because we were the kind of people who kidnapped children. If this is how you’re going to do things, I don’t want anything to do with you!”

 

“It’s _not_ how we do things, Lucian. It’s how Cypher does things…and he’s not one of us any longer!” Cross pointed a dagger at the sinister foreigner. “I’ve had my doubts about you for a while, varlet, but I was always willing to overlook them…until now. My friends think you’re nothing but trouble, and I believe I agree with them! From henceforth, Cypher, you’re expelled from the Northern Cross. I’ll let you leave with your head, but no more! You’d best not let me or any Crossman ever see you again, or you won’t be so lucky!”

 

“Do you really believe you can afford to lose me?” Cypher chuckled. “Amusing, but very foolhardy. You _need_ me and my phantoms, Cross. Lord Hausen, his mercenaries, and his Ostian reinforcements are more than enough to crush your little band. And make no mistake, crush you they will. Hausen is mad with rage, and will not be swayed by reason. He has no mercy for those who would hurt his only child, and he believes _you_ were responsible for her abduction, regardless of whether or not you actually gave me the order. He’ll not rest until you and every last Crossman is dead. Why abandon me now? What’s done is done. Even if I disobeyed your orders, I sought only the best for our cause, and in any case, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Our only choices are to stand together or fall separately.”

 

“Hah!” sneered Cross. “You plotted this through quite well, snake! Convince us to move to this Bluemoon Tower at the edge of the sea, tarnish our names with a foul kidnapping, and set Marquess Caelin’s heart against us, so we’ve no hope at negotiation or even escape! Such droll logic. Unfortunately, Cypher, you grossly underestimate us. The Northern Cross is made up of rogues and adventurers who are more than used to fleeing from pursuers and living within the shadows. It will be difficult, but we still have a few days before Hausen’s army gets here. We’ll just abandon the Bluemoon Tower and find shelter in a safer location. We’ll leave Miss Madelyn here, of course, to be picked up safe and sound by her father, but as for the rest of us…perhaps we’ll live on the sea for a while, or scatter all over Lycia, to return and regain our strength at a later date. In any case, whatever our future plans may be, you’ll have no part of them! Leave, or we’ll make you leave!”

 

Beside him, Lucian unlimbered his massive Silver Blade, letting Cypher know this was no idle threat.

 

The Sage sighed. “You’re more stubborn than I anticipated. I assume there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

 

“Not in the least.”

 

“As I expected. You’re no longer of any use…time to dispose of you.”

 

“Eh? Ah!”

 

There was a bright flash of light, enough to blind both Lucian and Cross—though Cypher, of course, merely smiled. To their credit, neither man allowed himself to be caught completely off guard. Lucian jumped to the side, holding his blade vertically in front of him as a shield, while Cross twirled around, brandishing his daggers in an attempt to ward off any attack approaching.

 

Unfortunately, for the first and last time in his life, the Rogue was just a moment too slow.

 

“GYAH!”

 

Cross stopped in mid-spin, his flamboyant hat falling from his head as he stood frozen in place. “Pinned” would be a more accurate word, actually—for a blade had driven itself into his chest just before one of his spinning daggers had time to block it.

 

He sunk down to his knees, a shocked, pained expression frozen forever onto his once jovial face. Lucian, though unharmed, wore a similar expression—he could not believe that someone as strong as Cross, a man who was one of his best friends (and a little more), could fall so easily. Even the battle-hardened Swordmaster couldn’t maintain his composure in the face of such a tragedy.

 

And who had struck the killing blow? As Cross slumped to the ground, he revealed a shadowy figure standing behind him—and in front of the smiling Cypher. The man—if he was a man—was very handsome, and dressed in the same flowing swordsman’s robes as Lucian himself. He even had the same style of long hair. However, his skin was an ashen grey, his facial features were more accurately described as handsome rather than beautiful, and most of all, his cold eyes possessed no spark of warmth or light…and glittered _gold_.

 

Lucian realized what had happened. The flash of light had been some form of Warp magic, and Cypher had apparently called in one of his friends. And be he a phantom or not, this ‘friend’ was much stronger than any of the phantoms Cypher had previously loaned to the Northern Cross.

 

“Ah, what wonderful quintessence,” chuckled Cypher as his new friend removed his blade from Cross’ chest and let the corpse tumble to the ground. A strange golden glow rose from the body and drifted over to Cypher, where it seemed to be absorbed by an equally strange green phial Cypher held in his right hand. “I’ll be sure to bring this back to Lord Nergal. A copy of Cross might prove useful…”

 

By this point, however, Lucian had regained his bearings. “You’re not bringing anything to anyone, scum!  I’ll avenge Cross, right here and now!”

 

The other Swordmaster moved in front of Cypher as a defense, but just as Lucian tensed his legs and prepared to leap, he felt himself…weakening.

 

“Ur…urrgh….”  He staggered, almost dropping his huge, heavy blade, as a great weariness flooded over his body, dulling his senses and lidding his eyes. He yawned, feeling as if he hadn’t slept for a week, but of course, he knew that was impossible. Had he been drugged? He didn’t feel the impact of any poisoned arrow or blowdart…but as he fought to keep sleep from overtaking his mind, he noticed he was standing in a strange purple aura, and that glittering dust was falling all around him, onto his skin, into his hair, and into his lungs as he breathed.

 

It seemed that the Swordmaster wasn’t the only companion Cypher had summoned. From behind him a new foe stepped into Lucian’s view. He also had ashen-grey skin and gold eyes like the other one, but he was bald except for a black beard, much larger in frame, and dressed in a brown cassock suited for a monk—or a Bishop undergoing penance. And, judging from the Sleep staff he held in his hands, a Bishop was exactly what he was.

 

“I’m afraid you’ll do nothing to me,” said Cypher calmly. “In a simple fight, you could likely kill all of us. However, during my time with the Cross, I noticed you have little resistance to magic. Grigorius and his Sleep staff here have rendered you harmless. You humans need your sleep, don’t you? I suppose I’ll get better quintessence from you if you’re well-rested.”

 

Lucian didn’t know if he was joking or not, but he definitely knew he wasn’t in a position to laugh. Despite his best efforts, his shoulders were slumping and his eyes were drooping. The other newcomer—the Swordmaster—marched towards him steadily, bloody blade in hand. There was no way he could possibly defend himself from that Swordmaster’s assault in this state.

 

So he did the only thing he could.

 

He took a step back. And then another step. The swordmaster paused, unsure of what he was doing, while the Grigorius-creature readied another Sleep spell. By this point, however, Lucian was standing near the edge of the tower roof, and before Cypher’s Swordmaster could react, he made his escape.

 

With one last step backwards, Lucian plunged over the edge, falling down, down, and down.

 

The Swordmaster and the Bishop stood stock-still for a moment, unsure of what to do. “My my,” mused Cypher to himself, “Suicide? These humans never fail to surprise me…with their stupidity, that is.” He walked over to the edge where Lucian had fallen and peered down. He could see no trace of the mercenary’s body, though it was a foggy night. “He couldn’t possibly have survived a fall like that. Or perhaps he did…it’s unwise to assume a man is dead unless you’ve seen the body.” He shrugged. “No matter. There’s nothing he can do now. Nothing a single swordsman can do could possibly disrupt what we’ve now set in motion.”

 

Chuckling to himself, Cypher turned back to his two companions and nodded, indicating to them they could let down their guard. He then turned to Madelyn, who was looking at Cross’ body with shocked horror, and who had started crying again. “Fear not, little one. What happened to those two won’t happen to you. You don’t have anywhere near the quintessence required to make killing you worthwhile. You’re much more valuable as a hostage...for now, at least.”

 

“W…what do you want?” she sobbed. “I want to go home! I want to see Father!”

 

“Oh, you’ll see something much better,” Cypher grinned. He gestured towards the strange altar in the middle of the rooftop. “Once we harvest all the lovely quintessence your father is so kindly bringing to us, you’ll be the first to see something no-one else has seen in nearly a millennium. And you’ll be the first to witness the glorious new world we will create in the name of our Lord and Master!”

 

Madelyn could only sob once more as Cypher began to laugh. It was not a madman’s cackle or a jester’s mockery, but the mirthless, malignant sound of a villain who’d received exactly what he wanted and knew he couldn’t be stopped.

 

And from the pinnacle of Bluemoon Tower, it seemed as if it was echoing across all of Lycia…no, all of Elibe.

 

-X-

 

Renault didn’t think Hausen would take his report well. And, as so often was the case, he was right.

 

His mercenary force hadn’t bothered combing through the rest of the complex—it was obvious that they wouldn’t find anything. They instead concentrated on getting back up as quickly as possible, which thankfully was a much easier task than their descent. Hausen and Lundgren were not pleased to see them back so soon and apparently having suffered more than a few casualties, but when Renault popped out and headed straight to them to tell them what he’d found, their displeasure hardened into something even worse.

 

He started with a description of the first batches of weak morphs in the corridors, which they’d destroyed without any trouble, and then revealed what had happened in the main hall. Wallace, Hassar, and a few other mercenaries filled in some of the details, but when one of them mentioned the Black Knight, Renault cut him off with an angry stare and told Hausen, “I had a grudge against him. He’s dead.” This explanation satisfied Hausen and Lundgren, though of course, neither of them knew that Renault was truly after Nergal. They didn’t need to know. Much more important for them was what happened after the Black Knight was destroyed. Hausen and Lundgren said absolutely nothing as Renault recounted Cypher’s sudden appearance, along with his abduction of Madelyn and his taunt to meet him at Bluemoon Tower.

 

Lundgren wore an angry, disappointed expression, but his brother’s emotional state could not be discerned from his expression. He simply stared at Renault, then spoke these words:

 

“We head for Bluemoon Tower. _NOW!_ ”

 

Renault could only sigh as Lundgren looked at his brother in shock. “Hausen, are you mad? This is obviously a trap!”

 

“ _They have my daughter!”_ Hausen shouted in response, making no effort to hide his rage, now. “I’ll not leave her in the hands of those vermin for one moment longer than necessary! We take the mercenaries, we take the Ostians, and we march down to the Tower and slaughter every last one of them!”

 

“Addlepated fool! It’ll take three weeks to march an army down to the coast, and we don’t have the supplies for such an expedition! Try thinking like an actual ruler instead of a sentimental, emotion-driven sop!”

 

“ _She’s my daughter!_ ”

 

“It doesn’t matter! A statesman must never allow his passion to override his reason!” Lundgren sneered. “Someone like you ruling Caelin…what a misfortune that I was born the younger!”

 

Hausen balled his hands into fists, and it seemed as if the two brothers might come to blows then and there, but fortunately Renault was able to step in. “Lord Hausen, I understand how you feel. But making our way to the Bluemoon Tower would be _impossible_ in our condition. Your daughter should be safe, for now—they aren’t going to kill or even mistreat a valuable hostage. Let’s get back to the castle and draw up a plan there. If you truly care about your daughter, isn’t it better to prepare yourself and maximize your chances of success instead of just running straight into the jaws of the enemy and risking her life?”

 

This line of reasoning was more successful—though Hausen’s anger had receded not one bit, he had no desire to do anything which might harm his daughter. “Very well,” he spat, his face still red. “We shall return and draw up a plan with Edmun. He was supposed to have been in charge of defending the castle, maybe he’ll be able to tell us more of what happened. But I’ll not wait one moment longer than I have to! Everyone, let us return _immediately!_ ”

 

-x-

 

“I…I was unable to save Lady Althenia or Lady Madelyn. I have failed, my lord. Forgive me.”

 

Edmun bowed his head, while beside him Prudence just stood there disconsolately. Hausen, Lundgren, and Renault, along with the rest of the Caelin army and Ostian auxiliaries, had arrived back in Caelin after a rather hasty march. Hausen, thankfully, had calmed down somewhat over the trip, though he was still angry at his brother. Unfortunately, the townspeople themselves were in a state of uproar, having witnessed the assault and heard of Madelyn’s abduction. The army was occupied as much with calming them down as it was with preparations for the expedition they knew was coming. Hausen and Lundgren, however, were both more concerned with the Northern Cross than anything else. Along with Renault, who instructed Hassar and Wallace to wait and help the other soldiers where they could, the two of them headed into the castle to meet with Edmun and Prudence, who, as expected, were waiting for them.

 

“Not only was Madelyn abducted, but Lady Althenia died as well?” Lundgren angrily spat on the floor, Edmun shrank even lower in shame, and Prudence began to sniffle. “Damn it all! She was an excellent staff-wielder and very much loved by the people. I expected better from you, Edmun! You honestly didn’t expect they’d go after the girl?”

 

“No, my lord. It was a most grievous oversight on my part. I will pay any penalty for my failure. I will resign, I will give my very life if you desire it, sire. I am responsible for an innocent woman’s death and perhaps that of an innocent girl.”

 

“Spare me the theatrics, you fool,” groaned Lundgren. “I need your spear, not your life.”

 

“My brother is correct,” said Hausen—his anger had finally began to clear, somewhat, and he could acknowledge the wisdom in Lundgren’s words. “This was my fault as much as anyone else’s. I should have seen that the “intelligence” we were given was nothing but bait, and I should have known better than to leave you in charge while you weren’t fully recovered. If you’ve failed as a knight, I’ve failed as a father. What’s most important is we not fail again.”

 

“Unless you want to fail as a ruler, you’d at least wait before setting off into another Northern Cross trap,” grumbled Lundgren.

 

“How long do you think we have?!” replied Hausen, his voice rising again. “We don’t know what they’ll do to her! Haven’t you heard the stories about the Bluemoon Tower?”

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t pay much attention to the bleatings of superstitious commoners.”

 

However, at the mention of the Bluemoon Tower, Prudence went quite pale. “L-Lord Hausen! They’ve taken her to the Tower?! We’ve got to rescue her! _Soon!_ ”

 

“Silence, woman!” Lundgren looked like he wanted to slap her. “I told you we’ve no need for the superstitious bleatings of a commoner, even if they come from a Sage!”

 

“Why don’t _you_ shut up for once, you wrinkled old toad?! Every girl in Lycia’s heard stories about the Bluemoon Tower. They say if you sacrifice an untouched maiden on the night of a full moon, you’ll summon a demon strong enough to lay waste to an entire army! I don’t believe it, and I know Mr. Cross and Mr. Lucian don’t either, but what about Cypher? He was the one who kidnapped her, and I _know_ he’s into all sorts of disgusting black magic! Little Madelyn’s an untouched maiden…just like me, in fact…and if she’s been taken to the Bluemoon Tower…”

 

Hausen’s face went sheet-white. “B-by the Saint…by the Saint, Madelyn! My dear daughter! We’ve got to leave, _now!_ When’s the next full moon! I—“

 

“Hold on, Hausen,” said Renault, speaking up for the first time. “I don’t think you have to worry about your daughter being sacrificed.”

 

“What? But Prudence said—“

 

“I know. Sorry, girl, but in this case you’re wrong. The “pure virgin’s blood will bring forth a demon” story is just a story, in this case. I went out on a job to the Bluemoon Tower a few years back.” _A few hundred years back, but they don’t need to know_ , “Some cultists had stolen a girl to fulfill the prophecy. We didn’t get there in time to save her, and we arrived just as they plunged the knife into her chest. They were real happy about it…but then nothing happened. It turned out it was all a load of garbage, and we ended up killing them all. So I don’t think we’ll be seeing any demons or sacrifices, m’lord.”

 

“You may understand, but does Cypher?” asked Edmun. “He may end up just killing her and then flee when it turns out the prophecy is false.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry about that, either. Cypher’s no trickster or cheap conjurer. Those…phantoms, like you call them, aren’t easy to create, much less mass produce. You’re dealing with a real master of the dark arts. There’s no way he’d buy into a dumb superstition. No, Madelyn’s just bait. Nothing more.”

 

“So what should we do? Just leave her in their hands?”

 

Renault sighed. “That may not be the best idea either. Lundgren, even if this is bait, we might not have a choice but to take it. Brad—I mean, the Black Knight was stronger than any other of the phantoms we’ve faced before, and the ambush tactic they pulled on us in the great hall was more dangerous than any of the other tricks the Cross has tried so far. I get the feeling they’re planning something serious…something bigger than anything they’ve done before.

 

“The Bluemoon Tower’s not just any old pile of rubble, after all. There’s a reason so many superstitions have cropped up around it, even if they’re false. That place has been there since the Scouring, and I’m sure it holds at least some remnant of magic….strong magic. If we let Cypher do what he wants with it, well, Madelyn’s not going to be the only one with problems.”

 

“So then what do you propose we do?”

 

“Here’s an idea. As you initially wanted to do, Hausen, let’s take our army and the Ostian auxiliaries straight to Bluemoon Tower. _But_! We’re not really gonna fight ‘em. Don’t try to charge straight in and besiege them. Instead, what I want you to do is distract them.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Yeah, distract ‘em. Just enough to keep their attention on the battlefield, but not enough  to really risk our troops.” Renault grinned. “That will give me and my team enough cover to sneak into the tower, up to the top floor, and assassinate Cypher, wreck his little ritual, and rescue Madelyn before the Northern Cross knows what hit ‘em!”

 

“So we provide a distraction while you provide the actual strike…deceiving the Northern Cross just as they deceived us. Devious, Renault. I like it!” Lundgren returned Renault’s grin. “But how do you plan to infiltrate?”

 

“While the rest of the army heads to the Bluemoon Tower, my team and I will take a detour ahead to Badon. A small group can travel much faster than a whole army, so we should get there a good two weeks before you hit the Tower, sooner with Warp magic. There, we’ll hire a boat to take us there, scale the cliffs on the back of the tower, and sneak in.”

 

“So who’ll accompany you?”

 

“Edmun’s your best knight, and we need someone who can use magic, so I’d like Prudence to come along as well. Wallace and Hassar should round things out.”

 

Prudence and Edmun nearly toppled over. “M-me? Why?!”

 

“Like I said, we need someone who can use magic, and Althenia’s dead.” Renault’s gaze hardened. “I know it’ll be tough to fight against your former comrades, but by this point even you ought to realize what the Cross has become. A little girl needs your help, Prudence. Don’t you want to save her?”

 

“I…” At the mention of Madelyn, her gaze hardened to match Renault’s, and she seemed quite a bit more mature than usual. “You…you’re right! I just can’t stand by and watch the Cross commit these crimes any longer! I’ll help you, Renault!”

 

Edmun was just as willing to help, but he wasn’t worried about himself. “Why Wallace and Hassar? They’re good lads, and learn quickly, but they’re not ready for something like this!”

 

“Hassar is. He’s young, but he’s the best archer you have here, and he’s not bad with a sword, too. That kind of versatility’s what we need for a small team. And Wallace…there are other knights and mercenaries with more skill and experience, but the thing is, Wallace is a small kid. If necessary, it’ll be easier to have him sneak by any guards than it would be for big guys like us. Besides, he’s your squire and Hassar’s friend. He’d probably try to sneak on the boat if he knew where we were going.”

 

“Hm, that is true…I don’t like it, but every squire must prove himself in battle at some point.”

 

“And it’s Wallace’s time.” Renault looked at Hausen. “So how’s the plan sound?”

“I can’t think of anything better, Renault. But know this: My daughter’s life is in your hands. Don’t let me down.”

 

“I haven’t yet, and I won’t. Now let’s get our preparations finished!”

 

-X-

 

_Not yet…just a little more…not yet…don’t fall asleep…not yet…_

 

Lucian was so tired that he could barely maintain his grip on his sword. With every ounce of his willpower, though, he struggled to keep awake for just a few more moments—because the moment he let go of that sword, he’d die.

 

Just after he’d taken that suicidal plunge off the roof of Bluemoon Tower, he’d twisted his body and jammed the large Silver Blade into the stone of its side about halfway down. Enchanted silver weapons were the strongest weapons on Elibe it was possible to mass-produce, and they could cut through rock with enough force behind them. Lucian had managed to plunge it just deep enough into the stone wall that it caught, saving him from smashing into the sea below…at least as long as he held onto it.

 

“Aargh…”

 

With all of his remaining strength, aided by the power of his magic gauntlets, Lucian reached out his left and found, much to his delight, purchase on a ledge just above his head. Without thinking, he let go of his blade with his right hand and reached it towards that same ledge, gripping it and hauling himself over. It turned out he was just under a window, and he managed to squirm to safety, falling onto the tower’s 5th floor with a loud thud.

 

Just in time, too, for he couldn’t resist the Sleep magic any longer. If Cypher wanted him dead, the other Phantoms patrolling the tower would likely kill him the moment they caught sight of him snoozing in the hallway. As he closed his eyes, he could only hope none of them were hanging around…but those hopes were dashed when he heard footsteps tramping up to him.

 

Then he found he could no longer keep his eyes open, and drifted away.

 

-x-

 

“Boss! Oy, boss! You there?”

 

Lucian yawned and smacked his lips. _Damn_ , that had been a good night’s sleep. Actually…it was still dark. How long had he been out? In fact, _why_ had he been out in the first place?

 

It struck him like a thunderbolt. Lucian immediately jerked upwards, lashing out with his hands. They closed and clenched around someone’s throat, and he prepared to squeeze even harder, but the person he was assaulting gagged and coughed, and said something which made it obvious he was a man rather than a phantom:

 

“Grrgh! Lucian, what’re you…gack!”

 

“Huh? Is that…Mackerel?!” Lucian immediately released his grip and took a better look at who he’d attacked…along with his surroundings.

 

The first thing he noticed was that he was no longer on the fifth floor of the Bluemoon Tower. It was still night, but now it seemed he was on the _first_ floor, in a narrow hallway near the backside of the tower which led only to a usually-empty storage room that almost no-one frequented.

 

The only light came from a newly-lit torchstand nearby, and thanks to it Lucian could see who his attacker—or, actually, his savior was.

 

A ruddy, good-natured sailor with bushy brown hair and beard, Mackerel was one of the first friends Lucian had made after Cross inducted him into the organization. He wasn’t too bright, but he was quite loyal, and Lucian found him to be good company. He wore a blue bandana along with a striped sailor’s shirt and brown pants, and he was currently sitting right in front of Lucian, panting for breath and rubbing his neck.

 

“Gods! Mighty strong grip y’ have there, mate! A little more o’ that and you would’ve killed me!”

 

“Sorry, Mackerel.” Pain flowed through Lucian as he remembered the events he’d just seen…such as the death of his friend. “I…I’ve had a bad night.”

 

“Figgered. Nobody clocks out in the middle o’ a tower’s fifth floor if they were doin’ well.”

 

“What…what happened? How’d I get down here?”

 

“Well, it just so happened that I couldn’t get m’self a good night o sleep, so I decided to take a lil’ walk around. I was plannin’ on headin’ to the top o’ the tower, get m’self some fresh air and enjoy the view, but when I came t’ the fifth floor I nearly tripped over your snoozin’ corpse!

 

“Now, I may not be the smartest guy inna world, but when I saw you jus’ lyin’ there, I knew somethin’ was up. I’ve seen some of those funny magic spells before, and it looked to me like you’d been hit by one of ‘em. And most likely that slimy Cypher fella. If he didn’t like you, his phantoms prolly wouldn’t either…if they got their hands on you, I knew for sure they’d gut ya! So I scooped y’ up, carried y’ down here fast as I could, and stowed us somewhere safe ‘till you woke up.”

Lucian smiled. “Great thinking, Mackerel.”

 

“So what th’ hell happened?”

 

Lucian’s smile disappeared. “We’ve been betrayed.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“We’ve been betrayed!” Lucian almost shouted, but Mackerel shushed him. He quieted his voice, but it was still trembling with anger. “I’ll tell you everything. Listen, that _creep_ Cypher…he teleported back to me and Cross. It turned out he’d kidnapped Lady Madelyn right from under Hausen’s nose! Well, me and Cross didn’t approve of kidnapping, so we told Cypher to sod off. But then he…then he…” Tears welled up in Lucian’s eyes. “He Warped in a whole bunch of those phantoms, far stronger than any I’ve ever seen before. And…and then they _killed Cross!_ ”

 

The sailor drew back as if he’d been struck. “Cross? _Cross_?! No way, Lucian! Y’ gotta be pullin’ me leg! He can’t be…no…”

 

“He is, and I’m gonna avenge him!” Lucian got up, but he was stopped.

 

“We…we can’t, boss,” said Mackerel, fear and sadness warring in his eyes.

 

“Why not?”

 

He looked down. “I gotta be honest with ya. I wasn’t up just ‘cause I couldn’t get ta sleep. Truth is, I’ve been thinkin’ of leavin’ the Cross for a long time. Ever since Cypher showed up it jus’ wasn’t fun anymore, aye?”

 

“I understand,” said Lucian. “But why didn’t you talk to anyone? Or me, or Cross?”

 

“It’s that Cypher.” Fear won in Mackerel’s face. “Mr. Lucian, maybe y’ haven’t noticed, but those phantoms o’ his are everywhere. _Everywhere_. Why d’y think I tried so hard to sneak you into this lil’ hidaway? ‘cause phantoms are everywhere in this tower, and the moment they saw ya they’d kill ya! How d’y’ think we’ve been able to do our missions an’ even attack Castle Caelin without losin’ our own men? It’s cause he keeps pullin em out from somewhere like he’s got an unlimited supply. And I don’t know how many, exactly, but I know f’r sure he’s got at least one for every man in the Cross. Strong ones, too. A lot of ‘em just like that Black Knight…and he can make those portals and summon ‘em whenever he pleases. What d’ya think’ll happen if he does that while we’re all cooped up in this tower? It’ll be a slaughter! If I tell th’ rest of the boys, they won’t be able to control themselves! They’ll try to kill Cypher straight away…and when they try, he’ll bring out them phantoms and kill _every one of us!_ ”

 

“I…damn, you’re right!” Lucian punched the ground in frustration. He hadn’t thought of that. As much as he wanted revenge against Cypher, he couldn’t risk the lives of all the other members of the Northern Cross. If he revealed himself now, and told all of his friends that Cypher had killed Cross, they would revolt openly almost immediately…which meant that Cypher would almost certainly kill them all without a second thought. He’d already said they’d “served their purpose;” the only reason he hadn’t eliminated them already was because he wanted a little extra cannon fodder for the coming battle against Hausen’s forces. If they weren’t willing to provide that, he would probably just destroy them and take out the Caelin army with nothing more than his summoned underlings.

 

“I’m right?! Aw, hell, not what I wanted to hear…so what should we do, boss?”

 

Lucian was quiet for a moment as he thought. Then, it came to him.

 

“Cypher…Cypher’s behind all of this. And I think he’s at the center of it all…tied to every single one of the phantoms we’ve seen.”

 

“What does that mean?”  


“If we can kill Cypher, I think those phantoms of his will disappear too.”

 

“Alright, that’s great! Let’s go and—“

 

“Not now! He’s plotting something, and he’s under heavy guard, too.” Lucian shuddered as he remembered being put to sleep by the awful power of that staff. “The Caelin army will be here in a few weeks, right?”

 

“Soon, yeah.”

 

“Let’s wait till they get here. Most of those creatures will be sent out to fight Hausen’s men, right? We can sneak back in here and kill Cypher while he’s performing whatever ritual he said he was going to do.”

 

“I…I guess…that just might work…”

 

“For now, though, we must get out of here. They’re probably looking for me right now. Mackerel, do you know of any exits in this tower they wouldn’t?”

 

“Yeah! Right nearby, in fact. Leads straight to the sea, which they won’t be expectin’. We’ll head out of here, lay low for a couple of weeks, then come back and strike just when Cypher least expect it!”

 

“Sounds like a plan. Lead the way, Mackerel!”

 

-X-

 

The men were growing suspicious. Cypher knew they were. He’d heard the grumblings, the growing discontent—“Where was Cross? Where did Lucian go? Been two weeks, the Caelin scum are approaching, and we haven’t see hide or hair of ‘em. The “secret mission” they were supposed to be on sure is taking a long time.” In a little while, he might have a full-fledged rebellion on his hands.

 

That wouldn’t be terribly inconvenient, but still, it wasn’t quite the right time to harvest them yet. Half the materials were still approaching, after all.

 

Thus, Cypher turned to his newest friend to help assuage their doubts.

 

The two of them stood in front of the entrance to Bluemoon Tower, the entire Northern Cross assembled on the field in front of them. And though the Crossmen may have wondered what their leader had been doing for the past few weeks, they couldn’t deny that he had returned to them.

 

Cross stood right next to Lucian, wearing the same clothes as he always did and looking exactly the same as he had when they’d last seen him. Almost, of course. If anyone had been paying slightly closer attention, they would have noticed that his skin was somewhat paler, and that he was careful to keep the brim of his flamboyant hat over his eyes. But the Northern Cross was so glad to see him again that such small differences passed them by, and no-one interrupted him when he started to give his speech.

 

“Friends and companions,” he said, in a voice that sounded no different than it had three weeks ago except for its magical amplification from Cypher, “I know very well you’ve been wondering where Lucian and I have been. Rest assured, as you can plainly see, we haven’t abandoned you! We’ve merely been securing our ultimate victory!”

 

This met with a few scattered rounds of applause, but the rest of the men weren’t convinced yet, so Cross continued. “The Bluemoon Tower is a font of great magic, and the Caelin tin-heads are being drawn to it like moths to a flame. Lucian and I have just managed to acquire the last few tomes our friend Cypher needs to complete a ritual which will bring power to us and destruction to their entire army. Rest assured, comrades, the moment Hausen and Lundgren show their foul faces here, we’ll unleash a sort of power that will force them to surrender before the battle even begins!”

 

“Woo-hoo! We knew we could count on you,” yelled one soldier, as all of them began chatting excitedly among themselves. Another asked, however, “Hey, what’d you find, exactly?”

 

Cross laughed. “You’ll soon see, my friends! I’m not at liberty to discuss it publicly. Lucian is finishing up the final preparations up in the tower, and I don’t want to risk disrupting the ritual by disclosing its true nature. You’ll just have to trust me. And you trust me, don’t you?”

 

The Crossmen let out a loud, unanimous, “YES!”

 

“And I’ve not led you wrong, have I?”

 

An equally unanimous “NO!”

 

“Then rejoice, and ready yourselves for the Caelin assault! The hour of our greatest victory draws near!”

 

Smarter men might have raised more questions at this point. But so great was the loyalty Cross commanded from his troops that no-one doubted him in the least. The man in front of them spoke in Cross’ voice—that was all the assurance they needed. And thus, they raised their voices in a cheer…

 

Entirely unaware that they were cheering for their own deaths.

 

-X-X-X-

 

“We’re almost there, Wallace,” said Renault, huffing with the labor of pumping the oars over and over again. “We can give you a few minutes to rest, but that’s all.”

 

“That’s okay,” replied Wallace, acting stronger than he was—he and Hassar were rowing as well, and they were getting tired. “I’ll be fine!”

 

The first part of their plan had gone off without a hitch. When Wallace and Hassar had been told they’d been selected as part of the team which would go off to rescue Madelyn, Wallace had been ecstatic—he could have never imagined they’d give such an honor to a barely-trained squire; it was like a dream come true! However, when he’d learned of the details of their plan, his enthusiasm had dimmed more than slightly. He may have been young, but he was still smart enough to realize when he was being sent somewhere he probably wouldn’t return from.

 

That didn’t dissuade him, though. Hassar was coming, too—and if his friend and rival was willing to accept the risks, so was he.

 

As ordered, they’d broken off from the main army just a few hours ago and made their way to the coast some distance away, where there was a small rowboat waiting for them. The waters of the area were thankfully calm, making for easy going, and the Northern Cross soldiers were supposed to have been so preoccupied with the assault from the north that they wouldn’t be watching the sea to the south at all. This made sense, since Caelin was a landlocked canton, so they wouldn’t be expecting a naval attack, much less a single boat.

 

Wallace could tell the battle had already started—sort of, at least. He knew his allies wanted to distract the Northern Cross, not engage them fully, to give him and his companions enough time to sneak in and rescue Madelyn. Even so, he heard the noise of large ballista bolts crashing into the tower followed by the blasting of magical thunder and the shouts of men—things had started with the two sides taking shots at each other from afar, it seemed. Fortunately, that was apparently enough to keep the tower’s inhabitants occupied entirely. Nobody had noticed their single boat approach, which meant it would be easy for them to scale up the cliffs leading to the back of the tower.

 

For Renault and Edmun, this task would be much easier than it initially seemed. Both were wearing their suits of enchanted plate armor, though they had been painted black before they’d arrived, so that those inside the tower would believe they were some of Cypher’s special armored phantoms, like the Black Knight was. The redstone cliff in front of the beach behind the tower was entirely vertical and quite treacherous-looking, and Wallace wondered how they’d traverse it. The two armored men, however, had a very ingenious way of doing so.

 

When the little rowboat had been moored and anchored, all five of them stepped out onto the sand of the beach and stared up the cliff. Edmun looked at Renault, who nodded. The General unlimbered one of his weapons: a mighty Silver Spear attached to his right pauldron with a chain, like Renault’s daggers were, though this chain was a bit thicker. He gazed at a strong-looking chunk of stone on the cliff, which also happened to be just under an outcropping which could serve as a ledge for all 5 of them.

 

With all of his strength, Edmun _hurled_ his Silver Spear at the chunk of wall he’d been looking at, embedding it into the stone. He gave the chain attached to it a quick tug to make sure it was secure, which it was, and then began to _scale_ the cliff face, with the spear and chain serving as an ersatz rope and grappling hook. The thick chain was strong enough to support his weight and the spear had been embedded far enough into the stone that he didn’t fall, though there was a frightening moment when it seemed as if a crack near the spear might expand into something more. It didn’t, fortunately, and Edmun managed to clamber up to the ledge without any problems. Renault followed by tossing one of his chaindaggers up to Edmun, who caught it easily. Once again, the chain was used as a rope, and Renault soon joined the veteran knight up top.

 

“Wallace, Hassar, Prudence, get ready,” he called. After Edmun had managed to dislodge his weapon from the stone by activating the return mechanism in his pauldrons (He jerked his hand back, the mechanism began to whirr, the chain grew taut and returned his spear to him, tearing out a bit of the cliff in the process), both he and Renault tossed their weapons down, towards the three remaining members of their team. Towards, not at—Wallace felt a bit of fear for the tiniest moment when he thought his commanders were attacking him, but it turned out they simply wanted to reel their companions up with their chains.

 

Hassar took hold of Edmun’s, Wallace took hold of Renault’s, and both were lifted up to the ledge with ease. Edmun then did the same for Prudence, who for the first time seemed somewhat impressed with him—“You are strong,” she mumbled to herself.

 

“Even a “geezer” like me has something to be proud of, eh?” Edmun gave her a reassuring smile, which she returned.

 

“We’ll rest here for a bit,” Renault said. “They won’t be able to see us easily on this ledge, and the battle hasn’t really gotten into full swing yet. We don’t want to go in there while we’re exhausted from rowing. We shouldn’t wait for more than 5 minutes, though.”

 

They all agreed, and promptly sat down, Edmun, Wallace, Hassar, and Prudence taking swigs from their canteens of water, while Renault simply watched. Wallace, however, took the opportunity to ask his mentor something he’d been wondering about ever since they’d fought together in the Northern Cross hideout.

 

“Um…Sir Renault…”

 

“Hm? What is it?”

 

“Well…you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’ve been curious for a while. Who’s Braddock? You said his name when we were fighting the Black Knight…”

 

Renault’s expression grew cold.

 

“I—“

 

“Easy now, lad,” said Edmun, finishing up another gulp of water. “Mercenaries often have many things they don’t like to talk about, or even think about. Renault’s relationship to the Black Knight is one of them. Shouldn’t concern us as long as he fights well.” Renault nodded towards Edmun gratefully.

 

However, the veteran knight had some questions of his own. “Still, I think it’s justifiable to ask you a few questions if they relate to our mission, Renault. I’ll get to the point: What do you think Cypher’s doing up there?”

 

“Why would I know? I’m a swordsman, not a sorcerer.”

 

“But you’ve been here before, haven’t you? And you made it pretty clear that stopping Cypher was an urgent priority. Lord Hausen might have waited a little longer before launching his attack if it wasn’t for you. If you’ve any idea of Cypher’s intentions, shouldn’t you tell us?”

 

Renault said nothing.

 

“Well?”

 

“There’s no point. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Talking’s a waste. All that matters is we get up to the pinnacle and kill him as soon as possible.”

 

“That job might be easier if we make absolutely sure what we’re up against. Just try us, Renault.”

 

At last, the Mercenary Lord sighed. “Alright, you win. Tell me, Edmun…or, hell, Prudence, more likely. Do either of you know what quintessence is?”

 

“Eh?” Prudence looked at him curiously.

 

“Answer!”

 

“I…I’m not quite sure,” said Edmun, “but the word shows up in Scripture. ‘All the creatures on Elibe did the Creator craft with his own hands, and into all did He breath His quintessence. Of every one of them, all the birds and beasts and crawling things, there were two which were most pleasing to God’s eye. He gave Dragon his wisdom, but gave Man his favor.’ The Testament of Athos, verse 1.”

 

“Is that what it said?” Renault snorted. “Never had much use for religion, and that’s the first time someone’s quoted that dumb book at me in cen—I mean, years.” Edmun and Wallace were mildly insulted, but didn’t interrupt Renault. “In any case, that verse ought to give you a decent idea of how things work. God didn’t have anything to do with it, but quintessence is life force—everything has it. Animals have a bit, humans have some, and Dragons have a lot…a whole lot.”

 

“So what does that mean for us?”

 

“Guys like…like Cypher know how to manipulate quintessence. It’s given off whenever a living thing dies, and they can collect it, store it, and repurpose it. They can do some very nasty stuff with that power…like tear open the boundaries between worlds.”

 

“Boundaries between worlds?” Now Wallace really had no idea of what they were talking about.

 

“Yep. You’ve heard what happened to the Dragons after the Scouring, right? They weren’t entirely exterminated. Some of them were banished to a land called Archanea. Well, there are some places on Elibe that serve as links…no, gates to that world. One such gate is at the top of this tower. That’s probably what gave rise to those dumb superstitions about a virgin’s blood. You don’t need a “pure” sacrifice to open the gate, though. No, all you need is quintessence. A lot of it. The kind a human army might have.” Renault let that last sentence hang in the air.

 

“Wait…” Edmun had put two and two together. “So you’re saying that Cypher’s manipulated this conflict between the Northern Cross and Caelin’s army, so that he can harvest enough quintessence from their deaths in combat to open a gate to the world of the Dragons?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Madness,” Edmund murdered. “But in that case, why did we bring our own army here? Haven’t we simply given Cypher what he wanted: More quintessence?”

 

“Good point, Edmun, but there’s no way Hausen would let his daughter rot in a dungeon indefinitely. Besides, even if he would, it wouldn’t do us any good in the long run. If Cypher figured out we weren’t taking his bait, he’d find some other way to get the quintessence he needed, probably by sending the Cross out to harvest it.” _Just like I did_ , Renault thought bitterly. “Then he’d be able to open that Gate at his leisure…and if so much as one Dragon gets through, not even an army would be able to stop it.”

 

“Th-that’s crazy!” Prudence couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “Why would _anyone_ want to bring those big scary dragons back?!”

 

“Dragons have a lot of quintessence. Cypher…well, his master, actually,” Renault mumbled, not allowing his companions to hear that bit, “plans to draw them here, kill them, and harvest them. If he succeeds, he may well become more powerful than we can even imagine. And if he fails, we’ll have dragons running around again. That’s why we have to kill him as soon as possible.”

 

“This is what my elder foresaw,” said Hassar quietly. “This is what I was sent to stop.”

 

“Lucky for us you’re here, at least. And you know even better than these guys how important our job is…and how little time we have. Come on, we’ve rested enough. Let’s go!”

 

They all agreed and promptly stood up, filled with new vigor. It was an unbelievable story, but between the phantoms and the terrifying battle with the Black Knight, none of them could really doubt what Renault was saying…and even if they could, they still _felt_ , deep within their bones, that Cypher was a threat to more than just Lycia.

 

Thus, the team promptly ascended the rest of the cliff, relatively quickly and easily too. There were several similar ledges spread across its height, which they traversed using the same method—Edmun and Renault used their armor’s chains and weapons as ropes and grappling hooks, helping their three friends up as they did so. The occupants of the tower were still too busy with Hausen’s army in front of them to notice a small squad coming up behind them, and all 4 of Renault’s companions successfully made it to the back of the tower. There was no actual door there, but there was a large hole in the wall—made by the wear and tear of time or an actual attack, they couldn’t tell—that they could sneak in to, one by one.

 

Before they did, however, Renault had a few more preparations to make. “Alright, everyone, stay to the sides of the opening. I don’t wanna go in just yet. Prudence, you have a Barrier staff, right?”

 

“Y-yes! Barrier, Physic, Heal staves, and my trusty Thunder and Elfire tomes…I’ve got everything!”

 

“Use that Barrier on us. I want to have some protection against magical attack in case we run into any surprises.”

 

“Oh…alright!” She could certainly see the wisdom in that. She unlimbered the grey, blue-tipped staff from her back, and after a few minutes of chanting, Renault, Edmun, Wallace, and Hassar all felt the comforting aura of a magic shield around them.

 

“Excellent! Let’s move!” Renault’s visor flashed green. “Wallace, you first. Poke your head in there and make sure nobody’s around.” They all heard shouts and frantic footsteps sounding throughout the tower, along with the constant booms and blasts of ballista bolts and spells, but most of the noise seemed to be coming from the upper floors and the entrance, not the back of the tower. When Wallace cautiously peered through the opening, hoping no-one would see him, he saw nothing.

 

“I-I think it’s clear!”

 

“Alright! Go!”

 

All five of them rushed in, one by one. As they hoped, no-one was around; this hallway apparently didn’t see much activity. They had successfully made their infiltration.

 

They hoped it would be the hardest part of their mission, but, as Renault had long gotten used to, they would be wrong. Not that they knew it yet, of course.

 

“This tower’s not very complex, but I still know its layout better than you,” said Renault. “Follow me.”

 

They did so, rushing through the curving hallway until they came to a large wooden door leading to the center hollow of the tower. Renault opened it, peering out cautiously as Wallace had done, and saw the activity everyone was expecting.

 

It was chaos. Men and phantom alike were milling around, casting spells out the windows, or rushing up and down the stairs to help with repairs, man the ballistae on higher levels, convey messages, or fulfill any other duty they may have been expected to. Renault and Edmun tried to make themselves as intimidating as possible, while Wallace, Hassar, and Prudence all kept their black cloaks hidden tightly around their faces.

 

The shouts and yells of the Northern Cross soldiers, however, were particularly interesting. “Charge, charge, my friends!” one exhorted. “For Cross and the Northern Cross! Meet them on the field and slaughter them all!”

 

“We’re losing men fast,” called another. “We need reinforcements!”

 

“Hausen wasn’t expecting a charge, he’s losing men too! Get more of those phantoms out there! Cross says Cypher’s almost done with the ritual! We just need to kill a few more!”

 

“That…that makes no sense,” mumbled Edmun as he and his friends pushed through the crowd to get to the stairs to the next floor. “This tower is under siege, and they’ve got ballistae and ranged magic on their side. Why would they meet Hausen’s forces instead of keeping themselves protected by the tower? Lord Hausen meant to distract them, we weren’t ready for a full battle…”

 

“Cypher probably gave the order. Remember, the quintessence of the Northern Cross is just as good as that of the Caelin army. He’s sending out the Crossmen to get slaughtered and use their life force, and if they take out any of Hausen’s soldiers, that’s even better.”

 

“Elimine’s grace, that’s inhuman…”

 

Just as Edmun said this, though, and just as they were about to reach the stairs, he bumped into a Soldier rushing down, apparently intending to join the fight outside.

 

“H-hey,” stammered the guard, “Who’re you? Where’re you comin’ from? And what’re you doin’?”

 

They’d been found, but this was the worst time to start a fight. Renault, fortunately, did not lose a beat. The visor of his helmet glowed red—just like the Black Knight’s, and he stated, as coldly and emotionlessly as he could, “Lord Cypher has ordered us to assist with the ritual.”

 

That was enough to convince the slow-witted Northern Cross soldier. “Y-yes, sir!” he stammered, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to get out of the way. His fellows were content to do the same, and Renault’s team found the path to the stairs leading up to be wide open to them.

 

Renault breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully they’d be able to get to the top without any problems.

 

Bluemoon Tower’s layout was indeed fairly simple, after all. Although there were a few hallways and storage rooms on the first floor like the one they’d exited from, there was a large staircase at the other end of the hall, opposite the tower’s main entrance (which soldiers were running into and out of frantically) which spiraled upwards. This was their access to the rest of the tower, and this was what they used. Renault led his comrades up those stone steps, brusquely pushing past both phantoms and lower-ranking Northern Cross soldiers in his way, his black armor enough to fool them into believing he was one of them. The team crossed into the second floor, and continued, heading up to the third, then the fourth, then all the way up to the twelfth. The floors they’d passed had been filled with ballistae or Sages and Druids with long-range spells flinging death from the windows, while the ninth, tenth, and eleventh had been makeshift hospices, its floor filled with blankets on which rested wounded soldiers of the Northern Cross. The twelfth, however, seemed to be a command center of some kind. Like all the other tower floors, it was a large and perfectly circular area, but this time it wasn’t bounded by walls. The ceiling was rather held up by four strong pillars, very similar to the architecture of the top of Zodian’s Rest, in fact. It was thus exposed to air, and provided a very good view of the battlefield far below it—definitely a good place for the leaders of the Cross to set up their council chamber. In the center of this room was a round wooden table, around which were seated three figures.

 

Two were clad in sinister black robes, as most of Cypher’s phantoms were. The third, however, was wearing a flashy red outfit with a wide-brimmed hat that covered his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. He perfectly fit Prudence’s description of Cross, and the moment the team passed the staircase and entered the room—the second upper-most floor—he stood up and greeted them.  

 

“What have we here? Why are you fine men interrupting our meeting? I gave specific orders not to be disturbed!”

 

The slightly mocking tone of his voice, however, indicated he wasn’t entirely surprised. And more importantly, there was something strange about his skin as well…

 

Renault would have recognized that pale, ash-grey tone _anywhere._

His companions, however, did not. Prudence was quite genuinely overcome with emotion. “Cross?” she yelled, pushing ahead of Edmun, Wallace, and Hassar as they took positions beside and behind Renault. “ _Cross!_ ” She promptly threw back the hood of her black cloak. “It’s me! It’s Prudence!”

 

“It’s not Cross, Prudence,” he warned. “Be careful! That’s _not_ Cross!”

 

She didn’t listen—she so desperately wanted to speak to her beloved leader that it hadn’t yet dawned on her how strange he was acting. “Cross, listen to me! I…I haven’t betrayed you, really! I just want you to listen to me!”

 

“Haven’t betrayed me? You’ve spent weeks among Hausen’s lackeys, and you’ve even brought a few of them along with you! Yes, don’t deny it, I can see right through your little disguises. Certainly seems like betrayal to me, my dear!”

 

“It’s not because I hate you, Cross! It’s because of Cypher! Haven’t you heard of what he’s done? He kidnapped Madelyn! He kidnapped a _child!_ We’re just here to get her back! I…I know you, Cross! There’s no way you could have gone along with a plan like that! Please, wh…why don’t you help us? We’ll work together with Hausen, just this once, and then afterwards, we can go back to how things used to be…even better, after Cypher’s gone!”

 

“Hm, well, I always had my suspicions about Cypher…and I do agree, kidnapping a child is a most heinous crime! Hmm…” He fell silent for a moment, thinking. “Hmm…I have my answer!”

 

“Really?” Prudence was elated. “I know I could count on you, Cross!”

 

“Indeed. Here it is!”

 

Faster than Prudence could see, Cross brought an arm up and flicked it out towards her. She would have died then, if Renault hadn’t been equally fast. The Mercenary Lord had already drawn one of his chain-daggers from its pauldron-sheath, and the moment he saw Cross move he tossed it into the air, sending it flying in front of Prudence.

 

Just in time for it to knock away the dagger which would have otherwise slammed into her head.

 

“Wh…what?” Prudence gazed numbly at Cross’ dagger as it fell back to the floor, then back to Cross himself. “Wh…why?”

 

“I told you, Prudence, that’s not your friend!”

 

The man sitting at the head of the table raised his head as he stood up, allowing his newest visitors a good look at his face for the first time.

 

His eyes were cold, emotionless, and glittering gold.

 

“The ritual will not be interrupted,” he said mechanically. His flat tone seemed to indicate his true personality, his previous joviality being nothing more than a routine programmed into him by whoever had created him. Beside him, his two companions shuffled off their robes, and now it was Renault’s turn to gape.

 

He recognized those two phantoms. Their skin and eyes were different, obviously, but even centuries after he’d killed them, he still remembered the Swordmaster with a Killer Sword and the Bishop with an Aura tome—Dougram and Grigorius.

 

“Renault,” said Edmun, readying his spear, “Do you know those two?”

 

Renault’s visor began to glow red. “In a manner of speaking. Edmun, Prudence…those are just puppets. Copies of dead men…like Cross. It looks like we’ll have to destroy them to get to Cypher. Are you ready?”

 

Edmun nodded, and Prudence brandished her spell book. “I…I don’t know how anybody could create such disgusting things, but I’ll destroy them for sure!” Behind them, Wallace and Hassar readied their weapons.

 

“Alright then. Everyone, let’s go!”

 

An Elfire bolt from Prudence blew the table in front of them to pieces as Renault, Edmun, and Wallace charged. Renault headed straight for Cross, slashing down his Brave Sword once (forcing the Rogue to jump back), quickly thrusting it forwards (forcing him to duck) and then tossing his dagger at him again, sending him further back, almost to the edge of the floor, before deflecting it with a swipe of his own short daggers.

 

Prudence and Hassar, meanwhile, had wisely chosen to concentrate on Grigorius. He sent a great beam of holy magic smashing down upon Prudence, but she raised her tome over her head and summoned from it a curtain of flame, upon which the Aura blast sputtered harmlessly—light could cut through shadow, but it was of little use against the elements. A barrage of arrows from Hassar forced the Grigorius-thing to duck and kept him from casting any more spells.

 

Lastly, Wallace and Edmun kept the Swordmaster occupied. The youth let out a wild yell and charged forwards as fast as he could, hoping to move faster than his fear could paralyze him. Edmun had counted on that. The Dougram-creature brandished his Killer Sword and zipped around the charging squire, ending up right behind him. Edmun, however, hadn’t matched his squire’s speed—he’d advanced cautiously, so that when the morph was behind Wallace, he was behind the morph. Edmun bent down and swung his Silver Spear as a pole, catching Dougram in his feet and sending him toppling to the floor. The thing immediately rolled to the side to avoid Edmun’s follow-up thrust, but Wallace’s life had been saved.

 

For a moment, it seemed as if Renault’s team had the upper hand. Then, a loud clamor from the stairwell below indicated new problems would be heading their way very shortly.

 

“Damn it,” yelled Renault, “reinforcements! Wallace, Hassar, block off the stairway! The rest of us will deal with these puppets one-on-one!”

 

The bowman and his friend immediately broke off their attacks, Edmun and Prudence distracting Dougram and Grigorius with a charge and Elfire blast, respectively. Cross didn’t even notice—Renault was pressing him too hard, and it took all of his fabricated, pre-programmed skill to ward off the Mercenary Lord’s onslaught.

 

Wallace and Hassar immediately took up positions in front of the staircase, the squire leveling his spear downwards and his friend standing resolute behind him. This formation would be very effective at holding off approaching foes—since the staircase was so narrow, Hassar firing arrows over his friend’s shoulders would be enough to keep the mass of phantoms trapped, and if any managed to get close, a few pokes from Wallace’s spear, added to the advantage of his elevation, would keep them away.

 

However, time was on Cypher’s side. Even if Wallace and Hassar managed to hold off the weaker Myrmidon and Warrior phantoms trying to get up to the 13th floor, without their help it would be that much harder to deal with the Dougram, Grigorius, and Cross-morphs. And the longer those three kept Renault, Prudence, and Edmun occupied, the longer Cypher would have to complete his ritual.

 

And he was close to completing it—they could all feel it. The air was beginning to change. It seemed heavier, electrically charged, as it would during a great thunderstorm, but the skies were completely clear. And Renault and Prudence, both experienced with and attuned to magic as they were, felt great and terrible magic force building up over their heads.

 

They couldn’t allow that to distract them, though. While Wallace and Hassar dealt with the reinforcements trying to make their way upstairs, Edmun tried to finish off the Swordmaster. Dougram was zipping crazily through the air, so quickly he left afterimages behind him, a display which might have impressed anyone less experienced than Edmun. The General simply weaved back and forth, rising and dipping, making sure that every time his enemy attempted to land a blow, the Killer Sword hit a sturdy black pauldron or the near-impregnable steel of his helmet rather than any vulnerable point on his body. However, he was still too slow to catch Dougram—every time he thought he saw an opening and tried to catch him with a thrust or even a sweep of his spear, the Swordmaster would disappear a moment before the strike connected.

 

Renault, for his part, wasn’t meeting with much more success. Just as he’d encountered while fighting Braddock, he noticed that these morphs lacked the creativity and improvisation characteristic of truly good human warriors. They weren’t fighting to kill, though—just to delay their foes long enough for their master to complete his ritual. Thus, the Cross-morph kept himself entirely on the defensive, refusing to press an attack against Renault, seemingly aware that his daggers would barely be able to even scratch the Mercenary Lord’s armor. He simply ducked and dodged sword and chaindagger, and while the real Cross would have been wearing an amused grin listening to Renault’s growls of frustration, this creature had no expression at all on his pale grey face.

 

Prudence, unfortunately, was having the most trouble. It had definitely been a good idea for her to protect herself and her friends with the Barrier Staff—the Grigorius-morph would be unable to cripple any of them with his Sleep Staff, and even if he did manage to get an Aura blast through Prudence’s magical shields, it would do little damage. However, his own resistance to magic rendered even a Sage’s Anima spells close to harmless, and as Prudence would soon find out, he had a hefty physical advantage too.

 

Grigorius had been a large, sturdy man in life, and his creator had made sure he retained that strength even centuries after Renault had killed him. After watching yet another of his Aura spells splatter harmlessly off of Prudence’s shield of flame, the morph decided to take another approach. As the Sage prepared one more Elfire blast, Grigorius dropped his Aura tome and burst forwards, catching the smaller woman off-guard and completely by surprise. He drove her to the floor in a wild tackle, pinning her down and wrapping his hands around her throat. Her own tome flew from her hands, and she gagged, trying vainly to break his grip.

 

“Dammit!” Renault instinctively moved to help, but even if his opponent couldn’t breach his armor, Cross could still cause him a lot of trouble. The Morph darted in front of the Mercenary Lord and stuck a foot out, tripping up Renault. Hassar and Wallace were too busy keeping the reinforcements back to help Prudence, and Edmun had all he could handle keeping Dougram at bay—one moment of distraction would mean that Killer Blade slipping into one of his helmet’s eye ports or under his gorget.

 

Salvation ended up coming from a most unexpected source.

 

As Hassar sent an arrow into the neck of a grey Soldier rushing up the stairs, he noticed that the reinforcements following him had instead turned, as if they were running away, back down the stairs—or more accurately, as it turned out, facing a new enemy that was coming up right behind them!

 

A man, not a morph, was running up the stairs, wielding his gigantic silver greatsword as a spear. With his left hand on the grip and the right on the ricasso, he thrust and stabbed with lightning-fast speed, reducing the dozens of “phantom” soldiers in front of him to dust in seconds. Judging by the sweat covering his oddly beautiful face and plastering his long blond hair to his forehead, he had been at this for quite a while, perhaps fighting his way through masses of phantoms—and succeeding—in his attempt to reach the top floor. Both Wallace and Hassar recognized him as the Swordmaster who had so roundly humiliated them during the initial Northern Cross Assault on Castle Caelin.

 

This time, however, he seemed to be on their side.

 

“Out of the way, lads,” he called as he demolished the last enemy reinforcement in the stairwell. “I’ve nothing against you, it’s Cypher I’m after!”

 

“What?!” Wallace was profoundly confused, and didn’t lower his spear. “But you’re—“

 

“Wallace, he’s an ally,” said Hassar, not having lost a bit of his composure. “Let him help us!”

 

The squire wisely decided to follow his friend’s advice, and they both scooted out from in front of the staircase to let their new comrade pass by.

 

Renault, Edmun, and Prudence hadn’t noticed him yet, but that would soon change. Prudence was too busy trying to maintain consciousness as Grigorius strangled her to notice the arrival of her savior at first, but she certainly did when the pressure on her throat disappeared—as did Grigorius’ hands, along with the rest of the body, thanks to a silver blade passing through the air where his head had been. Even then it would be some time before she realized what had happened—she was now too busy coughing and gasping for air.

 

Renault, Edmun, and the remaining two morphs noticed, however. “Wallace! Hassar! What’re you doing?!” Renault barked, not yet realizing a friend rather than a foe had arrived. He hopped back and turned to the side in such a way that his left-hand dagger was held towards Cross and his Brave Sword towards the newcomer, but to his surprise, neither attacked him but rather concentrated on each other.

 

“Created a puppet from my friend’s corpse, eh,” Lucian growled. “Cypher, you bastard!” He hurled himself at the Morph of his friend, slashing down and leaving a great cleft in the floor where Cross had jumped away from just in time. This was enough to convince Renault he wasn’t a threat, at least not right now. The Mercenary Lord turned to Edmun, who was still occupied with Dougram. As Cypher’s Swordmaster leapt into the air for another slash at the General, Renault saw a familiar opportunity. He tossed out his chaindagger at the air behind Edmun, where he correctly anticipated Dougram would appear. As it had the first time they’d fought, the chain tangled itself around Dougram’s legs, sending him crashing down—where Edmun turned him to dust with a Silver Spear through the chest.

 

Now, only the Cross-morph was left, and he knew he couldn’t win—he was outnumbered 6 to 1 and it would take time for new reserves to replace the staircase reinforcements Lucian had destroyed. Still keeping the same dead, passionless expression on his face, he charged straight at Prudence, hoping at least to kill the most vulnerable member of Renault’s troupe with his last moments…

 

But before he even came close, Lucian darted forwards, cutting horizontally with his great Silver Blade. The blow landed cleanly on Cross’ midsection and _cut him in half_ , sending the upper and lower portions of his body flying apart, disappearing into dust as they did so.

 

Lucian closed his eyes as the creature disintegrated. “Rest in peace, Cross.” He had no time for a reverie, however—he heard the distinct clanking of weapons and armor behind him.

 

“Easy, Renault!” said Lucian as he turned to see his former foe readying his blades. “I’m not here to fight you, I’m here to help you! At least assuming you want to kill Cypher?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

He smiled. “Then, for now, we’re allies.”

 

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Renault was still suspicious, and Edmun, Wallace, and Hassar were as well (though they were occupied with helping Prudence back to her feet). “You were working for Cypher just a few weeks ago, weren’t you? Why the change?”

 

“He killed Cross and tried to kill me. If that’s not just cause for a shift in loyalties, I don’t know what is!”

 

“W…wait…” Prudence looked at Lucian, the realization of Cross’ fate suddenly sinking in. “Cross…Cross is dead?”

 

“Aye,” came the sorrowful reply. “It happened a few weeks ago, just after Cypher’s shameful kidnapping of Madelyn. Cross and I met with him at the top of this tower, prepared to tell him off once and for all. That was when he revealed his true colors. Those two creatures we just saw ambushed us—the Swordmaster stabbed Cross through the chest, and the Bishop attempted to bewitch me with his Sleep Staff. I threw myself from the roof before the enchantment could take hold and managed to grab onto a ledge on one of the lower floors before I fell to my death. A friend of mine found me and helped me escape….” He sighed. “I wanted to lead the other Crossmen in rebellion against Cypher, but those phantoms all around us would have slaughtered us all. I had to wait for the right opportunity to strike back, and Hausen’s assault was just the distraction I needed. At least now Cross’ memory won’t be defiled by that hideous creature Cypher made…”

 

“Cross…oh, Cross!” Prudence picked herself up from the ground, then promptly threw herself at the Swordmaster, sobbing into his chest with pure, unadulterated sorrow over the death of her friend. Lucian returned her embrace with an equally pained expression on his face while Wallace, Hassar, and Edmun looked on somberly. Renault, however, would have none of it.

 

“The guy who killed Cross is still alive. You can mourn for him after we’ve avenged his death. Let’s go!”

 

This reminder caused determination to replace sadness within both Lucian and Prudence. “You’re right, Renault! Let’s finish this!”

 

The Mercenary Lord pointed towards the two curving staircases hanging in the air at the east and west sides of the floor. These were unguarded—perhaps Cypher hadn’t anticipated his three morphs failing to ward off the incursion. Renault and his friends didn’t bother to question their good fortune—they simply followed him up the east side’s winding steps and to their final showdown with Cypher.

 

-x-

 

To Renault’s dismay, it seemed as if he wouldn’t be providing Cypher with a surprise. Quite the opposite.

 

The sinister Druid was standing in front of the dragon-shaped altar at the center of the platform, smiling malignantly. Madelyn was next to him, arms tied behind her back and legs tied together. Worst of all, though, they weren’t alone.

 

Beside Cypher stood a contingent of thirty of the strongest Morphs Renault had yet seen. They were all as big as the Braddock-Morph was, and all clad in the same black armor. The two closest to Cypher kept their large spears crossed over him and Madelyn protectively, ready to block any attack with their bodies—Hassar wouldn’t be able to get in a lucky shot at Cypher. Those weapons, however…that was the really troubling thing. They were all armed with massive lances, greatswords, and greataxes tinted an odd greenish hue. Renault recognized that color—he’d seen it once before, during his stay at Arcadia.

 

Those were Wyrmslayers, Dragonspears, and Dragonaxes—weapons specially enchanted to kill Dragons and Wyverns with ease. Though nowhere near as powerful as the Divine Weapons, they were more than capable of slaughtering even fully-grown Dragons easily if held in capable hands. And those thirty heavily-armored Morphs looked quite capable.

 

As they entered the rooftop, all of Renault’s companions, even Lucian, had to halt once they caught sight of the welcoming committee before them. They had been counting on the element of surprise to find the perfect opportunity to kill Cypher, but now it seemed that it had been lost…and that they were the ones in trouble, given how outnumbered they now were.

 

Cypher was a good sport about it, at least. “What an impressive show,” he laughed. “Perhaps you humans are made of stronger stuff than I thought. Sneaking in here by boat and fighting your way to the pinnacle? You are your friends are truly audacious, Renault. And you, Lucian…you actually managed to survive your fall while half-asleep? Impressive indeed.”

 

He chuckled contemptuously and gestured towards the small army behind him. “Unfortunately, as you can see, it will do you little good, now. Not even such impressive specimens as yourselves would be able to survive long against thirty of these Dragon-hunters, each hand-crafted by my master himself!”

 

“Dragon-hunters?!” Lucian balked. “Cypher, what the hell are you planning?”

 

“Why should I tell you? You’ll be dead soon enough anyways!”

 

To everyone’s surprise, Renault laughed. “Don’t speak too soon, Cypher. I’ve already told my friends what you’re planning. Harvest all the quintessence from both the Northern Cross and Hausen’s army and use it to open a Gate to Archanea. Then you’ll lure a few Dragons here, kill a few of ‘em with those Wyrmslayers, and bring their quintessence back to your lord. I’m right, aren’t I?”

 

For the first time, an expression which might have been annoyance—or fear?—crossed Cypher’s pale face. “You think you’re smart, do you? Well then, how do you propose to stop me? 6 of you are no match for 30 of mine.”

 

“Yep. We’ll just let you finish your little ritual.”

 

“W-what?!” Renault’s companions looked at him in shock. “Renault, have you gone mad?”

 

“Nope. Now that I’m sure of what he’s going to do, let him finish it. I guarantee he won’t like the result!”

 

“I’m not giving up,” said Edmun resolutely. “I’ll—“

 

“Master, wait!” cried Wallace. “If…If Renault says so…I trust him! Let’s follow his plan!”

 

“A wise choice, boy,” Cypher laughed again. “You know you have no chance. Yes, just stand there and watch! I’ll let you witness our ultimate triumph! BEHOLD!”

 

He raised the large green crystal over his head, and it began to glow with all the quintessence it had absorbed from the battle raging far below it. From its depths emerged a golden cloud, hovering over the altar. The altar itself began to glow the same color, and just as Renault had witnessed over a century ago, a purple sigil appeared in the air, glowing briefly and then transforming into a spiraling vortex of white light. Though the sky had been perfectly clear just a few moments ago, it was now filled with ominous black clouds, arced with strange purple lightening. Renault guessed that even the fighting between the Northern Cross and Hausen, far below, had stopped—everyone could only watch the great Gate to another world forming above their heads.

 

Cypher sneered as the portal grew and grew—whirling in the air just behind the altar, now, it was more than large enough to allow a Dragon’s head through. “Watch closely, Renault! See the face of a beast Elibe has not seen for a millennium! And know that the quintessence we’ll steal from it will turn our Master into a god!”

 

He was about to laugh one last time when he felt something wrap around his waist.

 

“Eh?! Wha…” He looked down to see what seemed to be like a thick, scaly black rope crushing his midsection. He dropped the phylactery in panic, reaching down to undo it, but when he looked back, he saw what it was.

 

It was coming right out of the portal, and it wasn’t a rope. It was a sort of tentacle, attached to some kind of horrible, wailing creature that _certainly_ wasn’t a dragon.

 

“What…what is this?!” Cypher couldn’t understand what was happening to him. “Th…the gate was supposed to lead to Archanea! To the Dragons! What—“

 

He could say no more. The tentacle clenched, forcing him to scream in agony, then yanked him right into the portal. No one needed to wonder what the tentacle’s owner was doing to him in there.

 

“See? I told you,” Renault smirked at his companions, but they were too horrified at the sight in front of them to take note of their leader’s wisdom. The creature in the portal was apparently hungry, and the thirty Dragon-Hunters would make good snacks. A dozen more tentacles whipped out of the Gate, wrapping themselves around the large, armored Morphs and dragging them into the beyond. To their credit, they tried their best to defend themselves, but now their numbers worked against them—they were packed so closely together that a single tentacle could destroy most of them. Even as they succeeded in severing one, two, and three, a sweep of the fourth sent a dozen of them flying into the air clear off the edge of the rooftop. Another huge, ropelike tendril as big as a tree trunk wrapped around the feet of six more, dragging them back to the creature’s mouth as if they were a bundle of apples. 

 

Through all this, Madelyn lay forgotten on the floor, screaming her lungs out as the horrible creature gobbled up her captors. She was much smaller than the Dragon-Hunters, so perhaps the creature from the gate didn’t think she’d be a filling morsel…but once it was finished with the morphs, it would almost certainly turn to her. It was Hassar who moved the fastest, and it was thanks to him that Madelyn lived to see another day.

 

He darted forwards, using every trick he had learned in Sacae and from Renault, weaving through spiked tentacles and black-clad Dragon-Hunter morphs towards the source of those terrified screams. A few came dangerously close to hitting him, but his friends had seen what he was doing and immediately came to support him. Edmun had replaced his Silver Spear with an equally powerful Silver Axe, and he and Lucian busied themselves chopping up any tentacle which looked like it was aiming for the Sacaen, while Renault, Prudence, and Wallace tripped up the remaining Dragon Hunters, keeping them too distracted to protect their hostage.

 

Hassar stumbled, but rolled forwards to avoid a tentacle slamming into him, and ended up right next to Madelyn. She continued screaming, too panicked to realize her rescuer had come, but Hassar stayed cool. He whipped out his sword and quickly cut through the ropes binding her feet and arms. Only when these disappeared did the young girl stop screaming, looking into Hassar’s green eyes as tears streamed from her own.

 

“You’re safe now,” he said, his voice calm and serene, despite the chaos raging all around him. “I swear I will get you out of here. Please come with me!”

 

He didn’t give her a chance to answer—instead, Hassar scooped her up, and she instinctively threw her arms around his neck as he turned and rushed away—just in time, for the last few Dragon Hunters had been eaten, and the portal creature now wanted to sate its hunger on humans rather than morphs.

 

“Hassar’s clear!” shouted Renault, chopping through a smaller tendril with his Brave Sword. “Prudence, blast the altar with an Elfire spell!”

 

“What?!”

 

“ _Just do it!_ ”

 

Drawing on all her reserves of magical energy, the Sage summoned the three-pointed sigil of Anima in front of her, then pointed her right hand at the glowing altar. From the book held in her left sprung two small orbs of fire, which coalesced above her head into one giant globe. It then barreled towards the glowing altar, blowing it apart in a terrific explosion.

 

The beast in the portal screamed wildly, and Renault and his companions knew they had won. All of them immediately backed away to watch what would happen next, Hassar clutching Madelyn as tightly as he could, shielding her from the falling debris with his own body.

 

As the pieces of glowing, smoking, quintessence-infused stone which had once been the altar of Bluemoon Tower fell like rain upon the rooftop, the sorcery it had controlled began to dissipate. The tentacled beast could only scream in frustration as the portal began to disappear, and when it winked out of existence it severed the tendrils the abomination had not been able to withdraw, leaving them flopping around limply, bleeding a horrendous-smelling green ichor as they writhed in their death throes. High above them, the dark, lightning-streaked clouds dissipated, blowing away as if they were nothing more than the dust which made up the morphs Cypher commanded. In their place was a peaceful, blue, and entirely clear afternoon sky.

 

As his comrades continued to gape, not entirely sure of what had just happened, Renault breathed deeply and took a look around him. The rooftop, at least, was entirely quiet. The ‘charge’ that seemed to have suffused the air was gone. No sounds came from below them—Cypher’s entire force seemed to have disappeared with its master. For now, at least, Bluemoon Tower seemed as if it was nothing more than any other ordinary building on Elibe.

 

A job well done indeed. Sighing in satisfaction, Renault removed his helmet, wanting to enjoy the view with his own eyes, as well as the sensation of a cool wind blowing through his teal hair. The rest of them finally began to celebrate, the realization of what they’d just accomplished setting in. “We did it, Lucian!” Prudence cheered. “We really did it!” She gave him a joyful hug, which he returned, though his expression wasn’t as happy—under his breath, he murmured to himself, “Were you watching, Cross? I hope you’re proud of us.”

 

Edmun clapped Wallace and Hassar on the shoulders. “Fantastic work, lads! Both of you are as brave as any knight I’ve seen! They’ll be telling stories about you all over Caelin…no, all over Lycia for years to come!”

 

Wallace looked at Edmun, then at Hassar, then, finally, at Renault. “S…Sir Renault…is it true? Is it really over?”

 

He nodded. “It’s all over, Wallace. You did great. There’s nothing to worry about now.”

 

“There’s…nothing to worry about?” Madelyn squeaked, and Hassar shifted his body so he was no longer shielding her—for it seemed there was no longer anything to shield her from. “It…it’s over…?”

 

“A man of Sacae always keeps his promises,” came Hassar’s even reply. “I promised I would see you safe, and you are safe.”

 

“Oh…Oh, God…H…Hassar…thank you! Thank you! _Thank you so much!!!_ ”

 

She began weeping again, but with joy rather than fear, clutching Hassar as tightly as she could and sobbing into his chest. This was yet another experience the young Sacaen had no idea how to deal with, but a wide grin and friendly clap on the back from Wallace indicated he didn’t really need to do anything, as long as she was happy. And she was indeed very happy, or at least felt very safe—for all her crying had taken up so much of her energy that her happy sobs dwindled to nothing as she fell asleep in her savior’s arms.

 

Below them, the battle seemed to be winding down—from this far up, it was hard to tell clearly, but it was almost certain that the men of the Northern Cross would be surrendering now that their phantom allies had disappeared and Cypher’s ritual had failed.

 

Despite all of this, there were a few lingering issues that had to be resolved. “Renault,” said Edmun, clanking up to him while the others celebrated, “I have to ask…what…what was that thing?”

 

“Hm? What do you mean?”

 

“The…the thing from the portal. You and Cypher both said that Gate should have led to the land of the Dragons. But that tentacled creature…that wasn’t a dragon. It couldn’t have been a dragon. Right?”

 

Renault thought for a moment. “I think you’re right, Edmun.” _Sure as hell didn’t look like any of the ones I saw in Arcadia_ , he thought. “I don’t think that thing was a Dragon. Hell, I’m not even sure it came from the same world!”

 

“So did Cypher perform the ritual incorrectly? Did that gate lead somewhere…somewhere besides the land of the Dragons?”

 

“I doubt he made a mistake.”

 

Edmun’s face darkened. “Yet you let him finish, knowing what would come out of the portal. Why did you lead us here, then, while telling us stories about Dragons?”

 

Renault shrugged. “First, against thirty of those Dragon-Hunters, there really wasn’t anything we could have done anyways. Secondly, I wasn’t absolutely certain the ritual would end up as it did the last time I saw it—for all I knew, Cypher might have found a way to open a Gate for real. Finally, you saw how voracious those creatures were. If we hadn’t been there, they would’ve eaten Cypher and then poured out all over Elibe. We might not have saved the world from Dragons, but we saved it from something at least as bad.”

 

“Hm…I can understand that, I think,” said the General, his expression shifting from suspicious to contemplative. “But why were you expecting the ritual to fail?”

 

“As I said, I saw something like this once before. There was another altar, just like this one, buried in some ruins. The guy who led me there said it was supposed to open a gate to Archanea…but when he activated it, he ended up being devoured by the exact same sort of creatures as the one we just saw. Two master magicians years apart making the exact same error? There has to be something else going on.” Renault sighed. “That’s all I know, though. If you want any other theories, try Prudence. I’m stumped.”

 

“Perhaps Elimine’s _Journey_ has answers,” mused Edmun. “On that day were the Dragons driven from the land. They fled, but they did not die. On the forgotten Isles they built a Gate, twelve leagues tall and twenty wide. The spirit of the Creator was with Elimine, the spirit of the _Lord_ was against them. From His wrath they fled, and through the Gate they passed, till none remained. They sealed the Gate behind them, and we eight prepared to give chase, but an Angel of the _Lord_ came upon us. And this is what he said:  


“Sons of men, daughters of women, lay down your arms and stand up on your feet. You have followed my commands and earned salvation for My people. Yet the Dragons have been humbled, and have turned from their evil ways. I shall have compassion on them, and will not destroy them.

 

“Forever more shall your races live, and forevermore they shall be at peace. Forevermore they will be separate, and nevermore will they join. From this land the Dragons have fled, and you shall not give chase, for I have compassion for them. Let no man ever again wage war upon Dragon, and let no Dragon wage war upon man: In the great depths between this land and theirs, I set my messengers: Many-toothed Malach, great black Leagdan, and Berulubab of the swarms. Those who break my commandments will be cursed and devoured, those who keep them will be blessed and prosper: I am the _Lord_.” Edmun took a deep breath. “The Testament of Athos, verses 50 to 59.”

 

“You sure like quoting that damn book,” Renault sneered. “Why’d you become a General rather than a Bishop?”

 

“Have you no respect for religion, Renault?” Edmun seemed somewhat angry now. “We of Lycia are no fanatics, but we know better than to treat the word of God so callously.”

 

“Hmph.” Renault shrugged. “In any case, it’s as good an explanation as any, though I doubt it’s the right one. Does it even matter? As long as Cypher’s gone, along with whatever those things were, isn’t that enough?”

 

Edmun had to concede that, which left things open to address the next important question. They both turned to Lucian, who knew quite well he had unfinished business with both of them. He gently pushed Prudence away and walked up to them, as she and the kids looked on curiously.

 

“Lucian,” said Edmun hesitantly, “I...how do I say this…well, you may be an enemy of Caelin’s crown, but you saved our lives today. A knight always repays his debts, and I owe you a great debt, sir.” He held out his hand, and Lucian shook it without hesitation.

 

“Don’t worry about it. I was avenging my friend, nothing more. Except…well, there are maybe two things you can do for me.”

 

“Name them.”

 

“First, I’d like you to treat the Northern Cross kindly. They’re not evil people. They never were. It was all Cypher’s fault.”

 

“Understood. Now that the real villain behind all of this trouble is gone, and Madelyn is safe, I am sure Hausen will be lenient with the men who’ve surrendered. He is a good, kindhearted man, as Prudence will attest, and he realizes that your organization truly did have legitimate grievances. Rest assured, he will do all he can to ensure the people of this land will not _need_ to rebel again.”

 

“I…I’m glad to hear that. You’re a good man, Edmun. Cross would’ve liked you.”

 

“Mm. So what was your second request?”

 

Lucian smiled—but it was a sad smile. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me here. Just pretend I never showed up, or that I really did die when I fell off that tower.”

 

“Eh?! But why? You’re a hero! Surely you deserve some of the credit for what we’ve done here. It would make your reputation as a mercenary—“

 

“No…not…not like this. Cross was my friend. Even if I managed to stop Cypher…I still couldn’t save his life. I…I don’t want to be reminded of that.” He clapped Edmun on the shoulder. “I think I will disappear, Edmun. Go somewhere else…maybe Sacae, or Ilia, or even back home to Etruria. People need help everywhere…they don’t need to know that I couldn’t save the life of my best friend. Just don’t tell anyone where I disappeared to, or that I even appeared at all. Can you do that?”

 

Edmun sighed. “I…very well, I’ll do as you wish.” He turned to his charges. “How about all of you?”

 

Hassar nodded. “Your secrets are safe.” Wallace nodded as well—“I won’t tell anybody, Sir Lucian. You…you’re really a great man.”

 

“L…Lucian…” Prudence sniffled. “Are you really going away?”

 

He chuckled and ran a hand through his pretty blond hair, now covered in dirt and sweat. “Yeah. Forgive me, dear. You knew from the start I’m not the type to stick around one place for long. And now it’s time for me to disappear. Better to do it on a high note, yes?”

 

“Not yet, Lucian,” said Renault coldly.

 

“Wh…huh? What do you mean?” The good cheer seemed to disappear from the air as Renault returned to business…to his ultimate pursuit.

 

“Remember what we talked about the first time you came to Castle Caelin? You have something I want, Lucian. Before you go, I want you to give it to me.”

 

“Come now, Renault. Can’t a man have some secrets?”

 

Renault’s hands drifted ever so slowly to his weapon. “It’s important to me. _Very_ important to me.”

 

“Renault, we just fought together. Let me—“

 

Now his right hand rested on the grip of his Brave Sword, ready to tear it from its sheath at a moment’s notice. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but I _need_ to know what you know, Lucian. And I’ll tear it from you by force if I have to.”

 

Lucian brought a hand to his own Silver Blade, and everyone watching knew they wouldn’t be able to stop them if a fight broke out. “Threats aren’t the best way to get someone to do you a favor, friend.”

 

“If you’ve got an alternative, I’ll happily take it.”

 

“I might.” Lucian relaxed, much to everyone’s relief. “Look, just meet me back at the original Northern Cross headquarters on the First Wyvern.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“You mean that underground cavern?” mused Edmun. “I thought the Northern Cross has completely abandoned it. There’s nothing there. Why would you choose that as a meeting place?”

 

“Nothing’s there, so not too many people will be around.” Lucian gave his friends a wink. “Renault wants me to tell him a secret…and I might just do so. But I don’t want to do it when the whole world’s watching, you know?”

 

“Fair enough. I’ll be there, Lucian. You’re a man of your word, aren’t you? If you’re not…”

 

“Yeah, don’t worry, Renault. Sacaens aren’t the only ones who keep their promises.” He grinned at Hassar, who allowed himself a chuckle and a small smile.

 

“Oh, wow!” cried Prudence, who had wandered off to peer down at the view below the tower. “Look at that! The battle’s stopped!”

 

Her companions joined her, and when they looked down they saw she was right. They could see no more explosions or falling ballista bolts, and though it was hard to tell from so high up, the Crossmen seemed to be surrendering.

 

“Wow,” said Wallace, his voice low, “So much green…” He turned his eyes from the ground below and then looked to the clear blue sky above. “It’s really beautiful up here.”

 

“Sure is,” said Renault, grinning as he felt another cool breeze ruffle his hair. Lucian, Prudence, Edmun, and Hassar said nothing, but their actions evinced their agreement: They were all standing beside Wallace and Renault, enjoying the wonderful view of the land they had just saved.

 

They would all be brought back to reality soon enough. But for now, a few moments of appreciation for the lovely panorama before them was the least they deserved.

 

-x-

 

Renault’s team was happy, almost deliriously so, and they had a right to be—how many other people on Elibe accomplished what they had? They were too busy basking in their success to pay much attention to their seemingly benign surroundings.

 

So they didn’t notice that they weren’t alone.

 

Atop one of the four spires crouched a sinister figure in a black robe, looking almost exactly like Cypher. He had been there, watching, ever since the battle had started. He had seen the rebels march out under the Cross-morph’s orders to get slaughtered, observed the ritual Cypher had conducted, and taken note of his ultimate failure and death.

 

Now it was time to return to his master with what he’d found.

 

He unlimbered a Warp staff from his robes and held it over his head, allowing the white light to surround him and spirit him away before his hapless targets could even notice he was there. He soared through time and space, until the light brought him to his destination.

 

It could have passed for a dungeon. Cold, dank, and dark, located deep underground, the only light and warmth came from two torches placed next to the throne he had appeared in front of.

 

Uninviting, certainly, but for him this place was home. And the person seated in that throne was his lord and master.

 

“Lord Nergal, I return to give you my report,” he said as he bowed. “Cypher has failed.”

 

“I thought as much,” said the turbaned sorcerer. His one good eye seemed to glitter with mild amusement rather than displeasure, however. “Still, it was a worthy experiment. Renault was there, wasn’t he? Did you see him?”

 

“I did. He still wields chaindagger and sword with great skill, as you told me he would. But he is still no match for you, lord.”

 

“Excellent. Tell me, did he appreciate those special morphs we deployed just for him? And the battle on the tower…I’d hoped it would bring back memories of Zodian’s Rest, where he once told me he’d fought. I just wished he could have seen Lucian fall from the tower’s pinnacle…he might have told Cypher to expect that man to show up again, at least if the story he mentioned about Tassar was true.”

 

“It wouldn’t have saved Cypher in the end, though.” They both chuckled.

 

“An amusing diversion, but we’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.” Nergal’s voice grew grave. “What, exactly, happened to Cypher? Why did he fail?”

 

“The way to Archanea is…guarded, Lord. Any attempt to open one with a gate constructed by humans results in creatures pouring forth and killing those who summoned them. That is how Cypher and the Dragon-hunters you gave him were destroyed. The humans apparently believe it to be the work of their God.”

 

“God? How amusing.” Nergal snickered. “No, it was merely a lack of understanding on the part of those foolish men who built the altars. It is not enough to merely create a gate between worlds. You must _secure_ it. The space between Elibe and Archanea…or between all the worlds…is patrolled by ravenous creatures who wish only to devour everything they see. The greater mass of the universe is raw, uncontrolled chaos…the little worlds men and Dragon inhabit are but small islands of stability in that roiling sea of insanity.”

 

“Does this mean we have failed, Lord Nergal? The creatures of this…space…between the worlds have no quintessence to harvest. If we cannot access the world of the Dragons…”

 

“Do not give up so easily. Traversing the worlds _can_ be done. Human attempts at doing so always fail because human beings lack the knowledge and power of the Dragons.” Now he frowned. “Even I have yet to acquire that power…but I can still exploit it. The Dragons created gates of their own, my minion, gates far larger than the petty little altar I sent Cypher to play with. These were strong enough to…reinforce the pathway, so to speak. Given enough quintessence, they can secure the trail between worlds, creating a shield that the creatures of the Interstice cannot penetrate. Man and Dragon can come and go from either worlds as they please without fear of those howling locusts.

 

“Unfortunately, while I know how those Dragon Gates operate, even I cannot command them. They can be opened _only_ by Dragons.”

 

“What, then, shall we do?”

 

“I can use the Dragon’s Gate to carry my voice to Archanea, at least.” Nergal’s gaze flickered, as if he was coming close to remembering something he forgot…but failed. “Children? …no matter. What was I saying? I can call to the dragons of the other world, inviting them home. They’ll listen to my sweet words, and will be drawn to Elibe like moths to the flame…”

 

“Where we can harvest them at our leisure.”

 

“Exactly.” Nergal grinned. “Even this plan, however, will require a great deal of quintessence…a _great_ deal. A small army might have been enough for Cypher to activate the altar at Bluemoon Tower, but it will not suffice to open the Dragon’s Gate. For that, we will need the life force of entire nations.” He grinned at his servant. “Cypher did well to engineer open conflict between the Northern Cross and the canton of Caelin. It is a expedient strategy…let us continue using it. Let us search in Bern. There may be a similar organization there we can exploit.”

 

“You are wise indeed, Lord Nergal….”

 

“And once we find such an organization…let us manipulate it towards more than petty vandalism and terrorism. Let us see if it can cause a full-scale civil war in Lycia…and after that, perhaps even between Etruria and Bern. That would provide us with more than enough quintessence to open the Gate. You will help in this pursuit, will you not?”

 

“Without fail, my lord. You assigned me specifically to watch over Cypher, and I have learned much from my duty. Once preparations have been set, it will be easy to set those foolish Lycians at each other’s throats.”

 

“Good…I’m very glad to hear that.” Nergal grinned as his servant stood up, allowing his black hood to fall from his face…revealing his golden eyes and his curly black hair, tied up in a ponytail.

 

“I expect you to serve me well…Ephidel.”

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Haha, I hope this chapter was as action-packed as you’ve come to expect from me! A couple of notes:

 

I know this is the third time someone has fallen off a tower and not died, but as Nergal implies at the end, a lot of the circumstances in this plot arc were set up specifically to screw with Renault’s head, simply because Nergal wanted to amuse himself.

Also, I put Ephidel in here cause my friend Lord Ephidel wanted a cameo :D

 

Finally, some music to go along with the chapter:

 

Assaulting the Tower: Sorcerian, the Stolen Scepter

 

Very end, as the good guys look over the land they’ve saved: “Embrace Tomorrow,” from Dragon’s Heaven.

 

Look both songs up on Youtube :D


	56. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mission complete, Renault says goodbye to Wallace.

**­Chapter 56: The Promise**

Renault had to admit, he hadn’t done this well on a job in a long, long time.

 

There was no resistance whatsoever as he and his friends descended down the Bluemoon Tower the same way they’d came. The remaining Northern Crossmen were too confused and demoralized to do anything, and indeed, judging by what Renault had seen from the top of the tower, they’d surrendered. They were being rounded up by Hausen’s victorious army, and by the time Renault and company had gotten down to the fifth floor, they were beginning to occupy the tower itself. One of the approaching Caelin soldiers, leading away a couple of Northern Cross prisoners, noticed them and prepared his weapon, thinking they were leftover “phantoms”—they hadn’t taken off their robes or black armor. Fortunately, though, Renault wasn’t wearing his helmet, and the soldier recognized him when he came near.

 

“W-wait, Sir Renault?” said the young spearman. “A…and the rest of you, you’re the special team Lord Hausen sent to rescue Madelyn! Were you—“

 

Renault gave him a wide smile and motioned towards the girl sleeping peacefully in Hassar’s arms. “Yeah, we were successful. How about leading us to Lord Hausen so we can give him the good news?”

 

The soldier let out a loud cheer. “You guys are heroes! You’ll be famous all over Lycia for this, Lord Hausen’ll be sure of that!”

 

They were all already aware of that, though a friend of theirs made sure that prediction wouldn’t apply to him—Lucian had slipped away some time earlier, making sure not to be noticed by either the Caelin troops or his fellow Crossmen. In any case, their friend wasted no time in seeing them to Hausen and Lundgren.

 

The two nobles had set themselves up at the center of the first floor of Bluemoon Tower, dealing with the various problems posed by victory in battle: maintaining casualty figures, gathering up and caring for the wounded, and of course, deciding what to do with the many prisoners they’d taken. Well, Lundgren was the one dealing with most of that, as Hausen was too busy pacing back and forth frantically, waiting for news of his daughter.

 

And when he finally received word—when the young soldier descended the final set of stairs to the first floor, Renault’s team behind him, Madelyn still sleeping soundly in Hassar’s arms—the expression on his face could be described as nothing sort of ecstatic.

 

“Madelyn…Madelyn!! _Madelyn!!!_ ”

 

He shouted his daughter’s name loudly enough that it seemed to shake the foundations of the tower itself. Everyone, imprisoned Crossmen and victorious Caelin soldiers alike, stopped what they were doing to look at him. He didn’t care. He rushed over to Hassar, who showed allowed him to take the young abductee. He held her up in the air, tears streaming down his face as he repeated her name over and over. This was enough to wake her up again.

 

“W…who…? D…daddy?”

 

“Yes, Madelyn! It’s me! It’s your father! You’re alright…you’re alright…and I’ll never let you go again! I promise!”

 

“Daddy… _Daddy!_ ”

 

She was crying again, now, and reached out for him. He brought her down so she could hug him, and she latched onto him as tightly as Hassar had held her while he was rescuing her. They both alternated between sobs of relief and laughs of joy, and everyone watching the scene Crossmen and Caelin soldiers alike—except for Renault, whose heart was as cold as his body—could not keep themselves from smiling at this happy reunion.

 

Well, except for Renault and one other person. Lundgren was very pleased at this turn of events, though more because he loved a good military victory than any concern for his niece. However, he knew it was time for his brother to deal with some of the more pressing questions they had at the moment.

 

“Hausen,” he said. No response—father and daughter were still too busy embracing and enjoying the end of their weeks-long ordeal.

 

“Hausen. _Hausen!_ ”

 

This finally got his attention. “Eh?” He sniffled, putting his daughter down (who promptly latched on to his leg) and looking at his brother, wiping tears from his eyes. “Lundgren, I’ve just got my daughter back! By the Saint, let me look at her, at least!”

 

“You can enjoy all the family time you want _after_ our victory is secure,” retorted Lundgren. “For now, haven’t we more important matters to attend to? Like hearing the report?” He gestured towards Renault and his team.

 

“Yes…yes, I suppose you’re right.” Hausen turned towards the heroes, his expression only slightly less happy than it had been when he had first laid eyes on his daughter.

 

“Renault…Prudence…Edmun…and you too, Wallace and Hassar. I…I don’t know how I can even begin to thank you. You’ve exceeded my wildest expectations, my most fervent hopes and dreams. You’ve beaten the Northern Cross, restored peace to Caelin…no, all of Lycia, and most of all…you saved my daughter’s life. How…how did you do it?”

 

Renault smirked. “It’s a hell of a story.” He recounted everything that had happened after his little rowboat had made landfall—the dash up the tower, the confrontation with the Cross-Morph, Cypher’s attempt to open a Dragon Gate with the quintessence harvested from the Northern Cross and the Caelin army when they fought each other, his death at the hands of the creatures he had summoned, and finally, Hassar rescuing Madelyn and Prudence destroying the altar which kept the gate open. Of course, he left out all mention of Lucian, as the Swordmaster had requested, and his friends kept silent as well.

 

“My lord…what a fantastic tale,” breathed Hausen. “I…I scarcely would have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. But everyone saw the sky darken around the tower, the lights in the sky, and those horrible, otherworldly screams from its spire before everything stopped…yes, Renault, I believe you. I believe every word you say.” He straightened up to look the Mercenary Lord right in the eye. “You may be a sellsword, but you are nonetheless a true hero to Caelin…to all of Lycia…and perhaps all of Elibe. Anything you want, Renault— _anything—_ I will give to you.”

 

“I’m grateful for your generosity, but I don’t really need that much. Someone else has what I’m really after, and I’m still searching for him. Still…I’d like some money. About ten thousand gold should be enough to cover traveling expenses and repairs.”

                                                                                       

“Consider it done, Renault. I’ll pay out of my own pocket! And now for you…” He turned to Hassar.

 

At this, his daughter chimed in. “He…he saved me, Daddy,” Madelyn chirped. She was still clinging to her father’s leg, but she was not looking at Hassar with pure, undiluted admiration—almost awe. “He…he was so brave!”

 

Hausen’s expression became even warmer than it had been when speaking to Renault. “Lad, if even half of what Renault has told me is true, and Madelyn certainly thinks it is, you’re a true hero as well. I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: I was prejudiced against your people once, but you’ve shown me time and time again how foolish such prejudice is. You are living proof that the men of Sacae are every bit as worthy as those of Lycia or Etruria, or anywhere else on Elibe! You fought to the top of this tower and braved the tendrils and fangs of otherworldly monsters to rescue the daughter of a foreigner. If that isn’t heroism, nothing is! As far as I’m concerned, you ought to be knighted on the spot!”

 

“Don’t be foolish, Hausen!” Lundgren, apparently, still hadn’t let go of his anti-Sacaen sentiments. 

 

Hassar, however, took it all in stride. “It was my honor and my duty to serve. Now that the darkness has fled from Lycia, it will never threaten my homeland either.” He gave Madelyn one of his calm, reassuring smiles. “Besides, no true man of Sacae could stand and do nothing when a maiden is in danger.”

 

Hausen laughed. “Spoken like a true knight! So you’ll take me up on my offer?”

 

Hassar pondered the question for a moment, then looked at Wallace. “I cannot be a knight. I must return to my homeland one day. But for now, I would like to stay among you. I have learned so much from Wallace and Renault. I have not learned everything I can.”

 

“Consider yourself a part of my family in Caelin for as long as you like, Hassar.” Lundgren didn’t seem too pleased with this, but at the moment he knew it would be most unwise to protest.

 

Then, he came to Edmun. “Sir Edmun, you have more than redeemed yourself for the defense of Castle Caelin. Without your help, this mission would have ended in failure and my daughter would be dead…or worse. You are one of the greatest knights in Caelin’s history. If there is anything you desire…”

 

“No, my lord,” Edmun shook his head. “I already have everything I want. I have made up for my failure and restored my honor. That is enough for me.”

 

Now for Wallace. “You may be young,” Hausen began, “but you’ve more courage than many a man thrice your age. You’ve fought through the most dangerous missions I’ve given you without losing your life or your will to fight. Wallace, in honor for your accomplishments…I dub you a knight!”

 

Wallace’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates—and so did Lundgren’s. “Brother, he’s not even reached his thirteenth year yet! You can’t possibly—“

 

“He may be the youngest knight in Caelin’s history, but he’s earned it. What do you say, lad? We’ll have the official ceremony when you get back, but if you want it, you can consider yourself Sir Wallace right now!”

 

“Y…yes,” said the newly minted knight, still not quite comprehending the honor he’d been given. Then it sunk in. “Yes! _Yes!_ L-Lord Hausen, Sir Edmun, I’ll do it! I’ll become a knight! I swear, I’ll never let you down! Not as long as I live!”

 

Hausen nodded in approval…then his expression became a bit more quizzical rather than pleased when he turned to the last member of the team. “Miss Prudence…while you may have started out as our enemy, and I confess you have a rather…unique…personality, none can deny you have a good heart, nor your genuine concern for the people. Your destruction of that altar saved my daughter’s life…and perhaps many more lives as well. Anything you ask shall be given to you.”

 

“Anything?”

 

Lundgren grimaced. “Within reason.”

 

“I want a husband!”

 

“ _Within reason_ , woman!”

 

“Hmph. Well, first off, I want the Northern Cross to be treated well. They’re still my friends, and they shouldn’t be punished for what Cypher did!”

 

Lundgren was about to deny her request, but Hausen would have none of it. “That we can do, milady. I understand very well that your grievances were not entirely unjustified. To prove my goodwill in rectifying those grievances, I will not punish the Crossmen, so long as they swear not to take up arms against us again. Is there anything else you want?”

 

“I…hmm…” She scratched her head. “I…I don’t really know. I think I need some time to think about it all…”

 

“You may have all the time you’d like.” At last, Hausen turned to Lundgren. “Dealing with the Northern Cross prisoners is the last thing we have to do here before we can leave. I want them all assembled on the field in front of this tower as soon as possible. I will give a speech telling them the truth behind everything that has happened—what really happened to Cross and Cypher’s true goals—and then allow them to return to their homes and families so long as they promise not to disrupt the peace.”

 

“How do you know they’ll not rise up again in the future? After all the trouble they’ve caused, we should simply kill them all, as an example to those who would defy us!”

 

“I’ve no taste for bloodshed, Lundgren. If that makes me a poor ruler in your eyes, so be it. If they rebel again, we’ll destroy them again, but on the occasion of a victory such as this, I believe we can be generous with second chances.”

 

That was his final word on the matter. “Give these orders to the troops,” he called. “Gather together our prisoners and I shall give them my speech. We will reveal publicly everything that happened here—Cypher’s betrayal of the Northern Cross, his fell ritual, and, of course, how he was stopped by our heroes of the realm: Renault the Impervious, Edmun the Steadfast, Hassar of the Lorca, Wallace, the youngest knight of Caelin, and Prudence, the, um…pure and untouched maiden. Yes. We will take their oaths to lay down their arms, and then we shall let them go…and return to Castle Caelin! There is a great celebration waiting for us, after all!”

 

With the loudest cheer Renault had ever heard, the assembled soldiers happily obliged.

 

-X-

 

Ironically enough, the most trying—if not the most difficult—part of Renault’s mission came after its completion.  


He had to say his goodbyes.

 

It was the evening of the 4th Pegasus, and several hours earlier, Hausen had delivered his speech to the Northern Cross prisoners. They had accepted what he’d told them with virtually no reservations whatsoever, as none of them trusted Cypher, and the moment they’d seen that strange storm building above Bluemoon Tower, followed by the sudden disappearance of his “phantoms,” they realized he’d been up to no good. As a result, their will to fight had mostly evaporated when Cypher had been killed. Though a few of them still held grudges against the Caelin army, the vast majority had been willing to lay down their arms. At the moment, they were still being kept under guard, but they would be let go soon, in all likelihood. After that, the Caelin army would begin its victorious march back home. Right now, the army had made camp just outside of the tower, and after a good sleep tonight would begin their march. Hausen and Lundgren had retired to their commander’s tent in the center of the army formation, though neither had gone to sleep yet. Madelyn had, though—she had nestled down and fallen asleep on the blanket where Hausen would be resting tonight, as well. It wasn’t as comfortable as the beds she was used to, but at the moment proximity to her father was the most important thing, as she probably wouldn’t want to stay anywhere away from him for the next few days after her ordeal.

 

Hausen was getting tired, and would have liked to join her, but was currently caught up with yet another argument with his brother. At least he was—before Renault entered their tent and cleared his throat.

 

“Damnation, Lundgren, I’ve already told you, there will be no punitive action taken against the prisoners! I—“ He turned when he heard the Mercenary Lord’s cough. “Hm? Renault, what is it? It’s getting late, I’m busy with Lundgren, and everyone needs some rest.”

 

“Sorry, Lord Hausen.” Renault bowed his head. “This’ll be quick, but it’s important.”

 

“Well then,” Lundgren snapped, “Get on with it!”

 

“I have to leave.”

 

Both of them were taken aback by this. “What? Why?”

 

“My job here’s done, isn’t it? Now that Cypher’s dead, you should be enjoying some peace and quiet for a long time. You don’t need me anymore.”

 

“Well, this battle may be over, but your services have been invaluable to us. Why must you leave now?”

 

“I’m a mercenary. Not the first you’ve hired, right? You know we don’t stay in one place for very long. I’ve gotten what I needed from this mission and there’s someplace else I need to go. I need to leave soon if I wanna get there in time”

 

“Where?” asked Lundgren suspiciously.

 

Renault scowled. “Not far. That’s all I’ll say. What business is it of yours? It’s got nothing to do with you, or even the rest of the Lycian League. It’s entirely personal.”

 

Lundgren seemed as if he’d say more, but Hausen cut him off. “Everyone has secrets, especially mercenaries. Renault has served us well, and I don’t think he’ll betray us now. If he says he has personal business to attend to, I believe him.” He strode up to the Mercenary Lord and offered his hand. “I won’t lie—you’ve been a great help to us, and I wish you could stay in Caelin longer. But if this is where we part ways, I wish to thank you, Sir Renault, for everything you have done. The people of Caelin, my daughter, and myself are all in your debt.”

 

Renault accepted the proffered hand. “I’m glad. I wish the best for you and your people, Hausen.”

 

“I suppose you’ll be wanting this, too,” said Lundgren with a disdainful look on his face. He grabbed a large pouch nearby and tossed it to Renault, who caught it with a satisfied grin on his face as he heard the clink of coins inside it. “Your reward, which my brother set out for you.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“You’ll want to say your goodbyes to Wallace and Hassar, won’t you?” The disdainful expression grew a little harsher. “That girlish little squire and his mongrel friend are so fond of you, after all.”

 

 _He’s more of a man than you are,_ Renault thought. He didn’t say so out loud, of course. He merely allowed himself a slight smirk and another nod before leaving the tent.

 

As he did so, however, he realized that Lundgren was right. He could just leave, of course, but still, who knew what Wallace would do if he didn’t show up the next morning. As inconvenient as it may have been—and, if he was being truthful to himself, because he didn’t want to just leave the youth behind, either—Renault did owe the squire an explanation, at least.

 

As good fortune would have it, Wallace and Hassar weren’t too far away. Renault heard the clack and thump of wooden weapons nearby—though it was getting late, Wallace, Hassar, and Edmun had apparently chosen not to go to sleep just yet. Edmun was overseeing another sparring match between Hausen and Wallace. Though the two boys had been richly praised, to their credit they hadn’t allowed it to go to their heads. Instead, their determination to better themselves had been renewed.

 

Renault raised a hand as he walked up to the three of them. “Hey! Renault!” Both Wallace and Hassar lowered their weapons as they ran up to him eagerly. “Sir Edmun was just teaching me a couple of tricks with the spear and I was trying them out on Hassar. He said they’ll come in handy when we get back to Caelin and they make me a real knight. Wanna see?”

 

Renault chuckled—a bit sadly, though the boy didn’t notice. “Sorry, Wallace. That’s not why I’m here.”

 

“Ah, okay. It is getting late…maybe tomorrow, then?”

 

“I won’t be here tomorrow.”

 

Wallace looked up at him uncomprehendingly, though Edmun sighed and Hassar nodded in understanding. “W…what do you mean?”

 

“I’m leaving, Wallace. My job here’s done. I have someplace else I need to be.”

 

Wallace recoiled, as if struck. “R…Renault…why? Why now?! After everything we’ve been through together, you’re just—“

 

“Wallace,” said Edmun sternly, but Renault raised a hand to cut him off.

 

“It’s alright, Sir Edmun. I’ll deal with this. Can you let us three have some time alone?”

 

“Alright.” With a nod, Edmun retreated a respectful distance from Wallace, Hassar, and Renault, too far away to hear their conversation. This allowed him to turn his attention back to Wallace, who looked as if he might start crying.

 

“Wallace,” he began, “you heard what Lucian said earlier today, right? I have an appointment to keep with him, and it’s sure not honorable to break a promise with someone. The date’s coming up pretty soon, and I have to get moving _now_ or I’ll miss it. I really wish I could attend your dubbing, but I just don’t have time.” He grinned down at his friend. “Come on, it’s not that bad, right? You managed to live through this whole war, right by my side. I don’t think you need me to handle one little ceremony.”

 

Wallace chuckled, and it seemed he was no longer in danger of crying. “Yeah, that’s right, Renault! I’ll make you proud! I’ll be a little sad if you won’t be there, but Mr. Lucian did say to meet him on the first of next month…but it’s okay!” He looked up to Renault with a very hopeful expression in his eyes. “You’ll be back after that, won’t you?”

 

This was the tough part. Renault sighed and grimaced. “Wallace…look, I don’t want to lie to you. You wanna know the truth? Maybe not. Probably not. I have to tell you honestly: This may be the last time we ever meet.”

 

A look of shock spread once again over Wallace’s face. “What?! Renault, I…that’s…I can’t accept that! I won’t!” His hands clenched into fists, and tears formed at his eyes. “We’ve been through so much together, and I’ve learned so much from you, Renault! I can’t…how can you…”

 

Hassar put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Some men travel with the wind. Renault is one of those men.” He then looked up at the Mercenary Lord. “I, too, have learned much from you. I will never forget my debt to you, Renault, and I will ensure your name is honored among the Lorca.”

 

Renault rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry too much about that.” Then, with another sigh, he turned his attention back to Wallace, reaching down and cupping the youth’s chin, forcing him to look up.

 

“Look, kid, I’m a mercenary,” he growled. “You should’ve learned this from me already! We aren’t knights. We aren’t bound to any one land or lord. You’re gonna be with Hausen, with Caelin, till the day you die, least if he really does make you a knight. But mercenaries like me, we go from place to place, wherever we can find work. I won’t be the last mercenary you fight beside, so don’t get too attached to any you meet in the future. Consider that my last lesson for you.”

 

“But…but…Renault…”

 

“You’re gonna be a knight, soon. Is this any way a knight should behave? Of course not. People are gonna leave you, Wallace, sooner or later. That’s something any soldier—knight or mercenary—has to get used to. You _will_ lose friends in battle, and you _will_ see people you care about die. You can’t just break down and cry over every one of them. So don’t you dare disappoint me the last time I see you. Stop your sniffling, dry your tears, and remember what I taught you. Stay strong, and don’t let your emotions overwhelm you. When you watch me leaving you behind, don’t despair, but take it to be a message—a message to become the best knight you possibly can.”

 

Wallace let out one last sniffle and rubbed at his eyes, but when he looked at Renault again, there was determination rather than sadness there, this time. “I…alright. You’re right, Renault…again…just like always.”

 

“Good lad. Oh, and one more thing. Don’t chase after me, either. That’ll annoy me more than you can possibly imagine. You’re a knight of Caelin now, and you’re supposed to be too mature for that sort of thing. If you don’t see me again, don’t go looking for me. Just stay here, serving Lord Hausen and his people. Doin’ your duty well is a better way of showing you really learned from me than anything else.”

 

“I…but…all right.” Wallace gave him another nod. “I’ll do what you say, Renault. I’ll never abandon Caelin or Lord Hausen, no matter what happens!”

 

“Heh. I’m glad.” He smiled. “That’s it, then.” He stood up, tall and straight, and turned around, preparing to resume his centuries-long journey. “Good luck, Wallace.”

 

“Renault, wait! There’s…there’s something else.”

 

“Eh?” Renault turned back, somewhat surprised. “Come on, this has taken long enough.”

 

“I-it’s not what you think. I don’t want to make you stay or anything. It’s something else!”

 

“Well, what is it?”

 

“Renault…I want you to hear this. I want to make a promise to you!”

 

“A promise?” Renault couldn’t hide the expression of surprise on his face. “What kind of promise, Wallace?”

 

“I…it’s this.” Wallace stood up straight as well, clearing his throat, and in that moment—even though he barely came up to Renault’s chest—he seemed more like a knight, more like a man, than he ever had before.

 

“Renault, I swear on my honor as a knight, on everything I hold dear, that I’ll always fight for the sake of the people. I’ll only raise my spear in defense of a just cause. And I promise you that no matter what happens, I’ll never use the skills you taught me for evil.”

 

Renault blinked. It was as if he’d been struck by something upon hearing those words, and he simply stared at Wallace for a long moment, mouth slightly agape.

 

“R…Renault?”

 

Renault couldn’t hear him, for he was no longer there. He had been transported far away…far, far away. All the way back to an orchard in Etruria…two hundred years ago. And there, he heard a young girl speaking as clearly as if it was yesterday.

 

_“I promise! I'll make my sister proud, and I'll make you and Renault proud too! I promise that I'll always fight for the sake of the people! I promise that I'll never use what you and Braddock taught me for evil! And I'll keep that promise for as long as I live!"_

With a dazed expression on his face, Renault reached out to gently stroke Wallace’s green hair, and spoke a single name:

 

“Keith…”

 

“Sir Renault…you’re calling me that name again.”

 

This was enough to snap Renault back to reality. He immediately withdrew, looking down at Wallace with a somewhat angry expression. The youth didn’t back down, though and for that, Renault’s ire receded somewhat.

 

“S-sorry, Wallace. It’s just that...Keith made a promise like that to me, a long time ago. Almost the exact same words.”

 

“R…really? She made a promise to you too? So then…I was wondering…what happened to her?”

 

“She’s dead.” Renault gazed down at Wallace, and his expression was now cold. “Pretty nasty death, too. She was a mercenary like me, but she had the same naïve ideas you do. Remember, Wallace, you’re a knight. You’re supposed to serve your lord before anything else. What if your idea of justice, or what’s good for the people, diverges from whoever the lord of Caelin may be in the future? You think you can keep your promise then? And what if you run up against an enemy stronger than you? A situation you can’t escape from? You still gonna keep true to your oath?”

 

“Yes, Renault. I will.” There were no more tears from Wallace, nor was there any hesitation in his voice. There was nothing but determination there, now—a man’s determination, as strong and unbending as steel. Wallace had already grown quite a bit while training with Renault; he was already taller and sturdier of frame than Keith had been, and nobody would ever mistake him for a girl, at this point. In a few years, if he kept training (and eating well), he would probably become a very big man, maybe even larger than Renault. But at that moment, more than anything else, it was his words that indicated who he would truly be:

 

“I risked my life beside you and Hassar. I’m not scared of death…not anymore. Even if I die for this promise…even if I fight a whole army, even if I have to fight all of Bern! I’ll never break this oath, no matter what happens! Even if we never see each other again, Renault, I’ll stay true for as long as we live, no matter where we die!”

 

Renault smirked. In other circumstances, he might have been amused, or even scornful, but not now. He again reached out to Wallace, this time to clap him proudly on the shoulder.

 

“Those’re some big words, kid. But you really seem to believe ‘em, and I haven’t seen that kind of sincerity in a long time. A long, long, time. Alright, then. Let’s see how well you keep that promise. Who knows, maybe I won’t be disappointed.”

 

And with that, his time here was truly over. There was nothing more that needed to be done. The sun was beginning to rise, and for the last time, Renault turned from his friends and walked away, towards the gate which would take him out of Caelin and out of their lives. He raised a hand as he walked and called out to them:

 

“Hassar! Wallace! Stay well!”

 

Those were the last words he would ever speak to Hassar.

 

They would not be his last words to Wallace.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

A small chapter, but hopefully one that’s got a whole lot of stuff in it. Wallace’s promise is a reference to the one he mentioned in his B support with Renault, and, as you can tell, Keith’s promise to Renault way back when. ;_; Also, Hausen seems to like Hassar, but remember, he doesn’t want his daughter to marry the man…I thought it made sense for Hausen to like Hassar because Wallace mentions knowing Hassar well, which wouldn’t make sense unless he was on good terms with the lord of Caelin as well (if he wasn’t, he would have been kicked out long ago). Anyways, the next few chapters will be dark, but after those…well, let’s just say there will finally be a bit of light at the end of the tunnel for Renault. <3


	57. Renault's Last Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault settles things with Lucian.

**Chapter 57: Renault’s Last Duel**

“Lycia isn’t that bad, I guess,” Renault muttered to himself as he wandered through the abandoned, fallow fields in which the entrance to the former Northern Cross stronghold was located. Though he’d spent more than a bit of time in this country over his years of wandering, he’d never before paid much attention to its natural beauty. Partially this was due to his own belief in Etrurian superiority; though it had died down over the decades, he still found it difficult to say anything nice about a land besides his birthplace. However, he also remembered the very first time he’d came to Lycia—two centuries ago, when Braddock was still alive, in order to ambush the Bernese weapon called Barbarossa. Enjoying a sunset from high atop the Orange Mountains, Renault had been struck by the image of the land itself, and now that he was down close to it, he found it was just as picturesque as it had seemed from afar.

 

At first glance, that might seem to be a strange sentiment, given the field he was currently tramping through. The farmer who had owned it had promptly fled when he heard he was living right over the headquarters of Lycia’s most infamous band of terrorists, and the army which had descended upon the area had not been gentle to the crops. Though Hausen would undoubtedly reimburse the farmer when he had the chance, for now, the fields were covered with dead plants which hadn’t been tended to or just trampled and smashed by the Caelin troops and their Ostian allies. Despite all that, however, the land’s natural beauty still shone through.

 

Beyond the dead crops Renault could see gentle, green, rolling hills, peppered with lovely purple and yellow flowers. Above them, a calm sun shone bright and clear within clean blue skies, providing neither too much nor too little heat—Renault enjoyed the sensation of a cool breeze across his face. All around him, too, the animals he had never outgrown his love for in the course of two centuries frolicked and played. Sparrows and starlings darted through the air to alight on the ground, pecking at any discarded grains of wheat they could find; they were assisted in this task by voles and field mice, popping in and out of their burrows in the ground to munch on anything they could before retreating from the massive, armored intruder so rudely blundering through their domain.

 

Renault thought of leaving them a few morsels taken from his supplies—his friends in the Caelin army had been very generous with their rations before he set away from them, wishing to give him anything they could above and beyond the respectable reward he’d already received from Hausen. He would have rejected them if he could (they didn’t know he no longer needed to eat) but they were most insistent, so he simply took their offer. The animals around here could have made better use of his food than he could, but then again, they were already well-fed as it was, and it’d take time to make friends with them—time Renault didn’t want to waste.

 

Renault grinned as he came across the small, inauspicious hole in the ground which served as the entrance to the underground labyrinth of the Northern Cross. This time, of course, it wouldn’t be filled with Morphs lying in ambush: There would be only one man waiting inside the sprawling complex, and he was an ally.

 

At least, Renault hoped he’d prove himself to be a true ally.

 

For the second time, Renault descended down the unassuming ladder leading into the subterranean labyrinth. When his feet hit the ground below, he turned and saw the area looked almost exactly as it did the last time he’d been here…with one exception. Several—not all, but several—of the torches lining the cave walls were lit. This indicated that at least one person was down here.

 

Renault had a pretty good idea of where he’d be, at least if Lucian wasn’t playing any games with him. Only about three torches were lit throughout the entire main corridor leading to the Great Hall, but that was enough for Renault to find his way there even without his helm’s enchantment lighting the way. And as he’d expected, the large double doors leading into the hall were open, and the huge room they contained was also dimly lit by a few of the torchstands inside, though not all.

 

And most importantly, Renault could hear a voice coming from there.

 

It was a single voice, no more. Even so, Renault’s right hand drifted to his Brave Sword as he advanced. As he entered the chamber, though, he could make it out clearly, hear what it was talking about, and see who it belonged to.

 

Lucian sat alone at one of the tables near the center of the room (one of the few which hadn’t been destroyed in the original fight down here), his long, beautiful blond hair looking dirty and disheveled, and his clothes seeming to be in similar disarray. He was holding a mug of ale and he looked as if he’d been crying. Renault wasn’t sure if he was drunk, but he may well have been, judging from the way he was talking to himself:

 

“Heh,” he sniffled, not having noticed Renault’s entrance, “I swear on Roland’s grave, you’d’ve given anything t’ see that last battle, Cross! Thirty of the biggest, strongest morphs that _bastard_ Cypher ever put out, gobbled up like they were nothing. I swear, when we’re drinking together in hell—“

 

“Hey. Hey, Lucian,” said Renault cautiously, stepping up to him. His hand had drifted away from the Brave Sword’s grip, though it still hovered nearby.

 

“And you were right! Damn it, you were right! This ale’s _still_ good! I kept saying over and over again that Lycia’s spirits can’t compare to Etruria’s, but you spent all that money on these casks,” Lucian gestured melodramatically towards one of the big barrels of ale on the east side which similarly hadn’t been destroyed by last month’s battle, “and when I finally drink some, what do I find? It’s as good ‘s anything I’ve ever tasted! Ah, maybe I should be glad you’re dead. You’d be laughing at me and saying “I told you so,” and you’d never let me hear the end of it!” Lucian let out a loud, bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob.

 

Renault took a few steps closer. He knew very well that Lucian’s “conversation” with Cross was his way of dealing with grief, but all the same, he needed to find out where the Shrine of Seals was located, and that outweighed any desire he had to respect a friend’s mourning. “Lucian,” said Renault steadily, but loudly this time. “Lucian!”

 

“Eh?! Who’s there?!” Lucian’s eyes flashed up, and he immediately reached out to grab the gigantic Silver Blade he had laid out on the table in front of him. However, the moment he saw Renault, the tension in his body disappeared and his eyes softened—though they were still red and bleary. “Ah…is that you, Renault?”

 

“Yeah. You said you wanted to meet me here, didn’t you?”

 

“That I did! Good to see you know how to keep an appointment. I like that in a man! Just like Cross…never made a promise he couldn’t keep.” Another bitter laugh that sounded more like a bark. “He never promised he’d live forever, so I can’t blame him for dying, I suppose.” He looked up at Renault, who was still standing there, and shook his head as if to clear it. “Bah, I’m being a terrible host. Come, sit down!” He held out his mug. “Want some of this ale? Got a hell of a kick!”

 

Renault accepted the seat, but declined the ale with a small smile and a wave of his hand. “Sorry. I’ve never been much for booze.” _And even if I was_ , he thought, _I haven’t needed anything to drink for a long, long time._

 

“Oh, come now. You’re the dour type? I thought you were more interesting than that. One swig won’t hurt! You’ve no reason to be melancholy, after all. You’re a real hero of Caelin, loved by all, and you haven’t lost a man you’ve loved and seen his work destroyed and his friends scattered.”

 

“Maybe not recently,” said Renault coldly, and the change in his tone of voice was enough to really catch Lucian’s attention. “In any case, I just don’t like beer. Sorry.”

 

“…I see,” said Lucian uneasily, putting down his mug. He actually hadn’t had much to drink, and was very far from drunk. “Well, enough of my bellyaching…Cross wouldn’t want to see me like this, anyways. You kept our appointment, so I won’t waste your time. What was it you wanted from me, Renault?”

 

“The same thing I did when we first met. Remember what we were talking about when you tried to ‘rescue’ Prudence? I’ve heard you know where the Shrine of Seals is located. Tell me.”

 

“Ahh, yes…I do remember, Renault.” Lucian reached out for his mug, as if he wanted to take another swig—and then thought better of it. “But you should remember what I told you then. ‘Tis not the sort of information to be given out promiscuously. You have to prove yourself worthy of it, first.”

 

“Worthy? The hell does that mean? But whatever. What do I have to do to prove myself ‘worthy?’”

 

“Well, you can start by telling me why you want to find the Shrine of Seals. Not that many people even know it exists. What do you want from there?”

 

“Why does it matter? We’re friends. We fought beside one another. Just tell me.”

 

“Sorry, Renault. The Shrine of Seals is a pretty important thing. I can’t just give away its location for no reason, not even to a friend.”

 

“Ugh.” Renault pondered the question for a moment. He knew he’d have to give the right answer, whether or not it was true. Thus, he tried for a lie mixed in with just a tiny bit of truth:

 

“I’m aware of what sort of power the Shrine of Seals contains. The Divine Weapons, and all that. I _need_ that power, Lucian. Hell,” and at this, he paused for just a moment, coming up with a story that might actually have been true for all he knew, “we all need it! Cypher was nothing but the servant of a far greater evil, named Nergal. He’s planning to send those Morphs of his all over Elibe, and we need the power of the Divine Weapons to stop him!”

 

Lucian sat back, looking concerned. “That _does_ sound serious, Renault. And it would make sense, too…”

 

“Alright! Let’s go! Show me the way to the Shrine of Seals! We’ll go together and stop Nergal!”

 

“Not yet, I’m afraid. How can I be sure you’re telling the truth?”

 

“Huh? What’re you talking about? Don’t you trust me?”

 

“Honestly? Not that much. You’re definitely an interesting guy, Renault, but a pretty strange one too. It’s odd enough you know what the Shrine of Seals yet, but you also seem to be pretty familiar with dark magic…a lot more familiar than any mercenary has a right to be. I’ve heard about you too, you know. You signed on with Hausen for free so you could fight that one Morph with the great blue axe…that’s what everyone says. Why? In fact, how do you know so much about Morphs in general? How did you know what Cypher was planning? How’d you know his plan would fail? And if this Nergal truly is plotting world domination…well, how’d you hear his name? I’ve never heard it before.”

 

Lucian raised an eyebrow. “Pretty suspicious, all in all. It makes me think you’re not telling me everything…and, quite frankly, it makes me think you yourself might have been involved with all this nasty dark magic, at least at some point in the past. I’m grateful you helped me so much in putting a stop to it…but did you stand against Cypher because you truly hated what he stood for, or because you just wanted to cover your own tracks? Until I’m sure of that, Renault, I can’t help you.”

 

“Alright, I can see where you’re coming from. What would prove to you that I’m sincere and good-willed? What could prove I wasn’t party to Cypher’s plans, and that I don’t serve Nergal? How can I prove that I won’t misuse the power of the Divine Weapons?”

 

“There’s one way.” Lucian stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You could tell me how you met up with this “Nergal,” or how he betrayed you, or whatever it was that brought you here, but I’d still have no assurance that your story would be true. You know what we could do, though? We could take a little detour, and that might help me verify what you’re saying.”

 

“Detour? What do you mean?”

 

“It’s a bit of a long shot…even I’m not certain of it, but…according to the king of Bern, Athos, one of the Eight Heroes, still lives. Don’t ask me how, but they say he’s been holed up in a hidden village in Nabata for the past few hundred years. If this Nergal is as great a threat to Elibe as you claim, I say we take a trip over there. It’ll take some time, but it would be worth it…not only would Athos be able to tell if you’re telling the truth, but I’m sure he’d be able to tell us more about these Morphs, and give us advice on how to stop Nergal. He’s an incredibly powerful magician, and might be able to stop Nergal without the Divine Weapons. Even if we need them anyways, there’s no way he wouldn’t be able to help. What do you say?”

 

“No! _No!_ ” Renault raised his voice and came close to yelling when he heard the name of Athos—he still remembered how the Archsage had rebuffed him over a decade ago, and realized he wouldn’t be welcomed upon a return to Arcadia. “I—We can’t go anywhere near Nabata!”

 

Lucian was taken aback by Renault’s sudden outburst. “Why? It was just a suggestion, no need to get so emotional.”

 

Thinking quickly, Renault said, “we don’t have time! Nergal’s probably almost finished with gathering the quintessence he needs. If we waste time in Nabata, he’ll complete his ritual and doom us all! We have to get to the Shrine of Seals _now!_ ”

 

At this, Lucian grew much more suspicious. “Wait, Renault. We prevented Cypher from summoning Dragons and harvesting their quintessence. That should have delayed whatever Nergal was planning. We _should_ have at least a bit more time, if what you’re saying is true. Why, then, are you so insistent we hurry? Isn’t there even more reason to enlist the aid of the Living Legend? If this Nergal is as dangerous as you say, the two of us wouldn’t be able to stand against him, even with the Divine Weapons. Why not ask Athos for help?”

 

“I don’t want to go back to Nabata. Not under any circumstances.” The dull tremor of obsession—ever so slight, but still audible—entered Renault’s voice. “No, we’re not wasting time there. We’re heading straight to the Shrine of Seals. You’ll show me the way, right?”

 

“…No. No, I don’t think so, Renault.” His expression growing cold, distant, and grim, Lucian put down his mug, grabbed his large sword, and got up. “I think we’re done here.”

 

“You haven’t told me where the Shrine is!”

 

“I never agreed to tell you. I just said I’d see if you were worthy. And I get the distinct feeling you’re not. Your story doesn’t add up, Renault, and I think you’re trying to pull one over me. Call it warrior’s intuition, but I don’t want to tell you anything.” He turned and began to walk away, towards the double doors Renault had entered from.

 

He stopped when he heard the loud clank of metal behind him.

 

He turned to see that Renault had stood up as well—and had equipped his helmet, its green visor glowing faintly red.

 

“Tell me how to get to the Shrine, Lucian.”

 

He shook his head and waved a hand in the air. “Sorry. Like I said, not interested.”

 

Before he could continue on his way, Renault moved.

 

His left arm swung forth, and there was a loud whirr as Renault’s chaindagger flew through the air. It wasn’t aimed at any of Lucian’s vital points, but the chain wrapped tightly around his raised arm. Renault withdrew his hand, and the chain grew taut. Lucian would apparently not be leaving so easily.

 

With his right hand, Renault unsheathed his Brave Sword. And once again, he repeated his request: “Tell me how to get to the shrine.”

 

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Lucian smirked as he looked at Renault’s sword. “I thought you were smarter than this, Renault. Can’t tell you where to go if I’m dead.”

 

“Dead? No. Broken? That’s a different story. I’ve seen some real nasty things in all the time I’ve spent traveling, Lucian. I know how to cause pain. I’ll subdue you, break every bone in your body, tear the nails from your fingers and toes, and keep you alive until you’ve told me where the Shrine of Seals is.

 

“I don’t want to do that. We’ve fought together and I have nothing against you. But I _will_ unlock the power of the Divine Weapons, no matter the cost, no matter what I have to do. If you don’t want to suffer, Lucian, just tell me where it is.”

 

“I don’t think so.” The Swordmaster’s expression grew even colder, and he reached up to grab the chain attached to his other arm, and Lucian clenched his fist—the fist with tbe Body Ring on it. Renault stumbled back, slightly surprised, as his foe _ripped the metal chain apart_ , as easily as if it had been just a length of string. He easily unwrapped the section curled around his arm, to which was attached Renault’s left-hand dagger, and let it fall impotently to the floor as Renault withdrew the rest of his now-useless chain back to its pauldron.

 

“I don’t like being threatened, Renault. If you’re the sort of man who’s willing to do that, you’re the sort who doesn’t deserve to set foot upon the Shrine’s holy ground. Now, just drop the subject and let’s part ways.”

 

“No,” came the Mercenary Lord’s curt, cold reply, and he took a step forwards, readying his Brave Sword. “I’m going to find the Shrine of Seals, and you’ll never escape from me until I do. I’ll hunt you down to the ends of Elibe if that’s what it will take to wrest it from you.”

 

Lucian sighed. “Going to do this the hard way, hmm? I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but it seems as if I’ve no choice.” He unlimbered his Silver Blade and leveled it at Renault, lowering his body into the distinctive stance Renault was already familiar with. “I guess I’ll have to correct your course with weapons rather than words.”

 

“I guess you will,” said Renault, taking another step forwards.

 

There was a moment of silence between them…and then both men exploded into motion.

 

Lucian charged forwards—actually, it was as if he glided forwards, his blade leading the way. Renault took one step backwards and shifted his body to the side, just in time to avoid getting skewered—though the Silver Blade did leave a long, deep scratch on his chestplate. As he did so, however, he stuck a foot out, hoping to trip up Lucian.

 

It didn’t quite work. Lucian’s leg connected with Renault’s, but he tumbled rather than fell, shifting his blade horizontally in front of him as he turned Renault’s maneuver into a flashy, acrobatic roll. That roll took him forwards far enough to avoid a thrust from Renault’s Brave Sword. He ended the roll in a crouching position, which enabled him to spring into the air with a deft jump, avoiding Renault’s follow-up attack.

 

He twisted his body before he landed so he’d be facing Renault, which allowed him to bring up the flat of his Silver Blade to serve as a wall against a slash and a thrust from the Mercenary Lord, who’d not stopped pressing the attack. He then took a few steps backwards, calmly and in control of himself, as Renault continued to surge forwards with a lightning-fast barrage of cuts and stabs, the magic of the Brave Sword allowing his arm to move far faster than a normal man’s. Lucian, however, was not exactly a normal man, and he easily deflected every attack with the flat of his weapon, shifting it up and down and turning it as required by each of Renault’s strikes.

 

As Renault drew his right hand back for one more stab, Lucian saw his opportunity. He didn’t bother to block this one but twirled to the side, barely in time to avoid being skewered, as Renault had done a minute ago. As he did so he turned his blade horizontally, so he had now launched a spinning slash.

 

The Mercenary Lord instinctively ducked, just in time, too—the incredibly sharp, enchanted metal of the Silver Blade chopped off the “horns” of his helmet. As he dropped down, Renault passed his Brave Sword to his left hand and sent his remaining chain-dagger to his right, then launched it at Lucian’s feet in the same movement, hoping to tangle him up. It failed—Lucian jumped backwards and away—but fortunately Renault had bought himself a bit more time.

 

He returned the dagger to his hand and then flicked it out again. Lucian readied his blade, preparing to bat away the weapon as it flew at him, but to his surprise, Renault hadn’t thrown the blade at him but rather to the side. The chain wrapped itself around a leg of the wooden chair he’d been sitting in before the battle started! It grew taut, and with all of his considerable strength Renault twisted his torso and pulled on it, sending it flying at Lucian.

 

Instinctively, the Swordmaster snapped down his weapon, blowing the light, flimsy chair into a cloud of wood chips. Renault’s chain unwrapped itself from the now-destroyed leg of the chair and returned to him as he rushed at Lucian, whose momentary distraction had been just what he needed.

 

At least, so he thought. Lucian had swung his Silver Blade down, and it was still pointed towards the ground, but faster than Renault anticipated, he crouched and flipped it upwards in a split second. Renault had to lurch clumsily to the side to avoid impaling himself, as if Lucian was holding a pike or spear, and it took him a moment to regain his footing.

 

And that moment was now precisely what Lucian needed.

 

With a lightning-fast flash of his hands, enhanced as he was by the power of the Body Ring, he flipped his greatsword to the side so its pommel was facing Renault, and then punched out with all his strength.

 

Renault turned and looked up, just in time for the large pommel to smash right into his face.

 

Had he not been wearing his helmet, he might have died. As it was, however, it saved his life. Renault shut his eyes as the metal of his faceplate crumpled beneath the force of the strike, and the red glow of his visor winked out as the glass cracked. He was thrown back onto the floor, and Lucian might have been able to kill him then and there if he so desired.

 

Fortunately for Renault, he didn’t. “I don’t really want to fight you, Renault,” said Lucian calmly, stepping back. “Just abandon this foolishness and let us go our separate ways.”

 

Unfortunately for Lucian, Renault wasn’t dissuaded. He merely tore his ruined helmet from his head and regained his grip on his weapons.

 

Sighing, Lucian resumed his fighting stance, and prepared for another charge. A pump of his legs brought him gliding swiftly towards Renault, sword leading the way once again. Renault ducked and rolled to the side, away from Lucian’s charge. He didn’t attempt a trip this time, and the Swordmaster stopped and turned, raising his sword to block an expected slash as Renault had tried last time…

 

And instead cried out in pain as a bolt of light slammed down on his head from above.

 

Rather than rushing at him, Renault had shifted his Brave Sword back to his right hand as he ducked and unsheathed his Lightbrand with his left, pointing it at Lucian and summoning a surge of divine energy. The man had a decent resistance to magic and the attack didn’t do much besides singe his hair, but it had thrown him off-balance and allowed Renault to regain the offensive.

 

 _Now_ Renault charged forwards, unleashing two vicious cuts with his right-hand weapon; Lucian’s Silver Blade was still in position in front of him and he parried both. Lucian’s riposte consisted of flipping his blade up and over his shoulder and jabbing out with the pommel again, hoping to score a second hit on Renault’s head that would knock him out this time. The plan failed as Renault jerked to the side, allowing the pommel to pass inches from his head and Lucian’s crossguard to slam into his armored clavicle.

 

Now Renault had Lucian right where he wanted him. He brought his knee up, straight into his enemy’s groin, and the Swordmaster let out a pained yell and staggered back. Renault followed this up by bringing his Brave Sword over his left shoulder and then jabbing its pommel at Lucian’s forehead, hoping to knock him out.

 

Despite the immense amount of pain he was in, Lucian didn’t allow himself to get caught. He raised his Silver Blade just in time to block the strike, though its force sent him reeling even further back. He yelled in pain again as Renault sent another blast of light down on him, but he’d been expecting it. He grit his teeth and swung his weapon around him as hard as he could, going into another spinning slash which forced Renault to hop back quickly.

 

Renault hoped to gain an advantage while Lucian was regaining his balance from the spin, but he’d have no such luck. Faster than he anticipated, and before he had time to launch another blast from the Lightbrand, Lucian halted his spin (quickly enough to produce a small shockwave across the ground), lowered his body, and leveled his blade in a thrusting position, launching himself towards Renault a third time.

 

Renault dodged this attack as he had the ones before it, by hopping to the side with a curse. He thought he had a clear shot at Lucian with the Lightbrand, but as the Swordmaster stopped his glide and turned back, he raised the Silver Blade over his head, and its enchanted metal stopped the bolt of light from above. He then shifted one foot behind him, put his weight on it, then reversed the action and pushed his body forwards, bringing down the Silver Blade from over his head in an incredibly powerful one-handed vertical slash.

 

Renault jumped to the side, as quickly and as far as he could, watching the blade carve a deep cleft into the stone ground. It didn’t get stuck, though, and Lucian quickly flipped it back up as he hopped back, then forwards again in a weak but very fast two-handed jab. Renault blocked this by crossing both of his weapons over his chest, but had no time to counter; Lucian continued to poke at him with those weak but quick jabs, trying to pierce through one of the spots on his chest or abdomen where the armor was less thick.

 

Renault parried frantically with both his blades to keep Lucian from breaking through, succeeded five times, and found an opportunity on the sixth. Lucian pointed his blade at Renault’s chest again, seeming as if he was going to thrust there, but Renault saw a slight hesitation in his movements which made it seem as if he was feinting. Thus, rather than attempting another deflection, Renault ducked. This was a risky move—if Lucian hadn’t been feinting, Renault wouldn’t have been able to avoid the thrust. However, he was—the moment before Renault ducked, he pointed his blade upwards to stab at Renault’s head.

 

He saw that Renault’s head was no longer there, and his reflexes were quick enough to allow him to jump back instinctively. From his crouching position, however, Renault had launched two swift cuts with his Brave Sword, and Lucian wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid the first. When he landed, he grimaced as blood trickled from a nasty gash on his shin.

 

Renault had drawn blood, and wasn’t going to stop. He charged and swung his Brave Sword down with as much strength as he could muster, and he thought Lucian would block it with both hands holding his Silver Blade. The Swordmaster had chosen to dodge rather than block, though. Ignoring the pain in his wounded left shin, he twirled to his right (Renault’s left). The Brave Sword cut through empty air, and while Renault was quick enough to dart away, he wasn’t entirely fast enough to avoid what came next altogether.

 

As he twirled, Lucian again held his greatsword away from him, thus unleashing another spinning slash. Renault had dodged away fast enough to keep it from cutting his body, but it did manage to clip the tip of his Lightbrand. The enchanted weapon wasn’t meant to endure much abuse, and even a glancing blow from the Silver Blade was enough to shatter it.

 

“Damn it!” He tossed away the wrecked, useless Lightbrand, shifted his Brave Sword to his left hand again, and drew his chaindagger in his right. Lucky for him he did, as Lucian unleashed his most powerful attack yet.

 

The Swordmaster lept into the air—and then disappeared. It wasn’t magic, though. Renault had fought against Swordmasters too many times to be fooled. He saw Lucian’s blond hair flash ahead of him—and then to his left, and then to his right. The man was moving fast enough to leave afterimages in the air, hoping to fool Renault. The Mercenary Lord, however, was keeping his eyes on the ground. He couldn’t see Lucian, but he could see the little drops of blood the Swordmaster left behind, trickling from the wound on his leg.

 

When he felt a drop of blood fall on his head, Renault knew the next attack would come from above. He hopped back, thinking he’d avoided Lucian’s attack—his back was now to the east wall of the cave, meaning Lucian couldn’t possibly be coming from behind.

 

But this would be Lucian’s victory, not Renault’s.

 

Lucian had been holding his sword with the blade pointed _up_ , not down—meaning he was crashing down with the Silver Blade’s pommel rather than stabbing with its tip. If the blow had landed, Renault would have been knocked out (at least), but the advantage of slamming down with the pommel rather than stabbing was that the blade didn’t embed itself into the floor, where it would have been stuck, leaving Lucian open for an attack. This way, however, even if he missed with his initial strike, he would be immediately ready for a follow-up.

 

“DAMN IT!” Renault realized he was in trouble when he saw that Lucian’s blade had not been jammed into the floor. Reflexively he tossed his chaindagger at Lucian, hoping to pre-empt his coming strike. The throw was true—as Lucian leveled his greatsword at Renault, the dagger sunk deeply into his right forearm. However, he did not draw back in pain—instead, with a loud yell, he leapt at Renault for the last time.

 

Renault had no time to dodge—he shifted his body to the left, but wasn’t fast enough to clear Lucian’s thrust.

 

“GYAAAAAAAH!!!!”

 

The enchanted metal of the silver greatsword blasted straight through Renault’s right pauldron, completely destroying the mechanism within, and slammed through the flesh of his shoulder, through the bone, and then out through the back. The force of Lucian’s blow pushed him backwards, taking him along with the greatsword as Lucian surged forwards. He only stopped a moment later, when the blade embedded itself into the stone wall—with him attached to it. He was pinned.

 

“Graah…” Despite the waves of agony rippling from his impaled right shoulder, Renault still wouldn’t give up. Spittle dripping from his lips, his eyes mad with rage and pain, he lashed out with the Brave Sword still held in his left hand, hoping to make Lucian pay. No good—even with an injured shin and a chaindagger stuck in his shoulder, the Swordmaster was still quick enough to hop just out of range, and Renault couldn’t follow up—as he attempted to lurch forwards, he screamed as he jostled the blade pinning him to the rock wall.

 

Even that wouldn’t stop him for long, though. Gritting his teeth and growling through the pain, he lurched forwards _again_ , pushing at the wall behind him with his legs. Saliva dripped from the edges of his mouth as he began to dislodge both the Silver Blade and his own body from the stone wall behind them. He was in truly incredible pain, but his desire for revenge was enough to keep him going.

                        

Lucian knew that given enough time, Renault would succeed—and he wasn’t doing well either. He reached out and grabbed Renault’s chaindagger, wrenching it from his flesh and then tearing it from its chain as he had done to its twin. He staggered as he did so, however, and realized he was in no condition to continue the fight. The wound to his leg was hampering his movement and Renault’s last hit with the chaindagger had severely weakened his arm.

 

Fortunately for him, he didn’t have to fight. It would take Renault some time to push out the Silver Blade from the wall and then remove the weapon from his shoulder. And that was more than enough time for the Swordmaster to make a quick getaway.

 

“Goodbye, Renault.” With his good hand, Lucian reached to his belt to retrieve a small, familiar brown pouch.

 

“No!” Renault screamed. “Damn you, Lucian! _Damn you! I’ll kill you someday! I’ll hunt you down to the ends of Elibe if I have to!_ ”

 

“Perhaps you will,” came Lucian’s grim reply, “but you’ll get nothing from me today!”

 

He ripped the pouch from his belt and slammed down upon the floor. It burst, covering the area in thick black smoke, as it had when Lucian had stopped his first duel with Renault.

 

And when it disappeared, he was gone. The only living being in this underground labyrinth was a bleeding, half-mad Mercenary Lord pinned to a wall.

 

“Lucian!” he screamed. _“LUCIAAANNN!!!!”_

And, of course, there was no answer. Even an injured Swordmaster was still very fast, and Renault had no idea if he had gone deeper into the complex or exited the same way Renault had entered—the black smoke had kept him from seeing anything.

 

“GrrraaaahhHHHH!”

 

With a final, manic burst of strength, Renault pushed himself forwards, and this was enough to finally get the Silver Blade out of the wall. He fell to the floor, and let out another anguished scream as the movement of the blade rent his flesh. Yet he still didn’t give in. He rolled over on his side, and then gritted his teeth and lifted his other hand to grip the weapon by its blade. He began to pull it out, bit by agonizing bit. He was losing blood rapidly, and his vision was growing foggy—if he was not careful, he could sever his arm entirely, but if he was too slow he’d die.

 

His skill and persistence paid off, though. After what seemed like an eternity, the last length of the blade left his flesh and clattered onto the floor. Gasping, he immediately rolled over to his back and brought his good hand to his own belt, where he found one of the few items he’d received from Hausen which would actually be of much use to him:

 

An Elixir.

 

He brought the foul concoction to his lips and took a big gulp—immediately, the pain in his arm receded, the bleeding stopped, and his vision cleared. Thankfully, he lacked a sense of taste which would have made him retch as he swallowed.

 

“Aagh…”

 

Renault allowed a few moments for the magic potion to do its work. He used his uninjured hand to steady his ravaged arm, keeping the nearly-severed limb in place as the Elixir repaired the bone, regrew the torn flesh, and regenerated the tendons and ligaments which connected it to the rest of the body. Finally, after nearly a minute, it was done. Renault worked his healed shoulder, rotating his arm and watching the muscles work as if they’d never been injured. Only the dried blood covering his body gave any indication that he’d nearly died.

 

Well, that and his ruined armor. Renault swore when he saw the damage that had been done. Both chaindaggers had been cut away, but even worse, his helmet was wrecked and his right pauldron was ruined beyond repair. The Silver Blade had completely shattered the delicate device within. Though Lycian armorsmiths had made a mass-produced set of pauldrons with a similar chain mechanism, those were built for much larger chains and were not capable of a very fine degree of control. No one in Lycia—or, likely, the rest of Elibe—would be able to make Renault’s suit as good as it originally was. Only Nabatan blacksmiths, with their knowledge of Scouring-era arms and armor, might be able to help, and he was not returning there.

 

And in any case, he didn’t have time. He had to find Lucian, no matter what.

 

“D…don’t worry, Braddock,” said Renault, a small, hysterical giggle escaping his lips. “Th…this is just a slight delay. A slight delay. I know I need to get to the Shrine of Seals, and then get you back…and I know who knows where I need to go. I just need to find Lucian again. Just need to find him again, and this time he won’t get away. He’ll tell me where the Shrine is, and then Bramimond will unseal the weapons and bring you back to me. Heh…heh, heh. Time to get started.”

 

He looked at the ground for a moment, then picked up his Brave Sword and the chaindagger Lucian had removed from his shoulder. Renault then looked back, cast the Silver Blade a disgusted look, and then kicked it aside unceremoniously—he didn’t have much experience with weapons of that size and it would have done him little good.

 

Then he began walking towards the huge double doors which led back to the entrance to the farmer’s field.

 

If Lucian had disappeared into the deeper parts of the stronghold, he would almost certainly be heading towards another exit to get back to the surface to heal his wounds, or at least escape Lycia. It therefore made sense for Renault to get back up as swiftly and as surely as he could, and begin the hunt there.

 

He wasn’t much worried about his quarry’s head start. Lucian couldn’t run forever. But Renault could.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

 

Phew! Hope that was intense, my friends. This chapter is notable for a couple things:

 

1: This is the last time Renault loses an important fight.

2: This is also the last big fight in Wayward Son with his armor. He’s not getting it repaired.

 

And you can see where this is going…;_; Next chapter, 58, is gonna be super dark, but after that, there will finally, FINALLY be some light at the end of the tunnel for Renault. After 58, however, I gotta warn you, _Wayward Son_ will also take a pretty major shift in tone/pacing. There won’t be as many epic fights, it’ll be somewhat slower and much calmer, with MUCH more focus on theology and introspection. It’ll be like a religious slice of life, really. So just keep that in mind.

 

Also, please check out my blog: gunlord500.wordpress.com. I have a lot of entries on writing, fanfiction, and a bunch of stuff :)


	58. The End of the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Renault finally gets what he wants from Lucian...

**Chapter 58: The End of the Hunt**

 

The past eight years had seemed to crawl by more slowly than the past two hundred. But today, on the 25th Archer, 958 A.S, Renault’s perseverance would finally pay off.

 

He was sitting crouched up against the wall of a small shop in one of Aquleia’s seedier districts. It wasn’t quite a slum, but it was close—unlike the almost sparkling-clean, alabaster facades of the buildings in the city center, closest to the palace, the houses here, in the eastern quarter, were grey and often covered in dirt. Though they were still nicer than the shacks and shanties which passed for dwellings in the ghettoes on the outskirts of the city, it was obvious they received little attention from Aquleia’s rulers.

 

It worked well enough for Renault, though. The grime which surrounded him had covered the ragged, mangy brown cloak which served as his disguise, further enhancing its effectiveness. This meant that the man he was so interested in would not notice the fact that he was an old acquaintance.

 

This man had just exited the door of the shop and was rounding its corner, bringing him just in front of Renault. While one hand held the package he had bought, his other arm was wrapped around that of a very beautiful blonde woman who was his wife, judging by the rings on their fingers. They were currently engaged in a somewhat heated argument over money, which Renault was just close by enough to hear. And this was what convinced him the man was his quarry.

 

“Lucian,” said the woman, hissing at her husband with exasperation in her voice, “why haven’t you gotten another contract yet? Aren’t you supposed to be a great mercenary?”

 

“Melinda, it’s not that easy,” he replied good-naturedly. “Times are peaceful these days, especially in Etruria. There’s not much work for a mercenary.”

 

“Not much reason for me to have married you, then,” she huffed darkly. “When we first met, I thought a “great swordsman” like you would do a good job of providing for his family! Don’t you want Lucius to grow up in a better environment than these slums?”

 

They were on the verge of passing him by. Renault coughed noticeably and held out a trembling hand—one which was too covered in dirt for the man named Lucian to recognize. “Alms,” he rasped, careful to distort his voice so he sounded like one of the afflicted rather than the strong mercenary Lucian would have been familiar with—if this was indeed the Lucian he was looking for. “Alms for the poor.”

 

Lucian blinked, as if he heard something vaguely familiar—then turned to look at the “beggar,” whose face was covered by his robe. “Ah, down on your luck, are you? Here, take this.” He thoughtlessly reached into a pocket and tossed a single gold piece at his caller. Renault grabbed at it, and missed intentionally, so that Lucian would not suspect an indigent of having suspiciously sure hands. And as he lurched forwards to pick up the coin, he made certain to listen to the rest of the couple’s conversation.

 

“Heavens, Lucian, we don’t-“

 

“One gold piece, my dear. Not enough to break our bank!”

 

“We have to save _every_ coin, Lucian! We’ve already run through the money we got from that silly ring of yours.”

 

“Silly ring? That was incredibly valuable, darling. Warriors all over Elibe would kill for it! Ah, maybe I would’ve gotten another job if I still had it…”

 

“Well, it was either that or that equally silly book of yours. What’s the point of even keeping it if it’s just going to moulder in that chest in the basement? Surely a Sage would be willing to spend a bit on it.”

 

“No, absolutely not,” said Lucian, and at this, his voice grew sharper. “That book was entrusted to me, and its secrets will remain safe with my family. It stays with us, no matter what happens.”

 

“F-fine.” Melinda drew back, cowed by the force in her spouse’s voice. Lucian realized he might have been harsher than intended, so he reached out a hand to stroke the woman’s long, lovely blonde hair reassuringly. “I know you only want the best for our son, darling. I’ll work harder to try and find a job. Maybe training soldiers at the Holy Royal Palace…it’s not the most glamorous duty I’ve ever held, but if it pays well I won’t complain. I’ve heard tell the Knight General has enough spears and axes and he’s looking for some good swordsmen. I’m sure there’ll be a position for me…”

 

His voice trailed off as he and his wife continued down the road, though he never stopped babbling happily.

 

He didn’t know he’d just signed his own death warrant.

 

Renault pondered the coin he’d picked up from the ground, holding it up in the air between a pair of dirty fingers and admiring how it glinted in the sun. It still had a portrait of Tages emblazoned on one side, as it had nearly three hundred years ago. There were slight differences, though—the edges of the coin were rifled while those of Renault’s day were perfectly smooth. In any case, Renault wasn’t pondering numismatics. His mind was occupied by the fact that his eight-year hunt might finally be at an end.

 

It had indeed been a very frustrating eight years, but after catching a glimpse of his “old friend” at last, Renault could understand how Lucian had eluded him for all this time. His appearance had changed drastically. His blonde hair had begun to thin and gray, despite the fact he couldn’t be more than in his mid-thirties. He had also cut it; he now wore a short-cropped hairstyle perhaps more appropriate for a man. His frame was still slight, but his face was much harder and more weathered; there were distinct worry lines creasing a visage which could have belonged to a maiden once upon a time.

 

The only thing that hadn’t changed much were his eyes, and those had given him away to Renault. Good cheer still twinkled in their bright, clear depths, though tinged with more than a bit of sadness. It seemed Lucian had still not quite gotten over the death of his friend.

 

Not that it mattered to Renault. All he cared about was that Lucian still guarded the secret to the Shrine of Seals. What else could that “silly old book” be, after all? Why would Lucian care so much about it?

 

Yes, Renault realized that he could be wrong, and it was possible the book was something else entirely. But he would deal with that problem when he came to it. And he wouldn’t be discouraged, either. He hadn’t stopped hunting for all of those frustrating eight years, so he certainly wouldn’t stop now.

 

For it had indeed been a frustrating near-decade for Renault—an _extremely_ frustrating decade. After he had lost to Lucian in the underground Lycian cave, Renault had immediately began a pursuit. By the time he’d gotten back to the surface, however, the Swordmaster was long gone. Renault, of course, had not given up. He’d headed to the nearest settlement and asked if anyone had seen long blonde hair or a massive sword. A few people had seen a swordsman heading east, so Renault went to Sacae, where he followed the tracks of a blonde-haired mercenary for about two years…before catching up, and finding he’d been following a female Myrmidon named _Lucia_. He’d cursed his luck, but his quarry was kind enough to tell him she’d been confused with someone named “Lucian” before, and that he was in Ilia. Another five years of tramping around that country’s snowy forests, and Renault heard that a famous, sword-wielding mercenary had returned “home.” Home for Lucian would be Etruria, from what Renault had recalled, and finally, upon reaching Aquleia, he’d been told of a swordsman with a massive Silver Blade who seemed to be perpetually out of work, despite his impressive skill.

 

And, at long last, Renault had found him.

 

The “beggar” looked down the street, where Lucian and his wife had gone. They were far away, but not entirely out of sight. Good. It would be easy for Renault to tail them, keeping his distance as not to be detected, and find out where they lived. He’d memorize the location…

 

And then, after the sun had set, come back for another visit.

 

-X-

 

Night had fallen. Neither the moon nor the stars shone over the small house on the eastern edge of Aquleia’s poor quarter. For Renault’s purposes, this was absolutely perfect.

 

He very much missed the enchanted helmet that Lucian had destroyed eight years ago—it would have made navigating the darkness much easier. Still, his eyes were good enough that he could make his way to his destination without too many problems. As quietly as possible, he slunk up to the front door of the modest two-story building. He’d got a good look at it earlier in the day, where he’d passed it by, unnoticed by its inhabitants, still posing as a wandering beggar. It had a relatively clean façade, much like the other houses in this residential band and unlike the dirty shanties which lay beyond them, indicating these people, at least, were just under the cusp of middle-class life. The nice shuttered windows on this house indicated its owners were closer to that cusp than their neighbors. Just a little.

 

It was through those windows that Renault found his entry.

 

One of them, on the right of the back side of the first floor, was entirely absent. The shutters covered nothing but empty air. Renault grinned as he snuck up to it. It seemed Lucian was farther away from middle-class life than he’d like to let on, no matter how he might try to hide it. In this case, it would work to Renault’s advantage. The uncovered window opening was large—not large enough to admit him comfortable, but large enough to admit him, at least. He spread wide the shutters, thankful they didn’t creak, inserted himself into the opening, and crept in.

 

It was a bit difficult, and he had to strain to squeeze his shoulders through. He succeeded, though, and without making too much noise, either. He was grateful for this, but realized he couldn’t get careless. After slinking in, he thus stayed crouched for a whole two minutes, remaining as still as a statue, listening for even the slightest trace of activity anywhere.

 

When none came, he relaxed just a bit. It seemed everyone in the household was well and truly asleep, meaning it should have been a simple task to find his way into their basement and walk away with the map to the Shrine of Seals…

 

Or so he thought.

 

Since he didn’t have his magic helmet, he couldn’t see well enough in the darkness to fulfill his goal—the longer he spent here, the greater the risk of someone waking up and finding him, and attempting to get to the basement door in this darkness would take far too long. Thus, he reached for the flint, tinder, and small wax candle he’d bought at a general store earlier in the day. He lit it, and as its light shone upon his surroundings, he could finally tell where he was.

 

Renault could see a fire pit and cauldron nearby, along with a cabinet on another wall from which he caught the faint whiff of spices. This was the kitchen, he surmised, and the next room would be the main chamber. A door to the basement would almost certainly be there.

 

Unfortunately, as he approached the door leading to that chamber, he realized he wasn’t alone.

 

He swore to himself as he heard soft, light footsteps patter on the floor in front of him, almost the very moment he passed into the main chamber. He kept calm and didn’t swear out loud, but the person he’d run into wasn’t as disciplined.

 

“Snack snack,” came a childish voice from in front of him. It was coming from the stairwell at the far side of the main chamber, which led up to the second floor. “Sn—“

 

His voice stopped when he saw the light at the other end of the room, and the man holding it. Renault could see him as clearly. It was a toddler, no more than four years old at most. A dusting of blond hair was beginning to cover his head, and he had wide blue eyes which were locked onto Renault’s own.

 

Those eyes weren’t afraid, thankfully. When the child took a step forward, however—perhaps to say hello to the new visitor which had taken his mind off a midnight snack—he tripped and fell. He was too far away for Renault to catch, and the Mercenary Lord winced as the child’s head hit the floor with a very audible _smack_.

 

 _Come on, don’t cry,_ Renault thought to himself desperately, _Don’t cry…_

 

The kid started crying. Loudly.

 

“Damn!” This time, Renault couldn’t keep himself from swearing, albeit quietly. If he was lucky, though, it’d take a while before the other occupants woke up, and it was possible he could enter the basement, take what he needed, and escape before getting caught. He hastily laid his lit candle down on a nearby table and scanned the room again. It was a pretty decent living—there was a hearth or fireplace on the west end, with a chimney extending from it and an impressive Silver Sword hanging over it. Renault got the distinct impression that sword was more than a showpiece. On the east side there were stairs leading to the second floor, and to the west…there! There was another small door, a hatch, really, near the corner of the room which almost certainly led to the house’s cellar. It was locked, but Renault also had a Master Key with him—it would almost certainly undo the lock and allow him ingress. He just needed to be quick. Ignoring the crying child, he rushed over to the hatch and knelt down before it. If he was lucky, he’d be able to unlock it within moments.

 

He wasn’t lucky.

 

“Hey! Who’s there?!”

 

Renault muttered “Damn!” for a second time, then stood up and turned to see who’d just arrived. It was the man of the house, woken up far sooner than Renault had thought possible—apparently, being a light sleeper was a mercenary’s trait he had kept.

 

Lucian was dressed in nothing but his sleeping robes, and he was descending the stairs rapidly, heading straight to his hurt son. “Lucius?!” He gathered up the crying child in his arms, then turned to the lit candle sitting on the living room table—a candle he had _definitely_ not set. And he noticed, in the corner, a shape which shouldn’t have been there.

“Who’s there?!” he called again, and now he sounded angry rather than worried. “What are you doing there? Did you do this to my son?!”

 

Renault considered what his next move ought to be. He decided on giving reasoning one more try.

 

“No,” he growled, “No! Listen, I know how this looks, but I’m not just some ordinary thief! I need one thing from you and I’ll leave, I swear!”

 

“You look much like a thief for someone who claims not to be one! Wait…that voice…” Lucian squinted his eyes and moved closer. “It couldn’t be…Renault? Renault, is that you?”

 

There was no point in hiding it, and by now, Renault was convinced this would not be ending peacefully. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me, Lucian. Haven’t forgotten, have you?”

 

“I haven’t, though I certainly didn’t expect to see you again. Why have you come here? Revenge? I could have killed you years ago, Renault. Was that what you wanted?”

 

“Maybe you should have.” His hands drifted down to his belt, where he kept his sword and his single chain-dagger, the only remnant of his once mighty armor. “But to be honest, I don’t even care that much about revenge. I’ve been searching long enough that I can look past one defeat. Just let me have the map to the Shrine of Seals, Lucian. That’s all. That’s the only thing I care about. Give me that, and I’ll consider us even. I might even pay you back for your trouble, some day.”

 

Lucian sighed and shook his head. “I’d hoped I taught you a lesson down in that underground cavern. I’m sorry to see I was wrong. You still haven’t learned anything.” He gently placed his still-crying son down, then, almost too fast for Renault to see, vaulted over the stairway’s railing, right to the fireplace. In the same swift motion he grabbed the Silver Sword from its hanging place above.

 

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re making for yourself?” Renault’s anger and frustration was beginning to get the best of him, and he raised his voice—at the same time he raised his sword and dagger. “I just need that damned map! That’s _all!_ Why the hell can’t you just let me have it?”

 

“Because the power resting there is far too dangerous to fall into the hands of someone like you.” Lucian lowered his body into the stance that was so familiar to Renault. “I’ll give you one chance to leave, Renault.”

 

“Ren-ought?” came the toddler’s voice from the stairwell, his crying forgotten.

 

“By the Saint, Lucian, what’s this racket,” came a feminine voice from above. “Did Lucius…” Melinda’s voice trailed off as she rounded the stairwell and noticed the uninvited guest in the candlelight.

 

“Take Lucius upstairs, my dear,” said Lucian quietly. “We’ll be finished soon.”

 

It would be sooner than he thought.

 

Renault’s memories of his defeat at Lucian’s hands were still fresh in his mind, even if it had happened a decade ago. He knew how dangerous Lucian was, and knew he couldn’t afford even a display of sportsmanship or honor.  So when the Swordmaster was distracted—even for a moment—by his wife, Renault struck.

 

The Mercenary Lord opened with a fast but tired and predictable attack routine: leaping at Lucian while slashing down with his sword. “LUCIAN, WATCH OUT!” screamed Melinda, which was enough to bring his mind back to the battle and raise his Silver Blade horizontally above his head, parrying Renault’s strike. With his left hand, Renault unleashed the second part of the routine, punching out with his dagger.

 

Lucian reacted as he’d expected, twirling to his right side, the knife passing through the air an inch away from him. Renault immediately hopped back, preparing for a counterattack from his foe…

 

And was surprised when none came.

 

Ten years ago, Lucian would have promptly responded with either a spinning slash or another charge. He’d hopped away from the light of the candle, into the darkness of his own home’s living room, but Renault could hear him shuffling, his feet moving on the floor as if he was…regaining his balance, rather than preparing for another attack.

 

Was this some kind of a feint? Renault decided he’d wait and see to find out. He didn’t press his attack, but rather allowed Lucian to make one. He heard a swishing of air from the shadows, knew it was the sound of a weapon being turned, and quickly stepped to his left to evade one of Lucian’s distinctive charging thrusts. This one seemed to be a bit slower, however—as the Swordmaster passed him by, Renault could see that he still seemed to glide across the ground, but when he turned, his blade was held low, as if he was having trouble lifting it, and Lucian almost imperceptibly staggered as he halted the charge and changed the direction of his weapon.

 

Renault realized this wasn’t a feint at all—Lucian was indeed weaker. Firstly, it had been eight years. Lucian, aging as a normal man, was now nearly middle-aged, while Renault had been frozen forever at the peak of his physical fitness. More important, however, was the conversation he had overheard with Melinda earlier:

 

_We’ve already run through the money we got from that silly ring of yours!_

“That silly ring” had been a major component of Lucian’s fighting style. Without it, the massive Silver Blade he loved now evinced some fairly serious drawbacks. Lucian was quite skilled, but he was not a large or strong man. His ring had given him the strength of a larger man, but now that it was gone, he could no longer swing a hefty two-handed sword around like it was a Killing Edge or Wo Dao. Lucian could still take advantage of its power (and it was much stronger than either of Renault’s weapons), but now he was no longer much faster than his adversary.

 

Even so, he was still a threat. Lucian brought his left hand up to the blade’s ricasso and began to poke and stab at Renault, taking advantage of his weapon’s longer range. During his last fight with Lucian, this was an annoyance more than anything else, but Renault no longer had his armor—it had been damaged beyond repair in his last fight with Lucian. Those pokes could now injure him severely, and he was forced to concentrate entirely on dodging them, aware he was being pushed back further and further to the far wall.

 

Desperately, Renault gambled on a sudden offense taking the wind out of Lucian’s sails.  As fast as he could, he crossed his dagger over his Brave Sword, forming an X, and then brought them up as he leaned back. It was just in time—their intersection caught the very tip of the Silver Blade before Lucian could poke it into Renault’s neck. It caught the Swordmaster by surprise, and he couldn’t react before Renault snapped his left foot out, kicking Lucian squarely in the stomach.

 

“ _Oof!_ ” That had hurt. Lucian didn’t let go of his Silver Blade, but was only holding on to it with his right hand—his left went to cover his bruised belly as he was forced back. He straightened up almost immediately, shoving down his pain and nausea…but he just wasn’t fast enough this time.

 

With a brutal scream that seemed to contain equal parts hatred and exultation, Renault surged forwards and thrust out his left hand, plunging his dagger deeply into Lucian’s chest.

 

Lucian’s body jerked as the knife made its impact, and both he and Renault stood absolutely still for a moment. He then staggered back, and Renault let go of his weapon, letting his hand drop casually to his side as he watched a deep red stain spread around the dagger, just barely visible in the dim candlelight.

 

Lucian looked at his killer, horror, pain, and something else mingling in his eyes, and his mouth moved as if he wanted to say something—but already, his strength had left him. He collapsed to his knees, let out a last, pained gasp, and then fell to the floor.

 

It seemed as if Renault couldn’t believe he’d won, either. For another moment, he stood still over his foe’s body, gazing at it as if he expected it to rise. Only when he took a step forward, and saw no movement, did he understand he was victorious.

 

This did not make him happy. On the contrary, it seemed to stoke his anger.

 

“Damnit,” Renault swore, his voice almost rising to a shriek, “GOD DAMN IT!” He savagely kicked at Lucian’s motionless corpse. “That’s what you get! That’s what you get, you piece of _garbage!_ All I ever wanted was my friend! Nothing more, nothing more! But you, Nergal, _everyone_ can’t get out of my God-damn way! Who _cares_ , though? I sure don’t! It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter now!” Another hard, angry kick. Renault knew he didn’t have time to waste, but he didn’t care, so lost was he in his rage and obsession. “You’re dead, and there’s nothing stopping me from getting to the Shrine of Seals, now. Nothing! _Nothing!_ ”

 

He would have continued to rant and rave had he not been interrupted.

 

“Lucian,” came a thin, strained voice from the stairwell. “…Lucian?!”

 

It seemed that Lucian’s wife had not taken his child up to the safety of their room, as she’d been ordered. No, she had stood there this whole time, watching everything that had happened, and the boy in her arms had seen everything, including his father’s death.

 

The kid didn’t entirely understand it—he was too young. But even a toddler knew that something terrible had happened. “Da,” he said, pressing himself closer to his mother, a frown spreading across his face. “Da?”

 

The noise caught Renault’s attention. His eyes glowed like coals set into his twisted, hate-filled face, and he raised them until they were locked squarely with those of the young boy.

 

Neither mercenary nor child would ever forget what they saw in that moment.

 

Then, with a loud, despairing wail, Melinda brought a hand over her son’s face. Screaming madly with both anguish and fear, she turned and ran right up the stairs. Renault was too far away to even try to catch her—as he continued to glare at the empty space where she and the kid had been, he heard the slamming of a door above him. She’d locked herself and her son in her room, most likely, hoping Renault would not be able to break down her door and kill them before help arrived.

 

It was a wise decision. Renault considered giving chase—it wouldn’t have been that difficult to run up the stairs, chop apart the door with his Brave Sword, and silence the two witnesses to his crime. It might, after all, save him some trouble later. However, a banging at the home’s front door told him he simply didn’t have time.

 

“What th’ hell’s goin’ on in there?” came a man’s angry voice from the other side. “This is the guard! All this shoutin’ and screamin’s woken up the entire neighborhood! Open up and explain y’rselves, or we’ll do it for you!”

 

“Hell,” Renault spat. That clinched it—even if he killed those witnesses, it would do him no good, now. The other citizens in the area had been alerted to his presence, thanks to all the noise and Melinda’s loud scream. The only thing that mattered was the map to the Shrine of Seals, and Renault knew he had to get ahold of it immediately. The guardsman continued to pound on the door while Renault rushed to pick up his candle from the table on which he’d left it. He then darted over to the hatch in the corner which led to the cellar. Sheathing his weapon, with his right hand he withdrew from his belt the expensive Master Key he’d bought just for this occasion. The all-purpose key fit perfectly into the lock of the hatch, revealing a dusty set of stairs.

 

Without hesitation, Renault descended. The basement of Lucian’s home was dank and moldy, filled mostly with casks of wine which were nothing but cheap imitations of the stuff Cross had been able to afford back in Lycia. None of that interested Renault, though. What really caught his eye was the large chest at the far end of the room.

 

Renault knew, at least subconsciously, that this may have been all a mistake. Perhaps Lucian had kept the book hidden upstairs. Perhaps it was in another part of the house. Or perhaps he had sold it entirely, maybe even earlier today, at his wife’s behest. But Renault would not— _could not_ —allow himself to entertain those suspicions. The object of his quest _had_ to be in that chest. He would not permit himself to believe otherwise.

 

So, without even the slightest hesitation, Renault bent down, used his Master Key a second time to unlock the box, and then opened it up.

 

For the first time in ten years, Renault smiled widely and genuinely when he saw what was inside.

 

It was a book—an old, old book, from the looks of it. It was bound with an unknown material, and its cover was leather, somewhat unlike any Renault had ever seen before. When he reached out to pick it up, he found its texture to be equally strange. When he held it up to the light of his candle (making _very_ sure to keep it a safe distance away), he noticed it was dull red. Was it _dragonskin_? That was very much possible, given the golden letters embossed in its front. There was nothing on the spine or back—there was only one phrase, written in a dead, ancient language only a handful of people in all of Elibe could understand.

 

Renault was one of those people. He recognized the blocky runes which comprised the Draconic language, and though he could not speak them, he could read them. They said,

 

_The Sanctuary of Bramimond._

Renault’s journey wasn’t over yet—he still had to get there, after all. But now he knew the way. And that meant nothing would stop him. Absolutely nothing.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

…Well, this is it, my friends. The darkest chapter in Wayward Son for quite a while. I can beg only for your forbearance, because, as I’ve said in earlier chapters, Renault will only begin his quest for penance and salvation after this. I know this must have been hard to read for a lot of you, but please, have faith with me and read on. This will be the last really dark chapter in this super-long story. After this, there’ll finally be some light at the end of the tunnel. Now, for a few notes:

 

The “eyes glowed like coals” line is straight from Lucius and Renault’s B support.

 

The reasoning behind Renault and Lucian’s duel deserves some explanation at length, IMO. In his A support with Lucius, Renault says he commited crimes against many to “bring back the friend [he] had lost.” I took this to mean that Lucius’ father was part of that quest. Now, why did I have the object of Renault’s pursuit to be a book leading to the Shrine of Seals? Well, in both Fire Emblem 6 and 7, Bramimond is the only one portrayed as having the power to bring the dead back to life (a la Ninian). Thus, anyone involved in Renault’s quest to get Braddock back would have to know something about Bramimond. As to why it’s a book, well, Queen Hellene of Bern says “This book contains the road to the Shrine of Seals” at the end of chapter 26, Fire Emblem 7. Thus, I figured one of the—if not the—only extant maps to Bramimond’s abode was in the form of a book only given out to proven heroes—like Eliwood and friends in FE7, or Lucian in this fic. As to how that book finds its way back to the Bernese royal family…we’ll see. ;)

 

 

 


	59. Another Way to Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault reaches his destination, but fails to find his greatest desire. What he finds instead is, at long last, his own salvation.

**Chapter 59: Another Way to Live**

The trek to the Shrine of Seals was one of the easier trips Renault had taken over the course of his long life. Ironically, it would be his last as a warrior.

Renault knew the roads and back alleys of Aquleia very well, so it was not at all difficult for him to evade the guardsmen chasing him after he’d murdered Lucian. He had charged up the stairs out of Lucian’s basement right after taking the book (and the expensive gemstone which he’d discovered hidden below it) and blasted out the front door, right past a pair of guardsmen who were running to see what had happened. As they began to chase him, he darted into the shadows behind a large, abandoned house in the eastern slums, and they passed him right by. He slipped into a window and then into its basement, where he took out another candle and began to study the old book he’d worked so hard to attain. He knew he couldn’t stay there for long, of course, since his pursuers would soon figure out they’d lost him and call for more patrols. But he had just enough time to flip through it and just enough understanding of its Draconic language to figure out where he should go next.

Renault exited the basement, making sure no-one had entered the home yet. He peered out one of its windows, noticing a pair of prowling guards before they caught sight of him. He reached down, picked up a stray brick, and tossed it out of an open window on the other side of the room before immediately ducking. The guards heard the noise and ran to investigate, allowing him an easy escape while they were occupied. A few hours of travel through the winding alleys and back roads of Aquleia, along with a couple more tricks to fool patrolling guardsmen, and Renault had made his way to the docks. He needed to do two things there: Find a disguise and find a boat. The first was easy enough; he slipped past yet another pair of guards to find the entrance of an adventurer’s shop behind a rather smelly fish-market stall. The shop’s proprietor was still sleepy (it was quite early in the morning) and apparently hadn’t heard the description of the “murderer” on the loose—and in any case, he didn’t catch a clear view of Renault’s face. The Mercenary Lord came away with a brand-new cloak and a cheap bottle of hair dye, and in a few minutes left as a black-haired traveler in respectable clothing rather than the teal-haired indigent responsible for Lucian’s murder.

Calmly, ignoring the officials asking the residents of the docks if they’d seen him, Renault wandered around the harbor, searching for a boat which would take him out of the city. He was in luck: a merchant caravan would be leaving for the River Tiber after sunrise, going straight to Ostia, which was precisely where Renault needed to go as well. Its owner wasn’t planning on taking passengers, but the expensive Opal Renault showed him (filched from Lucian’s precious chest) was enough to change his mind. The Mercenary Lord was happily given a spare room next to the boat’s cabin.

And there, he slept.

-X-

Everything was red and black, and everything was screaming. And worst of all, the voice was Braddock’s.

Renault was clad in full armor and standing on black soil which seemed to have the consistency of human flesh. The sky above him was red, and in front of him stood a terrible, twisted black shape vaguely similar to a tree.

Within its unholy boughs, suspended by branches which could have been black claws, was the one person Renault loved more than anyone else: Braddock.

He was screaming wildly, so loud Renault thought his ears might burst. He must have been in horrible agony. This was enough to move Renault to action, almost without thinking.

“Braddock! _Braddock!_ ”

He charged forwards, ignoring the pain in his head from his friend’s screaming, and as he did the branches of the tree dipped and lowered, as if they were alive, bringing the Ostian down to his level. Renault didn’t question his good fortune. He immediately grabbed on to the branches and tried to pry Braddock out of them, but to no avail. They were wrapped around his friend’s form as if they were steel rope.

Braddock, at least, took notice of his friend’s rescue attempt, but did not respond with gratitude. Instead, he looked at Renault with shock, horror, and fear, an even more terrified expression than Renault had ever seen in any dream, ever. The screaming stopped, and then Renault could hear a question from Braddock’s mouth, as well as echoing all around him:

“Why, Renault? Why?”

Renault didn’t understand the question, at first. “I don’t know why, Braddock! Just don‘t worry. I’ll get you out of here!” Frantically, Renault hacked and slashed at the branches which imprisoned his friend, but to no avail. His blade just bounced off all of them. Even so, he didn’t give up, continuing to slash away…

Until Braddock blew him backwards, literally off his feet, with a loud, earth-shaking scream.

“Braddock! Braddock!” Renault yelled as he flew back, his ears ringing and head splitting. “I just want to help you, man!”

Braddock looked direct;y at him, then, and Renault could see his eyes—his bloody eyes—were not filled with just fear and despair, but two more things as well:

Hatred and Rage.

“ _Why did you do this to me, Renault?_ ”

Braddock’s last scream was too much for even a Mercenary Lord, and he could do nothing else besides let out a scream of his own as his best friend’s voice tore through his mind.

Even when his eyes shot open, Renault didn’t stop screaming. He thrashed and flailed on the small bed in the spare room next to the ship’s cabin, his near-seizure knocking over the candlestand on the nearby table. It was only thanks to luck that it had been unlit, otherwise he would have set the whole ship on fire. The noise and commotion caught the attention of the boat’s captain, for there was a loud knocking and a shouted “What the hell’s goin’ on in there!” that Renault didn’t hear. Not until the man burst the door open, saw Renault flailing and screaming, and then marched over to the bed to grab a hold of the man did the Mercenary Lord finally stop.

“Gaaah! Braddock, I—Aaaahhhh!”

“Get a hold of yourself, man!” The captain managed to grab one of Renault’s arms and narrowly avoided being slugged by the other. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Braddock, _Braddock_ —“

“Easy now, easy!” He managed to grip another of Renault’s arms and avoided getting kicked. “Who’s Braddock?”

“Braddock, you’re—“ At last, Renault was brought to his senses. Breathing heavily, he stopped screaming as he stared into the eyes of his benefactor—the man who was taking him to Bern, but who was _not_ Braddock.

“What happened? You were kicking up a hell of a storm just now. Thought you’d jump out and kill me!”

“I…” Renault continued staring at the captain for a few moments, still somewhat trapped in that horrible nightmare. Only when the boatman lifted his face closer to Renault’s, close enough that he could smell that whiskey-stained breath, did he snap back to reality entirely.

“Argh!” He jerked back from the captain and pushed him away. The man stumbled, but fortunately didn’t fall. “Oy! The hell’s wrong with you?”

“Where am I? Braddock, where are you?”

“Where? Damn, lad, have you lost your mind? You’re on my ship! The one you paid me to take all the way to Bern for you! There’s nobody else on here, least not named Braddock. Now, you better calm down and start makin’ sense, or I’m handin’ you back your Opal and kickin’ you th’ hell off my boat!”

“Boat…” That was enough to fix Renault’s mind back in the present rather than the nightmare world. “Oh. _Oh._ Yeah, I get it, old man. I…damn.” He sighed and raised a hand to his face. “It was a dream. A real bad dream. Took me a while to really wake up, I guess.”

“A dream, eh?” The man’s anger had receded slightly, but he was still wary. “Musta been a whale of a nightmare, then.”

“That’s an understatement,” Renault groaned. “Worst one I ever had.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t like bad dreamers, though. I wish I could solve y’r problems for you, but I don’t wanna make the whole trip to Bern sleeping with nothing but screams. If this happens again I’m bootin’ ya off.”

“It won’t,” growled Renault. “I’m sorry for the trouble, okay? I’ll pay you a little extra for it.”

“A little extra? Well, I…” The sailor contemplated the offer, then smiled and shook his head. “Nah, that gemstone’s already too much of a gift. Just don’t wake me up again and I’ll consider us even.”

“Sounds good.”

“Anyways, we’re settin’ sail soon. Think you’re ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, the sooner the better.”

“Alright.”

With one last, wary glance back at his strange passenger, the sailor exited the spare room, leaving Renault alone. As the ship began to move again, Renault let out another sigh and fell back onto his bed.

“W…what the hell was that about?”

Renault couldn’t understand, and still hadn’t recovered entirely from the horror of that dream. Indeed, his body was still shaking and he actually felt nauseous, something he wasn’t sure was possible in a body like his. That nightmare was truly worse—far worse—than any he had _ever_ had before. Not even in the worst ones he’d had back at Caelin had Braddock glared at him with such _loathing_.

“What does it mean? I…I’m getting closer, aren’t I? I’ve almost got you back, bud. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

 _Almost_. That word echoed through Renault’s mind, and he realized he’d been getting complacent. Almost wasn’t quite good enough. He still had a ways to go before his journey ended.

“Shit…that’s it! That’s why you’re so mad at me! I…I’m gettin’ lazy. Just coasting along and thinking I’m as good as finished, now. Can’t stop…can’t take it easy. Gotta keep working…not finished yet. Not finished yet! Don’t worry, bud, I won’t disappoint you. Not again!”

Renault jumped up from the bed and looked out the window of his small room. He could see the water passing him by, and he knew the ship was finally heading east at a decent speed. Great—even less time would be wasted, and Renault wouldn’t get seasick, anyways, thanks to his unearthly body. Nothing would stop him from making the absolute most of his time here, and that was what Braddock wanted him to do. No more wasting time lying around being idle and self-satisfied. When his friend was so close to returning to him, he had to be even _more_ determined and focused, not less.

Thus, Renault picked his fallen candle up from the floor, set it on the small table in a corner of his room, lit it, and then turned to the small drawer next to his desk. He took out the incredibly priceless book—the one for which he’d killed Lucian—and set it before him

 _Gonna get through this front-to-back a hundred times before we reach Bern_ , Renault promised himself. _No surprises. No surprises at all. Not gonna leave anything to chance, not gonna relax. Just watch me study this tome, Braddock. You’ll be proud, trust me. And…you won’t be angry anymore, right? When we see each other again, you’ll be happy…not…like that, right?_

Of course he would. Renault shook his head vigorously—couldn’t afford any distractions—and began to read.

The first pages of it contained a rough map—more of a sketch of Elibe, really—with a black X marked over a certain region in northeastern Bern. He definitely knew he had to get to Bern, at least, which was why he was on this boat. It would take him down the river to Ostia, where he’d have to travel down to the river Hartmar, catch a ship east, and disembark where the great river met the smaller Ypsano, which traveled downwards to feed a large lake in central Bern. From that intersection, he’d travel south, where the Shrine of Seals would assumedly be situated on the very northernmost outskirts of Bern’s great eastern mountain range.

That wouldn’t be difficult. When he actually got there…that was when things would start to get interesting, at least if the Draconic text following the map was any indication.

As the small merchant ship continued to sail merrily to its destination, Renault just shrugged and continued to study the strange text. An “interesting” challenge certainly wouldn’t dissuade him, at this point.

The conclusion of his long life’s work, his final reunion with Braddock, was worth any challenge, after all.

-x-

It had been many years since he had set foot in Bern, and Renault was not any fonder of the country. It held too many bad memories for him—the land where his enemies Yazan and Vyrleena had been born, where Nergal betrayed him, and, of course, where Braddock died.

But Renault found his distaste for the land leavened by anticipation. If this was the place where he would be reunited with his friend, he could forgive it all of its sins.

It was the 10th Sun, just over a week after the dawn of the 959th year past the Scouring. Renault was standing on a pier in the port city of Strega. Much like Thagaste, it was situated at the intersection of two rivers, but these were the Hartmar and Ypsano of Bern, not the split of Etruria’s Tiberon. The merchant ship he’d taken from Aquleia had brought him to Ostia, where he’d spent about two and a half weeks heading to Laus. There, he’d hitched a ride on another ship, which had traveled along the River Hartmar and brought him here just a few minutes ago. Renault was now ready to continue on the last leg of his journey.

Bern had not changed quite as much as Etruria had over the past two centuries. Yes, the ships of Strega were much larger and grander than they’d been in the last Bernese port town Renault had visited, but the architecture of the buildings was not much different. They were still uniform, utilitarian, and stone, although some were larger than Renault would have expected.

It was of little concern to him, now. Maybe he’d pay more attention to the architecture when Braddock was back, and he could fill him in on everything he’d missed since he’d died. That would come later. For now, Renault would simply make his way out of Strega as quickly as he possibly could. And when he did, he would head southeast.

-x-

Renault hadn’t dreamt once in a long while.

He stopped for a moment to consider this, standing alone and unmoving on the road which tapered off towards the edge of Bern’s easternmost mountains. Since Lucian’s death, and that one, last, terrible nightmare, he had spent three months traveling by foot and boat to Bern. He had not had one dream in any of that time. This gave him no pause. On the contrary, it simply reinforced his convictions.

“Closer and closer,” he murmured to himself. “That’s what it means. What it has to mean…I’m almost there, Braddock. I’ll be with you soon.”

Like a statue come to life, he continued onwards.

It was mid-winter, but this part of Bern wasn’t as forbidding as the rest of it, Renault had to admit. The mountain range was just beginning, meaning the peaks weren’t tall enough yet to be covered in ice year-round and cast terrible snow and blizzards down below, as was the case for the region in which Par Massino and Nergal’s sanctuary were located. At this time of year there was a bit of snow, though—in fact, it had been snowing a little while ago, but not enough to really irritate Renault. It covered the ground around him, but thankfully didn’t bury everything completely. The snow made it impossible to see the road, but fortunately there were many signposts telling Renault the way he was going. Oddly enough, those signposts were getting fewer in number and meaner in condition as he traveled. Human settlements were growing sparser and sparser; Renault had passed by just a tiny village over the last few miles, and now he saw nothing but a handful of small cabins dotting the side of the road. One reason for the lack of habitation may have had to do with the side effects of the snow. There was no wind, but for some reason clouds of it floated up in the air, like some sort of unnatural blizzard despite the calm air, difficult for him to see more than ten feet in front of him. His eyes were kept forward, watching for the signposts, and when the last of them disappeared he knew he was alone.

When this happened, he stopped immediately. The snowfog wasn’t the only thing keeping most human beings away from this area. In fact, Renault got the distinct impression that it was in and of itself part of a grander design, one very much intended to keep something as hidden as possible.

There was a reason you needed the royal family’s tome to access the Shrine of Seals. The path leading to it wasn’t treacherous or difficult—no, it was something far more daunting than that. Renault could feel it in the air and on the ground the moment he stepped off of the winding road.

It was the same sensation he’d felt in Nergal’s sanctuary, so long ago--except it was magnified a hundredfold. There was dark magic here, strong and thick. He could feel it warping the air and ground itself. The man…thing…being residing within the Shrine of Seals had total control over the environment of this area, just as Nergal had total control over the layout of his mountain sanctuary. However, while Nergal could only add or remove rooms and belongings, the proprietor of the Shrine could shift entire mountains to hide his abode. It would be completely impossible to find his home unless he wanted it to be found.

At least, that was what the tome Renault held, shielded and kept dry underneath his thick cloak, had told him. And he had no reason to doubt it.

He held it out and opened it. It would be impossible to find the Shrine of Seals unless Bramimond allowed you to…or unless you had a guide to the magic spells woven around it. And this tome was one such guide—perhaps the only one remaining, in fact. It was truly one of Bern’s national treasures, second only perhaps to the Fire Emblem itself. For a moment, Renault allowed himself to wonder what Lucian had accomplished to mark him worthy of owning this treasure.

Of course, whatever his accomplishments were, he was still dead. In that respect, at least, Renault had outdone him by remaining alive.

He began to read the text of the book, which comprised the three hundred pages following the map of Elibe where the Shrine’s location was marked. He’d already familiarized himself with it over the course of the trip here, but there was no point taking chances.

The first hundred or so pages were a description of Bramimond’s accomplishments during the war. They were praised as if they were accomplishments, anyways. Renault wondered why it was written in the Draconic language, given the Dragons must have hated Bramimond and his allies. It was a mystery he could figure out later, in any case. The next hundred pages described the chaos of the Ending Winter and the misery it wrought on Man and Dragon alike, which necessitated placing the Divine Weapons under a mighty seal. It told the story of how Bramimond created that seal, and how he laid himself to rest under a temple dedicated to that seal. Finally, the last hundred pages described a method of breaking through the barriers Bramimond placed around the temple, should anyone wish to prove themselves worthy of his presence.

That last part was what Renault was really interested in. He began reading it aloud quietly, confident that no one was around, but unwilling to take too many risks, either.

_Where the snow falls and the road ends, the seeker will take fifty strides to the twins ahead…_

Renault looked up and around him, and saw in the strange blizzard, in the direction he thought was north, the outlines of what could have been two large hills, or perhaps large mountains. He followed the book’s instructions, counting as he did so. At fifty steps, he again looked to the tome.

_Turn to his left, and walk to the tree, twisted and dead…_

Renault turned, and much to his surprise, he saw there was indeed a tall tree visible in the fog ahead. It wasn’t an evergreen—its bare branches were covered in snow and ice. He looked back at the direction he’d been going, and saw the mountains were gone. Shaking his head, he turned back to the tree and jogged towards it, looking at the next set of instructions.

_Turn back, says the Dark, another fifty to its home…_

The directions made no sense, but Renault followed them nonetheless, taking 50 steps away from the dead tree, in the direction from which he’d approached it.

_Search and take the shimmer in the gloam…_

“Gloam? What’s that mean…twilight?” Renault looked up and noticed it was darker than it had been just a few minutes ago. The gently-blowing snow seemed to be tinged with orange, as if the sun above it was setting. How was that possible? He shook his head again—silly question. Anything Nergal could do, Bramimond could surely outdo. Renault just continued looking around until he saw something that seemed to be glinting in the snow, a few steps away. Something shiny. He walked up to it, and reached out to grab it when it seemed to disappear, winking out of existence as if it had never been at all. He let out a small growl of irritation, but once again consulted the royal tome.

It went on like this for several hours—at least, they felt like hours to Renault. For all he knew, it could have been days, because the light in the blizzard kept shifting, rising and dimming as if several mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights were passing by. But Renault never gave up—he followed the hundred pages of bizarre, rhyming directions he had been given to the letter. None of them made any more sense than the ones he’d started off with—walk forwards fifty steps, take fifty more to the left, then sixty back right, look for an object, and when it disappeared, go back the way you came. With each seemingly meaningless dictate Renault felt his frustration growing, wondering if all of this had been a gigantic prank that had backfired horribly on Lucian, that the book was a fraud and there was no way to get to the Shrine of Seals. He didn’t allow those doubts to win, though—at the very least, he would follow these bizarre instructions to the very end of the book, refusing to give up hope until he was absolutely sure this venture was a failure.

As it turned out, his perseverance paid off.

The very last lines of the tome read,

_And from the circle of stones the seeker will see a star,_

_Follow it, and his destination won’t be far,_

_Yet he’d be wise to keep his feet,_

_Lest the Dark he never meet._

Renault was indeed standing within a stone circle at the moment, and when he looked up, he could see something shining brightly in the sky ahead of him, strong enough to be seen even through the snowfall. He shut the book and followed it resolutely—but he didn’t rush, either. He took heed of the warning to “keep his feet,” and found that to be wise when he almost tripped on something jutting out of the ground after about a hundred steps forward.

He managed to keep his balance, and bent down to examine what he’d encountered. It was a raised stone…or was it? He looked closer, and found it was actually a step—a stone step. He looked above to see that the star had disappeared, and he was surrounded by nothing but fog. There seemed to be nowhere else for him to go but up, so up he went.

It was snowing again, now, and the wind had picked up a bit. Renault reached around as he began to ascend the stairs, and found to his surprise there was a wall on one side of him. Either the snowfog had been too thick for him to notice it or it hadn’t been there before. Whatever the case may be, Renault reached out his other hand and saw that there was nothing on the other side. If he wished to climb up, he would very likely have to be very careful—that was what the book meant by “keeping his feet,” he presumed.

One step turned into ten, turned into one hundred, turned into one thousand. It was painstaking effort—the snow was falling too thick to get a clear idea of where he was going, so Renault had no idea how high up he was, but he definitely didn’t want to find out the hard way by falling. He kept a careful hand to the extant side on his left (whether it was a mountain or something manmade, he didn’t know) and his body low, feeling each step ahead with his other hand to make sure it was solid. They all were, meaning Renault was in no immediate life-threatening danger, but the fact that nothing seemed to be changing made him wonder if he had fallen into some arcane trap, condemned to wander up this stair for eternity.

Fortunately, his fears were unfounded. After his thousand-and-tenth step, the fog disappeared.

“Huh?”

Renault immediately stopped and crouched, keeping his entire body absolutely still as, all of a sudden, the snow stopped falling entirely. He feared an attack, but once again, there was absolutely nothing to worry about. Instead, he blinked as warm, comforting sunlight washed over him.

“What is this?” Renault stood up and straightened out, allowing his eyes to adjust to the new, fog-free sunlight. And when he took a good look around, he gasped at what he saw.

He was standing on some sort of plateau, nestled snugly within the northeastern-most mountains of Bern. These were not the massive, snow-capped titans one saw closer to the center of the country, but they were large enough to form a ring around the plateau and conceal it from view. Somehow, that set of stairs in the blizzard had led him through those mountains to the small plateau they protected. And now that he’d reached it, the blizzard that kept it hidden had lifted as well, it seemed.

It was a very scenic place. The snow here was flat and almost entirely undisturbed, making it seem like a sanctuary of perfect peace. There were many trees scattered around the plateau, some bare but others still green—evergreen trees, Renault realized. Flocks of small birds such as sparrows twittered and cheeped among them. In front of Renault there was a long river crossed by a single bridge, and the water running through it was as clear and pure as any he had ever seen. Somehow, it had not frozen over. Beyond that river the north-eastern mountains range began to intrude into the plateau, several small mountains rising up out of the ground nearby and a few larger ones farther away. They seemed to be surrounding something jutting out of the ground—a large edifice of some sort. It was too far away for Renault to see clearly, but he knew it was his destination.

Nothing like you’d expect a Dark magician’s home to be, especially not the greatest one of them all, Renault thought to himself. He knew full well, however, that practitioners of Dark magic were deceitful above all else. This seemingly bucolic sanctuary may well have been a ruse designed to keep his guard down. If that was what Bramimond wanted, Renault would make sure to disappoint him.

Keeping his eyes and ears open for any surprises, and a hand near his sword, Renault trudged forwards. He crossed the single wooden bridge and headed towards the small mountains in front of the large building in the distance. As he approached one of those mini-mountains, he saw something very strange.

There was a settlement there. Of all the weird places he’d been in Elibe, the sanctuary of Bramimond himself was the last place Renault would have expected to see human habitation. It was a walled enclosure, and Renault couldn’t get a clear view of the buildings within it. He could only make out something atop a spire towering over the walls. And he could recognize it even when it was half-covered in snow.

It was an icon of Elimine.

That was enough to give him pause for a moment. Was that strange settlement some sort of monastery, or perhaps a hermitage? Some outpost dedicated to Elimine and the worship of her God, situated atop the resting place of the greatest Dark magician in human history? Renault couldn’t understand it. It had to be a trick, or if it wasn’t, it was certainly very far from his comprehension. He grimaced and kept himself close to the ground, breaking into a run straight past the bizarre, unsettling holy place towards his real destination. The walls looked very old and worn-down, meaning it was probably abandoned, but even so, Renault, as always, did not want to take any chances. An Eliminean, a user of Light magic, who lurked around a stronghold of the Dark would almost certainly be a strange person indeed, and since Renault was so very close to the end of his quest, he did not want to jeopardize it by finding out if that monastery was occupied by someone strange in all the wrong ways.

Once again, Renault was in luck—the monastery seemed to be uninhabited, or if it was, whoever lived there took no note of his passing. He neared his final destination without incident—and when he caught a good look at it, he slowed down and stopped, his haste and impatience momentarily replaced by awe and amazement at the incredible sight.

The Shrine of Seals was not the largest building he had ever seen. Much, much smaller than the Holy Royal Palace, and much, much, much smaller than the gigantic Dragon temple atop Mount Helios. It was rather about half the size of Castle Caelin. It was not a ziggurat, but was crafted in a similarly ancient style. It was hard for Renault to describe—almost as if human hands had tried to re-create the Dragon’s architecture and had not succeeded, but created something entirely new anyways. 

It was shaped in a fitting manner for a temple, almost like a combination of an Eliminean cathedral and a typical Draconic ziggurat. The front part of it, which could be likened to a nave, was shaped roughly like a pyramid, with its sides tapering up at a slight angle, though they terminated in a rectangular ceiling rather than a point. Behind that entrance was another rectangular chamber, thinner and longer, but with its walls tapering up into an angle as well. It seemed a fitting place for an altar to be located, Renault surmised.

The entire building was made of what seemed to be a million bricks of grey stone. There was nothing exceptional about that stone; it wasn’t as beautiful or distinctively polished as, say, the opalescent walls of Aquleia. Those stones were notable more for their near-perfect condition. Despite being made by mere humans rather than Dragons, and despite being nearly a thousand years old, they seemed as if they’d been set yesterday. No evidence of wear or erosion was evident upon any of their surfaces. That was definitely a good thing, because otherwise, the intricate etchings upon their surfaces would have been illegible.

About midway up the side of the building, an incantation of some sort was inscribed into the stones of the temple. It was an amazing piece of work, written in Draconic, High Imperial, and even, to Renault’s surprise, in Shadetongue. He didn’t spend much time looking at it, but he managed to catch a fragment of it:

_…When the Winter came, the Dragons were humbled, but so were their enemies. The divine power is too much for either Man or Dragon to bear. Let them it sleep here for eternity, and let peace reign forevermore…_

Going off of that, Renault surmised the writing around the walls was a repetition of the first part of the book he held—a description of Bramimond, the Divine Weapons, and why they were sealed away.  That was enough to tell him he really was in the right place.

Renault made his way towards the entrance of the Shrine of Seals. This time, it wasn’t very similar to a cathedral at all. There was no doorway, only a single massive stairway with 10 huge, flat steps leading up to an opening flanked by a pair of gigantic columns. Those columns, sturdy and strong, were capped with statues of dragons at the point they reached the ceilings.

Taking a deep breath and gathering his strength, Renault climbed up those stairs and stepped across the threshold.

“H…hello?” He ventured cautiously. “Bramimond, are you there?”

His voice simply echoed across the walls of the large chamber. There was no-one here. The Shrine of Seals, however, was not entirely empty.

It was dimly lit. Some light filtered in from the massive entrance, but there were large openings in the ceiling which seemed almost like skylights. They let in just enough sunlight for Renault to get a decent view of his surroundings.

The floor of the room was cut out of the same nondescript grey stone as the rest of the building, but this time arranged in large, featureless tiles. It was dominated by a strange shape Renault had never seen before. In the center of the floor was engraved into the tiles a figure that could have passed for a Dark magic sigil. It was a large circle cut into four quadrants by an ornately etched cross.

On top of the northern edge of the circle was a large golden throne. It had no gemstones or exquisite metalwork, and seemed relatively undecorated and utilitarian; no designs on its armrests or designs behind it. Renault would have thought it just an ordinary chair if not for its size (large enough that even a man as large as Braddock would have more than enough room to spare) and the fact that it seemed to be cast entirely out of gold.

Behind that throne was the largest occupant of the Shrine of Seals. It was an altar. A huge altar, the largest Renault had ever seen. It was several times his size—in fact, it seemed as large as one of the great Fire Dragons he’d seen in Arcadia. There was nothing on that altar, though, except a huge engraving of a sword at its top. Renault wagered it was a representation of the greatest of weapons, the Sword of Seals, supposedly exceeding the Divine Regalia in power. The sword itself wasn’t there, as it should have been sleeping with Bramimond.

Indeed, that was Renault’s question. Where the hell was Bramimond? There was no-one on the throne and the room seemed to be entirely empty. He looked to his feet—he had been told the great lord of Darkness had been sleeping underground. He then looked to the strange sigil on the floor. Perhaps the answer was there?

Renault stepped forwards, directly onto the circle. The moment he did, he felt the air around him change. It seemed to grow heavier, oilier, and he felt the same tingling sensation one gets before a thunderstorm.

“This is it,” he muttered, and clenched his fists. Once again, and for the last time, he drew out the tome, turned to its very last page, and recited the incantation in Shadetongue it contained:

 “Grazel nacht folv saren, Turas gan selk neval!”

_In the name of the Dark, grant the seeker entry!_

As soon as Renault spoke that last word, the sigil beneath him began to glow. He looked down and nearly dropped his book when the lines of its intricate engravings began to glow dimly purple, and then raised it in front of his face when they sparked and began to radiate purple light, even brighter than the sun.

Renault had no time to react as that purple light expanded and enveloped him. He felt mind and body disassociate as he was swept far away.

-X-

“Urgh…”

Everything was black.

Renault opened his eyes.

Everything was still black.

For a moment he thought he’d been blinded, but then he remembered just what sort of magic Bramimond specialized in. It wasn’t surprising there’d be no light at all in the abode of he who wielded the Silencing Darkness. Cautiously, Renault reached out and groped around with his hands, feeling what was beneath him. He concluded he was lying on his belly on a hard, cold surface, likely stone. There wasn’t the slightest breeze and the air, while breathable, seemed stale and stagnant, meaning he was almost certainly underground. Cautiously, he got to his hands and knees, and then stood up straight, thankful there didn’t seem to be anything above him. He felt at his side and on his chest and allowed himself a slight grin of relief that his sword was still safe in its scabbard and his phylactery still hanging safely from his neck.

Now it was time to see if this place was as empty as the room above. Renault turned around, searching for any spot of light in the darkness. There were none—it was nothing but black as far as he could see.

At this point, he figured it couldn’t hurt to ask if he was in the right place. “Hey,” he called, “Is anybody down here?”

A shift in the air behind him answered his question.

He whipped around, keeping a hand on the grip of his sheathed sword out of instinct, but he didn’t take it out. As expected, the newcomer was not an enemy, but rather the very object of his quest.

Renault was momentarily stunned by the strangeness of what he saw. There had been no change in the lighting of the room—everything was still pitch black. However, despite the complete lack of light, he could clearly make out someone standing in front of him. It was like the darkness was just a black sheet of paper on which actual pictures could be drawn and seen.

It was a man…or was it? The figure was clad in strange grayish-green robes which concealed every part of his (at least, Renault assumed it was a he—it was impossible to discern) body. There was golden lacework around the edges of the hood of the robe, turning into what was almost a circlet ‘round the figure’s forehead. It cast impenetrable shadows over his eyes, but the lower part of his face was visible. Renault felt a slight unease looking at it—the skin tone and facial structure there seemed eerily similar to his own.

He didn’t let that unease stop him. Suppressing both it and his distaste for black magicians, Renault bowed respectfully. Renault wasn’t much for pleasantries, but was smart enough to realize that if this really was one of the Eight Legends, he would be less likely to resurrect Braddock if he got offended. Thus, he also attempted the politest introduction he could manage:

“Your Excellency, my name Renault. I have searched far and wide for a long, long time for Lord Bramimond, the Enigma. Is it he I have the honor of speaking to?”

The figure moved no part of his body but his mouth:

“Bramimond…that’s a…familiar name. I think…yes, they called me that, once. Yes…”

 _Yes? Yes?! YES!!_ Renault felt a surge of almost euphoric elation as he realized his two-hundred-year quest really was almost over. He felt so giddy he wanted to do nothing more than collapse onto the floor and laugh and cry with joy. But, not wanting to ruin his chances, he maintained his discipline and instead continued with his request.

He deepened his bow, dropping to one knee. “Lord Bramimond,” he began, his voice trembling with anticipation, “I’ve come this far to make a request of you. I’ll do anything you ask in return…absolutely anything if you can grant this to me.”

“Speak.”

There was something strange about Bramimond’s voice, something very, very strange. If Renault had been less consumed by his emotions, he would have noticed that the Legend’s voice sounded almost exactly like his own. But at the moment, he was simply too eager to really think about who he was talking to. He looked up to where Bramimond’s eyes would be, his own gaze filled with hope and pleading.

“Lord, I want to bring someone back to life. A friend I lost in battle, a long, long time ago. I can still remember him as if he died yesterday, and I know I can’t live without him. All I want is to see him again. I know the powers of the Divine Weapons can bridge the gap between life and death, and I know you’re the one who sealed those powers. Surely you have the ability to resurrect him? Please, I beg of you! Return him to me!”

The shadows around them seemed to consume Renault’s voice, and he could hear nothing except for the sound of his own heavy breathing for a few moments. Bramimond himself stood as still and quiet as a statue, absorbing Renault’s request. And then, at last, he replied with a single word:

“No.”

That word didn’t register with Renault at first. He kept his eyes locked into the darkness of Bramimond’s face, still hoping desperately with all his heart. Indeed, he continued on as if he hadn’t heard it. “If there’s anything you require, Bramimond, I’ll get it for you, I promise! I—“

Bramimond repeated his answer. “No.”

Renault froze, his voice petered out, and he remained on his knees a few seconds more, unable to believe what he had just heard. In fact, he was certain he had misheard. Still believing his quest would be over soon, that Bramimond would help him and was thus worthy of respect, he managed to politely stammer, “E…excuse me?”

“It is possible for a life to be restored using the power of the Divine Weapons, but I must remove the seal from them first. And I won’t unseal them, not now. Their power was not meant for reckless use…At this time, unsealing them would wreak much misery and destruction upon the land.”

“Misery…misery?!” Renault felt it returning, wild and hot. Anger—the burning, unthinking anger which had propelled him against Nergal, that day two hundred years ago, and which would set him against anyone who tried to get in the way of his quest to revive Braddock. And that anger was now directed at Bramimond. It didn’t matter that he was one of the Eight Legends—to Renault, he was in his way, and there was nothing else to think about.

“Listen, Bramimond,” Renault continued, “I’ve been living for over two centuries without my friend. Two centuries. Every day, every night I’ve had to live without seeing his face, hearing his voice, even just feeling his presence. That’s true misery. I’m sick of it, I want him back, and I want you to help me! Whatever chaos these weapons can wreak can’t possibly be that bad. I’ll help repair any damage I cause, if you can just bring him back to me!”

“It’s not that simple, Renault.” Bramimond’s voice was no longer calm and toneless—a distinct frisson of anger had entered into it, mirroring exactly Renault’s own. “The divine weapons aren’t omnipotent. It’s not as if they have endless reserves of power that can be squandered on the behalf of just anybody who asks for them! Using them to bring your friend back now might mean we can’t call on them when we really do need them. Get over it, Renault. There’s nothing even I can do, at least nothing that makes sense.”

“God dammit,” Renault growled, “That’s the exact same thing Athos told me! For all of your vaunted “wisdom,” neither you nor he can think of a better solution?”

“Athos…Athos, my old friend…” Bramimond’s angry voice seemed to grow just a bit warmer, at least for a moment, before growing cold and emotionless as it had been when Renault had first met him. “Wise as ever, it seems. He’s right, and I agree with him. If he can’t think of anything, I certainly can’t either. I’m sorry, but I just won’t accept your request, no matter how badly you want your friend to return.”

At this point, Renault’s anger had not exploded into rage. It was bubbling, simmering, but still controllable. _Alright, just another delay,_ Renault thought to himself. _Waste of time, but I’ve got plenty of time. No reason to despair. I’ll just find out where to go next! Maybe Bramimond’ll give me some better advice than that lake goddess or plant lady, after all._

“Won’t help me, huh? Guess a ‘Legend’ is just too high and mighty to do anything for some pitiful human and his friend. Well, that’s fine. Alright, then. So, if you can’t do anything directly, can you at least give me some advice? I’ve come all the way here—you can’t imagine what I’ve been through. The least you can do is give me some sort of suggestion as to where I should go now. If you can’t bring Braddock back, who or what can?”

Bramimond paused, considering his answer. And then he spoke.

“No-one. Nothing. There’s no force in this world, or any other, for that matter, which can grant your wish. You’ll just have to live with it and accept his death, Renault.”

Renault’s anger burned, hotter and brighter.

It was rapidly turning to rage.

“What…what did you say?”

“There’s nothing anyone can do for you, Renault. Reviving a man who’s been dead two centuries is simply impossible. The laws of this and all worlds forbid it. The Divine Weapons might be able to break those laws, but—“

“But you won’t unseal them.” Renault’s hand closed firmly around the grip of his Silver Sword. “And those weapons are the only things that could possibly bring Braddock back?”

Bramimond said nothing, but Renault knew his answer would be yes.

“Braddock will come back to me, Bramimond.” Renault’s voice was totally flat, just a slight strain indicating how much pure fury lay beneath it. “I _won’t_ accept anything otherwise. I _won’t_ believe anyone who says differently. And if the Divine Weapons are the only way to revive him, then I _will_ unseal them, the fate of this world be damned! And if I can’t convince you to do so with words, then I guess I’ll have to resort to force, won’t I?”

“Come on, Renault.” Anger had re-entered Bramimond’s voice, along with a distinct note of mockery the mercenary should have recognized as his own. “You’re not really this stupid, are you?”

“We’re alone down here, Bramimond.” Renault drew his weapon and took a step forward. “It’s just the two of us, you and I. And your Apocalypse spellbook is sealed away, isn’t it? All your magic power’s under lock and key. You and Athos may have been heroes, but you’re both also human, right? Not even you can survive a good blade right through the chest.” _You won’t be able to stop me like Nergal did_ , he thought to himself. _Not this time._

Bramimond said and did nothing in response.

Renault took another step forwards.

“I’ll tell you one last time, sorcerer. Release the seals on the Holy Weapons, or I’ll make you release them!”

Bramimond’s mouth curled up ever so slightly into what could have been a sneer, and he spoke one more word.

“No.”

Renault’s teeth clenched, his eyes went wide, and he burst into motion. With a wild, uncontrolled scream loud enough to be heard above ground, he leapt at the Enigma, raising his sword and bringing it down in a mighty chop aimed at one of Bramimond’s arms. Rage had overtaken him, and all the frustration that had built up inside of him over the course of two hundred years of failure exploded out of its restraints. He didn’t even care about the seals, now. He just wanted to kill Bramimond, more than anything—kill someone, anything, in order to slake his uncontrollable rage.

As it turned out, he wouldn’t be able to kill anyone today. As his blade neared Bramimond, the man seemed to shimmer in the air before disappearing entirely. Renault cut through nothing but black, insubstantial shadow.

“Grrah! What the—“

He felt the air shift behind him, and he immediately turned and thrust out with his sword. He caught a glimpse of Bramimond before he shimmered and disappeared again.

“Damn trickster!” Renault whipped his blade around himself in a circular slash, but this time Bramimond had not rematerialized at all.

“Where the hell are you? Show yourself! What, have you run away? Abandoned this shrine or something? How’re you gonna maintain the seals then, eh?”

Renault was answered by laughter. Loud, mocking peals of laughter. He again whirled around, trying to find out where it was coming from, but failed. There was nothing but darkness all around, and the laughter seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, echoing off of the shadows themselves.

It was mocking and utterly scornful, just as Nergal’s had been, so long ago. But it didn’t have the same malice and coldness his voice had. No, for the first time, Renault realized that Bramimond’s voice sounded exactly like his own.

In his emotional state, this just infuriated him further. Renault hacked blindly at the air around him, thinking Bramimond may have turned invisible somehow. This served only to exhaust himself and amuse his foe, whose laughter became even louder and even more disdainful. As his strength drained, Renault paused his mad, fruitless assault, gasping and lowering his sword for just a moment, intending to simply catch his breath…

And then he felt his feet leave the ground.

“What the…what is this?!” Renault yelled and punched out at the air—and to his surprise, he could do so. There was nothing constraining him, nothing holding him down. It was completely different from his confrontation with Nergal, where the sorcerer had summoned hands of shadow to restrain him physically. Instead, somehow, Bramimond had reversed gravity itself, not merely manipulating the shadows but violating the very laws of the natural world.

And he did all of this even while his spellbook, Apocalypse, was sealed away. Now Renault understood the true power of a living legend—power that dwarfed even Nergal’s. And, just as he’d felt when he faced Nergal, Renault’s rage began to give way fear, awe—and despair.

“Pathetic,” came Bramimond’s voice from in front of him, “Absolutely pathetic!” The air shimmered ahead of Renault, and once again Bramimond appeared in the darkness. Renault vainly kicked and slashed with his sword, feeling nauseous for the first time in decades as he floated through the air, but Bramimond was too far away from him for it to do anything. His stomach turned as he felt the forces acting on his body change again. His feet grew heavier, along with his arms, so heavy he couldn’t move them. This also oriented his body vertically and kept him facing Bramimond. It was like nothing Paptimus or Nergal could have ever employed, but it kept him restrained as well as any spell they could have come up with.

“What a pathetic specimen you are, Renault. What a pathetic life you’ve lived.” Bramimond made no attempt to conceal the contempt in his voice. “You sacrificed your humanity along with countless lives…for this? For a failed quest that had no chance of success in the first place?”

“Failed? Failed?! Damn you, Bramimond, I haven’t failed yet! I’ll bring Braddock back, no matter what you say! No matter what anyone says!!”

“Braddock, Braddock, Braddock. You keep repeating his name, over and over again, as if it were some primitive’s charm you think could protect you from your own failures. You honestly believe you’re actually, genuinely devoted to the man, or at least his memory. One might think you two were friends! Tell me, Renault. Was Braddock really your friend? Did he truly care about you? And was he really loyal to you?”

“W-what the hell are you talking about?!” Renault snarled, spittle dropping from his lips. To hear Bramimond mock his best friend, just like Nergal did, was enough to propel his anger over his newfound fear and sadness, at least momentarily. “Of course he was! He was my best friend! He was like a brother to me! He saved my life…he gave his life for me! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him!”

“Yes indeed, he certainly sounds like a good friend. A great friend, in fact. Then tell me: Why have you repaid him like this?”

“Damn it, what do you mean? I thought you were one of the greatest magicians in history. Why’re you asking all these stupid, senseless questions?!”

“No, I think it’s the other way around, Renault. You’re the stupid and senseless one here. A stupid, senseless tool, when all is said and done—though we’ll get to that later. Just humor me a little; it’s all you can do floating up there, after all.

“Braddock was your best friend, right? The greatest friend you ever had, the one man in all of Elibe who really understood you. He showed you nothing but kindness and loyalty his whole life. Don’t you think that kindness deserves reciprocity, Renault? Are you really his friend? Do you really care about him? Are you truly loyal to him?”

“I told you to stop with these stupid, worthless questions! Of course I’m his friend! Of course I care about him! Why the hell would I have spent so long and given up so much trying to get him back?! If I didn’t care about him, I wouldn’t be trying to resurrect him!”

“Oh, really. Tell me, then: Do you think this is what Braddock would actually have wanted?”

“What he would have wanted?! He’s dead! I want to bring him back! “

“Yes, Renault, that’s what you want. But if you truly care about someone, truly love them, truly consider them a friend, you’re supposed to care about what they want. And do you know what Braddock would want?”

“He’s dead! There’s nothing worse than death! Why wouldn’t he want to come back?”

“Nothing worse than death? What a fool you are, Renault. What a pitiful, naïve fool. Answer me this, child. Let us say Braddock was still alive, but had fallen into the hands of some lunatic torturer like this…Nergal, I know you know that name. What would you do to free him from such a man’s clutches?”

Renault had no idea where Bramimond was trying to go with this line of questioning. “Anything! Anything at all! Braddock’s my friend! No way I’d—“

“So, would you risk your life to save your friend?”

“We were mercenaries, we both risked our lives all the time!”

“Might you be willing to give up your life for the sake of his?”

“Of course! He gave his life for mine!”

“Well then, fool, you’ve just refuted yourself! Death can’t be the worst thing in the world, because seeing your friend in pain is worse to you. _There’s clearly something worse than death, or you wouldn’t be here!_ After all so much toil and struggle, is this the first time that has ever occurred to you?!”

“I…I…” Renault’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He was well and truly stunned. It actually had been the first time he’d ever thought of that.

“Now, try to use what little power is in that thick head of yours, just for a moment. Friends are supposed to have empathy for each other, right? Don’t you think that Braddock felt as strongly about you as you did for him? Don’t you realize that seeing you in pain and misery would be worse than death for him? That’s why he sacrificed his life for you in the first place!” Bramimond brought his face closer to Renault’s, his voice retaining its force and anger. “Do you think he’d be happy seeing you like this? Do you really have no idea of how he’d feel, watching you ever since he died? No, you don’t…you really are that stupid, aren’t you. Some friend you are! A man who loved you, an honorable man who devoted everything to you…if I were to bring him back, would he be happy to see you after all the crimes you committed? Inhabiting a corpselike shell? Do you think he wanted that? You should know, shouldn’t you? You’re his friend, and people who care for each other should care, or _at least know_ , what the other person wants! Did you ever stop and think, even for just a moment, about what Braddock intended, about what he wanted for you?!”

This was not the first time Renault had heard this condemnation, and memories of Nergal echoing Bramimond’s words the last time they spoke stoked his rage even further. “Lies,” he half-growled, half-laughed, quite mad with fury. “Lies! You dark magicians are all the same! Damned fool, I’ve heard that garbage before! Nergal told me the exact same thing! I won’t let some shadow-eating wretch trick me again, even if he’s one of the Eight Legends! There’s no way you could know what Braddock was like, or what he would have wanted! There’s no reason for me to listen to you!”

“You really think so? You display nothing more than your own pitiful ignorance, Renault. I have mastered the darkness, just as it has mastered me. And the Dark threads through time and space, everywhere and forever. I can see what it can see, which means I can see all that has come before and will come since. I know all about your past, Renault. I know you were born to Monica and Sergion, you fought under Khyron of Caerleon, you almost fell in love with Kelitha of Ilia, your greatest enemy was Trunicht of the Red Shoulders, and the closest thing you’ve had to a friend in the past two hundred years was that squire, Wallace, of Caelin. And I can see into their pasts, as well. I can see what sort of men and women they were. And I know Braddock would be horrified…absolutely horrified to see what you’ve become. Absolutely nothing would make him more miserable than to be brought back to life and see his best friend looking like this. It would be worse than death for him!”

“Bullshit,” Renault spat, but the conviction in his voice was beginning to erode—no-one, especially not someone trapped underground for nearly a thousand years, could possibly know so much about where he’d come from and who he’d fought with or against. He wasn’t convinced yet, though. “More trickery from you, sorcerer! You’re still just repeating what Nergal said. You think I’m dumb enough to fall for the same ploy twice?”

“No, just dumb enough to still be trapped by your own rage and self-delusion. There’s an old saying you Etrurians are fond of: ‘A broken clock is still right twice a day.’ Nergal may be a pathetic, mendacious half-rate excuse for a sorcerous charlatan, but the really pathetic thing is that when it came to your best friend, he was exactly right, and _and he still is!”_

“G-gyaaah!” Renault shut his eyes as a sharp pain lanced through his head. Something was wrong with his mind—Bramimond was _attacking_ it. He felt his memories being torn up from the dredges of his consciousness. He saw…

He saw the past.

He saw the Wyvern Lord Yazan, laughing gleefully as he slaughtered Royalist soldiers left and right. He saw Paptimus, betraying Renault, who he himself had hired, by pouring poison into Scirocco’s well and framing Renault and his friends for the crime. And last of all, he saw Trunicht grinning mercilessly as he blasted Kelitha’s body to pieces, while Renault could do nothing but look on helplessly.

“W…why,” Renault muttered, shutting his eyes and trying to drive the memories away, “What the hell are you doing, Bramimond? Why are you showing me all this?”

“To prove a point,” the Enigma sneered. With those words, another stab of pain lanced through Renault’s head, and then he saw something different. He saw…

His own past.

The image of Yazan shifted to an image of Renault himself, on the snow-covered peaks of Bern. He saw himself slaughtering the bandits and then that noble and his entourage…all while wearing the exact same expression as Yazan had.

“Braddock hated Yazan. Would he have wanted you to become just like him? If he was here now, would he be happy seeing you like that?”

“N…No…that’s…”

The image of Paptimus poisoning the residents of Scirocco turned into an image of Renault fighting Dougram, slamming his blade down into the immobilized Swordmaster’s chest.

“Braddock _really_ hated Paptimus. He hated that man more than anyone and anything else on Elibe, and was driven by that hate till the day he finally took his revenge. And now, look at you! You’re every bit the shameless, faithless betrayer Paptimus was. Worse, even! At least he’d never met you face to face when he betrayed you and framed you like he did. But with your own hands, you slaughtered a friend on behalf of some lunatic magician. You slaughtered one of _Braddock’s_ friends! Do you have any idea how sad that would make him? Watching something like that really would be _worse_ than death for him! And that’s not the worst of it. Not nearly the worst of it, Renault!”

Once again, Renault saw Trunicht slaughtering his dear Kelitha. The image was bright and clear before his eyes, and wouldn’t go away even if he tried to look away, even if he shut them.

“Don’t look away, Renault. For once in your wretched life, don’t be a coward!”

“Damn it! No!” As much as he tried to resist, the image of Kelitha’s murder shifted into something else. An image of a different murder.

The top floor of Zodian’s Rest turned into a small house in a poor section of Aquleia. Trunicht’s cruel, hateful visage blurred and shifted…and Renault nearly threw up when he saw the Black Knight’s face had turned into _his own_. His eyes glowed with hate and malice, just as Trunicht’s had done on that terrible night. Kelitha’s head, falling from her body, turned into Lucian’s, falling to the floor, the agony on his face mirroring Kelitha’s.

And then, there was one more thing he saw. He saw the face of Lucian’s son, Lucius. The chubby infant cheeks turned harder, aged. The blond hair turned blue and lengthened. And the eyes…the eyes became Braddock’s. Lucius watching his father fall, Braddock watching Kelitha die…the sadness and despair in both those eyes was exactly the same.

“Wh…what the…” Renault couldn’t maintain his anger as he watched these scenes play out before him. “You…this is a trick…you’re lying!” Even as he said that he couldn’t believe it. Those were no phantoms or disembodied voices like Nergal had summoned. Those were his very own memories, taken from his own life. There was no way to deny them.

“No, Renault, I’m telling you the truth. Telling you exactly what Braddock would. You’re a remorseless, thoughtless murderer, just like all the men he hated and spent his life opposing. Just like Trunicht, the kind of man he gave his life fighting, all so you could be a better one! He cared for you so much that he threw away his own life to give you a chance to be happy. And you’ve twisted the life he gave you into this…this abomination! Fool! You’ve spat all over his name! Forgotten everything he tried to teach you, everything he tried to show you and give you! You’ve you rejected everything he believed and everything he stood for! And for two hundred years, you’ve wasted, blasphemed the sacrifice he made for you for so damn long?”

“Everything he tried to teach me?” There was no anger in Renault’s voice, now—only a quiet desperation, which was deepening with every word. “What do you mean? I…I tried to use all of my skills to bring him back! W…what did he want to teach me? How could I learn from him when he’s dead?”

“Maybe by remembering what he said when he was alive, you idiot. I take it you need a refresher? I can easily provide!”

There was no pain in Renault’s head this time. Instead, he once again felt his body and mind disassociate, as if he were being Warped again. The darkness around him turned bright white, and he felt himself moving…

Not only through space, but through _time_.

_Ah…_

Renault tried to say something, but he found his mouth wouldn’t move. In fact, he found he had no mouth at all. No ears, no eyes, nothing—it was as if his body no longer existed.

Yet he could still see—and hear, and understand. And strangest of all, he could recognize what he was seeing.

It was dark, the dark of night in an unlit room. But it wasn’t nearly as dark as Bramimond’s abode, and there was just enough light filtering in from an open window for Renault to recognize the two other people in the room. He’d recognize them anywhere.

One of them had a handsome face and long blue hair—Braddock. The other was young, and his physique wasn’t as strong, but his face was hard and his eyes were narrow.

Renault recognized himself, when he was still in his early twenties. And he realized he had been in this very room once before. It was in the dormitories of Castle Nerinheit, the night after he had made his very first kill as a mercenary, so long ago. Renault had forgotten the occasion—it had been decades, and he’d killed many, many people. He’d not given it any thought it a very long time. But now he realized the importance of that night, and that he and Braddock had talked a lot. But what had Braddock said?

He could hear it now, Braddock speaking to him—the him on the other bed, not the one eavesdropping from the future. Renault had no ears to hear, but his friend’s past-voice wafted into his consciousness anyways, as if it were coming from far away, yet carried by the wind:

_"Renault, a lot of times your first kill is your hardest. The more you fight, the more you kill…the easier it gets." He ran a hand through his frazzled blue hair. "I'm obviously no pacifist or anything like that. As long as people live they'll fight, and I doubt the world could really do without warriors. But…it's really not the best world I could think of, either._

_“Renault…don't…don't fall in love with violence, alright? Just keep that in mind, even as death impacts you less the more of it you see. I've seen a lot of people become murderers because they forgot that."_

Renault saw himself blinking, and saw himself reply, _"A…alright, man. I'll remember that."_

“I…I said I’d remember,” Renault said to himself with his mouthless voice. “Braddock, I said I’d…”

“But you forgot.” Bramimond’s voice injected itself into his consciousness, now. Renault wanted to wince, but he had no eyelids to close or eyes to turn. There was no-place to hide from the truth Bramimond was showing him, no matter how much he wanted to. “Yes indeed, Renault, you’re such a great friend. You forgot one of the most important lessons Braddock wanted you to learn. ‘The more you fight, the easier it gets! Don’t fall in love with violence!’ Well, boy, I doubt there’s anyone on this entire continent more in love with violence than you. You’ve done nothing but kill and kill for longer than most humans have lived! Braddock saw what happened to people like that…they became murderers, just like you!”

“I…I’m not a murderer,” Renault cried, though both of them knew it was a futile gesture. “I just wanted to bring Braddock back! He was my best friend, Bramimond!”

“Yeah, and that’s what makes you so damn stupid. Laughable, isn’t it,” Bramimond mocked. “For someone who claims to love Braddock as much as you do, you never gave even a moment’s thought to anything he ever said to you for over two hundred years. You couldn’t even keep a promise to remember what he told you! But the fun’s not over yet! Let’s see some more lessons he’s taught…lessons you worked so very hard to forget!”

The scene blurred, and then focused again—in a completely different region of space and time, now. Renault’s mind floated over a bloody battlefield in Sacae. He was standing beside Braddock next to a batch of bloody corpses, being berated by his commander…what was the name? Tassar, yes! He remembered that battlefield now—they had been working for a “merchant” until Braddock found out he was a slaver and tore him and the other mercenaries apart. And Braddock had said something quite clearly to him…

_“I thought you were better than this, Renault. If you're okay with doing the dirty work of whoremongers, then stay the hell away from me!”_

“He thought you were better than that, Renault. If he could see you now, he’d realize how wrong he was. Nergal was far worse than any whoremonger could ever be, but you did his malicious bidding without so much as a second thought—in Braddock’s name, no less! If your friend woke up to see that, he’d wish he remained dead!”

“God damn it, Bramimond! Stop! This isn’t—it can’t be—“

“Stop lying to yourself, you wretch. Facing the truth—just once—is the very least your friend deserves. Let me show you something you’ve never seen before, Renault. Do you know why Braddock even bothered to come along with you to Bern? Why he ended up dying? You should at least understand that!”

Once again, another blur and shift, and Renault was now hovering over the docks of post-war Aquleia. He saw a ship there, and in front of it, two people—Braddock and a woman Renault recognized as…Rosamia, that was her name. She and Braddock always seemed to like each other, and it seemed like they were having a heated conversation, now.

_"I have to leave with him. I have to. I have to help him. I wish it wasn't the case, but…" Braddock sighed. "Look, you saw how he's been since Kelitha died, right? And you saw how he acted during the last battle…how he threatened Meris…"_

_"Yes…yes, I did." Rosamia's expression darkened. "It…it was horrible. I understand how he must feel after everything Trunicht put him…us…through, but even so…his anger, it…it frightens me. I shudder to imagine what he would have done to Meris if you hadn't stepped in, my dear friend. His anger…Renault's anger…I fear it's consuming him. It…it's an obsession now"_

_Braddock nodded. "You're exactly right, Rosamia. And I can't let that happen._

_"That's why I have to do this. That's why I'm coming along with Renault. His 'vendetta' is mine, too. Rosamia, he…he'll never be able to get over this. Not by himself. Not while Trunicht's still alive. Killing that Black Knight is the only way to satiate that burning anger…to satisfy that obsession. It's the only way to save him, Rosamia. When Trunicht's finally dead, we…both of us, we'll finally be able rest."_

_"But why? Braddock, why can't you just let him fight his own battles? You're not the one who's obsessed with Trunicht! You're not the one consumed with some lust for revenge! He is! Let him run off to Bern! You…you don't have to raise your axe ever again! Stay with me!"_

_"Rosamia, I can't…"_

_"WHY?"_

_"Because he's my friend, Rosamia!"_

“This…this really happened?” Renault wanted to believe it was just another illusion, but he knew it wasn’t. Something like this was far beyond even Nergal’s capabilities, and he had felt himself move through time itself. Even if he hadn’t seen it back then, it was indisputably real. “Braddock,” Renault murmured, and there would have been tears in his eyes if he still had them. “Braddock…all for me…you did all that for me? You could have just stayed with Rosamia, but you came to fight Trunicht…for me?”

“Yes, Renault, for you. He could have lived. He could have had a happy life with you and Rosamia. But you couldn’t let go of your need for revenge. That was the one thing— _the one thing—_ he wanted you to overcome. Your bloodlust, your anger, your love of violence—that was what he wanted to exorcise, more than anything, all because you were _his_ friend! That was his very last wish for you, and all this time you’ve done nothing but reject it and defy it! He _died_ so you could live in peace, and all you’ve done is make war!”

“L-live in peace? He…he was a mercenary, just like me! You can’t expect me to believe—“

“Yes, he was a mercenary. That means he knew better than anyone how miserable a life full of nothing but war truly is. He wanted to save you from that sort of life, but you fell into it anyways. Don’t believe me? I’ll let you hear his last words once again!”

For a final time, Renault’s spirit was swept away, to an empty, devastated church in the mountains of Bern.

There he saw himself, clad in his once-proud white armor. He was cradling the dying form of his best friend, and knew he was listening as hard as he could to every word Braddock was saying.

_"Renault…please…one last time…listen to me…"_

“I’m listening, Braddock,” Renault shouted in his own mind, as he watched his physical body stutter in sorrow and disbelief. “I was listening! I was always listening!”

_"Please…please live, Renault. I…I want you to live."_

Renault watched as Braddock brushed a hand through his hair and cupped his face.

_"And not only that. I want…I want you to find…"_

Renault remembered this. He couldn’t hear what Braddock had said, for the man’s voice was too weak. “What was it, Braddock? What did you want me to find?”

Bramimond provided the answer. Renault felt his consciousness moving again, being propelled down and forward so he was no longer hovering above the scene. He was now directly in front of Braddock’s mouth, every other sound having been completely drowned out for him. No matter how quiet that voice was, there was no way Renault could miss Braddock’s last words now.

And thus, he finally heard them, 255 years after they’d been spoken, and 255 years after he should have heeded them the first time:

_“I want you to find…”_

_“Another way to live.”_

Braddock said nothing more. His hand fell and his eyes closed. But his quiet, dying voice still echoed in Renault’s mind, and this time he would never forget it ever again:

_Another way to live._

_I wanted you to find another way to live._

_Another way to live…another way…_

Renault could focus on nothing—nothing at all—besides those words. Even as the image he watched blurred, distorted, and faded away, even as he felt his mind return to his body, floating helplessly in Bramimond’s darkness, he still heard those words over and over again.

Those were the words—Braddock’s last words, which he should have heard the first time, but didn’t—which broke him. “Another way to live.” That small phrase was the final blow which shattered the miserable wall of delusion Renault had spent so long building around himself.

“Another way to live,” repeated Bramimond, his voice dripping with sarcasm and contempt. “That was all Braddock wanted you to find, Renault. The one reason he gave his life. And have you found another way to live? Of course not! You’ve just been living the same bloody, thoughtless life you always have. It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so damn stupid. Everything you’ve done since your best friend died…every battle you fought, every wound you endured, every year you wandered, and every person you killed, _including your friends_ , accomplished _absolutely nothing_ but tarnish his memory even further. Was it worth it, Renault? Are you proud of yourself?”

At last, Bramimond canceled his anti-gravity spell, allowing Renault to return to the ground. His Silver Sword clattered down beside him, completely forgotten. When his feet hit the floor, he stumbled back and then collapsed forwards, onto his knees. The shock of processing the horrible truth behind his life for the past centuries—the irrefutable knowledge that Braddock would be ashamed of him, that he really had done nothing more but waste the sacrifice his friend had made—was simply too much for him to do anything else, except for one thing.

He brought up his hands, looking at them with eyes that would have been crying if they were able. He saw them covered in the blood of countless people. He saw them covered in _Dougram_ and _Lucian_ ’s blood, the blood of his friends. He knew Braddock cared about Dougram, and would have cared about Lucian, and so many of the other people he’d murdered. And he realized that Lucian’s son felt his father’s death the same way that Renault felt about Braddock’s.

For the first time in his entire life, Renault felt someone else’s pain as his own. For the first time, he realized he had been following the wrong path, a path which would have only brought pain to his best friend.

And thus, for the first time in hundreds of years, Renault felt guilt.

“B…Braddock…” he mumbled to himself, the memories Bramimond had revived still roiling inside his head. “Braddock…was that what you wanted? I…sorry…I’m sorry… _I’m sorry!_ ”

He brought his hands to his face, covering his eyes, then raised his head to a ceiling, a sky he couldn’t see…

And screamed.

Renault screamed as loudly as he ever had, but for once his voice was not filled with anger or hate, but sadness—pure, undiluted regret. His anguished cry seemed as if it could have pierced the heavens themselves, but in Bramimond’s all-encompassing darkness, it simply disappeared.

“Braddock…I’m sorry…so sorry…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

Gasping, he slapped his hands frantically on the ground beneath him, searching for something. He found the hilt of his sword, grasped it with all his strength, picked it up, and then turned its blade towards himself, pointed square at his throat.

Before he could do anything else, he felt the sword grow heavier in his hands, far too heavy to lift. He tried his best to stop it, but it fell to the floor, dragging his arms with it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bramimond’s voice seemed both incredulous and amused.

“I…what else is there?” Renault sobbed. “How… how else could I possibly make it up to Braddock? What would make him happy? How else could I repent?”

“Repent? _Repent?_ ” Bramimond chuckled. “Oh, _now_ you talk about repentence? Took you long enough, but it seems you’re still far too stupid to know what to do. How would ending your own life _possibly_ make up for _anything?!_ Every last person you killed would still be dead! Your life, worthless as it is, would hardly be an acceptable price for everything you’ve done. It certainly wouldn’t be an offer of forgiveness Braddock would be pleased with.”

“So then what should I do? What the hell should I _do?!_ ”

“Here’s a thought, Renault.” For the second time, Renault floated in the air, Bramimond having reversed gravity once again. “Why don’t you try taking your friend’s advice? For once in your entire life, why don’t you try to do what he asked of you?

“Why not find a different way to live?”

Another white glow surrounded Renault, and he felt himself rising, far above Bramimond as the Legend’s voice drifted away. The glow blinded him, and almost seemed to seep into his consciousness itself, separating his mind and body and jumbling up both. It grew brighter and brighter, stronger and stronger, overwhelmingly so, until Renault thought he couldn’t take anymore.

Then, just as suddenly, it all went away, and he found his mind back safely in his body.

His body, however, was no longer below the Shrine of Seals.

He had no idea where he was. He was pretty sure he was standing, but it was bright, much brighter than the underground of the Shrine had been, and he blinked at a slight pain in his eyes as they adjusted. He tried to take a step forward, and then collapsed onto his hands and knees, his legs trembling and weak—it seemed the effects of Bramimond’s spell had not worn off.

He looked up, and saw, through his unfocused eyes, what seemed to be a small building of humble grey stone in front of him. There was someone walking out of its entrance—Renault could make out the color brown, the same shade as an Eliminean monk’s cassock. The figure called out to him:

“By the Saint! Who are you? And what’re you even doing _here?!_ ”

The last thing Renault thought, before his eyes closed and unconsciousness took him, was that it was a man’s voice, an older man’s voice. But it also sounded slightly—just very slightly—like Braddock’s.

_::Linear Notes::_

Well, my friends, this is it.

I’ve told you we’d come here for so long, and after so much time and struggle, we’ve finally arrived. It may have taken me long enough, but I’ve fulfilled my promise to you guys at last:

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Finally, _finally_ , _FINALLY_ , Renault will begin his long, slow journey to redemption.

And it will be long and slow, make no mistake. Renault’s transformation from murderous mercenary to benevolent bishop won’t be fast, not at all. I estimate it’ll take 20 chapters, with another 20 detailing his experiences with Eliwood’s Elite and what he does post game, with the story finally ending at the beginning of FE6. But that lies in the future, my friends. Even though it’ll be a long time coming, at least we can see that Renault has taken the first step towards finding a new, better way of life.

This is another landmark for this fic, as well as for me. I never thought I’d get this far, but…well, that’s where perseverance gets you, I suppose. I’m no longer surprised at my own fic’s progress, haha! I owe so many people so many thank yous, but I don’t want to take up too much space here: I’m saving all of my thankyous for the end of the fic, so please look forward to it! For now, I just want all of my friends to know, be they from the Castlevania Dungeon, /m/, the FE fandom, or wherever, that I’m so so grateful for all their love and support. It may have taken 850,000 words (and counting) for Renault to have found his redemption and place in the world, but I’ve already had mine for a long time. I’ve found it with all of you.

Before I leave you today, just a couple quick notes:

All the weird magic stuff with the terrain of the Shrine of seals shifting and changing was inspired by FE6 and FE7. In FE7, you need to get a “priceless book” from Queen Hellene or you can’t find the Shrine of Seals. However, the layout of the Shrine of Seals stage is very different in FE6 and 7—look at the maps for those games. I took it to mean that Bramimond has a magical means of shifting the terrain about via his magic in order to keep himself hidden, and the super-important book Hellene gives you is one of the few ways to get through that enchantment. When Bramimond dies at the end of FE7, the land shifts back to its natural state, which is my explanation for why the Shrine of Seals seems to be in a different location in FE6 than it was in FE7.

Secondly, one thing I noticed in FE7 was that Bramimond knows who Nergal is and what Eliwood and co. are looking for right off the bat when they meet him the first time. It’s possible he could read minds or that Athos told him, but I also think he could have found out another way. In this fic, he finds out about Nergal from his meeting with Renault. :o

Anyways, see ya next month, everyone!

 


	60. The Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault is now lost and entirely alone, no longer having any purpose in his existence. But luckily enough, he meets a new friend...

**Chapter 60: The Hermit**

This was the second time Renault had stirred from unconsciousness upon a friendly stranger’s bed. When he woke up in Arcadia, however, he was most comfortable. Right now, by contrast, his back hurt devilishly. In fact, as he opened his eyes (no longer as blurry and unfocused) just a crack and raised his body, he realized he had been sleeping not on a bed but on nothing more than a thin blanket on a hard floor.

He coughed and raised himself up further, so that he was sitting, and opened his eyes completely. Another difference between this place (wherever it was) and Arcadia—it wasn’t as well lit. It seemed to be late in the afternoon, but Renault could discern that only through the golden beams of sunlight wafting through the two small, rectangular windows on his right and left side and the open door in front of him. It was enough to give him a clear view of his surroundings.

The third difference between this unexpected lodging and his previous one: It was far meaner and much more humble. Renault’s little cottage in Arcadia had been small, but it had still been somewhat larger than where he was right now. The windows in this dwelling were much smaller, barely more than slits, and certainly lacking sills or panes. The walls were drab grey; constructed not out of pleasant, soft-colored adobe but blocks of stone, making it seem slightly like a dungeon cell. It was laid out in a somewhat similar fashion to a normal cottage, though, with a few differences. There was a hearth for cooking and warmth in the center of the room, but the room itself was circular rather than rectangular. There were a pair of wooden chairs and a small wooden table on one side of the hearth, along with a small bookshelf on the other end. Finally, just behind Renault’s bed there was a stairwell leading up. He could only wonder what waited on the second floor of whatever this building was.

However, he would first find out who owned it.

“Hoy! Finally awake, are you?”

Renault quickly turned to look at the doorway in front of him, beyond the hearth. Someone was standing there, now: The same person who’d greeted him just before he’d blacked out.

Renault’s vision was no longer blurry, and now that he could see the man clearly, he realized why his voice reminded him of Braddock. This person looked just a bit like his dearly departed friend, albeit only vaguely. They both had long blue hair and eyes, though that was really the only similarity. This fellow was actually an inch or two shorter than Renault, and he looked much older; he was at least fifty. He was indeed dressed in a modest, uncomfortable-looking cassock similar to those favored by certain Eliminean monks but colored black rather than brown, and now Renault could see a rosary draped around his neck. His hair came down to the middle of his back and was stringy and unkempt. There were also streaks of gray which seemed as if they’d grow exponentially over the next few years. He wasn’t much swarthier than Renault, but his skin was tanned, leathery, and tough, as if he’d worked in the sun for much of his life. His physique made it seem as if he did, for despite his age he didn’t appear frail, weak, or slight; he was only somewhat less muscular than Renault. There were also a few wrinkles beginning to creep across the skin of his hands and what Renault could see of his face. He couldn’t see much, because most of it was covered by a scraggly blue beard. It wasn’t as large and grey as that of Athos, though, coming down just far enough to cover his neck.

The man’s eyes…those were his most striking feature. One of them (his right) was clear and blue, locked on to Renault as his broad mouth turned up slightly in a small, quizzical almost-smile. Renault could see intelligence there, and while his gaze did not seem unkind, it wasn’t exactly friendly or accepting either. His other eye, however, seemed somewhat clouded, as if there was a greyish fog around its pupil. Renault got the impression the man could not see well out of it, if at all.

“Pah,” the man grumbled, “Let me guess, you’re thirsty? You’re in luck, stranger. Just got some water from the river, pure and clean as you could want it.” He raised his right hand, and Renault could see he was carrying a large wooden bucket. He tramped over to the table, set it down, picked up the two small metal cups and dunked them in the water. He brought one up to his lips, gulping down its contents quickly and then offering a deep sigh of satisfaction. Then he put it down and walked up to Renault, still carrying the other full cup. He stood over the mercenary and held it out to him, smiling reassuringly. That smile looked forced, however, as if he was trying to mask just a bit of irritation.

Renault looked at him suspiciously and sullenly. This man did not seem malicious, nor did he exude the sort of magical power that Athos and Nergal had, but there seemed to be no reason to trust him just yet.

“Oh, by the Saint!” The man’s smile disappeared and he rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you think I’m tryin’ to poison you or some stupidity like that. I don’t like playin’ host under the best of circumstances, and I like it even less when I’ve got an ungrateful guest. If I meant you ill I wouldn’t have carried you in here and let you rest. Now, you want to drink or not? I wouldn’t mind another swig myself, so…”

“…Alright.” That was the first word Renault had spoken since Bramimond had kicked him out of the Shrine, and it wasn’t exactly sincere, either. Renault wasn’t thirsty—he hadn’t been thirsty (or hungry) in centuries. Even so, his body still seemed strange; still somewhat weakened, somehow—and there was a sensation in his throat that seemed like it might have been parched, at least if his very dim recollections of such feelings were accurate. Ingesting food or drink couldn’t hurt him any more than it helped. There was no point alienating whoever this man was or making him suspicious, at least not yet. Thus, after a moment’s more hesitation, Renault accepted his host’s generosity. He took the cup and drank it all down in one gulp. It indeed made him feel a little better, thankfully. He then handed it back to his benefactor without a word.

The man apparently wasn’t pleased. “Well? Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Renault blinked. “Eh?”

“I told you I don’t like ungrateful guests. Never learned any manners, boy? How about a thank-you? And while we’re at it, how about an introduction? You’ve been sleepin’ in my bed and enjoying my hospitality and I don’t even know your name!”

Renault felt his face twisting into a grimace, and he was about to release an angry retort, but then his gaze passed over the man’s good eye. Again, he was reminded of Braddock…and how his best friend would have been so utterly horrified by everything he had done for the past two centuries. This caused another wave of despair to roll over Renault, as strong as it had been when Braddock had first died. He could not even summon the energy to be angry or sarcastic. He merely nodded, mumbled, “Sorry,” and looked down.

This seemed to perplex his host. “Aye, that’s a little better, but you could’ve sounded a bit more enthusiastic. I can barely hear you! And I’m still waitin’ for that thank-you!”

Renault didn’t look up. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Now his host seemed more exasperated than placated. “Lord, what’s _wrong_ with you?! Haven’t you noticed you’re lookin’ at the floor rather than me? What, is something the matter? Not injured, are you?” Now he seemed a little more concerned. “You didn’t seem to be when I dragged you in here, but maybe I should’ve checked you more thoroughly. Let’s see…” He knelt down to get a better look at his guest (Renault made no response, and barely even noticed), examined him for a moment, then stood up and shook his head.

“That’s an injury, all right. Injury of the heart, eh? You’re grieving, lad. That’s grief if I ever saw it. Not seen an expression like that on a man’s face in years.” He sighed. “Well, stranger, I don’t know who you are, much less how in the world you found your way here, but I don’t think I’ll get any answers from you in this state. At least you don’t look like a threat, and Elimine did say those who mourn are blessed…” He sighed again and stood up. “You can stay here for a while, ‘least until you pull yourself together. Hope that won’t be too long, though…this place definitely isn’t suited for guests, and neither am I.”

With a shrug, Renault’s benefactor turned away and resumed his normal schedule, seemingly paying no more mind to his most unexpected (and unusual) visitor. He walked away from Renault, heading for the front door. Before he went back outside, though, he paused for one moment, then looked back at his guest, an unreadable expression on his bearded face.

“My name’s Varek,” he said. “I’ll wait till you’ve pulled yourself together to ask yours. But when you do, just remember to call me Varek.”

He then strode out his door, leaving Renault alone.

-x-

Renault had started dreaming again.

Perhaps “dreaming” wasn’t the right word for it—‘reminiscing’ might have been more accurate. Before, when Renault closed his eyes, he would always see visions of Braddock, walking through that blazing battlefield with that sad expression on his face. Tonight’s dream also involved Braddock. But this time, it seemed to be based on the past rather than some fantasy battlescape. As he slept, Renault saw snatches of his past life floating up through his consciousness. Memories of not only Braddock but his other friends, like Keitha and Kelitha, his enemies, like Trunicht and Cypher, and his family, like his mother and his father, who had died so very long ago…

Indeed, it seemed as if he had been hit by something more than grief. Bramimond must have done something to his memories. They kept floating back up, as clear as if he’d experienced every moment of his life literally yesterday.

He saw his mother’s face, smiling at him as he ate a meal as a child, and that same face, looking sad and uncaring as he first left to become a mercenary…

His father reading a book with him, and his father coughing up blood on his deathbed…

He heard malicious laughter as Trunicht murdered Kelitha, and a scream of pain as he drove his sword through the Black Knight’s chest…

But more than anyone else, he heard and saw Braddock.

_Nobles are such assholes. Am I right, or am I right?_

“Braddock…”

_Renault…don’t fall in love with violence, alright?_

“Blessed Creator, Lord of all heaven and earth, I give praise and thanks to you as a new day dawns.”

_It's an old Lycian warrior's custom. Each man cuts his own hand, and then shakes hands with his fellow soldiers, the ones he considers brothers._

“Braddock…”

_Renault…I want you to find…_

“Blessed Elimine, speaker of the Lord’s wisdom and His most favored emissary, I commemorate your sacrifices as a new day dawns.”

_I want you to find…_

“Braddock…”

_Another way to live…_

Renault furrowed his brow, Braddock’s last words echoing through his mind and his lips repeating his friend’s name as he awoke. Yet, for some reason, those were not the only things he was hearing. There was another man’s voice—similar to Braddock’s, but not the same. And it was repeating the dry words of an old prayer, over and over again. This was what had roused Renault from his slumber.

Varek was sitting on the stone floor across from Renault, wearing the same dull black cassock as he’d been yesterday. His eyes were closed as he rocked back and forth, chanting that prayer over and over again. His hands, even though they were wizened and old, threaded through the beads of his rosary with a Swordmaster’s dexterity, counting each prayer swiftly as he finished it.

“Blessed Creator, Lord of all heaven and earth, I give praise and thanks to you as a new day dawns. Blessed Elimine, speaker of the Lord’s wisdom and His most favored emissary, I commemorate your sacrifices as a new day dawns.”

“Ugh,” Renault grumbled, raising a hand to massage his temples. He had heard a similar prayer the night before, he recalled. In fact, it had been the only notable event from yesterday. He had been too consumed with grief, sorrow, and shame to do anything at all after Varek had left him. He’d simply sat on the old blanket, looking at nothing as the man—the hermit, apparently—went about his daily business. Renault wasn’t really sure what that was, he hadn’t been paying the least amount of attention to his surroundings. But he remembered the front door to the dwelling opening and closing, Varek setting a fire in the hearth and cooking a couple small meals of stew, offering them to Renault and then withdrawing them when Renault made no response to him, and also picking up and reading a few books from the small shelf on the far side of the room. It was after his second meal, when the sun had fallen and the flames of the hearth providing the only light in the little first-floor room, that Varek had begun to chant a prayer. As he was now, he knelt alone on the hard floor and rocked back and forth, pushing along the beads of his rosary with his fingers, and though Renault didn’t remember the words he’d said exactly, they were similar to the one he was currently repeating. Those nightly prayers, which were chanted a total of fifty-two times, were that last thing Renault remembered hearing before Varek set himself down upon the stone floor and slept (without complaint), and before Renault felt himself taken by sleep as well.

“Blessed Creator, Lord of all heaven and earth, I give praise and thanks to you as a new day dawns. Blessed Elimine, speaker of the Lord’s wisdom and His most favored emissary, I commemorate your sacrifices as a new day dawns.”

Renault stared at Varek. He thought of saying something, but his voice caught in his throat, choked by a resurgence of his grief and shame. Any time he tried to speak, or even move, the image of Braddock reappeared in his mind, along with the knowledge of how much his friend would loathe him if he were alive. That was enough to paralyze him entirely.

Thus, Renault found himself unable to say or do anything until Varek finished his prayers.

“Blessed Creator, Lord of all heaven and earth, I give praise and thanks to you as a new day dawns. Blessed Elimine, speaker of the Lord’s wisdom and His most favored emissary, I commemorate your sacrifices as a new day dawns.”

Varek’s fingers traced the last bead before the terminus of his holy necklace. Renault gave the relic a closer look—it seemed to be the most luxurious object in the hermit’s otherwise austere dwelling. It was essentially a silver necklace, with ten beads of sapphire, ruby, opal, emerald, and topaz each (for a total of fifty) spread equidistantly around its loop. At the front of the loop, hanging by a bit of chain as a pendant would, was the symbol of the Church of Elimine, cast in gold: A circle whose bottom radius was crossed by a single line.

Varek had gone through all of the beads, and he was holding that symbol, now. Still shutting his eyes tightly, he spoke the very last prayer which ended this set:

“Most holy God, as the day begins I ask for Your charity and grace. It is to You I owe my life, and on Your protection I rely. May You watch over me, and may my hands do good, my tongue speak justly, and my mind attest to Your glory, as You will. May the words and deeds of Your blessed Saint, the holy Elimine, stir me and keep me on the path of righteousness. And as You guided Elimine on her Journey, may You guide me on mine as well. Amen.”

Varek sighed contentedly, lifted the symbol of Elimine to his lips and kissed it, then turned to look at Renault, whom he noticed had awoken. “Ah, sorry about that,” he said, in a tone that did not seem to be entirely apologetic. “Did I wake you up?”

“Yeah,” said Renault sullenly, his dislike of religion managing to pierce through, at least slightly, his haze of grief.

“Well, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to,” said Varek, and this time he did seem to be genuinely contrite. “Those were my morning prayers. Every Eliminean ought to say them, but for a hermit like myself, they’re absolutely required! Still, I’ll try to be more quiet, at least while I have a guest.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Unless you’d like to pray with me, of course? I’m not the most sociable of men, but it’s always a blessing to meet another follower of the Path. I’d be more than happy to worship with you. Not permanently—I am a hermit, after all—but as long as you’re here, if there’s anything even someone as humble as I can do to help with your spiritual growth, you need only ask.”

Renault shook his head, his irritation continuing to resist his heartache. “I’ve got no use for religion,” he sneered.

“Is that so?” Varek’s smile disappeared. He raised a hand to cough, somewhat violently—it was more than just a passing annoyance; Renault got the impression that the man might actually be sick. Still, though he wasn’t smiling, Varek seemed otherwise unperturbed. He apparently wouldn’t allow himself to be rattled. After hacking and coughing again, he said, “You’ve been relying on a religious man’s charity since yesterday. Seems to me you’ve got at least a bit of use for it, ungrateful as you may be.”

This made Renault quite suspicious. “I didn’t ask to show up on your doorstep.” _Wherever that may be,_ he thought. “What, do I owe you or something? If you’re looking for repayment, I don’t have anything to give.” This was true—he’d noticed after he woke up that neither his sword nor the incredibly valuable book were still in his possession, but after everything he’d learned from Bramimond, he hadn’t cared where they went. “You want me to convert, is that it?”

Varek coughed again and shook his head. “No, stranger, I desire absolutely nothing from you. My kindness is freely given and comes with no price. And if you’re worrying about me trying to convert you, don’t. I’ve been called to prayer, not evangelism. Lord knows I’ve no right to lecture anyone, not with the sort of life I’ve lived. I’ll not condemn you, nor threaten you with curses or try and guilt you into belief. I will, however, worship and praise the Creator, as is my purpose here. If you don’t like it, I am sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

“Alright, I—“ Renault was about to take him up on his offer before he realized something very important:

If he left wherever he was currently staying, where would he go?

For the past two hundred years, every single step he had taken, every last moment of his wandering, was directed towards his reunion with Braddock. Now, however, he could not possibly avoid the truth: It was a foolish, impossible quest, and even more importantly, his friend would be horrified and ashamed of him for undertaking it, for committing all the crimes he had in search of an unattainable goal.

Now, then, what did he have left? What could he do, and where could he go? And what would be the point? The vast majority of his centuries-long life had been spent searching for a way to defeat death, and since he no longer had that…he had absolutely nothing at all.

He could leave this strange little hermitage, if he so desired. But it would be entirely pointless. He would find no more peace outside that door than he would here, nothing to justify his unhappy existence beyond the thin blanket upon which he sat. For a moment, he considered ending his own life again—but then another memory, Braddock’s last words, his exhortation for him to live, echoed through his mind, and he promptly banished the thought. Instead, he simply shook his head, shut his mouth, and collapsed back down upon his blanket, arms hanging limply over his knees, and resumed his staring off into space, blankly and miserably.  

Varek stared at him for a moment, let out another pained, whooping cough, and then sighed and shook his head. “Regardless of whether or not you believe, your grief feels like my own. It feels as the Saint’s did,” said Varek quietly. “In any case, my earlier offer to you remains. You can stay here as long as you want, at least until your heart is no longer torn. When you’ve pulled yourself together, you can resume your travels and I will wish you the best.”

Renault didn’t respond, but he’d heard what Varek said.

The hermit did pause for a moment, though, considering what he’d just said, then took back his earlier words. “Wait, there _is_ something I’d like from you.”

Renault’s head snapped up, the hostility in his gaze returning…

“What’s your name, son?”

“Wait, what, my name?”

“Aye. I’d like to know who I’m sharin’ my roof with, at least.”

“My name…” It took a bit of effort for Renault to even say those two words. If Braddock couldn’t hear what he said, and would never be able to hear what he said, he saw no purpose in saying anything at all. But, once again, another memory floated up unbidden in his mind—his friend repeating his name as he died. And, lost in that memory, he repeated what he heard.

“Renault…”

“Renault? That’s your name?”

He could still see Braddock’s dying form before his eyes, and hear his last dying words—clearly, now, thanks to the ‘help’ Bramimond had given him. He was too distracted to respond to Varek’s query more clearly, but he did nod slightly, and that was enough for his host.

“Renault? A good name for a man,” Varek said, just before he let out another cough. “Well, Renault, you’re welcome here. I don’t know how you found yourself here, or what happened to you, but I hope your stay brings you some measure of peace.”

With that, he got up and headed for the door, once again beginning his daily routine and leaving Renault alone with his thoughts.

-x-

This state of affairs lasted for about four days. Renault found this out later, because he certainly wasn’t paying much attention to time. In fact, he paid only the slightest bit of attention to his surroundings. He had instead spent all that time (when he wasn’t sleeping, at least) on his little blanket in the corner, doing the same thing he had his first day here: absolutely nothing, just sitting and staring at the floor, contemplating his grief and the horror of what Bramimond had shown him. To his credit, he was no longer entertaining even fleeting thoughts of suicide, but he still was unable to do so much as get to his feet of his own volition. He occasionally glanced around himself before returning to his reverie, though, and he could still hear what went on around him. From this, he acquired a vague idea of Varek’s daily schedule.

He woke up with those prayers, all fifty-two of them, chanted with the help of that rosary. Renault didn’t pay much attention to them, but he understood the gist of them: Praise of God and Elimine and a plea for their help in starting the day. Then, Varek would leave the dwelling for a little bit, coming back with a bucket of water and some fish, which Renault surmised he caught in the river running through the sanctuary. Varek would boil those fish or fry them over the hearth, on occasion. Afterwards, he’d take a book from the shelf and read it for a few hours before beginning his midday prayers. Another 50 repetitive chants, though Renault, only half-paying attention, got the idea that they were slightly different in tone from the morning prayers, focused on contemplation and asking for God’s protection. Following those prayers, he would again leave for a few hours, during which time Renault assumed he’d be working on the garden or farm which provided the vegetables he ate. When the sun began to fall he’d come back, this time with game in hand. The first day Renault had seen him bring in a hare, the second a pair of doves. Renault wasn’t sure, but he got the impression the hermit bred the birds. Either way, in both cases he cleaned and prepared the animals with the efficiency and skill of an experienced hunter and roasted them over the hearth’s fire. After that, he took out another book and read, and then, when the sun had disappeared completely and the only light was from the dying embers of the hearth or the small candles on the table, he would begin to pray a final time, singing of his frailty and fallibility and begging God for forgiveness of his sins.

Over the course of those four days, neither spoke a word to the other. Varek, it seemed, had forgotten Renault even existed, and Renault, for his part, acted as if he felt the same way about Varek. Though he heard and saw Varek’s coming and goings (of course, what lay outside the little dwelling remained a complete mystery to him), none of them elicited any reaction from him. He’d stayed in the same place—hunched up on that blanket—for over half a week. He still had to sleep, however. Not even his miserable mental state could outweigh his unnatural body’s need for rest, exactly six hours every day.

And when he closed his eyes, he continued to dream.

It was strange, very strange. The dreams were just like those he’d had on his first night here. Not the ones which had accompanied him for years—images of Braddock fleeing from him in horror. No, they were _memories_. Of more than just Braddock’s last moments, too. He re-lived many of the battles he and his friend had fought, and also many of the nicest times they’d spent together, from the day he’d first met.

On his second night, he dreamed of the first trip to Scirocco he’d taken with Braddock…

_Rosamia was a statuesque woman, but not a particularly strong one, and while she wasn't having much trouble unloading the modest sleeping mats, Renault and Braddock could still do it faster. "Hold on, miss," Braddock said as he went beside her and hauled up another mat, "my friend and I can help you out. Come on, Renault, lend a hand!"_

He remembered his friend’s reaction at his refusal to bury the dead body of Revil, the tax collector…

_"Come on, Renault," Braddock admonished, somewhat disappointed by his friend's petulance. "We might as well get the body out of sight while we're here. It'll be pretty bad to have to look at some nasty corpse when we're heading back, won't it?"_

And he remembered what Braddock had told him when the Ostian had received a pretty serious beating from a grieving Roberto…

_"Renault, I told you, I'm fine. Don't worry about it." He looked away. "Can't say I didn't deserve it, either…"_

During the third night, Renault continued to dream. This time, memories of his service with Khyron and the Autonomous Company floated through his mind. He remembered Braddock upbraiding the Great General due to his lack of concern for the Ilian mercenaries…

_"I just want you to know, though, that some of us_ _died_ _to 'do our duty,' as you said." This admission drew surprised glances from the rest of the group. "What were their names," Braddock continued, "Imelle, Hiyu, and…Vayin, I think? They left with us, but they didn't come back. You're not even gonna say anything for them?"_

He remembered what Braddock had said in response to Keith’s declaration of faith in him…

_"Damn, that's some good principles you got there, girl," the Ostian whistled appreciatively. "Just promise me you'll never lose that, alright?"_

And, oddest of all, just before he woke up on his fourth morning with Varek, he dreamt of a conversation he’d once had with Braddock:

_“Renault, did you ever think you've given religion too little credit?”_

_The nobles may be bad, but they're not as bad as Paptimus. And even if Eliminism or any other religion isn't correct, it's got to be better than what Paptimus has to offer!"_

_It's not like I'm askin' you to buy into all that stuff either. I'm just saying…don't look at it in such a…I dunno, such a one-dimensional light, I guess?"_

That last request echoed in Renault’s mind as he awoke from sleep. He was still grieving and miserable, but hearing his friend’s voice again, even if only in memory, made him feel slightly less lonely, at least. However, hearing Braddock in his head while hearing nothing around him piqued his interest. He sat up, still feeling an ache in his back (he’d not yet gotten used to sleeping on the ground) and looked around. The house was completely empty, though the door was open, sunlight streaming merrily through.

After four days, this was finally enough to pique his curiosity and spur him to get off his blanket for the first time.

“Varek,” he called, quietly at first, then louder, a second time. “Varek?”

There was no response. Renault thought of staying quiet and continuing his unhappy reverie, but all those dreams of Braddock had left a mark on him. He’d began to wonder if that strange hermit more than Bramimond was responsible for them—after all, he did remind Renault of Braddock for some reason, and Renault wasn’t sure why. Hoping to find an answer, he finally got up. He was pleased to find his feet were steady. At least part of Bramimond’s enchantments had wore off, and his eternally-young body hadn’t atrophied at all despite so much time lying inactive. Renault then made his way past the table and hearth and out the front door, stepping into the sunlight.

What he saw amazed him.

At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary here. The sky above him was blue and bright, the snow below pure and white. In front of the doorway there were a few round stones jutting out of the ground, their placement implying they might have been part of a path which had been long since overgrown.  In front of him, following the path for about fifty feet, was the front side of a grey stone wall somewhat taller than he was, ostensibly designed to give this area some privacy. It was, however, broken by a single wooden gate through which occasional visitors could come.

All in all, everything so far seemed like just what he would expect from a hermitage or any other retreat designed to give its inhabitants a degree of solitude. That wasn’t what surprised him. No, the really amazing thing was that he was pretty sure he recognized this place.

Renault took a few steps forward and then turned back to confirm his suspicions. As he expected, the building from which he came was a squat, two-story structure with a very distinctive decoration on top of it.

A statue of Saint Elimine, arms held out wide. The very same statue he’d seen standing tall above the hermitage walls when he’d first came to the Shrine of Seals.

He was, therefore, still inside Bramimond’s magical abode. Now he knew where he was, but that just raised as many questions as answers. Why had Bramimond sent him here? And what was Varek doing here in the first place?

He could get those answers when he found Varek, though. To that end, he started to look around. When he glanced down at the snow, he saw footprints leading towards that wooden gate. He followed them, wandering back onto the beautiful little plateau, and when he heard coughing he knew he was near his destination.

Varek was sitting on a tree stump outside the walls, right near another tree. He was holding an axe with one hand. His other was covering his mouth, and he was hacking and coughing furiously.

That definitely wasn’t good. “Whoah, old man,” said Renault, a note of concern—the first genuine concern he’d displayed for another human being in several years—entering his voice. “Are you…chopping firewood? In this condition?”

With one more throaty cough Varek’s head shot up, quite surprised—he clearly wasn’t expecting to be interrupted. “Ah! D—curses, is that you, Renault?! Don’t surprise me like that!”

“I’m sorry!” He held up his hands as a show of peace. “I hadn’t seen or heard from you in a while, so I was starting to get worried.”

Varek’s expression softened somewhat. “Worried, eh? Well, thanks for your concern. I mean that, lad. I don’t need it, though, I’m doing just fine.” He started to laugh before being interrupted by another cough. “Hah, hah—gah! Well, I’m glad to see you’re up and about, at least. Feelin’ better?”

 _Not really_ , Renault thought, but what he said was different: “Better than you, at least. I don’t think it’s a good idea to push yourself so hard when you’re sick like this.” He paused for a moment, because, strangely enough, an image of Braddock flashed through his mind. Renault blinked, and then continued. “Look, I can cut us up some firewood. Why don’t you go back in and rest for a bit?”

Varek shook his head vociferously. It seemed he was actually somewhat offended by the suggestion. “I’m not so weak I need to beg one of my guests for help. Ack! J-just go back inside, I’ll be done soon and I’ll make us a good fire. Or just take your leave now, if you—eh!—wish. Either way, I’m not an invalid! I’m supposed to give charity, not receive it!”

Renault allowed an irritated grimace to spread across his face. “That’s how you’re gonna be? Alright, have it your way.” He turned away and began to march towards the stairs that led back down, out of the mountain plateau. The cold wouldn’t affect his unnatural body much, and even if it did, at this point the only thing death could do was bring him closer to Braddock. If that stubborn old hermit wanted to die as well, that was fine with him.

But even as these thoughts ran through his mind, he remembered Braddock’s last words.

 _I want you to live_.

He took another step away from the sick hermit.

_I want you to find…another way to live._

One more step. But this one was much more hesitant, and after it, Renault stopped. He took a deep breath and exhaled, though the cold air of his dead lungs did not steam around him.

“Braddock,” he said quietly. “Braddock…you…you wanted me to find another way to live, man. So…so what would you do? What would you want me to do?”

He looked up at the clear blue sky, feeling the cold wind on his skin, and remembered what he’d dreamt about last night.

He remembered Braddock cheerfully lending a hand to Rosamia…speaking on behalf of the Ilians to Henken…training Keith, and getting an apple for her she was too short to reach…

And he remembered the first time he and Braddock had fought together, when his friend—just an axeman at the time—had jumped in front of him to shield him from a Pegasus Knight’s attack. He had risked his life to help Renault, despite not knowing him for more than a couple of weeks.

“Braddock…you helped me. You helped everybody…”

Renault continued to ponder that blue sky for a few moments longer, and then blinked. He knew what he needed to do. At least, he knew what he would have done if Braddock was next to him.

He turned around and headed back to Varek.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say about this chapter, except that Varek’s prayers are loosely based on the IRL Catholic rosary prayers. The “dry words of an old prayer” line is also inspired by a line in Armored Trooper VOTOMs: The Shining Heresy. Keep reading for more background on the religion of Elimine and this world :D

 


	61. A Brief Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault earns his keep--sort of--at Varek's hermitage.

**Chapter 61: Sickness and Health**

Renault didn’t bother saying anything as he picked up the axe on the ground. Varek was still coughing heavily, so it took him a moment to notice what Renault had done, but by that time he’d already started chopping at the nearest tree.

“Eh? D—blast it, Renault, I told you, I don’t need any help!”

“Yeah, well, I want to give it.” Renault continued hacking away.

“What kind of a guest are you?! What gives you the right to insult me like this?”

Renault finally stopped for a moment. “Look, what kind of a host are you to refuse a traveler’s kindness? If you want me to stop that damn badly, I will, but it might be a better idea to stop being equally stubborn. Your coughing’s getting worse, old man. You might be able to do all these chores yourself, but you’d also be prolonging your sickness—at best. Just go back in and get some rest!”

“Tch! You call me stubborn?” Varek looked at Renault with some confusion mixed in with his annoyance. “Well, you certainly didn’t seem inclined to do anything but sit around for the past week…until now. What’s with this sudden change?”

Braddock’s words echoed through Renault’s mind once again. Of course, at this point, he didn’t feel like revealing too much about himself, his dead friend, or his past. He just shook his head and said, “I just want to, alright? I…I don’t like being in debt to anybody, that’s all. I’ve done nothing but sleep on your blanket and take up space in your home for long enough. Let me pay you back.”

“I already said I expect nothing from you, Renault. Not your conversion, and not anything else either. You’re not in debt to me!”

“Well, I _feel_ like I’m in debt to you, and I don’t like that. So just be a good host and accept my help, huh? It’ll take a load off my shoulders, if nothing else. That’s something virtuous for you to do, isn’t it?”

“Fine, fine. As you will.”

The ill hermit hobbled back to his home, leaving Renault outside to continue chopping. He found he rather liked the task, actually. The air was cold, but it felt good on his skin, and the repetitive, steady rhythm of chopping took his mind away from unhappy thoughts of Braddock. Sooner than he’d expected, the small tree (he didn’t know what kind it was) had been felled, and soon after that chopped up into logs suitable for use as fuel. He dragged a bundle of them back to the hermitage, and as he entered he was satisfied to see that Varek was lying down and resting, as he’d recommended. Upon hearing him enter, Varek looked as if he’d get up, but Renault shook his head. “Is there flint or tinder here?”

With a cough, Varek pointed to one of the shelves, where there was indeed a well-used flint, among other basic living supplies. With that and the newly-chopped wood, he’d started up a nice warm fire in the hearth, making Varek feel a little better, at least. He looked at the hermit, whose coughing had subsided slightly. “Not good for you to starve, either. I’d better get you something to eat.”

On this, Varek would not budge. “You’ve done enough. Let me do this myself, now.”

“But—“

“Do you know anything about herbs, Renault?”

He blinked. “Herbs? What kind of question is that?”

Varek sighed. “No, eh? Not a surprise. Well—agh!—I know a bit about them myself, and I know a few recipes which are very good for a passing illness like this. Nobody can live alone like this if they can’t take care of themselves if they fall sick. Now…”

“Well, what do you need? It’s not good for you to move around too much. Tell me the ingredients and I’ll fetch them for you.”

Another hacking cough. “I don’t think so. Picking the wrong one can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. If you want to help so much, here’s something you can do.” He glanced at the familiar water bucket. “Go outside and fetch some water to boil. I’ll be making some broth for myself and it’ll save me some time.”

Renault could do that. As Varek headed upstairs, Renault took the bucket and headed back outside. He walked over to the clear running stream he’d encountered when he first came to the Shrine and filled it up, then brought it back in. By the time he returned, Varek was already sitting by the fire with the cauldron nearby, holding several aromatic pouches. He nodded at the cauldron, in which Renault promptly poured the contents of the bucket. He then hauled it over the fire and waited for it to boil. When it did, Varek stood up and poured the contents of his pouches into it—Renault could see they were green, mainly leaves and grasses, not that he knew which plants they were from. The hermit took his wooden ladle and stirred the contents of the pot while Renault watched in silence. After a few minutes, he removed a bit of the substance, blew on it, then took a sip. He smacked his lips thoughtfully and nodded to Renault—it was done. His guest promptly removed the cauldron and set it on Varek’s table. The man took a bowl and filled it up with the soup. He was about to offer Renault another bowl, but his guest merely shook his head. Shrugging, Varek quietly said “Thank you” and took his seat in one of the chairs in front of the table, Renault sitting down in the other one. He ate his soup as Renault watched in silence, and he finished with a contented sigh.

“Ah, that’s the stuff. It’s an old herbal recipe I learned at the orphanage back in Lycia, before I took the religious life. My throat’s already feeling better! A few more days of this and I’ll be good as new.” He stared at Renault curiously. “You sure you don’t want any? Even if you’re not sick, it’s as good as anything you’ll taste.”

Renault shook his head. Varek coughed—not as harshly as he used to—and narrowed his good eye. “Look, you haven’t eaten a thing for nearly a week. I can understand grief, but I don’t want you to kill yourself, ‘specially not under my roof and my watch. The last thing I need around here is a starved corpse!”

“Don’t worry about it, old man,” Renault replied, some of his hostility returning.

“Don’t give me that guff, lad. Just ‘cause you offered me a little bit of help doesn’t mean you can act however you please.”

“I’m not hungry, alright? Just drop it. I appreciate your concern for me, but I just don’t need to eat much, is all. Just look at me! My stomach’s not grumbling and my bones aren’t showing. Nearly a week without food and I’m no worse for the wear. I’ll be fine.”

Varek stared at Renault a moment longer, as if there was something he wanted to say. Then he coughed, shrugged again, and turned away to attend his other duties—though Renault got the impression Varek would let him know what was on his mind eventually.

For now, the hermit got on the floor and began to pray, as he usually did at this time of day. Renault didn’t say anything this time, and just watched and listened. He may not have respected the content of the prayers much at all, but there was something gratifying about seeing the old man feeling a little better.

“Braddock,” he murmured, thinking Varek’s prayers would drown out his voice, “Braddock…that’s the sort of thing you’d do, right? You’d be proud of me…wouldn’t you?”

Renault, of course, received no answer. Even so, he thought he preferred that to receiving one of the false answers he would have gotten from Nergal, or those horrible dreams which had only stopped when he’d made the hermit’s acquaintance.

In any case, Varek finished his prayers—not coughing once as he recited them, though he started after they were finished--and continued on his regular schedule. He picked up another book to read from his shelf—Renault saw it was on theology, written by a priest, apparently—and began to read. He coughed occasionally, but otherwise seemed alright. Renault, for his part, thought now would be a good chance to get a little better acquainted with his surroundings. “Varek, I’m gonna head out for a bit. You don’t need anything else right now, do you?”

The hermit didn’t say anything—he just shook his head and motioned for Renault to go.

He happily did so. Renault took a deep breath as he exited the confines of the small cottage for the second time today, the mountain air, though thin, refreshing his lungs with its purity. First, he turned back to get a good look at his new home. It wasn’t exactly a mean hovel, but struck him as somewhat primitive. It had been put together with grey stone bricks and mortar, nothing particularly fancy or even pretty-looking. He got the impression it had been built by hand rather than magically summoned as most of the things in Bramimond’s abode. The icon on top of the two-story circular building, however, was a respectable piece of stonework. Renault hadn’t kept in touch with the subject for more than two centuries, but he could still tell the sculpture was excellent. About life-size (Elimine had been a tall woman, it had been said), every detail of it, from the folds in her holy robes to the etchings on the stone Aureola tome in her right hand to the holy staff in her left had been made with a master’s painstaking attention. However, parts of it seemed to have been chipped off, and it did seem to be worn down slightly by the elements, furthering Renault’s suspicions that this dwelling was not in and of itself magical or enchanted.

Renault then turned to his left. He wasn’t sure if he was going east or west, since directions worked strangely and were unreliable thanks to Bramimond’s magic, but it wasn’t important for his purposes. By that section of wall he came across what was almost certainly Varek’s personal garden. Though it was covered in snow, Renault imagined it grew cabbage, beans, and other staple foods when the weather was right. He continued along until he reached the back wall of the little hermitage, where he came upon its second-largest building: A storehouse…or more specifically, a granary. Renault didn’t enter, but it was easy enough to discern the function of the cone-shaped structure. This was where Varek stored up food to keep him alive during Bern’s harsh winters…and perhaps, on occasion, to keep this little area’s other occupants fed.

Coming up to the next corner of the wall, as Renault turned around he was surprised—and somewhat happy—to hear something familiar but quite unexpected: The babble and cooing of a flock of doves. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the third component of the hermitage: Its dovecote. A small flock of the animals was flying around and milling near a squat stone structure which, amusingly enough, looked like a miniature version of an Eliminean church tower. It even had a small icon of Elimine festooning its top, holding her arms out in welcome to her feathered parishioners. It was about the same height as the hermitage itself, perhaps just a bit shorter, and was in the shape of a cylinder, constructed of the same grey stone. There was a man-sized door on the first level for Varek to enter if he so desired, and above that, a ring of glass windows to let the sun in. The third level consisted of a much smaller cylinder ringed with several small openings, below each of which was a perch—this was where the birds entered and exited, and it was on top of this that the statue of Elimine stood. Curiously enough for an overseer of doves, this statue did not hold fascimiles of the tome and staff, but rather images of an eagle sitting on Elimine’s right arm and an owl on her left. Renault had long since forgotten the significance of the eagle and the owl in Eliminean symbology (and had not yet relearned it), but judging by the exaggerated features of the two beasts, Renault thought they may have been intended to scare actual eagles and owls away. If so, they did their job well; Renault hadn’t seen a single bird of prey in this area yet and the doves themselves didn’t seem to mind the statue. This was also where Varek got the birdmeat and eggs he’d eaten a few times in the past few days, Renault realized.

That was essentially all of the little hermitage. The whole complex, given the size its walls afforded it, might have passed for a very small village or manor. It wasn’t luxurious, but Renault could understand how Varek was able to live alone like this, and even offer him a bit of respect for doing so.

Renault had not been particularly hasty with his walk, taking his time to look at his surroundings and the buildings, along with a few sizable portions of wandering through his own thoughts and reminisces. Thus, several hours had passed before he completed his survey of the hermitage. When he got back, Varek was just preparing to leave. With a cough, the hermit said he’d be getting more water for tonight’s dinner (more broth). Wordlessly, Renault took the bucket and headed for the river. After he returned, Varek once again made a pot of soup for dinner with his herbs, though this time he didn’t offer a bowl to Renault. After that, it was time for his fifty-two nightly prayers followed by some reading, then off to bed—Renault followed him to sleep.

Tomorrow’s routine was slightly different. After building a fire with the remaining wood Renault had brought in, Varek asked him to do a little fishing in the coursing river nearby. There was a small spear kept by the shelf which could be used with little difficulty on the bass and trout which inhabited the area. Renault was not an expert spearfisher, but there had been a few times during the course of his wandering—after he’d been betrayed by Nergal—where he’d found work with mercenary companies who traveled by boat, and had been assigned to scare up some extra food for them where they went. Thus, after a few false starts, he came back to the hermitage with a bucket of water and a pair of decently-sized fish. Varek had a good knife in his supplies and he scaled, cleaned, and gutted the fish with great efficiency before chopping them up and dumping them in the boiling water over the fire. About half an hour of cooking and he’d made himself some good herbed fish soup, which he didn’t bother sharing with Renault. After he was done, he turned to Renault and asked, “Oy. If you’re in a helpful mood, you mind doing me a favor? You don’t have to, but…”

“What is it?”

“Can you take care of the birds? Not good for either me or them to tend them while I’m sick.”

It took Renault a moment to realize what he was talking about. “The doves?”

“Aye. They don’t need to be fed much this time of year thanks to the winterberry bushes growing outside the wall. Never seem to run out…Bramimond’s doing, I s’pose. But I don’t want them breeding too much. Could you go in and replace some of the eggs in a few nests with fakes to keep ‘em from laying? There’s a box of white stones for the purpose near the cote. Bring in the real eggs for lunch and dinner, too.”

Hardly a difficult task. He did as Varek asked, finding the box of stones near the door of the cote, and entered the large birdhouse. The doves inside and around it seemed to barely take notice of his presence; they must have gotten very used to human beings thanks to the hermit’s constant ministration. Renault wrinkled his nose as he entered, the smell of bird dander and droppings pungent, but not overpowering. He looked around at some of the nests in the walls where the parents were absent, carefully replaced the eggs he found there with the fake stones, and returned with a batch of about two dozen of the real ones to Varek. As promised, the hermit made serviceable meals out of them, boiling the first dozen to make a series of bite-size treats, then turning the next into an omelet of sorts, frying them on a pan with some of his herbs. He wasn’t coughing as much as he was yesterday, and after his prayers both he and Renault went to sleep content.

This became the substance of Renault’s life for the next week or so—and would set the foundation for much of his life thereafter. He’d perform the more laborious chores around the hermitage, such as caring for the doves or chopping wood (he was not entirely surprised to see the trees he chopped down return the next day, as if nothing had happened to them—Bramimond’s magic, he surmised) and keep an eye on Varek, who accepted his help without complaint (or any other comment). Varek’s health steadily improved, and after several days he was ready to get back to his regular routine. He let Renault know as much.

“Renault,” he said one morning, having woken up before his visitor, “No need to fetch me any water today. I’m feelin’ fine. The fever’s run its course.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yep. Not a cough since yesterday.”

“A…alright. So…what do you want me to do now?”

“There’s nothin’ you really need to do. I sure don’t need anything.”

“Really? I can still help with—“

“Really. Lad, I appreciate what you’ve done for me so far, but you’ve paid your debt, if you ever owed one. And to be honest, keeping on like that, you might owe me one for real. Listen…I don’t expect you to agree, but having a serv—well, having someone do me favors isn’t the purpose of the ascetic life. I’m supposed to live humbly, quietly contemplating God and the virtues of austerity and self-denial. Someone waiting on me when I no longer need it, even with good intentions, is a distraction from that goal, not a help.”

“Huh.” Renault was about to make a snide crack at Varek’s religion, before the face and voice of Braddock floated into his mind again. He instead gave a half-hearted shrug. “Alright, I understand. So then what do you want me to do now?”

“How can I say this…well, another part of the contemplative life is solitude.” He stared at Renault, who he’d hoped would understand.

“So you want me to leave?” After a moment’s consideration, Renault assented. “Fine.”

He got up from his spot on the floor (he’d given the blanket back to Varek while the hermit was ill) and headed for the door. He didn’t know where he’d go, and he didn’t care, either. However, he was stopped by Varek.

“Wait a moment.” A heavy sigh. “Renault, where are you going to go?”

Renault shrugged, his gaze unfocused.

“Do you have anyplace to stay? Any family or anything?”

He shook his head.

“Anyplace to go? Anywhere at all you belong?”

“Nowhere.”

“Well…” Varek scratched his head. “If what you say is true, and I very much believe it is, then…then I’ll let you stay here longer. For…well, for as long as it takes for you to find a place. Somewhere.”

Something stirred in Renault’s heart. Despite the man’s religious trappings, he _really_ reminded him of Braddock. “That…that’s damn decent of you, Varek, though I don’t really need your charity either. Here or anywhere…it’s all the same to me. All…” His voice quieted. “All equally meaningless.”

“All equally meaningless? In that case, staying here couldn’t hurt you any more than leaving, then. But you’ve piqued my interest, lad. Suppose it’s because you’re talkin’ more today than you have in a whole week, and I haven’t talked to anyone in ages anyway! Tell me, could you do me one more favor?”

“Eh?” Another unexpected turn of conversation from the old man. “What is it?”

“Talk to me for a little while, traveler. You’re not the first man I’ve heard who’s said everything was ‘meaningless.’ Makes me wonder if you’ve got an interesting story behind that…I’m the sort who likes an interesting story. What makes you say it’s all meaningless?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Bah, don’t worry about me preaching to you. Like I told you when we first talk, I won’t bother—‘s not my place. Just that I’ve seen more’n a few people claiming life’s meaningless and nothing matters. Most of ‘em weren’t worth listening to. You, though…you look like you’ve got the sorts of experiences which just might make you an expert on the subject. Figured I’d learn more from you than I would all those other guys.”

Renault began to grow suspicious. “Yeah? What makes me seem like such an expert? You’re not the first man to say I’m ‘interesting.’” The image of Lucian flashed before his eyes, and another wave of guilt crashed through Renault as he remembered how Braddock would be ashamed of him for betraying a friend.

Varek caught the change in Renault’s expression and he chuckled, a bit of suspicion in his own eyes as well. “Yeah, I thought so. And from the look on your face, things don’t usually work out so well for the folks who do find you interesting, eh? Well, maybe I’m in the mood for a little risk-taking. Never had much of that cooped up in here for so long.”

Consumed again by his own conscience and what he knew would be Braddock’s disapproval were he alive, Renault couldn’t muster up a response. He just nodded.

“And that’s not the only thing. You’d be a pretty odd sight for anyone, at least around here. First, there’s the plain look of you. You’re no ordinary traveler, I can tell. You’re a warrior, or you used to be, anyways, and quite a good one too. The cast of your muscles, the way you move, your dexterity, your strength, all of that tells me you’ve lived on the battlefield.

“That alone wouldn’t be real interesting, but then there’s the whole matter of how you got here. There are a few people who know that Bramimond’s here, sleeping under the Shrine of Seals.” This caught Renault’s attention—now he was certain Bramimond had kept him around here for a reason. “However, those few people tend to be pretty well-known. There’s old Athos—not dead yet, you know. There’s also the royal family of Bern, and the three Wyvern Generals. They let the highest ranking Wyvern Knights in on the secret, too. But a foreigner who stumbles on this place…that’s very, very rare. Not unheard of—I remember one Etrurian fellow not too long ago who earned his way here for being more than a bit of a hero. You, though? Nobody’s ever seen you before, and then you just pop up out of thin air one day.”

The suspicion in Varek’s eyes (his one good eye, at least) grew clearer. “Lastly, on top of all that…let’s just say you’re not much like any man who’s ever lived, in my estimation. I may be old, but I’m not blind in _both_ eyes yet. I’ve not seen you eat a single bite of food, and I don’t think you’ve been at the berries when I’ve not been watching. Never heard your stomach grumble. A whole week without getting hungry…that’s not the only thing. Not a drink of water since you first came too. And, weirdest of all, you’ve not once needed to relieve yourself either. I may be a holy man, but even I’m not above the call o’ nature.” There was now a distinct degree of tension between him and Renault, and the latter took no heed of his joke.

That didn’t stop Varek--his eyes turned to the green phylactery hanging around Renault’s neck, and the former mercenary raised a protective hand over it out of reflexive instinct. “Never seen a piece of jewelry quite like that, either. Some strange magic about it, I can tell. ‘S not emerald or jade or anything I’ve ever seen…but you sure hold onto it like it’s important.” His expression was unreadable. “No, sir, there’s magic about you, Renault. Strange magic, the likes of which I’ve never seen before, not even up here. Men like me may prefer the Light, but I’ve learned a little about the Dark too, and I can tell you and that necklace of yours have a shadow that’s more than it appears.”

Renault couldn’t deny any of that. “So…what?” he said, his voice still dull and apathetic. “I already told you, it’s all meaningless at this point. Why are you even bothering? To condemn me? What, you think I’m some sort of ageless demon or something? Maybe some kind of creature spawned of Dark magic, created to snuff out emissaries of the Light such as yourself? Maybe you’re not that far off the mark.” This was a first—there wasn’t the slightest bit of sarcasm or scorn in Renault’s voice. “Are you afraid of me, Varek? Think I’m gonna kill you or something? Is fear behind all of this?”

Varek laughed. “I’m not afraid of you, Renault. First off, I have no fear of death. If today is when I’m called to return to God, and if you’re the one to send me on my final journey, then so be it. I also don’t much fear the Dark. I can see why others do, including other believers, but a man can’t stay as long as I have within Bramimond’s rest without gaining some respect for his magic. All that’s not even important, though. Sorry if I’m being too blunt, but I don’t even think you’re the one fated to kill me. There’s not a single reason for me to fear you. If you wanted to end me you’d have done so a lot sooner rather than help me out up here for a little while. I’ve seen the look on your face, the grief in your eyes. You were so miserable you could barely do anything for days, and even when you’re finally up, I can still see that pain in your every movement. I don’t know your past or what brought you here, but no man bearing so much sorrow would even be capable of adding more blood to his hands.”

Varek was exactly right, and Renault actually managed to make himself angry over it. “Then what the hell are you playing at, old man? Why’re you asking me all this? Are you mocking me while I’m grieving?”

Varek sighed. “No, exactly the opposite. I want to know more about you because I’m pretty sure you’ve got one hell of a story behind you. Forgive the vulgarity, but it gets the point across. Now, if you don’t want to tell that story, it’s fine with me. But if you’re saying everything is meaningless, life is meaningless, after living what’s surely an unusual life, I’d wager you have a pretty good reason for saying so. If a very strong fighter—who doesn’t even need to eat!—was laid up by heartbreak for a whole week in an unknown hermitage, there’s probably something very powerful at the source of all that untrammeled grief. And I think it might possibly be a good idea to listen to you and reflect on why you believe what you do, what you’ve seen in the sorrow you’ve experienced. One should always accept wisdom where one finds it, and I don’t want to waste an opportunity like the one I’ve found in you.”

He smiled reassuringly—as well as he could, anyways, with his old bearded face. “If you don’t want to say anything at all, then I’ll let you go or stay as you wish without another word. But if you’d like to let another share your burden, even for a little while…” Varek headed over to his dining table and took a seat on one side, gesturing to the chair on the other.

Renault paused for a moment, taken entirely aback. Nobody had shown him this sort of kindness in centuries, except for one man. And when he looked at Varek, the hermit’s hair, the cast of his face and body, and his voice all reminded Renault, more than anything else in the world, of that one man.

_Braddock…_

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Renault took a seat at Varek’s table, and began to tell his tale.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

A short chapter, but I hope it was engaging. Not too much to say about this one either…just stay tuned :D

 


	62. A New Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault finds out there are other paths beside that of the sword.

**Chapter 62: A New Path**

The small hermitage near the Shrine of Seals was the last place Renault would have expected to find a new vocation. As had been the case so many times before, though, fate had strange things in store for him.

He was currently sitting across from the ascetic Varek at the single small table of his small cabin. He had agreed to tell the hermit a little more about himself—specifically, the source of the malaise which had hung over him since the day he had been teleported right to Varek’s doorstep. He wasn’t certain how much of his story he wanted to reveal—aside from keeping the painful parts private, it would also take far too long to tell in its entirety, anyways. Varek seemed to understand, this. As suited (surprisingly, in Renault’s estimation) for an Eliminean holy man, he seemed to have all the patience in the world. He didn’t pressure Renault to begin or even say anything at all—he simply sat there, framed by the sun, the slight smile on his face telling Renault he could have all the time he needed to collect his thoughts. Renault took the opportunity, but after several minutes of consideration, he thought the best way to begin was with a question.

 “Varek, do you have any brothers?”

The hermit shook his head. He was still smiling—if he was surprised by the question, he did not show it. “I don’t…or, at least, I don’t know if I do. I grew up in an orphanage, and the other kids were the closest things I had to siblings. But since we never got along, I never really considered them family.”

“I see.” Renault felt a twinge of sympathy for this man who had taken him in—and who looked like Braddock. “I’m sorry.”

“Mm. All things considered, though, I wonder if it’s for the best. I was not the kind of person one would want as a sibling, at least when I was young.” He let out a small laugh. “What about you, Renault? Any brothers or sisters?”

“I had one,” said Renault determinedly. “He wasn’t born of the same father or mother—I was an only child. But this man…he was my family. Every bit as much as my mother and father were.” Renault chuckled sadly, memories of his dearest friend filling his head once again. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I’m Etrurian, as you could probably tell, but he…he was Lycian. Worlds apart, right? Sons of the greatest country on Elibe and a backwater…wouldn’t think we’d be friends, much less brothers. But that’s what happened.”

“How’d you meet?”

“We….we were mercenaries.” Renault didn’t want to go into much more detail than this. “He saved my life once, when I was just starting out, and from then on, I…I knew I was bound to him. He was the greatest guy I’d ever met. I could talk to him about everything, and he wouldn’t judge me or condemn me, but he’d listen to me, and give me just the sympathy…the camaraderie I needed. He was intelligent…really smart, but also humble and perceptive. He was always willing to point out something I hadn’t noticed before or give advice, but he was never harsh or overbearing with it.  Just seeing him at my side was enough to put my heart at ease. Nobody understood me as well as he did…not even my own mother. I could trust him with my life without even the smallest doubt, because he’d give his life for me—and I’d do the same for him. There was no-one, no one in the entire world, who meant as much to me as he did.”

“You loved him, didn’t you,” said Varek, a look of understanding on his face. “You loved him as your own soul, as yourself.”

“That’s right,” said Renault, blinking in surprise and looking directly at Varek. “That’s exactly right. You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Ah, sorry, Renault, I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“No, it’s fine, Varek. It’s actually what I wanted to hear…how I would have put it myself. You’re really perceptive…I guess I didn’t give you enough credit when we first met.”

“Bah, you’re making me out to be better than I really am. That was actually a quote, I can’t be credited for coming up with it m’self.”

“Really? From where?”

“From the…er, hm.” Varek waved a hand through the air. “That’s not the important thing right now, lad. Please, continue your story.” He coughed. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but could I ask what your friend’s name was?”

“B…Braddock. His name was Braddock.”

“A good name,” Varek mused. “He’s not…with us anymore, is he?”

Renault shook his head, his vision clouding. “He…he’s gone. He’s been gone for a very long time. I…I thought he and I would always be together. I was convinced that there was nothing worse than death—nothing in the whole world. But for me, being separated from Braddock would be just as bad as death. So I thought neither of us would die…we’d never die.

“But…Braddock, he…one day he died. He died in battle…in a battle he didn’t even have to fight. He was only there be…because he wanted to help me.” Renault looked down, lost in his memories, reliving that horrible day again and again. He wanted to cry, but the unearthly body Nergal had given him could shed no tears. He could only sob, but he didn’t stop talking. Words were gushing forth from him now, as if something had been bottled up inside him for years—centuries—and only now found release.

“Braddock…he was my only family, related to me by blood or not. I had no-one…no-one else in all of Elibe. When he died, I was alone…so alone. The only thing I could do was mourn…mourn for the very first time in my entire life.”

Nergal’s mocking voice echoed in Renault’s head for a moment, but he made no mention of it. “I couldn’t bear it. That loneliness…I couldn’t stand it. I still can’t. I couldn’t possibly live without Braddock. So I tried to bring him back.”

Varek did not respond. He furrowed his brow, but nodded for Renault to continue.

“I did a lot of things, Varek. I fought many battles, and killed many people. Many, many people. I delved into ancient, forbidden magic, even sacrificing my own body in an attempt to revive Braddock.” Renault raised a hand and looked at it contemplatively for a moment before allowing it to fall back down again. “I haven’t needed to eat or drink in a long time as a result of the rituals. I’d hoped to create a body for Braddock’s spirit, and used myself as a test subject…but it didn’t work, and I was betrayed.

“But I still didn’t give up. I was still alive, at least in a fashion. So I wandered… I explored every corner of Elibe, from Ilia to the Western Isles to Nabata and beyond. I searched everywhere for years…many years. I attempted to control even older magic…to cross the borders between worlds, to enlist the help of creatures who’d lived even before the Dragons. But they all failed, in the end. I thought the power of the Divine Weapons would be the only thing that could possibly help me. So I journeyed to find Bramimond, so that he could remove the seals on them. But…”

Renault’s voice cracked. “I…I saw. He showed me. Bramimond showed me…”

“What did he show you, Renault?”

“That it was all pointless.” Renault put his head in his hands, now. “That my quest couldn’t possibly be fulfilled. That Braddock could never come back to me, not now, not ever. My entire journey…all the years, decades, I spent wandering, were all for nothing. It was all a waste. Everything I’d done, all the battles I’d fought and people I’d killed, would never be able to make Braddock return. And worse…even worse…Braddock wouldn’t _want_ to come back. Damn, it, Varek, he would have been ashamed of me! Everything I’d done, the sacrifices I’d made, the dark magic I’d used, the people I’d killed…it would have horrified him. He’d never be my friend if he’d seen me trying to bring him back. The only thing I succeeded in doing was dishonoring his memory!

“So why? What was it all for? No reason…there was no reason. It was all meaningless…entirely meaningless. Everything was meaningless, everything is meaningless…Braddock will never come back to me. Even if he did, he would reject me. And I don’t have anyone but Braddock…never had anything in the world except him. All of my life, every year I’ve lived, is all meaningless! MEANINGLESS!”

Renault slammed his hands down on the table, his anger at his loss and his wasted life overwhelming him for a moment before being subsumed again by grief. Not even this display rattled Varek, though. The expression on his face had not shifted, though he did lift an eyebrow that made it seem as if Renault’s story had not been at all what he was expecting. He still offered no condemnation, though. He waited for a few moments to allow Renault to catch his breath and calm down before providing his own thoughts.

“Seems like my first guess was correct, lad. To say that’s quite a story would be an understatement. Now I see why you’ve such a dim outlook on life, and after everything you’ve been through, I can’t say I blame you.”

“You…believe me? Really?”

“You don’t seem like the type to lie about somethin’ like that, and it does fit with what I’ve seen of you. Bringing back a lost soul…that’s the sort of mad quest which asks for a lot of sacrifices, and that body of yours has sacrificed much.

“I won’t ask you any more about that…easy enough to tell it’s the sort of secret no-one wants to reveal easily. But I do want to ask you one more thing, as you’ve got me interested. You say Braddock wouldn’t want to come back to life, even if it was possible. You say he’d reject you for…all the things you did in your attempt to bring him back. But, hear me out for a moment. Imagine if…if he hadn’t died back then. If things had gone differently, if he had survived. What would you have done then?”

“Huh?” Renault blinked, utterly confused. This was, once again, something completely new to him. For the first time in two hundred years, Bramimond had made him think of what Braddock would say about his actions. And now, for the first time in two hundred years, Varek had made him think about what his life would be like if things had gone the way they were supposed to. If Braddock had not perished. Renault realized that as obsessed as he was with bringing his friend back, he had never once thought about the possibility that anything could have turned out differently, and the ramifications it would have had on his life.

“I…I’m not sure,” he said, somewhat shocked. “I really have no idea.”

“That’s fine. Would you like to think about for a little bit?”

Renault nodded, and Varek, patient as ever, was happy to let him sit in silence as he turned over all sorts of scenarios and possibilities over and over again in his head. He lost track of time doing so. He wasn’t sure if a few minutes or half an hour had passed, but at last, after a great deal of consideration, he thought he finally had an answer.

“I…I’m not absolutely certain. I mean, Braddock did die, so everything’s hypothetical. I’m not a mind-reader now and I wasn’t a mind-reader then. But I knew him…I knew him better than anyone else. And I think I know what he would have done…”

Varek nodded.

“Before…before we went to battle, Braddock had a talk with me. We discussed what we were going to do after we completed our mission. Braddock had…he had a girl waiting for him back home. Sort of…at least, I think he did. I don’t know of anyone else he liked. If he’d lived, he would have gone back to her.”

“Gone back to her?”

“Well, yeah. Maybe marry her or something, I dunno…I’d expect him to, but she was a noble and he was a mercenary, so maybe a marriage wouldn’t have worked out. Even so, he’d return to her, one way or another. Maybe start a family or something like that.”

“You mean he’d leave the mercenary profession?”

“Yes. It…it was another thing he said to me before we fought.” That memory floated to the forefront of Renault’s mind, as clear as if it had happened yesterday:

_“Can't you try? At least for me, Renault? After living through the Civil War together…maybe givin' peace a try can be our next adventure, huh?”_

Renault spoke these words both reverently and sorrowfully, pausing for a moment before he continued. “Peace…that was what Braddock wanted—for both him and me. Peace…peace…if he had lived, maybe I’d have joined his peaceful life as well.”

Varek shifted. “A mercenary who wanted peace…now that’s something you don’t hear of every day. Why did he wish to lay down his arms, and why did he want you to do the same? Was he growing old, or weary of fighting?”

“That was part of it. It was more like he never liked fighting in the first place, though. He…how can I say it…it was less like he became a mercenary, and more like the mercenary life found him. Do you understand?” Varek nodded, and Renault continued. “At first, he fought because fighting was all he knew, and later on, he fought for revenge. But in that last battle…I think he fought for me. He could have gone home and enjoyed the peaceful life he always wanted, because at that point it was finally within his grasp. But he still went along with me on that last battle because…because I think he wanted me to have peace as well. That was what he told me. Those were his last words. He told me…he wanted me to find…another way to live.”

Varek nodded, understanding well what Braddock meant. “He sounds like a good man. I would have liked to meet him.”

“Well, you sort of remind me of him,” Renault admitted—and, if he was still able, would have blushed when Varek looked at him curiously. “A-and, you oughta be glad you do! That’s why I bothered helping you out when you were sick. You don’t remind me of him because of your profession--Braddock didn’t like religion much more than I do. But your hair and the way you look…”

“Hmph. Well, I suppose I can be grateful for that bit of coincidence. Having you here while I was recovering really was quite helpful,” he admitted. “In that case, let me show you my gratitude. If you’re so convinced everything is meaningless, Renault…what would you say if I suggested something that might be able to give your life meaning? If you think everything you’ve done up to now is pointless, how about I give you some purpose?”

“Meaning? Purpose? What kind? Your religion?” This remark was sarcastic, but it lacked Renault’s typical venom—after all his confessing, he simply didn’t have the energy to start another argument.

“No, not really. Like I’ve told you several times before, I’ve no stomach for evangelism. I don’t want to see someone else be consumed by despair, that’s all. It’s just how I am. Religion has nothing to do with it.”

“If that’s so, what kind of purpose did you have in mind?”

“Why don’t you dedicate your life to the cause of peace, Renault? It seems like it’s what Braddock would have wanted you to do.”

“What Braddock would have wanted me to do?” repeated Renault hazily. “That…that’s what Bramimond told me as well.”

“Bramimond?”

“When I met him. When he showed me Braddock’s last words, about wanting me to find another way to live. Bramimond…Bramimond said it would be a waste to end my own life. Instead of dying, he said I should live as Braddock would have wanted me to.”

“That sounds like good advice to me, Renault. Why don’t you take it?”

“How?!” Renault raised his voice and slammed his fists down on the table again. “ _How?!_ I’m a fighter! A mercenary! That’s all I am! I don’t know anything except how to bash in another man’s skull! How the hell am I supposed to find the peace Braddock wanted?!”

“By actually trying,” grumbled Varek, seemingly exasperated again. “Renault, don’t act stupid. You think you don’t know anything except war? That’s only because you don’t _want_ to know anything but war. If you just give that a moment’s thought, you’d see how foolish it is.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just look at the things you’ve done since coming here. You’ve chopped wood, taken care of the doves, went fishing, and cared for a sick old man, among other things. That alone would begin to qualify you as a lumberjack, bird keeper, fisherman, or hospice worker. Those are all peaceful professions, in case you couldn’t tell. I suppose you’d need more experience to be particularly good at any of them, but you’ve already got a start, which is more’n most people in your position will ever receive. You’ve demonstrated you can learn. The only thing that counts is your willingness to do so. If you want to follow your friend’s last wishes and find another way to live that doesn’t involve killing others, it’s up to you. You can either wallow in misery and self-inflicted apathy, or you can continue on the road you’ve already begun.”

“The road I’ve already begun…” For the third time that day, Renault was taken aback. He hadn’t thought about that before. Indeed, one thing that was becoming very clear to him now was exactly how much he hadn’t thought about before. Despite his prowess as a mercenary, he was forced to admit that up to this point, his ignorance concerning almost all other matters, including those which should have been self-evident and painfully obvious, was truly profound.

“Aye. Listen, I’ll tell you what: Starting tomorrow, we’ll begin your lessons in herbalism.”

“W-what? Hey! I didn’t—“

“I remember the expression on your face whenever I told you to go and get water for me instead of helping me with the herbs. You seemed just a little insulted, but you could also tell that I was right. Well, why don’t we change that? Knowing how to make vulneraries and antidotes from common plants is a mighty useful skill. It can help both you and others—definitely a peaceful path through life. Such a skill would allow you to help many other people. It’d allow you to save lives rather than take ‘em. From what I’ve heard of Braddock, seems like this is the sort of path he’d be proud of. So if you really wanted to honor his sacrifice…shouldn’t you take it?”

“I…”

  
“Tomorrow morning,” said Varek, not even waiting for Renault’s response as he got up. “After my prayers. I’ll spend today getting the materials ready for you. Tomorrow, we’ll begin your lessons.”

He headed upstairs, leaving an astonished Renault behind and below him. He didn’t need to look back. As indignant as Renault may have been, both he and Varek knew he’d take up the hermit’s offer.

After all, what other choice did he have?

_::Linear Notes::_

A small chapter, but the next few ones should be bigger. The line about love comes from 2 Samuel, in reference to David and Jonathan. In-universe, Varek is quoting from Elimine’s Journey. Renault’s line about knowing nothing but how to bash in another man’s skull is taken from his supports.

 

 

 

 


	63. A Blessing for a Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the amount of it he's seen over the years, Renault has never really confronted death--until now.

**Chapter 63: A Blessing for a Prince**

Renault stared down at the table in front of him, on which was an array of dried green plants. He brought his eyes up and saw Varek looking at him patiently. Despite the fact that this was a test and he would be judged, though, Renault didn’t feel much pressure at all. He’d mastered this subject by now, so he knew he’d succeed.

Without hesitation, he pointed to each of the plants and recited their uses and effects on the human body.

“Elderberry, Rosehips, Yarrow…good for inflammations, some diseases, and swelling. Sage, Calendula, and Comfrey…clear the nose and throat of phlegm. Nettle and apple for upset stomachs.Winterberry: Purges the body, mixed with sage, can staunch small wounds. Redweed: Clears the bowels. Bark of willow: Soothes pain.”

As he outlined the last one, he fell quiet and looked at Varek expectantly. The hermit whistled appreciatively. “Saint’s blessin’s, Renault, that was quite impressive. You’ve only been here five months and you’ve already memorized all o’ those herbs. You’re not a master yet, but you’ve sure got a knack for learning.”

Renault smiled back. “I’ve been reading old Nessarion’s _Manual of the Green Children_ and the Royal Academy’s herbalism manuscripts nonstop. Not as if I had anything better to do, right? So it only makes sense I got so good at it.”

“Heh, I suppose that’s true. Alright, then, let’s see you make a salve!”

Varek pointed Renault to the mortar, pestle, and other medicinal supplies next to the herbs on the table, and the apprentice quickly and happily got started. The swift, dexterous hands which served Renault well as a builder and better as a swordsman were equally suited to an apothecary’s work. He took some of the dried winterberry, redweed, and yarrow, carefully measuring how much he was holding between his fingertips, and set them into the mortar. With equal precision he ground them up with the pestle; in a few minutes they’d been reduced to a fine powder at the bottom of the bowl. Standing up, he went to the center of the room, near the hearth, as Varek watched. The fire was already burning merrily to provide warmth, and he set over it a nearby metal pan. He then retrieved some ingredients from the table: A small vial of pungent oil, a small block of beeswax, and the powder he’d created. He carefully decanted the oil onto the pan; after it had heated came the powder, and then at last the beeswax, melting into the mixture. With a wooden spoon Renault stirred the concoction, and after some time, when it seemed ready, he motioned for Varek to see how he did. The hermit took the spoon, scooped up a little bit of the hot salve, blew on it to cool it down, and then rubbed it between his fingers. The substance rubbed into his skin smoothly and cleanly. He nodded to indicate his satisfaction, and Renault hastily got to storing the stuff, running to a nearby shelf for a glass jar, then delicately ladling the salve into the jar while it was still hot before screwing the jar’s cover on for storage.

“Good work, lad. Very good,” said Varek with just a hint of pride. “You can rest, now. You’ve earned it, in my view. I’ll make us dinner…well, make me dinner, at least.”

“Actually, Varek, I could catch the fish for tonight. If you’re giving me a break, I wanted to take a walk, and I like fishing.”

Varek shrugged. “Suit yourself. Suppose I can get some more reading done, in that case. Just make sure you’re back with a catch before sunset.”

That Renault could do, and happily. He stood up, walked out of the cottage’s door, and took in a deep breath of brisk Bernese mountain air. There wasn’t a smile on his face, as even after five months of relative peace his sorrow and regret had not left him completely. Around Varek, though, it seemed more like an ache than a debilitating pain, and even his horrid loneliness, the misery of being alone without Braddock, seemed less obvious.

Understandable, to an extent—Varek really _did_ remind of him Braddock. Aside from their hair, they were similar in a few regards. They were both capable, self-reliant, and intelligent, and neither went out of their way to berate, lecture, or criticize Renault. Indeed, both had been pretty patient with him. Of course, both were also different in even more ways, meaning that Renault’s loneliness wouldn’t be entirely assuaged. Aside from Braddock being bigger, he was also friendlier, funnier, and more talkative. Varek, as expected of a hermit, didn’t speak much to Renault unless something was particularly important. And while Renault and Braddock could talk to each other—and did—about practically anything and everything, Varek wasn’t the sort of man Renault could open his heart to entirely.

At least…not yet. He had been willing to listen to Renault’s life story, even if only the bare basics of it. That was more than anyone else had offered him since he had been betrayed by Nergal, and that little bit of kindness was enough to sustain Renault, and at least keep some spark of hope burning in his consciousness.

And all in all, Varek was a good teacher too, as Braddock had been. The past five months had been immensely productive, which also helped to take Renault’s mind off his troubles. Almost every day his routine had consisted of waking up with Varek, waiting for him to finish his prayers, and then heading up to the second floor of the hermitage, where the apothecary’s materials were kept. Varek would spend a few hours showing him how to properly use the herbalist’s tools of the trade (mortar and pestle, the proper ways to apply salves and ointments, and so on), showing him the differences between the various sorts of plants in the area (carefully instructing him on which ones were hurtful and which beneficial, along with how to tell them apart), and giving him readings from the various texts and manuscripts the very well-read Varek had stored in his home. Renault would then help out with chores and sometimes cooking Varek’s meals, and then his education in the healing arts would continue ‘till it was time for Varek’s nightly prayers and sleep.

It felt good. Quite good, really. Renault was satisfied by the progress he was making. And while texts on herbs and medicine weren’t as engaging as the history books he and Braddock liked to read, he did enjoy the intellectual exercise. And though the making of salves and ointments was nowhere near as exciting as the waging of war, the screams of dying men reminded Renault of nothing more than the death of his friend, now. He was more than happy to get away from it all. If this was peace, perhaps Braddock was right. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad at all…or rather, wouldn’t be bad if the Ostian were still alive.

The shadow of Braddock’s death still lingered over Renault, but it seemed less heavy than it had originally been. Renault still dreamt, but the dreams came less often, and they seemed less like nightmares, too. Somehow, one way or another, Renault got the feeling he was making progress. Towards what, he didn’t know, but he was honoring the memory of his best friend better than he had been. At the very least, it seemed like he wouldn’t be driven insane by visions of his best friend fleeing from him in horror and fear.

Renault took another deep breath as he continued his leisurely stroll around the grounds of the small hermitage. Another advantage of living here was how plain nice it looked—the beauty of the hermitage was obvious now that the snow was melting and spring had arrived. Renault had never lost his appreciation for natural beauty, and this strange little sanctuary had it in spades. The air seemed to be as clean and invigorating as Renault had ever known—in Etruria or even the grasslands of Sacae, there were always impurities from the smoke of civilized settlements or the detritus left behind by passing nomadic tribes. A place as high-up and isolated as this, however, had absolutely nothing tainting its winds. The sky was almost always clear except when it rained, allowing Renault to see a vast, blue canopy that turned into a lovely pastiche of orange, red, and violet in the evenings and a magnificent panorama of hundreds upon hundreds of stars at night. The greenery seemed as bright and healthy as any Renault had seen in Sacae as well—grass so clean and thick one could walk on it barefoot just for pleasure, and tall trees of such variety he knew it couldn’t be natural as well. Evergreens, elms, willows, and others all managed to find sustenance in the same soil, growing tall and proud into the air like dozens of emerald spires belonging to a forest-lord’s plantish castle.

Topping it all off was the animal life. Even when he wasn’t catching them, Renault found a degree of peace in watching strong trout and bass swim through the crystal-clear currents of the mountain river running through the sanctuary. The swimming-races held by the fish were accompanied by a rousing chorus provided by birds of all sorts, as varied as the trees in which they nested. Hawks soared overhead, occasionally descending to join Renault in making meals of fish, flocks of sparrows weaved between the mighty trees, passing by robins making their nests there, and occasionally filching the everberries in the bushes outside the walls from the hermitage’s most numerous inhabitants: The doves. Aside from his studies in herbalism, Renault had also taken to caring form Varek’s dovecots, almost over the hermit’s objections. Even at the very start of his journey in Thagaste, he’d loved birds, and found himself a little less lonely whenever he had an opportunity to pay his cooing friends a visit. And it wasn’t just sentimentalism on his part, either—city-dwellers might have detested pigeons for doing nothing but dirtying their fine buildings, but Varek’s doves more than made up for their messiness. Dove eggs and meat were the only luxury the ascetic allowed himself, and it was just as well, for those buttressed Varek’s otherwise spare diet of grains and vegetables; it was likely he’d be somewhat malnourished without those birds. Caring for them was just one more way Renault had managed to find a degree of peace for the first time in many years.

And yet, despite all this beauty, Renault still wasn’t certain why it was all here—why any of it was here, why he was here, why Bramimond was here, and most importantly, why Varek and his little hermitage were here. Renault had a decent understanding of the Scouring and why Bramimond needed to set up a “Shrine of Seals:” The Divine Weapons might perhaps be necessary in the future, but until then their power needed to be kept under the tightest restraint possible. Thus, Renault could understand why Bramimond had hidden himself and his Shrine under so many strange magical barriers, so no-one could easily find him and un-seal the weapons. But why had he crafted this beautiful, enchanted sanctuary around his shrine? And why would he, a master of Darkness, not only allow an Eliminean hermit to live here but apparently _provide_ for him? And how did Varek get here? Likely not the same way as Renault did, but the former mercenary surmised his host had a tale to tell that was not much less interesting than his own.

Even so, Renault had never asked Varek about any of this. There was an unspoken understanding between the two men: While Varek would not pressure Renault any further about his past and what he had done before coming to the hermitage, Renault also understood that Varek wasn’t the sort who liked talking about his own past very much, or about the mysteries surrounding the Shrine of Seals. If Renault wanted to give Varek answers, his understood that Varek would likely want answers from him in return.

As these thoughts rolled around in his head, Renault looked up and noticed that the first tinges of sunset were beginning to appear in the sky overhead. He immediately changed direction and headed towards the river, picking up his trusty fishing spear lying next to nearby tree as he did so. Leaving things outside was common for both Renault and Varek, since the sheer isolation of this area meant it was very unlikely thieves or other immoral people would come by to steal anything.

As he neared the river, though, he would discover that this little sanctuary was not quite as isolated as he thought.

“What the hell?” Five months of easy living had not dulled his instincts for battle—Renault immediately ducked and grabbed his spear when he heard the beating of large, leathery wings above him and saw a great shadow cast on the ground in front of him. He whirled around and saw what could only be a Wyvern Lord descending behind him. The man was clad in full purplish-black plate mail with gold gilding on the pauldrons, along with an armet of the same color—its visor was lowered, so Renault couldn’t see his face. He had in one hand a blue-and-gold spear; Renault could sense the magic radiating from it and surmised it was a Brave Lance. His mount was quite large, even for a Wyvern, and equally fierce-looking and acting. Its red scales gleamed in the sunlight, and it let out a low snarl as its yellow eyes fixed on Renault.

“I think that ought to be my line,” quipped the Wyvern Lord as he landed. “You’re definitely not Varek, or Lucian, or anyone else I know. What’re you doing here?”

“I…” Renault tightened his grip on his spear as he stopped to consider his answer. He had no idea who the newcomer was or what he wanted, and thus no idea if this man was friend or foe—to him or his host. Besides, he certainly wasn’t going to mention killing Lucian, getting rejected by Bramimond, and ending up in the care of a hermit to a total stranger. However, he also knew there was no chance of besting this warrior. If he’d still had his weapons and armor, it might have been a possibility, but cheap clothes and a fishing spear not meant for combat (and which he wasn’t good at fighting with anyways, being a swordsman) would not prevail against a wyvern, full plate, and a Brave Lance.

Diplomacy and a little bit of fudging the truth were the order of the day, then. Unfortunately, while Renault wasn’t bad at the latter, the former was very much not his strong suit. “I’m a…traveler. A traveler who…lost…lost his way.” A pang of guilt and sorrow coursed through him as he was reminded of Braddock. That, at least, was true. “Varek took me in, and I’m staying with him. That’s all.”

This seemed to amuse the visitor slightly, but wasn’t enough to convince him. “A traveler, eh? Someone’s wayward son? Well, taking in that sort of folk is the sort of thing Varek would do…or any good Eliminean, really. Trouble is, this isn’t the sort of place people can just stumble on. You need the Royal family’s guide to get here on foot, or a talisman like mine to pierce through the clouds in the air. And those aren’t easy to come by. You’re hiding something, and I’d like to know what it is.” The hint of good humor left his voice. “And if it’s something that could hurt Varek or this country, not even blessed Elimine would be able to save you from me.”

“No! No, listen! I’m not here to hurt anyone, least of all Varek. I…it’s a long story. Varek can tell you everything.”

“Where is he?”

“I left him in his cottage to read.”

“Why don’t you show me to him?”

Renault narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on his makeshift spear. “Why should I? I don’t know any more about you than you do about me. You’re pretty heavily armed for someone just paying a visit to a hermit. I don’t want Varek to get hurt, either. How can I tell if you’re his friend or his enemy?”

The Wyvern Lord had no response to that. He said absolutely nothing--the only sound in all the sanctuary came from the clanking of his armor as he raised a hand to lift the visor of his helmet from over his face, to stare down at Renault. Renault could only see his eyes, which were bluish-green and seemingly benign, though the former mercenary wouldn’t let his guard down ‘till he could see the stranger’s entire face.

What the man did next, however, was almost enough to make Renault drop his weapon out of surprise.

He tossed his head back and laughed, loudly. The happy sound seemed to echo across the entirety of Bramimond’s strange sanctuary, but Renault didn’t join in.

“Eh? Damn it, what’s so funny?!”

“Oh—oh, by the Saint,” chuckled the stranger, trying stifle his laughter, “well, I can give you credit for one thing: You don’t seem to be here on bad business. But we still have a problem! I can’t tell if you’re really that dumb or just pretending to be dumb!"

“What the hell did you say?!” Renault felt his anger rising, but gritted his teeth as he restrained it—he still had enough composure to realize picking a fight with a Wyvern Lord was a bad idea. “Are you some kind of celebrity or something? You don’t look much different from every other lizard jockey I’ve seen over the years.”

“Lizard jockey, huh?” He snorted. “Hell of a smart mouth you got there. Nobody without Varek’s patience could out up with you for long—no wonder you’re hiding out here. I have to say, though, if you’re just playing at being dumb you’re doing a great job. I know some theater troupes in Etruria who’d be glad to have you.”

“Then why not play along with my ignorant rube act a little more? Tell me who you are, why you’re here, and why I should care.”

“If you’re too blind or stupid to tell by looking,” the man pointed to his gilded pauldrons, “I’m Harod.”

“Harod who?”

“ _Wyvern General_ Harod! How the hell can you live in Bern and not know who I am?”

“Oh, you’re a Wyvern General? That makes sense.” Renault lowered his fishing spear. “You’re probably here on royal orders, which means you wouldn’t be here to harm anyone under Bramimond’s protection.”

“What an incredible deduction! You’re as good a logician as old Ocken.”

It was obvious Harod was being sarcastic, but Renault had no idea who Ocken was, so he didn’t much care. “Thanks. In any case, since you’ve introduced yourself, I’ll repay the favor. My name’s Renault.”

“Hmph.” Harod seemed a _bit_ less guarded now. “At least it seems like you’re not totally without manners. Well met.”

“Varek’s big on politeness, so as long as I’m here I’ll show it. Anyways, I’ll take you to—“

Renault needn’t have worried. As he turned, he saw the old hermit walking towards them. “What’s all this commotion? Renault, what’ve you been doing?”

Harod dismounted from his wyvern (which, after seeing Varek, had actually become quite placid—even beasts had respect for the holy man, it seemed) and genuflected. “You honor me with your presence, father. I thank God and His Saint for your continued health.”

Varek smiled (though it was slightly strained, indicating he didn’t care for such deference) and nodded, returning Harod’s greeting with his own faith-filled response: “You’ve blessed me, son, and I hope God and His Saint continue to smile upon you as well.” With the formalities over, he allowed himself a chuckle. “You’ve met Renault, eh?”

The ex-mercenary and present Wyvern Lord shot each other suspicious looks. “I have,” said Harod. “What’s he doing here?”

Varek waved a hand in the air. “It’s a strange story, and one that would take too long to tell. Let’s just say he has Lord Bramimond’s dispensation and means no harm. He’s actually made himself useful around here, truth be told. I can tolerate him.”

“Is that so?” Varek shot Renault another look, and this time it was apologetic. “I suppose I was wrong. I’m sorry for interrogating you as I did when we first met, Renault.”

Renault just shrugged. “Hmph.”

“Not very graceful,” said Harod dryly. “I apologized to you; can’t you do the same?”

“Apologize?” asked Varek, “what did he do?”

“He called me a lizard-jockey.”

Varek stared at Renault with a combination of surprise and annoyance.

Renault, for his part, felt oddly like a small child being scolded, and had to resist the urge to shuffle his feet and hang his head. “Look, I didn’t know who he was, and I thought he might’ve been a threat to you. I couldn’t help being less than polite!”

“Renault, I can appreciate your concern, but that’s still no reason to insult a visitor.”

“He was a complete stranger and could’ve been dangerous! It’s only natural to be less than respectful!”

“Maybe it’s natural,” Varek said bluntly, “but it’s not actually wise. If he really was a threat, insults would have provoked him more likely’n not.”

“But that’s—“ Renault stopped when he realized he couldn’t come up with a particularly good retort.

“It’s fine, Father, I’m not really that offended.”

“I know, but guests do come every now and then an’ I want Renault to learn how to treat ‘em. There’s an old saying, lad, that people aren’t befouled by what comes into their mouth, but what comes out. Using a slur like “lizard-jockey” is no way to treat _anyone_ , and I don’t want to hear you say anything like that again in my earshot. Now, apologize.”

“What comes out rather than comes in? That…” Renault _knew_ that phrase. He’d heard it a long, long time ago. But where? He’d first heard it before he met Braddock...didn’t his mother tell him that? In any case, he wanted to protest, wanted to argue, to carry on about why he was right, but as he opened his mouth, a memory popped back into his head—a memory of Braddock, which meant it actually was clear:

_“Don’t say it, man.” Braddock gave him a disapproving stare as Renault just managed to stop himself from calling his Ilian friends “vultures,” which was a terribly racist slur to their country. “We’re mercenaries too. We don’t have any right to call anyone else ‘vultures.’”_

Renault realized he probably didn’t have any business calling a Bernese Wyvern Knight a “lizard jockey,” either.

Remembering what his friend had told him, and feeling another wave of grief crash through him as he was reminded of how Braddock would be disappointed in him now—just as he was back in Etruria, so long ago—Renault just bowed his head and accepted Varek’s reprimand.

“You’re right. Harod, I…I’m sorry.”

The Wyvern General’s eyes widened; he was clearly impressed. “Well, now! I wasn’t expecting that. Apology happily accepted, Renault.” He offered a hand, which Renault took after a moment of hesitation.

“Now that we’re done with that, what brings y’here, Harod?”

“A few presents and a few requests,” he replied. Harod turned to his Wyvern (who had apparently fallen asleep) and untied a small brown pouch from near the saddle on its back. “Renault, hold them, please,” said Varek, and Renault did so. Out of the pouch Harod took three large books and then three smaller vials of odd-smelling substances and handed them all to Renault, who balanced the vials on top of the tomes with admirable skill. The odd tinctures weren’t unknown to Renault—though he’d never seen them in person before, he’d read about them in Nessarion’s _Manual_ , and recognized them as special healing salves made only from rare plants in Lycia which were particularly good at soothing the pain of lesions, boils, rashes, or other skin problems.

Renault didn’t need to be told to take them inside, and did so promptly. As soon as he’d laid all the stuff down on a table, however, he immediately popped back out of the cottage. He wanted to know what Harod and Varek were talking about.

“…A terrible thing,” Renault made out as he returned to hearing distance. “The King and Queen are mighty saddened, I’d wager.”

“That’s an understatement. Damon was the crown’s best hope. Now his younger brother is all we have, and I sure don’t think Desmond can fill his shoes. The lad’s no good with books or blades, and he doesn’t want to admit it, either. Ah—keep this between us, Your Holiness—but as the Wyvern General, I don’t see Desmond leading our country to glory.”

Varek nodded. “Still, there’s nothin’ we can do. If the Creator called Damon back, He must have had a reason for it, and all we can do is trust. So what can I do for the bereaved?”

“The Royal Family would like to pay you a visit. They want you to bless the body before its interment.”

“I’m honored, but isn’t that an Archbishop of Bern’s job? Or at least a Bishop’s?”

“You’re one of the holiest of men, and the _only_ man deemed worthy to tend Bramimond’s shrine. They insist a blessing from anyone less than you, even an Archbishop, isn’t fitting.”

“Alright. I’ll be ready for ‘em when they come. Anything else?”

Harod took out a few folded envelopes from another pouch hanging at his belt. “Let’s see…some correspondence for you. Abbess Meris told a messenger to make sure this letter reached you…Bishop Zama from Lycia wants some advice—have you written to him before? Oh, and Archbishop Cortez is in Bern at the moment and sends word of some developments he thought you’d like to know about.”

Varek took the trio of envelopes and smiled. “I’ll be sure to read all of these, and I should have replies ready by the time His Majesty arrives for the blessing ritual. Thank you, Harod.”

“Glad to serve Church and Country as always, your holiness. Before I leave, do you need anything else? I’ll be sure to requisition it once I return.”

“Hmm…two things. I’ve a list of some more books I might need—if it’s not too much trouble, think y’ could get ‘em for me?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. What else?”

“If your colleagues have any spare Restore staves lyin’ around, I’d be obliged for one. I’m teaching Renault about herbs, but there’re some maladies you need magic to cure. Shouldn’t be a problem up here, but as I always say…”

“Better safe than sorry,” Harod grinned. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll see you get one.”

With that, the Wyvern General performed a curious gesture which once again seemed familiar to Renault. He drew a circle with his right pointer finger across his chest, then slashed down with it. It was…an Eliminean ritual, Renault realized, one he hadn’t seen in many, many years, as it was the sort given by a parishioner to a priest. Whatever it signified, it pleased Varek, who waved as Harod woke up his wyvern, mounted it, and flew off.

He then turned to Renault, whom he had known was standing there listening, with a much less happy expression.

“It’s gettin’ late, Renault,” said Varek with a tinge of irritation. “The sun’s about to go down. You’d have been better served with finishing that work instead of eavesdropping.”

“Aw, da—sorry, Varek. I was just curious, I didn’t think you got any visitors.”

“Well, I can’t blame you for that. I guess I should’ve told you earlier. There are a few hermits who live in total isolation, but I’m not one of ‘em, strange as it sounds. As Harod said, being in charge of the Shrine has a few responsibilities as well, and every so often I get callers. That, and sometimes even I need a few new supplies, too. Now, do you want to fish or do you want me to do it? I’dve liked to get started on these letters, but…”

“Nah, it’s fine. Sorry for taking so long.”

“Thank you, Renault. And just remember we’ll be having another visitor here, soon. He oughtn’t stay for too long, but I’ll expect you to be on your best behavior while he’s here, understand?”

“Yeah,” said Renault, just a touch sullenly, feeling a bit like a child again.

As it turned out, however, when the nature of Harod’s return visit became apparent, Renault would actually do some growing up, rather than the other way around.

-X-

It was the second time Renault had heard the beating of Wyvern’s wings during his 5-month stay at the hermitage of the Shrine of Seals. Fortunately, he’d been expecting it, and wasn’t surprised as he’d been before. He immediately stopped what he was doing (gathering some herbs from the base of a tree as part of his lessons) and ran back to the cottage to tell Varek. The ascetic was sitting at his table near the hearth, reading the _Journey_ , when he looked up to see Renault entering his home.

“I think Harod’s back,” said Renault, “and he brought some more guests, too.”

“They’re here, eh? Time to attend to ‘em. Thanks for telling me, Renault.”

“A…alright. Do you want me to—“

Varek shook his head vehemently. “No. This is an important ritual, and a personal one too. Your presence would disrupt it.”

Renault looked somewhat offended, and Varek sighed. “Don’t be insulted, lad. This isn’t just about appearances or proper ‘respect’ for the crown. A mother and father have just lost their son, and you’re a total stranger to them. When your best friend died, would you have wanted someone you didn’t even know starin’ at you while you mourned?”

The reference to Braddock was enough to make Renault pay attention to what Varek was saying. “No! Of course not!”

“Then pay these two parents the same respect. They’re here to see me, not anyone else. You can watch, if y’ want, but just stay inside and don’t interrupt. That’s all I ask, Renault. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can.” Renault nodded. “Sorry for…”

“It’s fine, just as long as we’re clear. And I won’t be gone for too long anyhow.” Varek stood up, moving his book to his left hand picking up the other tools on the table with his right—his ornate Eliminean rosary, which he put around his neck, and then something Renault hadn’t seen before. It was a small golden chalice. Not a particularly ostentatious one, as it was adorned with no gemstones or skillful gilding, but Renault could see it was clearly made out of gold and also had writing etched onto its sides, though he couldn’t make out what it said before Varek picked it up.

After Varek took his things and stepped out of the cottage, Renault sidled up to a window to see what he’d do. Some distance away, near the river, Renault could see three Wyvern Lords, who’d landed with their mounts and their passengers. One was Harod, but the other two he didn’t recognize. Harod’s men, he wagered. Sitting behind Harod was a tall man with thinning, straw-blond hair, and behind the Wyvern Lord to Harod’s left was a nondescript woman—or girl, for she seemed so young—with red hair. She wasn’t particularly beautiful or ugly, but she was dressed in an immensely expensive-looking purple gown, and the man was wearing an ornate, ceremonial suit of armor in the same color. Both had gold crowns over their heads, and this was what told Renault they were the King and Queen of Bern.

Varek walked up to them, and as they descended to the ground it seemed as if he wanted to bow, but the King wouldn’t let him. King Bern instead wrapped him up in a great hug, burying his face into his shoulder as it seemed he was weeping. If Varek wasn’t expected to show any degree of deference to the sovereign, Renault realized, the degree of respect this hermit must have commanded was immense. Either that, or Varek had a truly close, personal relationship with the King. The Queen, though maintaining her composure somewhat better, was crying as well, though she tried to hide her tears behind her hands.

The reason for their misery was carried on the back of the third rider’s Wyvern. The soldier dismounted, carefully carrying something wrapped in a pure white shroud. He gently and reverently laid it down on the ground near the river and unwrapped it, allowing Renault to clearly see what it was:

The pale, dead body of a teenage boy, clad in rich purple prince’s livery.

The Queen was weeping even harder now, and King Bern was clutching Varek to him, the hermit running a comforting hand through his hair, mouthing words Renault assumed were meant to bring solace. This went on for several minutes; the death of their youngest child had clearly been absolutely devastating to these two. Renault wasn’t sure how close they were to each other, but they’d sincerely loved their son. And as they wept, paralyzed with grief, something happened to Renault that had only happened once before, in Bramimond’s sanctuary, and never during all his years of wandering:

He understood how someone else’s grief must have felt.

The revelation came from looking at the Queen, oddly enough. When her son had been laid down by the riverside, she’d cast off any pretense of self-control. She jumped off of the back of the Wyvern which had borne her here, and neither her husband nor any of his men made any move to stop her. She threw herself over the body of her child, wailing so loudly that Renault could hear her voice even far away, in Varek’s little cottage:

 _“Damon…Damon, oh, my sweet Damon!_ ”

And she held him, as well. She took his slight, motionless body into her arms and held him against her chest.

That was something Renault recognized. That was exactly how he’d held Braddock the day he had died.

And in that moment, Renault realized that he was not the only one who had mourned, nor the only one who had felt the pain of grief. He knew absolutely nothing about the King and Queen of Bern. He didn’t care the least about their great rank, the wealth and power of their nation, or the mighty armies over which they lorded. All he knew was that they felt the exact same pain he did, the exact same pain which had defined his life and turned into his over-riding obsession for so many years.

“Braddock,” he mumbled to himself. He would have shed tears if he were still able. “Braddock…is that why? Is that what you were trying to tell me?”

Once again, Renault saw memories floating before his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was Bramimond manipulating his mind again, or simply spurred by a familiar sight. But once again, he could hear Braddock’s voice in his head:

_Renault…don’t…don’t fall in love with violence, alright? Just keep that in mind, even as death impacts you less the more of it you see._

Why had Braddock said that to him, so long ago? Renault had never given it much thought, but watching the mightiest rulers on Elibe mourn over the loss of a single life, he realized that the more death he caused—and he’d caused very much—the more he forgot how much it hurt. And he’d forgotten completely that it could hurt other people as much as it hurt Braddock, and as much as Braddock’s death had hurt him.

His best friend was no coward, nor a pacifist. But he had always been able to tell when someone’s pain felt like his own. That was how he could comfort Renault after all the losses both of them had endured together. And how ashamed would he be if he saw that Renault had forgotten how to do that?

Of course, the people who’d elicited this emotional reaction from Renault had no idea he even existed. It had taken some time, but the King and Queen had composed themselves enough to allow Varek to begin the blessing ceremony.

The father separated himself from Varek, who left him with one more comforting pat on the back, and went to his wife, gently taking her hands and prying them away from her son’s, and standing her up. They stood off to the side, giving Varek space with which to work, and so he did.

Varek stood in front of the body, the cup in his left hand and the book in his right. He opened the book with practiced finesse to a spot near the end and began reading it aloud. His voice was clear, but still not loud enough to carry it all the way to where Renault was. After about a minute of recitation Varek handed the book to Harod and then knelt down by the river.

To Renault’s surprise, Varek dipped the cup into the stream, bringing it up full of fresh, clear mountain water. He again took the _Journey_ in his right hand and then stood at the body’s feet. He poured the water over the feet and on the ground around them and began to recite from the holy book again. After that he went back to the river, filled his cup, and drained it over the boy’s chest, this time, while again reciting from the book. Then, one last time he filled the cup, poured water over the boy’s head and hair, and recited a passage from near the end of the _Journey_. Varek then brought the holy book up to his face and touched it to his forehead, mouthing a word Renault couldn’t hear at this distance but that he knew would be _amen_.

All of the gathered mourners did the same, except they also performed a gesture that was also familiar to Renault from his childhood, but that he didn’t remember the meaning of. Holding their index and middle fingers together, they drew a circle clockwise over their chests, and then moved their fingers to the bottom of the circle and drew them down, forming a line that would have bisected the circle if it had been made at its top. It was the same sign Harod had made when he visited and genuflected before Varek. This would have formed a rough approximation of the holy symbol of the Church of Elimine, Renault realized.

Varek then stepped back and nodded at Harod. He looked at the still-crying King and Queen, who also nodded their assent. The Wyvern General took the funeral shroud and wrapped up the body with it, as carefully as it had first been prepared. He then reverently handed it to one of his knights, who buckled it to his wyvern and hoisted himself in the saddle, along with Harod and the other knight. A couple more minutes passed as Varek spent a little more time conversing with the King and Queen, and then, at last, it seemed they were ready to leave. The ritual seemed to have provided them with some degree of solace, as neither of them seemed quite as distraught as they’d been when they first arrived. They got on the backs of the Wyverns, and then, with the beating of a trio of scaly wings, ascended to the sky and soared away, back to Bern. There, Renault surmised, they would give the newly-blessed body of their child a proper burial in the royal Bernese mausoleum.

Varek stood there for a few moments longer. Then he headed back to his cottage, where Renault was waiting for him.

“So…that’s it?” Varek heard Renault’s voice after he’d walked through the door, and the expression on his face indicated he was surprised by the apparent sadness in Renault’s words.

He didn’t make much note of it, though. “Yep. A blessing’s all they asked for, along with a few words of comfort. I’m not the best at that sort of thing, but sometimes words from a friend can mean more than those of even the most eloquent speaker. I did the best I could, and I can only pray it helped ‘em.”

“Words from a friend…?” Renault blinked. “So you actually knew the King and Queen? Personally?”

Varek shrugged. “You could say that. Their son was a guest here for some time.”

“Really?”

“Aye. ‘Twas quite a surprise as well…you’re not the first person to show up on my doorstep unexpectedly.”

“What happened? That is…” Renault looked down. “If you’d like to tell me the story, I mean.”

Varek nodded, and he and Renault took a seat at the table. “Not a terribly personal story, so I can oblige, I suppose.

“It was about two years ago. King Warren and Queen Nici had two sons, you see. The oldest was Desmond, who’s still alive and is in line for the throne. The second, however, was young Damon, to whom I gave the rites of departure.

“Damon was…five years younger than Desmond, I believe. But there was absolutely no love between the two brothers. Shameful, eh? It was all jealousy on Desmond’s part. As the older son, he’d follow his father on the throne. But he wasn’t and still isn’t a great sage or a great swordsman. His brother, though, excelled in every way. The people loved him, and were a lot more interested in him than Desmond. Th’ King and Queen seemed t’ prefer Damon as well. And Desmond didn’t take it too well. I can’t say I approve, surely, but I can understand why, and I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t have any pity for ‘im at all. Still, it didn’t do much good for his home life. He an’ Damon fought constantly, and one day it got so bad that Damon fled from the palace.

“I don’t know how or where he was plannin’ on runnin’ off to, but somehow he got kidnapped along the way. There was a mutiny among the Wyvern Riders at the time, so he definitely chose the worst possible moment to run away. He ended up getting caught by one of the traitors, who I guess wanted to hold ‘im hostage. This was just before the traitors all got slaughtered—by a single man, no less, a mercenary the King hired by the name of Lucian. He assaulted their stronghold in the mountains all by himself and came close to killin’ em all—and there were hundreds of them—before one of them sprung Damon from his cell and took him on Wyvernback before Lucian could rescue him.

“This mutineer wanted to fly…somewhere, I guess. Wouldn’t surprise me if he thought he could hide out in Sacae for a while; the people there wouldn’t know who the Prince of Bern was and wouldn’t care even if they did. But this Wyvern Knight got caught in a storm as he was flyin’ above the mountains. Dunno if it was just plain luck or Bramimond’s doin’, but somehow he crashed down into my sanctuary in the dead of night. Gave me a terrible fright, if I’d been older I might’ve been scared straight to death! But as it was, he’d been thrown outta his saddle and right onto his head. Broke his neck and died right quick. Same happened to his Wyvern. But his royal prisoner managed to fall into the river. When I heard the noise, I got up from bed, ran over there, and managed to fish ‘im out before he could drown. That’s still the best catch I’ve ever made from that river, y’know!

“After that, well, it didn’t take too long to get everything sorted out. I figured out who the lad in no time, and sent a letter with one of my carrier doves to the proper authorities. Wasn’t long before the King and Queen themselves came out to meet me. Took about a week, in fact. In that time me and the boy struck up a bit of a friendship. I taught him a few things about the Church and religion, and he seemed to appreciate it. Spoke mighty highly of me when his mom and dad came to pick him up. Ever since then, I was friends with all of ‘em. Majesties Warren and Nici wrote to me every once in a while for advice, and so did Damon, too. Never quite made up with his brother, even after all that.” Varek sighed. “Boy had quite a fine future ahead of him. Shame he was taken away so quickly.”

“Quickly? You don’t suspect foul play, do you?”

“Don’t think so. ‘Twas one of those horrible accidents, I believe. Accordin’ to Harod, there was an earthquake in southern Bern a few days ago. Not a great one, we certainly didn’t feel it up here. But it was enough to make a few buildings collapse. Damon was in one of ‘em…he was touring his country and eating under a peasant’s roof, as he sometimes liked to do—one o’ the reasons the people love him so much. But the earthquake struck, and…”

“I see. Man, what a way to go. No warning or anything at all, the ground just started shaking, and…”

“Mmm. Rebuilding will take a few years, but the scars on the people’s souls…that might last a long time. Many lost sons and daughters, but Damon was like a son to all of Bern, and his parents loved him as much as you could imagine. I saw it in their eyes, and how they spoke of him. I did all I could for them, but I fear for how they’ll continue on.”

 “I would too. I can’t understand…how are they going to live?” Renault’s voice was choked with emotion, but his question was sincere. “If they loved their son that much, how can they continue on without him? It looked like they loved him as much as I loved Braddock, and I could barely stand up when I lost him. How could they possibly continue on?”

“It’ll be hard, Renault, no doubt about that. But they’re not the only people who’ve lost someone important to them, and they know it. The only thing left for them now is to bury their son and then move forwards, for the sake of themselves, their country, and their dead child. Damon was a good lad, truly, from everything I’ve heard. The best way for his parents to honor his memory would be to rule the country as best they can and hope his brother can take up his mantle. Nobody has high hopes for Desmond, but who knows? Maybe they’ll be able to bring out potential nobody knew he had. Damon always tried to get his big brother to be proud of him, right till the end. Supporting him now is what Damon would have wanted, so it’s what his parents will do.”

“The same way I should’ve honored Braddock’s memory, huh?”

“Aye.”

“Did you tell them to do that? Was that what the ritual was for? Commemoration of his life?”

“Mm…not really. It’s a blessing, a religious tradition. The King and Queen took the faith pretty seriously, which is uncommon for Bernese monarchs. It’s how we send the departed on their way in the Eliminean tradition.”

“Religion, huh?” Renault sneered, and Varek’s reserved expression turned into a grimace. He expected to upbraid Renault, thinking he’d have to remind his guest to at least respect his religion if he didn’t want to share it. However, Renault surprised him. The sneer softened, somewhat, replaced with a frown that was still suspicious but also slightly more contemplative.

“Varek, you’re an intelligent man, and I respect you. But can you at least answer one more thing for me?”

“What is it?”

“How can you _possibly_ believe in the face of death?”

This was something new. Varek and Renault had agreed to keep away from the subject of religion for as long as he stayed at the hermitage, and now Renault had broken that agreement…but not maliciously. Though his distaste for faith was still apparent in his voice, the question was honest.

Still, Varek had to make sure. “I don’t want an argument, Renault. If you’re just going to insult me—“

“No, Varek, I’m serious. You won’t convince me, and I won’t convince you. I know that, and I accept that. And if you want me to drop it right now, I will. But after watching that…funeral rite, or whatever it was, I need to know. I need to figure it out. Because I’ve gone through the exact same thing the King and Queen of Bern did. And not just with my best friend, but earlier in life. And I’d wager you have too. But the King and Queen still believe. _You_ still believe. What I can’t understand is _why_?

“Again, I like you, and I respect you. I think I’m…at least to some extent, following the path Braddock would have wanted me to take, thanks to you. But that’s exactly why I can’t understand why you believe like you do. I don’t understand how someone I respect so much could have drawn the exact opposite conclusions from watching the same events I have, though maybe you haven’t lived a life like mine. Varek, after everything you’ve seen, _why do you believe in God?_ ”

“Hmm…” Varek let out a small chuckle. He noticed Renault’s expression change, and raised a hand to calm his guest. “I’m not mocking you, Renault. It’s just that…your question is, to put it _very_ mildly, a big one. It’s not just a personal question, but a real complex one. Smarter, wiser, holier men than me have had to write entire books on why they believe. Can you at least give me a little bit of time to think?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

The two men sat in silence for several minutes, each contemplating what the other had said. At last, Varek thought he’d come up with something.

“Renault, I beg your forgiveness for this, but…I think the best way to answer your question would be to start off by asking you one.”

“Alright. What do you want to know?”

“Why don’t _you_ believe in God? I’m askin’ now because I suspect it has something to do with what you just saw, and your experiences with death.”

“Huh. Alright.” Renault took a deep breath, gathering both his thoughts and his memories, before he started. “It’s been so long, so my memories aren’t as clear as they were. But I remembered something…I used to believe when I was a child. My parents were both Bishops. In Thagaste…yes, it was Thagaste. My father was a Bishop, and I looked up to him more than anything in the world and wanted to follow in his footsteps.

“But then, one day, he died. It was disease. My mother and I prayed and prayed for him, but nothing happened. God didn’t listen. He died anyways. And ever since then, I didn’t believe in God. Why would any God, able to create an entire world as He wanted, force us humans to deal with pain, and disease, and most of all, death?

“My mother and I never got along after that. Religion was still important to her, ‘cause she took my dad’s station after his death, but I never wanted anything to do with it. I became a mercenary instead, and…she died, too, and I never had a chance to make up with her. But my life as a mercenary…that’s just made me even more convinced that God doesn’t exist. I’ve seen an entire country destroyed by civil war, and an entire town of innocent people dragooned by a rebel army and their womenfolk murdered in return. I lost nearly every friend I had to war, including the man who could have been a brother to me. He…Braddock was…he was a good man, every bit as good as my father. So why did he have to die? Why did they both have to die? If God would condemn both of them to death, what’s the point of believing He exists?”

“Hmm…I see. I think I understand. That’s theodicy, Renault. The problem of evil. Somethin’ I’ve struggled with as well.”

“Eh?”

“That’s the formal name for the conundrum you describe. How can evil exist if the Creator is good? If He’s truly all-knowing _and_ all-powerful, why does He allow His creations to suffer? If He loves them why wouldn’t He take away their pain, and eliminate death, and disease, and make Elibe a living Paradise?”

“Theodicy’s the word for it? Well, it’s exactly how I feel.”

“I can certainly sympathize with that. God knows I’ve lost enough and seen enough loss to wonder why He allows it all. Damon’s fate is just another example of a good person dyin’ meaninglessly, eh?”

“Yeah, exactly. So then why would you, and the King and Queen, still believe in a God that would let that happen?”

“Well…” Varek hesitated for a moment. “These are just my beliefs, along with those of whom I’ve read. A little bit of both mixed up in there, so if y’ think it’s foolish, I take all the blame. Don’t get the wrong idea about anyone else I quote, y’hear? But as to why God lets bad things happen, why we have wars, and disease, and disaster…well, some say, and I agree with ‘em, that it’s a matter of logic. Moral logic, you could say.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a line of thinking that arose from a follower of Father Nessarion about a hundred years ago. This Nessarite had spent some time in Sacae, and had actually managed to strike up a friendship with one of their Druids. The Druid lent him a Dark tome—not a magical one, but a commentary on several lost spells. One of those spells involved the creation of strange…homunculi, you could call them. Puppets, artificial men with no will of their own.”

“Morphs,” Renault breathed, unconsciously gripping the phylactery ‘round his neck. “Morphs!”

“You’ve heard the term, so I guess y’ don’t need me to explain it.” Varek was wise enough not to press Renault further. “Well, in any case, I bet you know what they’re like. Ageless and changeless, they exist only to carry out their creator’s will, and can’t do anything else. They have no minds of their own, no choice, and no emotions, even. They can’t hate, but they can’t love, either. They’re…they’re meaningless, when you get right down to it.”

“Morphs are the fact of existence when all meaning has been stripped away,” Renault pondered retelling what somewhat else had said to him a long time ago.

“Yep, that’s a good way to put it, Renault. Now, here’s what I think. I think if God had created a real paradise for His creations—a paradise on Elibe, rather than as a reward for what they’d done in life—I think He would have ended up making us all as meaningless and helpless as the Morphs, in the end.”

“What do you mean? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“When you get right down to it, aren’t Morphs already livin’ in the sort of paradise you describe? They don’t age, they don’t get sick, and they’ll never die, except in battle. And there’s no battle unless it’s ordered by their masters, because they can’t love or hate or feel any of the things that spur men on to fight.”

“Come on, that’s really stretching it, Varek. Why can’t we have a world with free will _and_ without suffering? If God’s all-powerful _and_ all-good, why didn’t He give us both?”

“I know it’s hard to explain, but let me try. Think of it this way, Renault. Even if God was all-powerful, He couldn’t make a universe that contradicted itself, right? He’d have to work within some kind of logical, meaningful restraint. God couldn’t create a world in which two and two equaled five, or in which circles were square, or something equally as contradictory. Logically inconsistent, like old Ockem might’ve put it. You agree with that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“In the same way, I think, He couldn’t create a world without death or disease or any kind of suffering if He also wanted to have our lives mean somethin’. After all, the one thing we humans have goin’ for us, I think, is to inscribe meaning into our own lives. To improve the world around us, to show kindness to each other, to make our beliefs and our virtues a lamp in the dark of a world that sometimes seems to be nothin’ but dark. _That_ is what makes us different from those helpless, mindless puppet things the old texts spoke of. As strange as it sounds, and maybe it sounds heartless of me, but I think suffering is the flip side of the glory in life. I think it’s as impossible to have a paradise where nothing bad ever happens _and_ where life is meaningful and free will exists, as it is to have a circle that’s _also_ a square or where two plus two equals four _and_ five.

“If God gave us everything we wanted just like that, well, what room would there be for free will? What’d we do to give meaning to our lives? Damon’s death was senseless, no doubt ‘bout that. But all of the good things he did—helping his country, lovin’ his parents, and even trying to love his big brother—only had meaning because we live in a world where suffering and death happens. If no-one had ever lost anyone, and if everyone loved everyone else all the time, nonstop, then there’d be nothin’ exceptional about the love Damon showed to all of us, and nothing that truly gave it meaning. Adding happiness and hope to a world full of nothing but happiness and hope would be like pouring a glass of water into the ocean. But adding happiness and hope to a world full of suffering and pain…to me, that’s more like offering a man in the desert a whole jug of the best water you can find. Pour it into the ocean and it’s just a waste—no-one notices. But give it to one thirsty guy and you’ve saved his whole life—you’ve really _made a difference_.

“And in the end, if that’s the world God wants us to live in, I’m fine with that. I can believe in a God like that. Because I’d rather believe in a God that wants me to make a difference, rather than a God who set everything up so that nothing did. So that we were all a bunch of Morphs, really.”

Renault was now staring at Varek with an expression the old hermit had never seen before—on his face, or almost on anyone else’s, for that matter. Even so, he continued on:

“That’s why I believe, Renault, and that’s how I make sense of Damon’s death. And it’s how I make sense of the deaths of your father an’ best friend, too. Even if their deaths caused you pain, and came too soon, I think the suffering they endured—and that you endured—was what helped give their lives meanin’. Think about it: If nobody ever got sick or died, why would your dad have need to comfort the sick and the dyin’? In a world without pain, his virtue would have been meaningless. He ended up dying _because_ he lived in a world of sufferin’, yes, but would he have truly lived in a world where he or nobody else died? And would you have loved him or admired him as much? I don’t think so.

“Same with your best friend. Why did you love him so much? Because he risked his life for you. But the key word there is ‘risked.’ If there was never any chance he might die, then there’s nothin’ impressive at all about his sacrifices! But because there was that chance, it made everything he did for you truly beautiful, truly worthy o’ praise and recognition, instead of something you’d just forget, something that didn’t mean anything, or something he’d _inevitably_ give, just like a puppet.”

“So what the hell’re you saying? That Braddock _should_ have died?” Renault was growing angry now, forgetting his grief and allowing rage to take control of him again. His face twisted and he balled his hands into fists, making as if he might actually strike Varek.

The hermit wasn’t even fazed. “No, Renault,” he said patiently. “I don’t think it’s a good thing Braddock died, any more than I think it’s a good thing Damon died. What I’m saying is that bad things happening—even happening to good people—is the price we pay for the existence of good, ‘least if you believe in God like I do. You just can’t have one without the other. It’s a matter of logic. I know how cold I must sound, lad, and I don’t like it either. But it’s the truth, as far as I can see it, at least. You asked for what I believed, so I told ya.”

“Seems like terrible logic to me.”

“Why do you say that?” Varek was still completely calm and unmoved, which annoyed Renault even more than if he’d been offended and judgmental, as most of the Elimineans he’d known in his life would have been.

“Your comparison makes no sense! There’s no analogy between needless, senseless death and…and _anything_ in this world!”

“I never claimed to be the smartest man in the world. If you think my analogy’s poor, demonstrate it.”

“Don’t piss me off! I would’ve loved my father, and Braddock, every bit as much in a world in which they lived forever!”

Varek smiled warmly. “Your love for them would’ve been eternal? That’s admirable, Renault, and I believe you. But a world in which one’s friends never die sounds a lot like the paradise Elimine spoke of, for those who’ve walked the just and virtuous path.”

Those were familiar words to Renault. Someone had said them to him, a long time ago…for some reason, the name ‘Henken’ flitted through his mind. In any case, it didn’t affect what Varek said, so Renault shook his head angrily and focused on his debating opponent. “Yeah, I get that. But why wouldn’t God just make Elibe a paradise instead of forcing us to die first?”

“Because a reward unearned is no reward at all, at least to me.” Varek shrugged. “Let’s take your friend Braddock again. He loved you, I don’t doubt that, but I’m sure you earned his love, right? There must’ve been something he saw in you.”

“Y…yeah. We fought together…I saved his life…rescued him from more than one tough bind…and I gave him everything of the only thing I could—my loyalty.”

“So you could say you’re proud of earning his love, aye?”

“Yeah! I was Braddock’s friend. I take more pride in that than anything else!”

“Then you’re proud of what you _earned_. Because you _deserved_ his love. But did everyone deserve his love? If he loved you because you were loyal, would you have deserved his love if you betrayed him? If he loved you because you were brave, would you have deserved it if you were a coward?”

“N…No…” Renault was still angry, but he could tell where Varek was going with this line of thought. And his anger was giving way to frustration.

“Same reasoning applies to Paradise, at least the way Elimine taught. If you want to live in a world where there’s no suffering and no-one you love will ever die, you’ve got to earn your way first. If everyone could enjoy a place like that, no matter what they did in life, it’d make their lives meaningless! And yeah, I guess you could ask why the Creator didn’t just make it so everyone would earn their way there, inevitably, without gettin’ sick or dying before their time, or without falling off the path and into evil. But then it’d be like I said—everyone would just be a Morph. They wouldn’t get sick or die, sure, but if they were programmed to do nothing but good, the glory of doing good would disappear. And I get the distinct feeling you and Braddock wouldn’t have loved each other so deeply, and you wouldn’t be as proud of that love if you were just a glorified Morph.”

“That’s…I… _dammit!_ ” Renault stood up suddenly, slashing a hand through the air as if to ward off some invisible attacker. He _wanted_ to refute what Varek said, so very badly, but he didn’t have the words. And even if he did, Varek had shown him something he couldn’t possibly refute: That, in its own way, his acceptance of death as ordained by God made a bit of sense. Perhaps not that much, but not so much less than Renault’s own unadulterated fear, hatred, and inability to accept it, either.

And so, Renault did the only thing he could. Turning his back on his host, he fled the tiny hermitage, knocking his chair over as he did so without even noticing or caring.

He didn’t even know what he was running from, exactly—Varek made no effort to pursue him, which was probably a testament to the old man’s wisdom, all things considered. But Renault hadn’t felt this sort of impotent frustration in a long time, and he found it difficult to control his emotions in such a state. At the very least, the cool air on his face felt good, better than it would have in Varek’s stuffy little cottage, but it still wouldn’t be enough to calm Renault.

That would only happen when, while not paying any attention to his surroundings at all, lost entirely in the storm of his frustration over his failed debate with Varek, Renault slammed head-long into a tree.

“Agh! _Damn it!_ ”

He wasn’t hurt badly—after the impact, he stumbled back and fell squarely on his bottom, and there’d be a bump on his forehead for day or so, but nothing serious. So he wasn’t angry about that—what he was really angry at was himself.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

Renault got up and punched out of the tree, hurting his bare knuckles more than the dead bark. He didn’t notice or care. He punched it again and again, heedless of his skin breaking and bleeding under the tear. But every blow was directed not at the tree which had ended up in his way, but at his own image in his mind.

“I…I can’t…why can’t I refute him? Why can’t I prove Varek wrong? Why can’t I show he’s just an old fool?!”

One punch became two, and then three.

“Why does he…why did what he said make sense? It can’t…”

Four, five, and six.

“’Cause if he’s _not_ a fool…doesn’t that mean…I’m _wrong?!_ ”

Seven, eight, and nine.

The image of his mother flashed through Renault’s mind—crying and broken on the floor, the wretched abuse he’d inflicted on her marking the start of his entire journey.

“Mom…was I wrong? Was I wrong to have treated you like I did?”

Ten, eleven, twelve.

“Jerid…Serapino…Edmun…was I wrong about your religion? Was it stupid of me to mock you for it? Why did I…”

His knuckles crashed against the bark for a twelfth time, and then an thirteenth, but their harsh rhythm was beginning to slow. As he exhausted more and more of his energy, Renault grew less and less able to stave off that harsh truth.

For almost his entire life, his animosity and opposition to religion in general and Eliminism in particular had been his most constant companion. Ever since he was a teenager, and for all the centuries after that, Renault had worn his contempt for faith almost as protectively as his armor. He had never once thought anyone would be able to convince him that religion was anything but worthless. It was one of his most important, foundational beliefs. He wouldn’t take being proved wrong lightly.

_But it’s not the first time you’ve been wrong about something, eh?_

“W-what?!” Renault froze in mid-punch, then sunk to his knees in front of the big old tree, setting his bloody knuckles down on the grass as he descended. That voice in his head…it sounded like his own. Then again, it could have been Bramimond’s. Whether the Lord of Darkness was manipulating him, or his own mind had taken arms against him, it didn’t matter. Because the voice was correct.

He saw an image of Nergal flash before his eyes. Nergal…someone he’d once almost worshipped, someone he’d believed held his salvation, had betrayed him without a second thought. Renault had _definitely_ been _entirely_ wrong about Nergal. Why couldn’t he be wrong about religion as well?

Then Renault saw something even worse. He saw Braddock in front of him, for just a moment. Braddock…staring at him with horror in his eyes, just as he’d been in that final, demoniac dream Renault had suffered after he’d killed Lucian. Renault remembered how Braddock had died, and what his last words were…and how horribly he’d misinterpreted those last words, and how his life over the past two centuries would have brought nothing but shame to his best friend.

He’d been wrong, so horribly wrong, about what Braddock had wanted. So maybe he was wrong about religion.

As if to drive the point home, he heard Braddock’s voice in his head, now. Repeating what he’d said under the clear night sky of Etruria, what Renault had been reminded of just a few weeks ago…

_Don’t you think you should give religion a little more credit, Renault?_

“Braddock…Braddock…” Exhausted, Renault brought his bloody hands up to his face, and began to weep in the peculiar, tearless manner his false body allowed. “Braddock…was this what you were trying to tell me? I was wrong! Dammit, I was wrong! _So help me, I was wrong!!_ ”

He repeated those words, over and over through guttural sobs. “Wrong, wrong, wrong…I was wrong!” At that moment, in his state, he really couldn’t do anything else. He was simply too angry at himself, having realized how foolish he had acted throughout his entire life. Later on, he’d look back at this day with no small amount of embarrassment; having thrown a child’s tantrum over one’s ideas being challenged was nothing to be proud of. Then again, it wasn’t much more shameful than hitting one’s own mother, insulting someone’s heritage, or most of the other things he’d done over the course of his (very) extended childhood and adolescence.

The only thing that could be said of his credit here was that he didn’t spend all day wallowing in self-pity. A fluttering of wings brought Renault out of his trance—perhaps surprised by the noise, he immediately brought his hands away from his face and looked up. Several doves were flying away from within the leaves of the tree above him, heading towards their roosts in Varek’s dovecot. This reminded him of Varek, and how poorly he’d treated the ascetic.

“Aw, hell,” Renault coughed, standing up and looking back at the hermitage. “I owe Varek an apology…at least. Braddock…that’s what you’d say, right?” He took a deep breath, ceasing his sobbing and finally calming his emotions, before trudging back to Varek’s cottage. Renault hadn’t closed the door behind him and it was still open, allowing him to peer inside.

Varek was still sitting at his table, though he was now writing a letter, Renault saw. He barely took notice of his guest’s reappearance—he only glanced up and raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Ah, Renault. I’m glad to see you again. Wasn’t sure if you’d be back.”

“Varek, I…” Renault stepped through the threshold, then shook his head and then bowed it down. “I’m sorry.”

The sound of a quill scratching on parchment ceased as Varek paused. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Renault. Again, though, maybe I should apologize as well. Belief _and_ the lack of it’s always a touchy matter, and meant to be handled sensitively. Trouble is, I’m not a sensitive man…wouldn’t have cooped myself alone up here if I was. So if I was harsher on you than I intended, I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no!” Renault raised his voice. “Varek, it’s absolutely _not_ your fault. It’s…all mine. I was stupid. Really stupid. I just…I just couldn’t handle being wrong, that’s all.”

Varek didn’t say anything in response.

“Nearly all my life I thought people like you were stupid, that your religion was for fools. But I couldn’t…at least not now, I wasn’t able to give a good argument to what you told me. That means I was…I was wrong, wrong to mock you, wrong to have insulted you, wrong to have behaved like I did…like I’ve always done! I was wrong, and…I’m sorry. I’m sorry for it, and I’m sorry for everything. It’s…it’s one more reason Braddock would’ve been ashamed of me. And there’s nothing I can do now but make up for it.” Renault looked around, but it seemed like Varek had already set Renault’s upturned chair back to its original position. “If you want me to leave now, I will. There’s no excuse for how I acted. Braddock would be callin’ me a damn fool if he saw what I did.”

Varek snorted. “Certainly wasn’t one o’ your finer moments, I’ll agree with that.” He saw the expression on Renault’s face, though, which made the one on his own grow a little more sympathetic. “Still, you’ve done one thing right today, and for that, at least, I think you’ve proven worthy to stay here a little longer.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not an easy thing, to be proven wrong,” said Varek quietly and sympathetically. “Lord knows I learned that the hard way. But it’s still somethin’ you gotta learn, Renault. Nobody can call themselves an adult until they’re able to admit they might’ve been wrong about something. Now, I’m not sayin’ I’m right. I just gave you my own reasons for why I believe, and I can’t say if they’ll convince you. I didn’t even intend to convince you that God exists. But if I did manage to convince you that I’m not as stupid as y’ first thought, well, I’m glad. Because I managed to show you that you might be wrong about something. And if you can accept that, then you’re not too stupid yourself, either.”

Varek smiled, and held a hand out to Renault as proof he had no hard feelings. Renault almost smiled back— _almost_. He took that hand, though, and that was really the important thing.

_::Linear Notes::_

First off, I have to admit something straight up: I myself am not very religious, at least not as much as I used to be. I used to strongly identify as a Christian, after having a “conversion experience,” as they called it, back in high school. These days, however, I’m more of an agnostic. Still, I retain a fairly significant emotional attachment to Christianity, and I hope this fic can offer everyone, be they a believer, non-believer, or ex-believer a thoughtful take on the subject of faith.

That said, I’m not Catholic and was never Catholic, so my knowledge of that particular tradition comes mainly from academic reading (not personal experience) and contact with my friends. As you can probably tell, Eliminism in this fic is heavily inspired by Catholicism, but a few words of note:

First, Varek’s arguments about theodicy and the question of evil are original, that is to say, created by me. I’m not sure I believe them myself, but they do represent my best effort to solve the problem, particularly in the context of Fire Emblem, with its Morphs. They are **not** taken from actual Catholic theological teaching or moral reasoning. Any similarities are coincidental. While I’m sure similarities exist—Varek’s statements on the necessity of suffering and pain probably echo *some* Catholic beliefs on suffering—in this case, the Eliminean answer to theodicy is the product of my own imagination rather than an intentional reference to Catholic teaching.

Second, Varek’s blessing of Damon’s body is loosely based off of Catholic last rites.

Aside from those, next chapter’s super long, but also really important, so get ready for some in-depth discussion about the religion of Eliminism! :D

 


	64. Elimine's Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault decides to learn more of the Eliminean religion.

**Chapter 64: Elimine’s Journey**

It was nice and quiet at Varek’s home, just as Renault liked it. A week had passed since the blessing ritual for Prince Damon, as well as the argument with Varek. After that, their normal routine had returned. Renault was continuing his studies in herbalism, along with helping Varek with his chores around the hermitage. He was almost done memorizing the Royal Academy’s manuals along with Nessarion’s treatise, and he’d essentially mastered the art of making salves and poultices. Now, Renault was beginning to learn a little bit of agriculture and horticulture. Varek maintained a small garden where he grew various vegetables in the spring and summer, eating some and drying out others for preservation. They helped keep him alive through the winter, along with the supplies occasionally delivered by the Wyvern Knights (Harod had brought along several bags of grain and salt as an offering to Varek when he’d brought the King and Queen here). Since Renault was making such good progress as an herbalist, Varek saw fit to have him start helping with the planting and harvesting.

That was what he was doing now. Breathing heavily (he would have wiped the sweat from his brow if he could still sweat), Renault stood up and looked down with a satisfied grin on his face. The plot of land in front of him was empty, with nothing but neat rows of soil attesting to what had once grown there. Its former occupants were now all trapped in the thick burlap sack next to him: Dozens of large, round, healthy heads of fresh green cabbages. He’d spent much of the afternoon plucking them from the ground—carefully, so as to not damage the soil—and now they were ready to be pickled into a peculiar dish called “Wyvernleaves” which Renault knew was quite popular in Bern. Though he couldn’t vouch for the taste, it got its name from the reason for its popularity. This type of food could be preserved for a very long time, leading the citizens of this country to name it after the resilient Wyverns, who seemed to thrive in almost any environment. This also meant Varek could store it until he needed something tasty to eat during the lean winter months. Renault wasn’t sure how it was made, but he’d soon learn.

After he brought the sack back to Varek, they started the pickling process together. Varek had Renault get another large cauldron out of the storage upstairs, and together they began slicing up the cabbage heads into very thin strips (not all—Varek ordered him to save some leaves in reserve), which they’d place into the cauldron (minus the stems, of course). Renault was quite good at this, so they finished in about an hour. Then, Varek took one of the containers of salt Harod had delivered last week and poured it in. He ordered Renault to push down on the mass of shredded cabbage as hard as he could, a task Renault also found easy thanks to his strength. After a few minutes all the cabbage had been mushed together very well. They then placed the reserved cabbage leaves over the mush, and then placed a heavy stone statue of the knight Barrigan, also taken from storage, over the leaves, so the whole thing would be weighed down. They then placed the cauldron’s heavy lid over it, sealing it almost perfectly, and moved it over to a corner. According to Varek, it would sit there for several weeks, where it would “ferment” in its own juices and the salt he’d added. The process would somehow inure the cabbage against rot, making it safe to eat for nearly a year, lasting well through the coming winter.

Renault and Varek both let out sighs of satisfaction at a job well done. Varek, though, caught the position of the sun in the sky out of a window and nearly let out a curse. Renault wasn’t sure what had angered him until he recalled that Varek always prayed at this time of day. He was a bit late for his midday ritual, in that case. The hermit, faster than his guest thought possible, had already taken his rosary from its place on a nearby shelf and seated himself upon his blanket on the floor, ready to begin his repetitive chanting.

This, ordinarily, would be of little interest to Renault. He had long gotten used to Varek’s daily routine. He’d never truly understood it, though. Today, one week after Varek had managed to change his mind—to an extent—about religion, he wanted to try. So, for the first time, he ventured a question about the ritual.

“Varek, before you start, can I ask you something?”

“Hm? What is it?”

“Why do you pray?”

Varek stared at Renault warily. “Why’re you asking?”

“I learned my lesson already last week,” replied Renault, lowering his eyes. “I don’t want to start another fight, or anger you again, or anything. This time I’m asking out of a…well, honest desire to understand.”

“Is that it?” Varek continued to stare at Renault for a moment, and then the wariness in his one good eye seemed to recede. “Well, you’ve been on your best behavior for this past week,” he chuckled. “I guess I can believe you. Alright, I’ll tell you, but let me finish the prayers first. I’m late enough for ‘em as it is.”

“Oh, uh, right! Of course!”

Varek nodded gratefully and began his business. With his right hand, he grasped the figure attached to his necklace (a circle whose bottom radius was crossed by a single line, both cast in gold—the symbol of the Eliminean Church) murmuring the first of his prayers:

“Lord above, I beseech You, forgive me for my sins. I am a human being and no more, crafted by Your hands in my mother’s womb. I am weak, made of nothing but dust, so I beg you to lend me strength. I am mean, my life but a blink in eternity, so I beg you to lend me wisdom. And I am small, my human heart forever at war with its own deceit and misguided passion. So I beg you lend me the grace you have given me that I may give it to others. Amen.”

He then began to repeat this prayer over and over again:

“Blessed Creator, Lord of all heaven and earth, guide me to right and away from wrong, whether the sun has risen or set. Blessed Elimine, speaker of the Lord’s wisdom and His most favored emissary I beg you watch over me, whether the sun has risen or set.”

He said this fifty times, fingers threading through each set of ten sapphire, ruby, opal, emerald, and topaz beads before once again reaching the symbol of the Church hanging at the necklace’s terminus. He grasped the figure tightly with his right hand and continued,

“Most holy God, as the day continues I ask for Your charity and grace. It is to You I owe my life, and on Your protection I rely. May You watch over me, and may my hands do good, my tongue speak justly, and my mind attest to Your glory, as You will. May the words and deeds of Your blessed Saint, the holy Elimine, inspire me and keep me on the path of righteousness. And as You guided Elimine on her Journey, may You guide me on mine as well. Amen.”

Letting out another calm, satisfied sigh, Varek smiled up at Renault. “There, much better. ‘Tis a good thing the God of Elimine is so forgiving—I’d wager both of us’ve had masters who’re a lot less tolerant of tardiness!”

Even Renault couldn’t stop himself from letting out a small chuckle at the joke. It was quite true, after all.

“Anyways, you wanted to know more about the prayers?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, come sit down, then.”

Renault obediently did so, plopping on the floor and taking a cross-legged posture in front of the hermit.

“Before I answer your question, Renault, I’ll ask you one o’ my own. Why do you think I pray?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you!”

“I know, lad. But humor me for a moment, it’ll give me some idea of where you’re coming from. You’ve been here months and you’ve seen me pray every day. Surely you ought’ve wondered why I always do it before, and surely you’ve come up with a few ideas of your own, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Renault, scratching his head. “I always thought you did it because you had to. Like you were commanded to do so, or it was part of your job, like a requirement to stay here or something.”

“That’s…not entirely true, but not entirely off the mark, either. Anything else?”

“Huh…maybe because it relaxes you, or calms your mind or something?” Renault thought for a moment, sifting through his unreliable memories. He remembered a friend of his—Rosamia, yes, the woman Braddock loved--telling him something about meditation, not long after he’d embarked on his first journey from his hometown. “I always thought that magic-users needed to meditate every day to clear their minds and make it easier for them to cast spells. Maybe your prayer serves the same purpose as their meditation?”

Varek nodded. “That’s right, Renault. I haven’t needed to cast magic in a long while, but I don’t want to let my skills decay too far either. Prayer every day keeps my mind both sharp and calm, so I’ll be able to use my spells if it’s ever necessary.”

“I can understand that,” Renault nodded. “But then what about the first thing you mentioned? That praying’s a…requirement? I mean, you seem to be all alone here. Who’s keeping tabs on you? Bramimond?”

“Not him, so much, but God, in my belief.”

“I—alright, God. So how do you know that’s what God wants you to do? I mean, 52 prayers three times a day is a decent chunk of time. If He exists, would He punish you for not saying all your prayers at the right time every day?”

“No, no, I don’t think so. The Lord isn’t that merciless, ‘least I don’t believe so.”

“So then why’d you say you were ‘required’ to pray?”

“Maybe it was a bad choice to compare it to an employer’s request. I don’t think prayer is an absolute necessity, but I do think it’s a very good idea, which is why I try to be scrupulous about it.

“Firstly, Elimine herself recommended we pray.” He gestured to the thick, weathered tome on one of his shelves—a copy of Elimine’s _Journey_ , Renault knew. “That first prayer I started out with was said by Elimine, several times. First, before she set left her hometown to fight in the Scouring. Second, when she returned after her victory and prepared to go on her pilgrimage. And third, just before she ascended to Heaven at her tower. She also said that her followers should do this, so that’s what I try to do.

“The other prayers—the ones I say fifty times—originated after Elimine left Elibe. The command to say them doesn’t come from her or the _Journey_ , but the Church itself—herself, as we like to say. It recommended hermits like me pray three times a day, for spiritual health.  A community of monks living at the edge of the Nabata desert started saying these “devotions,” as they’re called, startin’ around 250 A.S. A man named Valdine came across them and was struck by their piety. He’d later become an esteemed Elder of the Church, largely because he wrote the _Valdinian Rules_ , which became and remain guides for living in most Eliminean monasteries and hermitages. There, Valdine said all brothers under Elimine, whether living communally or alone, should say those prayers every day in addition to the first one at morning, noon, and night.

“Thirdly and lastly—and most importantly, in my view—is just for me personally. Praying makes me feel closer to God, Renault. It fills me with a sense of His love, and makes me realize—more clearly—that He’s ever-present, always with me, and always lookin’ out for me. It reminds me of how great God’s love for me is, and also of how much greater God is than me. Helps keep me humble, which is important for any Eliminean, especially a hermit. So, when you get right down to it, Renault, the emotional comfort prayer gives me is why I do it. That’s the most important thing. Maybe y’ find it silly, and honestly, I couldn’t blame you. But it’s what works for me.”

“I can’t blame you for what works for you. Not that I’ve got any right to blame anybody for anything.” Renault realized he’d made a little joke—at his own expense—for the first time since he’d come here, and shared another genuine smile with his host. “So the personal connection with God—the feeling of camaraderie with Him—is the main benefit of prayer for you?”

“Aye.”

“Even if God’s imaginary?”

Varek grimaced. “Renault—“

“No, hear me out for a moment. I really wasn’t trying to insult you, for once.” Renault sighed. “I was just thinking…I’ve been so lonely without Braddock…without my best friend. I’d give anything to hear his voice again, or…or even just feel his presence again. That’s all. But all I have are those dreams, and they aren’t good ones, anyways.

“Having a friend you could talk to at any time, or even just…feel at any time you wanted…I have to admit, I envy that, regardless of whether or not he actually exists. I guess I’m trying to say I envy you a bit, Varek. Not that I could ever believe as you do, but…well, you’ve definitely made me think a lot since I arrived. Nobody other than Braddock was able to make me do that. Suppose I can understand why you’ve chosen your path, even if I can’t really share it.”

“Hm.” The grimace on Varek’s face disappeared and he relaxed. “A thoughtful thing to say, lad. Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome. Can I ask you one more question?”

“ ‘Course.”

Renault paused—long enough that Varek thought he’d withdraw the request. Then, finally, he said: “Do you think I could take a look at Elimine’s _Journey_ sometime?”

Now, this was something Varek really hadn’t been expecting. He leaned back, digesting his guest’s request. “You’re being serious with me, Renault?”

“I am.”

“If this is just some sort of trick, and you’re going to do something to the book if I give it to you…”

Renault shook his head most vociferously. “No, no! There’s no way I’d do that. I’m past all that now. You taught me better. You, and Bramimond, and the…the memories I have of my friend.”

“Alright, I get that. But why the sudden interest in religion?”

Renault thought about it for a little bit, considering his words carefully. “It’s just…curiosity. And a little more than that—something deeper, maybe. Virtually all my life I’ve scorned religion in general and Eliminism in particular. But after what you said to me last week, everything I’ve seen here, and what Braddock told me a long time ago…I definitely have a good grasp of how foolish I’ve been acting.

“I always prided myself on my bravery. I was a mercenary and a warrior, after all, and I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe even if I told you. But when I first came here, Bramimond…he called me a coward. And I think he was right. I never ran away from battle or betrayed someone I considered a friend, not once. It’s more of an…abstract thing, and I know that doesn’t make sense. I was a coward about what I believed and why I believed it.

“I never really thought about what I was doing. When I was a kid, I never really thought about why I rejected the Eliminism of my parents. I just thought about what happened to my dad, and got angry, and…that was the end of it. I think I hid behind that anger, because it let me get away with not asking anything about why I hated religion, or asking anything really difficult. It was like I was trying to absolve myself of the responsibility to ensure I wasn’t deluding myself or lying to myself. Heh, in your prayers, you ask God for guidance to know right from wrong. I would’ve laughed at you a few years ago, but now, I’d say you can’t be blamed for needing the help, even if the source doesn’t exist.

“It’s because I made the same mistake with Braddock. The exact same mistake. I was blinded by my own grief and anger that I never gave any thought to what he wanted…just like Bramimond told me. And it took me too long to realize how I was letting him down…way, way too long. I’d always just tell myself that Braddock wanted to come back, that everything would be better when he returned, and that resurrecting him was the only thing that mattered. But I was just hiding behind that, too. I let it blind me to what I was really doing, and…how I was really being used.”

He clenched his fists. “I’m tired of that. I want to stop running away. Braddock told me to find another way to live, and though I’ve already started, I think this is the next step. I don’t want to hide from my own prejudices anymore, I want to face what I believe, and look at it with clear eyes instead of hiding behind what I want to see. And since I’m here, I’ll start with religion. If I’ve been mocking it for so long without knowing the first thing about it, I’m a fool. Braddock told me to…well, not accept it or believe in it, but at least not dismiss it out of hand. So…silly as it might sound to you, I guess I want to face your religion. I want to read your book, see what it’s all about, and _then_ decide I don’t want to believe in it. At least then I’ll know I’ve actually faced what I’ve always hated, fair and square, instead of just dismissing it for no reason like I was cheating.” He chuckled nervously. “It’s a strange thing to hear, comparing my religious beliefs to battle, especially since I never fought ‘fair and square’ anyways. I was a mercenary, not a knight. But maybe it’s time to start. Live differently, like Braddock wanted me to.”

Varek didn’t say anything and his face was blank. Thus, Renault hastily added, “Look, if you don’t want me to, that’s fine and I understand. This is your home, so I’ll live by your rules. If you don’t want me to read the _Journey_ , I’ll drop the subject. I was just wondering. Tch, probably made myself look like a fool _again_ …sorry.”

It was Varek’s turn to shake his head. “No, Renault, it’s fine. I’m not offended, and I think you’re sincere. Just very surprised at this turn of events, but after your explanation, I understand.

“And…yes, I’ll allow you to. The word of God is open to all, as is Elimine’s grace. If you want to learn about what she said and did, it’d be a sin if I tried to stop you! And even if you read it all, I don’t expect you to start believin’. Even if you think it’s all nonsense after you’re done with it, well, I won’t hold it against you. I’ve heard the same thing from others. But if you do read all of it and form whatever you believe on what it actually just says instead o’ prejudice, that’s good enough for me. It’s all I can ask.

“But there’s one thing I want to make sure of.” Varek’s curmudgeonly countenance made a brief return. “I want to be sure you’re doin’ this of your own free will. It’ll be mighty irritating to hear you complain about how you were ‘tricked’ into reading these books or something later on. I’ve already told you I’m no evangelist and I don’t want you accusin’ me of being one later on.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I swear on Braddock’s memory that I’m being honest with you. I won’t disrespect you or your faith, and I won’t blame you for whatever I read.”

Varek knew that his guest wouldn’t take Braddock’s name lightly. “Alright, Renault, I believe you. You’ve still got a lot to learn about herbs, though. I don’t think you want to cut into your studies just to satisfy your curiosity. And there’s more yardwork for you to do! I’ll let you start readin’ it tomorrow—there are a few parts of it I want to get through again myself, and I’ll look at those today. In the meantime, since you’re done with Nessarion’s texts, I have a few more manuals I want you to look at. Sound good?”

Renault nodded.

“Alright, then, I’ll get them for you. They’re on potions, this time, and after you’ve familiarized yourself with the first one, we can try making a few tomorrow. Then I’ll let you have a look at the _Journey_.”

Renault found that good enough, and for the rest of the day he contented himself with reading the potion-making manuals Varek gave him while the hermit finished up his own reading. And by the time he settled himself down to sleep, he felt ready for what he’d read tomorrow.

-X-

Renault could credit _The Journey of Elimine_ with one thing: It was definitely interesting reading, far more than he’d expected. He would have thought old religious stories would be dry and boring, but these were definitely holding his attention. Unfortunately, he wasn’t liking them _at all_.

It was the middle of the afternoon on the 10th Wyvern, and Renault had finished the chores he’d been assigned. After catching some fish for Varek’s breakfast, and harvesting and planting some of the other veggies in the hermitage garden, he’d successfully created his very first potion: A goopy, reddish substance made primarily of elderberries, certain types of grass, and a bit of salt water that was intended to induce vomiting. The manual made clear it was not as effective as an actual Antidote (slightly-enchanted as those were), but could purge the body of swallowed poisons if given quickly enough after ingestion. Varek was impressed with his work, so after his midday prayers, he fulfilled his promise, and allowed Renault to finally take a look at the _Journey of Elimine_.

It was a hefty tome, about thirteen hundred pages long. It wasn’t particularly opulent, like most of Varek’s possessions (except his rosary). Bound in plain leather and written on thick parchment (that made it rather heavy—it weighed at least five pounds and must have been very old, perhaps even older than Renault; more recent copies printed on the new, thin paper from Etruria would have been much lighter), there were no decorations on its cover other than its title in plain black letters. It was divided into four parts, according to the table of contents at its beginning. It turned out that the name of the text, _Journey of Elimine_ , wasn’t entirely accurate, as only the second and third sections of it dealt with Elimine directly. The first part was called _The Chronicles of the Kingdoms_ , and purported to explain all of history from the day of creation up to the formation of the first unified human empire. Through a religious lens, of course, all framed through God’s interaction with the men who preceded the Emperor of a united humanity. It was 463 pages long and consisted of 9 books: _The Beginning, The Laws, First Kings, Prophets I, Adorations, Second Kings, Lamentations, Prophets II,_ and _The Unification._ The next section was 339 pages long and known as _The Chronicles of the War_. It told of Elimine’s birth, the Scouring, and man’s final victory over dragon. Interestingly enough, it told of the same events from four different perspectives: _The Testament of Athos, The First Testament of Roland, The First Testament of Hartmut,_ and _The First Testament of Theomus_ , a commoner Elimine had rescued during the Scouring and who had followed her for the rest of her time on Elibe. The third section of the text was _The Chronicles of the Pilgrimage_ , and it was 398 pages long. Its five books, _The Testament of Barrigan, The Second Testament of Roland, The Second Testament of Hartmut, The Testament of Hanon_ , and _The Second Testament of Theomus_ all described what Elimine did after the end of the Scouring and how she journeyed across Elibe, performing miracles and doing good. _II Theomus_ ended with her ascension to Heaven at the Tower of the Saint. The very last part of _The Journey of Elimine_ was also its shortest, at a mere 125 pages. Titled simply _The Epistles_ , they were letters written after Elimine’s ascension from various leaders to various congregations across Elibe, all but one written by Theomus. They were, in order, _1 Aquleia, 2 Aquleia, 3 Aquleia, To Thagaste, 1 Ostia, 2 Ostia, 1 Bern, To Edessa, The Plea to Durbans_ (From Barrigan to Durbans, whose reply was not recorded) _,_ and _To God_ (a final prayer written by Theomus).

Quite naturally, Renault started all the way at the beginning, with the first book of the _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_ that was of the very name.

 _The Beginning_ wasn’t easy reading. It was written in the common tongue, thankfully, but it was also organized in verses rather than paragraphs like most prose Renault was used to. Also, age had rendered some of the passages nearly illegible due to fading of the ink. That wouldn’t be a problem for Varek, who’d probably memorized those, but they were a hurdle for Renault. Still, Varek was more than happy to read any passages Renault was having trouble with or answer any questions he had, and the former mercenary was a quick study and a quick reader, so it only took him about two hours to finish the book.

When he did, Renault couldn’t contain himself any longer. As he came to its closing pages, he blurted out, “Varek, this is insane! How can you believe any of this?!”

To his surprise, Varek didn’t get angry or impatient. Instead, he simply chuckled—as if he’d known Renault would react like that.

Well, if he’d read the book, he oughtn’t have been surprised anyway. Because _The Beginning_ was quite disturbing, at least in certain parts.

It started out with an account of God’s creation of the world—that wasn’t so bad. It stated that at first, there was nothing at all but an “endless shadow.” That shadow was split by a great light, and the light was God. After scattering the shadow, the light split seven pieces from itself, which, over the course of seven days, became Elibe. One fragment became the sky, one became the land, one became the sun, another the moon, another all the waters, and the last two split into even more pieces and became the stars in the sky and a multitude of angels above them. This was how each day of the week got their names in the Elibean calendar, roughly translated from High Imperial, according to Varek’s notes.

After that, God brought forth innumerable swimming, crawling, and flying creatures to inhabit sea, land, and air. But He still felt lonely, so, with all of His power, He crafted the last four beings which would inhabit the world. His hands sculpted a man and a woman out of dust, and from the seas arose a male and female dragon. Into both did He infuse His spirit, with Dragons being given a sliver of His power and men given a bit of His wisdom. Only the man was named: Tagar.

The text said Tagar lived seven-hundred-and-two years, which Renault found hard to believe, but given his own existence, it was certainly possible. Tagar and his wife were the progenitors of all of humanity, and by the time they passed away their descendants numbered in the millions and had spread to every corner of Elibe. They lived alongside the (also numerous, but not quite as much so as man) descendants of the two dragons in “a peace forged by wisdom,” according to verse 205.

Alas, tragedy would strike soon after. Both man and dragon became haughty and full of pride. They forgot God’s commandments and fell into the worship of “evil spirits,” with the text specifically noting that many thousands of children were sacrificed to a being called “Lopt.” Renault had to put the book down for a few minutes when he read that—he remembered, a very long time ago, seeing an old tome depicting several women sacrificing a child in the catacombs sealed beneath Par Massino. That had apparently been a picture of one of Lopt’s rituals.

God’s response, however, struck Renault as just as bad. The Creator sent down a multitude of plagues, devastating man and Dragon alike. The grand city Caladine in the center of the continent where both resided, described as being home to “a million dragons and a million upon a million men” was destroyed by a storm of fire from the skies. Of the entire city, only six people survived. A man named Clead was the only citizen who “had not forgotten the ways of the _Lord_ ” (the word “Lord” was always emphasized in the text). God told him to take his five sons—Ledni, Volni, Patri, Gileon, and Stanno—and flee. The book ended with the final verse, “and so the great city of Caladine was blotted out from the face of the earth, so thoroughly there was not a single trace of it left. When it was all gone, the heavens lit up like fire, and the voice of the _Lord_ came down to all the land: “He who breaks my commandments knows death, he who keeps them knows life. Let man never forget the fate of Caladine: I decree this, for I am the _Lord._ ”

Renault was curious as to what happened to Clead and his sons, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. After the ruthlessness God had displayed in destroying an entire city, Renault wasn’t certain why _Elimine’s Journey_ was used as a guide to how to live rather than just the opposite. He said as much to Varek.

“I thought you’d not like the end of _The Beginning_ ,” said Varek thoughtfully. “Neither did I, when I first read it. Neither do many people, from what I’ve heard.”

“Obviously,” said Renault. “I mean, how could a loving God do that to his own creations? Just destroy them like it was nothing? I can understand how deeply they’d fallen into sin. But couldn’t He have changed their minds or convinced them to repent or something? Why’d He have to kill so many of them, and then scatter them around? I thought God was supposed to be merciful!”

“Well, do you have any space to talk, lad?” A wry expression remained on Varek’s face. “You haven’t exactly lived a moral life yourself. How many people have died at your hands? Didn’t you say your best friend would be ashamed at the sort of life you’ve lived? I doubt you’ve shown too many people too much mercy.”

“Well…yeah, that’s true.” Renault looked down. “I’m definitely not saying I’ve been a good person myself, and yeah, I have a lot to make up for. But…this God that you Elimineans are supposed to worship…your _own_ text says he killed millions of people! _Millions!_ Even in all the years I’ve lived, I’m not responsible for anywhere near that number of deaths! How can you worship a God like that, and how can you look to this book for inspiration?”

Varek sighed, and now his somewhat mirthful expression was replaced by a more contemplative one. “Aye, that’s a good point. And it’s a good question, too. ‘s much as you—and me, for that matter—might have lived lives of violence, God appears to be pretty violent in the _Journey_ , too.”

“That’s why I’m asking you. Again, why worship him?”

“Remember, I said “appears,” Renault. Keep reading. You haven’t gotten to the end of the _Journey_. And I won’t lie to you, what God did to Caladine is just the start. There’ll be much more violence, much more horror, waiting for you in the pages to come.

“But that’s not all there is, Renault. There are also stories of God’s love, His mercy, and redemption for all of His creatures. If you get to those parts, you may see why I believe.”

“So it gets better?” Renault grunted. “Alright, fine, I guess I won’t quit yet. But, Varek, I hope this story of yours gets a _lot_ better. God has to do something really incredible later on to make up for Caladine.”

Varek just nodded. “You’ll see, Renault. You’ll see.”

-x-

The next day, Renault completed his tasks with unusual ardor. Cleaning the dovecots took some time, but Renault finished it much faster than would be expected of one without many years of experience taking care of birds. Upon reviewing his work, though, Varek found nothing to criticize. The same applied to Renault’s continuing work in herbalism. He’d concocted a pair of more advanced tinctures this time, and once again Varek found they’d been made perfectly.

“Making a lot of progress, Renault,” he said approvingly. “You’re quite motivated today, seems to me. Keep this up and you’ll be a master in half the time I took!”

“Thanks.” The smile on his face was tinged with impatience. “So can I get back to reading the _Journey_?”

“That explains it. I shoulda known. Guess you want to see if I was telling the truth yesterday, eh?”

“Yeah. I want to see if God ever shows some of that mercy you’re always talking about. Maybe then I can understand what you…and the other believers I’ve met…see in that religion.”

“Well, go ahead. You’ve done a great job on everything today, lad, so the rest of the evenin’s yours to use as you please.”

“Great! Uh, thanks!” With that perfunctory thank-you, Renault immediately went over to the shelf and picked out the _Journey_ from where he’d put it yesterday. And when he opened it, he picked up where he left off.

The second book of _Elimine’s Journey_ , called _The Laws_ , began with another vivid description of Caladine’s destruction. The first hundred verses were songs of lament for the misery mankind was enduring, and then the book went into how they attempted to win back God’s favor. Clead was an old man and in ill health, so he knew he was dying soon. Hiding with his sons in a cave far away from doomed Caladine, Clead prayed to God for mercy, and begged Him to spare his sons. During the night, as he lay down to sleep after his prayers, Clead heard a voice telling him to step outside the cave. When he did, to his shock he found it was as bright as day outside, for in the sky he could see one of God’s angels. It was shaped as a triangle made out of flame, with an eye at each corner and a giant eagle’s head in the center. The eagle’s head called down to Clead and told him to remember every word of what it was about to say.

The angel told Clead that if his sons and their descendants adhered to the commandments God set forth, they would become great nations and enjoy prosperity forevermore. If they disobeyed these edicts, however, they would suffer the same fate as Caladine. The next few hundred verses, up to the last three pages of the book, were a detailed description of these laws God had set down for His people.

Renault found many of these decrees to be as distasteful as God’s punishment of man (and Dragon, though Renault also noticed they were not mentioned often in the text). Some seemed wasteful, such as the religious requirements to burn certain types of incense on certain holy days or pay tithes for the upkeep of a temple. Others were just strange, such as a prohibition against eating “anything which crawls on the land with many legs or no legs,” which Renault understood to mean animals like insects or worms and snakes. Though such creatures weren’t to Renault’s taste, he didn’t see the point of forbidding them to be eaten entirely, nor did he see any point to punishing those who did. The text, however, stated anyone found eating those things “would be expelled from the body of the _Lord’s_ faithful, ‘till he has prayed for forgiveness a day and a night.”

That wasn’t the only overly-harsh punishment Renault found. God also decreed the death penalty for a wide variety of offenses. Some of which were fair, such as the command that murderers, rapists, and manstealers (kidnappers) be put to the sword. Others, however, seemed outrightly draconic. Anyone “blaspheming” God would be executed, as well as anyone cavorting with “dark spirits.”

“Dark spirits?” Renault asked Varek this after he was done with the book. “Is this passage saying that anyone who practices dark magic should be put to death?” After his battles with both Paptimus and Nergal, Renault might not have thought that too harsh a punishment, but then again, Bramimond was proof that not _all_ Dark magicians deserved to die.

“Mmm…I don’t believe so,” replied Varek. “Some interpret it that way, but Dark magic doesn’t have much to do with spirits, ‘least not from my studies. I think it’s referring to the shadowy gods from before, the ones worshipped in Caladine.”

“I guess that makes sense. Even so, some of these laws are bizarre and others are outright cruel. The death penalty for blasphemy? Can’t God, the creator of the whole world, accept a few people speaking ill of Him? You said things were gonna get better, but I’m still not happy with what I’m reading.”

“Well, you’ve still got a long way to go.” Varek didn’t seem perturbed by Renault’s continued skepticism about his holy book. He was in as good a cheer as usual. “I’ll admit to feeling a little queasy when I read some of these laws for the first time, too. But once you get to the second part, _Chronicles of the War_ , they’ll start making sense. Besides, it’s not as if all of them are that bad, eh? I’d wager you could do well by followin’ at least a few of them.”

After a moment’s contemplation, Renault agreed. “Yeah, I liked a _bit_ of what I read back there.” While many of the laws he’d read seemed senseless or tyrannical, some seemed quite good indeed. Very similar to the precepts Braddock had tried to teach him, which he was now remembering thanks to what Bramimond had done to him. God commanded His people to speak up for the oppressed, to be honest and forthright in their dealings, to never give false testimony, to never betray a friend or kinsman, and to care for the elderly, infirm, orphaned, or disabled (“Your eyes will guide the blind, your voices will speak for the mute. You will lend your strength to the old, and the widowed and fatherless will shelter beneath your wings: I am the _Lord_ , this I command” went one passage). Believers were expected to treat foreigners seeking refuge as their own, and God, through His angel, declared that no blood of one race was superior to another, and that virtue was the only measure of any man.

All those admonitions brought back so many memories for Renault.

He remembered Braddock’s steadfast loyalty to him—the same loyalty God decreed believers should display…

How Braddock had helped him care for Keith after she’d lost the very last member of her family—as God decreed “the fatherless” should be cared for…

And how Braddock was the one who’d told him to treat the Ilians kindly, that race didn’t matter as much as Renault always said—just like what the messenger of God had told Clead in these pages.

Renault also had to give God some credit for realizing that the carrot was as important as the stick. After the angel had finished telling Clead all these laws, he (she? It?) detailed the blessings of keeping them and the terrors of breaking them. It was all summed up in verse 502:

“If you break these commandments, you shall taste death. If you keep them, you, your children, your children’s children, and their children after them, to the thousandth generation, shall know life. I am the _Lord:_ I am gladdened by mercy and grieved by punishment. And I tell you, he who rejects my mercy will suffer as Caladine, but he who accepts it will prosper a thousand times more than they.”

“Pretty nice closing lines,” said Renault, flipping back to that page before looking at Varek again. “Okay, I see your point. The second book of this _Journey’s_ an improvement on the first. I’ll keep reading.”

-x-

The next day passed by even quicker than the last, at least so it seemed to Renault. His routine of helping in the garden and studying more herbalism texts was broken, though—for a very short time. In the middle of the afternoon a Wyvern Knight arrived at the hermitage. Renault promptly went back inside and told Varek. As it turned out, the knight (a young woman, actually—one of Harod’s most promising recruits) was making a delivery: Last week Varek had sent a message via one of his doves to a small abbey near these mountains asking for some books from its library. The hermit gratefully accepted the package and blessed the knight, who then took off and went on her way. As it happened, those books were actually larger, more recent and comprehensive herbalist’s manuals. They listed uses for many obscure plants, fungi, and other natural resources that couldn’t be found in Bern or Etruria and were not often mentioned in older texts. They were, of course, meant for Renault, who promptly began to study them. He was as motivated as he was yesterday, and by the time night fell he’d made enough progress on the first codex that Varek gave him permission to read the _Journey_ again.

Book 3, _First Kings_ , described how humanity rebuilt itself after the destruction of Caladine—through the story of Clead and his descendants. After receiving the laws from God as dictated by the angel, Clead told it all to his sons, each of whom recorded it word for word. Clead then dropped where he stood onto the floor of the cave and breathed his last. His sons honored their father by covering up the entrance of the cave with heavy stones, except for one—Stanno, whose laziness and disloyalty to his father would be paid for later. The five of them then slept right on the ground outside, so tired were they by their labor. All of them had dreams, which they believed were from God: Ledni was promised a great nation in the east, Volni one to the north-east, Patri, on the islands, and Gileon in the west. Stanno, however, had a fierce nightmare and understood it meant God was angry at him, so he fled far to the west, into the desert. According to Varek, these kingdoms didn’t correspond directly to the countries founded after the Scouring. In any case, all five of the sons found wives in the lands God ordered them to take (though the wives were never named), lived for hundreds of years, and issued many offspring, who became nations named after their progenitors. They were the first rulers of Elibe’s first countries, which was why the book was named _First Kings_.

The rest of the book detailed the various wars and conflicts these new nations had with each other as they fell in and out of God’s favor. Several hundred years after Stannos died, his descendant, Goab, led his nation in a great “uprising” to the east, pillaging everything they saw. Once again, God came in a dream-vision to the kings of Ledni, Volni, Patri, and Gileon, who were also descended from the men their countries were named after. He told them to unite and exterminate the nation of Stannos— _entirely_. Men, women, and children. The other four nations did so, and verse 345 said the desert was now “lifeless.” This genocide horrified Renault, and he let Varek know as much. The response, again, was to simply “keep reading.”

Renault did so, and found the rest of the book a little more pleasing, though still problematic at points. Following the genocide of Stannos, the booty and plunder from the destroyed desert kingdom was divided up among the four nations which still had God’s favor. The kings of Ledni, Volni, and Gileon used the money well, either giving it to the poor or spending it building temples to God. The king of Patri, however, spent the money on himself, and also forgot to obey God’s other commandments, refusing to pray or make sacrifices, and had become “haughty and stiff-necked.” God thus commanded the other four nations to do to him what they had done to Stannos. They built a mighty fleet and sent it across the sea to the islands of Patri.

Upon hearing of this great fleet, the King of Patri repented. He melted all of his gold and silver and poured it into the sea, giving it back to “He who created both Man and Dragon” (only the second time the latter species had been referred to in the text so far). He then cast off all his rich, expensive clothes and put himself in nothing but a sack-cloth, leading his people in prayer for seven days and nights. God was touched by the King’s piety and withdrew His wrath, sparing the island nation. He sent one of his angels to appear before the assembled fleet, a terrifying yet noble creature with a body of a bear and three incredibly beautiful human heads. It told the fleet to turn back and return home, for God had decided to spare Patri. The leader of the fleet, the king of Gileon, protested to the angel, asking for what purpose he had constructed these great boats and expressing disappointment that he could not take Patri’s plunder. The angel upbraided him, telling him the fleet was made only for the purposes of punishment, and now that Patri had repented, no punishment was necessary. It reminded the kings they owed all their power to God, and if God showed them the same mercilessness they showed “their brother,” surely they would all die. God loved mercy much more than wrath, it said, and the penance of Patri brought Him far more joy than its destruction would have. Finally, it reminded the kings that if they were so concerned for their boats, “Should not the _Lord_ also be concerned with this great nation of many millions, descended as well from His faithful servant, who is also your brother?”

Renault couldn’t keep himself from smiling as he read this story. It was something Braddock would have really liked, he thought. In fact, it was similar to something Braddock had said to him, a very long time ago. He remembered threatening a red-haired woman…one of his former enemies, at least if his memory could be trusted. He was about to kill her when Braddock stayed his hand.

_She’s not a rebel anymore, Renault! There’s no need for you to do this!_

That God could tell a King the same thing Braddock had once told him boosted the image of the deity in Renault’s eyes. Still, Renault hadn’t forgotten how merciless the Eliminean God could be. He wasn’t going to be embracing this religion anytime soon. He felt conflicted, now, more than anything else, and voiced this to Varek.

“This book…” Renault shook his head. “It’s just way too confusing.”

“Oh?” It was dinnertime, and Varek looked up from his meal, sitting in front of Renault at his table. “Why do you say that?”

“God seems so…I don’t know what the word for it is. It’s as if He has two personalities. On the one hand, I like how He can show compassion, like he did to Patri. It reminds me…reminds me of Braddock. But then He can order whole nations to be destroyed, like what happened to the people of Stannos and Caladine, even if they couldn’t possibly _all_ be evil. How can that be possible? Doesn’t it make it harder to worship Him?”

Varek smiled. “Another good question, Renault. But, as the old saying goes—and you’ll come to it later, in fact—“There is a time for war and a time for peace, a time to kill and a time to die, and all things enter into their seasons.” The God I believe in is always willing to show mercy, but if His people can’t accept it, don’t they deserve to be punished?”

“I can sort of understand that. If someone’s not willing to make reparations, as I guess people in Caladine and Stannos weren’t willing to do, they ought to pay for it. But the extremity of the punishments, that’s what I can’t understand. Every single person in Caladine? Every last living thing in Stannos, even the children and the animals?” Renault emphasized the second word, as he hadn’t lost his love for Nature’s other children in all the time he’d spent wandering.

Varek nodded, then leaned back, thinking of how to respond. “You’ve got a sharp mind, lad—third good question I’ve heard from you today. Don’t disagree with it, either. First time I read these books I was shocked too. But I think you’ve read far enough to hear how I ended up thinkin’ about all this.”

“Hm?”

“Renault, this might sound strange to your ears, but be patient with me for a little while. Have you ever considered that a lot of what you’re readin’ isn’t meant to be taken literally?”

“Eh? What do you mean, not literally?”

“These are books of religion, Renault, not history. When a historian says something happened—someone dies on this date, or a battle happened in this area—yes, you’re supposed to take him at his word, because he’s listing facts. Religion, on the other hand, isn’t about facts—that is to say, basic truths about the world around us. If it was, we wouldn’t need history or natural philosophy! Religion’s instead about _higher_ truths. Morality, how to do good, that sort of thing.

“So when you read about something that seems awful at first glance—the destruction of Caladine or Stannos—think of them _metaphorically_ , rather than literally. Did God literally kill every last person in those places? No, not necessarily. The author of the book was likely more interested in making a point, a _moral_ point. If you disobey God, the source and spirit of all goodness, you’ll be punished. Even small cruelties and disloyalties can have terrible consequences down the line, as was the case for Stanno. The message, essentially isn’t that God wants or approves of total slaughter, or even that such a total slaughter took place as the book describes. It’s supposed to convey the moral message that evil has consequences.”

“So you’re saying everything the _Journey of Elimine_ describes might not have happened?” Renault felt himself growing angry. “It’s not as if I believed all this anyways, but if it’s just a bunch of lies, how could _you?_ ”

“No, Renault, it doesn’t mean they’re all lies,” said Varek patiently. “Have you ever heard of parables?”

“Parables? Yeah, sure. Those stories that are supposed to teach you a lesson, right? I remember one where a turtle beat a hare in a race. Teaches people not to be complacent and that slow and steady wins the race. That sort of thing.”

“But those stories weren’t meant to be taken literally either. It’s not as if there was an actual tortoise talking to a hare, right?”

“Well, obviously.”

“That doesn’t mean the story’s worthless, does it? Even if it’s not literally true, it’s not supposed to be. It’s a device for teaching you a lesson. The important thing is what you learn from it.”

“Yes.”

Varek grinned. “The same applies, ‘least on a higher level, to many of the stories in the _Journey_. ‘Least as far as I think. Whenever I read a story about an entire nation bein’ destroyed—and you’ll read more as you keep going—I reminded myself to focus on the morality rather than the atrocity. Did God literally kill all those people? Maybe not. So why would the author of these books write it down as if He did? To teach a lesson, just like the authors of those parables. If the consequences of sin, of disobeying God, are shown to destroy whole nations, it’s a lot easier for individuals to remember those lessons.”

“Huh…I…I see.” The anger had disappeared from Renault’s eyes, and he looked back towards the tome in front of him with an expression he’d never given it before: Contemplation rather than contempt.

“It’s also how I reconcile God’s mercilessness with God’s mercy,” continued Varek, settling back into his chair. “Whenever I see somethin’ in the Good Book that seems contradictory—God destroying a whole country, then saying He loves mercy above all else—I remind myself to take a deeper look at it, and think beyond its literal meaning. The atrocities the text says God commits are illustrations of why we _should_ follow His commands. It’s not enough to just say we should be honest or charitable or whatever. People need examples to show why not bein’ so will lead them to harm, and the authors gave those grisly examples. Doesn’t mean they were lying, or that God doesn’t exist, but that they really wanted to drive home a point.

“Same with some of the strange, too-harsh laws you were talkin’ about before. The death penalty for blasphemy, for instance. Back in those days, did every single person who might have swore or said something bad about God get his head chopped off? No, not necessarily. The point these laws were laying down was something more abstract. God, in the eyes of the people who wrote the Book, was the idea and the source of all good. If you blaspheme Him, you’re rejecting Good, which makes you, well, evil. And what happens to evil people? They generally end up gettin killed. That’s the message those laws were trying to get across, what we take to be the spiritual meanin’s. More important than just the literal meaning, not that God can’t take an insult or two!”

“Metaphors, huh?” Renault nodded. “I think I understand what you mean, Varek. I never really thought about it that way before…heh, though I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve been saying that a lot since I got here, haven’t I?”

“Not a bad thing, Renault. It means you’re learnin’, and that’s all I ask of you. Consider that your first lesson in exegesis!”

“Exe-what?”

“Exegesis. It’s the study of textual interpretation. You’d think it’d be an easy job, but it’s very complicated if you’re reading works from very different cultures, or those that disappeared a long time ago—like the ones who wrote this part of the _Journey_. Their ways of writing and understanding the world can be a lot different than our own, and we have to take that into account when we read their books. Otherwise we’d misunderstand what they were really tryin’ to get across.”

“Huh. I…I see. It’s not exactly swordsmanship, but…it’s something good for me to learn if I want to walk a different Path, is that what you’re saying?”

“Exactly right, lad. Even if you don’t believe in what you’re reading, metaphorically or not, exegesis teaches you how to think critically rather than literally about what you see. And that’s the first step towards introspection. Questioning what you know and how you know it. That’s a great help in keepin’ you from doing foolish things, and not just when it comes to reading.”

“Maybe if I’d thought that way before, my life wouldn’t have ended up as it did,” Renault murmured.

“Maybe. But whatever happened in the past, you’re on the right way now. Anyways, I have to finish these letters, but you keep reading. I’ll be happy to answer anything you ask, ‘least till I get to sleep.”

Renault did so. The rest of the book was somewhat hit or miss, in his estimation—or it would have been before his brief lesson in exegesis. After the story of Patri came some more chronologies and lists of descendants of the four remaining nations, along with a variety of tales about important kings, their deeds, and their attempts to stay in God’s favor or regain it if they lost it. Some of the stories were amusing, such as the account of a certain king of Volni who had gotten drunk and fallen asleep while in the presence of his enemies, who kidnapped him and tossed him into the desert to die. When he woke up, he found a horse and desperately begged it to take him back home. It spoke back to him and mocked him for his dissolution and lack of discipline, and only until he repented did it agree to carry him on his back. When he returned, he punished the evildoers and reigned justly for the rest of his days—taking a horse as a symbol of his country. The image of a king being berated by a horse was enough to get a few laughs out of Renault, and Varek wasn’t offended—he said humor was exactly the point of the story.

There were also some more troubling ones, though. One story involved a king of Patri who went to war with some rebels on his islands. After he triumphed, he was so glad that he promised God he would sacrifice the first thing he saw when he returned to his kingdom. However, the first thing he saw was his beautiful daughter. Though he wept and rage, his daughter was resolute he uphold his promise to God, and sacrificed herself willingly. Renault was understandably horrified, and asked how God could have requested such a sacrifice. Varek pointed out that God didn’t actually request anything, and that the King himself had made a foolish promise. The point of the story wasn’t that God demanded parents to sacrifice their own children, but that making foolish, ill-conceived promises was an extremely bad idea. The moral lesson made sense to Renault, and as he re-read the story—and others he’d previously read—making use of the exegetical methods Varek had taught him made them seem much less unpleasant and much more instructive than they had previously.

His efforts would be richly rewarded by the ending of _First Kings_. The last pages of the book involved Melisma, the daughter of a poor commoner who would eventually marry the great king of Gileon. She was born in the land of Ledni, ruled at the time by a tyrannical king who spurned God and rejected His teachings. All of Ledni had joined him in this rebellion except for two people: A widow named Melisma, whose husband had died of illness a fortnight after their marriage, and her mother-in-law. Her father disowned her when she refused to renounce her faith, she and sought refuge in Gileon, whose king was still a pious man.

The King, known as Barim (Renault remembered the name and realized that many Etrurians were named after characters from the _Journey_ ), had a habit of dressing as a commoner and mingling unknown amongst the people, to better empathize with their plight. To the consternation of his father, he also resolutely refused to take a wife, for his standards in women were too high. While on one of his disguised excursions, he came across the pair of refugees and was struck by Melisma’s beauty. He asked her why she had come to his land, and was even more impressed by her piety and devotion to her mother. “Truly I tell you,” he said in verse 654, “though the men of Gileon proclaim their love for the _Lord_ to all who listen, none have proven it through action like you. The beauty of your faith outshines that of the fairest maidens, your devotion to the _Lord_ more pleasing than the mightiest of Gileon’s warriors. If you will take my hand in marriage, I swear to you that your family will find refuge under the wings of the _Lord_ , in or out of Gileon.”

So surprised was she that she took his offer on the spot, thinking him to be nothing more than a compassionate commoner who took pity on her and her mother in law. To her great surprise, he revealed himself to all as King Barim himself, and declared her his queen. He then took her back to Ledni, at the head of a great army. The king of Ledni went out with his own army to see how this queen had emboldened Barim, and her father had risen to become his general. Upon seeing Melisma, who truly was the most beautiful woman in the land, bedecked in Gileon’s most scintillating robes and jewelry, he was shocked, and demanded to know from whence she came, as no maiden of Gileon was so far. Melisma revealed herself to be the daughter of his general, who had exiled her and her mother-in-law. King Ledni was terrified, for Gileon’s army was ten times larger than his, and immediately called for Melisma’s father to be executed. Melisma stopped him, however, rushing from her palanquin to throw herself in front of her father. Both kings were shocked and asked her why she would forgive those who treated her so cruelly—she replied that as Barim and his God showed her mercy, she would show the same to her father. King Ledni, as well as Melisma’s father, were so touched by her grace that their “hard hearts” softened. The last words of the book were, “And thus did God’s grace return to the land of Ledni, as its King and all its people repented. Ledni commanded the temples be rebuilt, and praises of God once again rang throughout the land; and it was the father of Queen Melisma whose voice sounded the loudest. She would spend the rest of her days under the love of King Barim and the pride of her father, and Gileon and Ledni joined hands in friendship once again, re-united under the love of the _Lord._ ”

Renault had never read a story like that before—in fact, he couldn’t even believe a woman like Melisma could influence that many people without raising an army of her own. Varek, as he often did on hearing Renault’s reactions to the _Journey_ , chuckled and shook his head.

“Understandable you’d feel that way, I s’pose. Someone who’s been living on the battlefield for as long as you have tends to look at strength, violence, as the primary influence in human affairs. And I’m speaking from experience here as well—don’t think I’m condemning you. But you have to learn the same thing I did if you want to find another path. Violence isn’t the only way to make a mark in the world, Renault,” said Varek. “That’s what the story of Melisma ought to teach us.”

“Not the only way, huh?” The expression on Renault’s face grew somber. “I wonder if Braddock ever found that out…”

“I’d wager it’s something he wanted to teach you,” came Varek’s reply. “I don’t think I’m bein’ presumptuous in saying Braddock’s skill on the battlefield wasn’t the only thing that drew you to him, eh?”

“No! Not at all! He was funny and smart, and he could always make me laugh whenever we weren’t fighting. He understood me, he listened to me…”

“Well, there y’ go then, lad! There was a lot more to Braddock than just his skill in battle. His good humor, his compassion…all of that influenced you as much as his strength. If you’re going to live as he wanted you to, you’d do well to remember that. Learn another way to influence people that doesn’t involve a sword.”

“That’s easier said than done,” quipped Renault, just a touch sourly.

“Sure is. But most things worth doin’ are. If Braddock could do it, and if even a young girl like Melisma could do it, can’t you?”

Renault couldn’t deny that. “I have to try, don’t I?”

“Aye.” Varek yawned. “Well, it’s time for my prayers. I’m going to sleep soon, Renault. You can keep reading if you want, the candle doesn’t disturb me much. But if you’ve got any questions, wait ‘till tomorrow morning to ask ‘em, alright?”

Renault didn’t need to, actually. It was getting closer to the time his body usually began to tire, anyways. Not long after Varek said his prayers and lay down on his blanket, Renault himself took his usual position on the floor and drifted off to sleep.

-x-

Renault liked the next two books of the _Journey_ much, much better than the previous ones. He was already starting to think that perhaps Varek’s faith wasn’t as foolish as he’d always thought, and _First Prophets_ and _The Adorations_ reinforced that growing respect.

After another afternoon of studying herbs (Varek told him they’d move on to new subjects soon—some of the letters he sent were requests for more tomes), Renault jumped into the next two books. Neither the authorship nor the timeframe of _First Prophets_ was clear; as Varek told him when he’d asked, very little was known of Elibean history before the creation of the human Empire, and the only clues the book itself gave were the names of some kings and who they were descended from. All anyone could say for sure was that it was written maybe three hundred years before _The Unification_ by several different members of the royal courts of Patri, Volni, and Ledni. The book recounted the travels of several itinerant preachers who visited those countries. They warned of God’s wrath if the people did not repent, and for this they were called prophets.

The first was named Eldred. Born the son of a farmer, one day he was visited by a terrifying angel of God. It looked like a chariot flying across the sky, except its wheels were shaped like triangles rather than circles, it was drawn by a pair of wolves with great white wings, and it had no rider but was wreathed entirely in flame. It called down to him, saying the kings of all the lands had grown corrupt and forgetful of God, and ordered him to travel across the land of Gileon and demand the people repent. Eldred did so, and quite successfully, in Renault’s estimation. The text recounted his many speeches and addresses to the kings of the land, and all of them seemed remarkably eloquent for someone who was just a farmer’s son. “Let righteousness roll down like a river,” Eldred admonished in verse 244, “and justice surge forth as a never-ending stream!” Another prophet, Tomar, traveled between Patri and Ledni, telling the people to humble themselves before God. “Act justly,” he preached in verse 456, “love mercy, and walk humbly with the _Lord._ ” The last several prophets, Adler, Mathis, Victor, and Lars, traveled all across the land and dispensed the same wisdom. The book ended with a prayer from Lars, exhorting all who would listen to embrace justice in all their ways.

Love followed justice, at least within the organization of _Elimine’s Journey_. _Adorations_ was not a story or even any sort of narrative, but a poem. A poem of love, to be precise. A man and woman were speaking to each other, expressing their love and devotion. The woman described her husband as her “mighty oak, my strength and joy, he who shields me from all harm.” The man described his wife as the most beautiful thing in existence, “her skin brighter than the sun, her eyes deeper than the ocean.” The book concluded with both the man and the woman thanking God for bringing them together.

Despite the sacred overtones, though, some parts of the poem were frankly erotic. In one passage the woman declared “my passion burns hotter than dragonfire, take me, take me and have me as you will!” and in another, the man said to her, “Your breasts are like two fawns, twin fawns of a doe which graze among the lilies.” It was something Renault could no longer understand, but he could certainly appreciate the love these two shared…especially since he’d once come close to having it himself.

“So who were these two lovebirds supposed to be?” asked Renault, a contented smile on his face as he finished the book. His voice was also a little shy, though, indicating his reading had brought up some personal moments from his past.

“No-one’s entirely sure,” came Varek’s reply, and if he realized Renault was a bit embarrassed, he didn’t show it. “Personally, I think they were Barim and Melisma. It might have been any of the kings to a queen or lover, though. Might have even been between two commoners. Thanks to the Scouring, we have very few sources from the Imperial era, and virtually none for any time before that. So much was lost and destroyed. We really don’t have anything besides educated guesses for who originally wrote _any_ of the books in the _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_.”

“So if we don’t know who wrote any of this, we can’t be sure if any of it’s true? It’s possible all of this was made up by completely different people, and none of what the _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_ describe what actually happened?”

“Aye.”

“But you still believe?” And before Varek could respond, Renault said, “That’s the essence of faith, is it?”

Varek nodded, and this time he looked very satisfied. “That it is, Renault. You’re learnin’.”

“Heh, thanks. It’s the sort of thing I would’ve made fun of, not too long ago. Believing something without proof? That’s the height of stupidity for a mercenary. But for you…it’s not the literal events that are important. It’s the moral teachings, right?”

“Exactly.”

“I can understand that…maybe even respect that. Though I dunno if I can do the same.”

“And that’s fine. I’m not askin’ you to. Your respect’s enough for me.” Varek raised an eyebrow. “Anyways, you seem to be really taken with the _Adorations_ in particular. That’s not too strange; a lot of people love it. But I never figured you for the romantic type.”

Renault chuckled. “I’m not. But…hell, who knows, maybe I could’ve been.”

“Oh? Sounds interestin’. Now, if you don’t want to talk about it—“

“Nah, that’s fine. It’s nothing I’m really touchy about.” Renault sat back, allowing his memories to bubble up in his mind for a bit. “It’s just that…I wonder if I might have ended up like the man in the poem. There was a girl I…didn’t love, but maybe could have loved, a long time ago.

“She was…I think she was…an Ilian. She and her sister. They fought alongside me and Braddock, as mercenaries.”

“The famed Ilian Pegasus Knights,” said Varek. “I’m familiar with them. Everyone on Elibe is.”

“Yeah, they were Pegasus Knights. And they were good friends to me and Braddock. The older sister…her name was Kelitha, I think. We shared a kiss, once. I wonder what would have happened if she didn’t die…

“And it’s not just her, either. My mother and father…I remember them sharing a love like the two people in the poem. My mom adored my dad like nothing else. But he died, as well…” Renault grimaced. “Just like Braddock died. Romantic love and friendship are two different things, but death breaks both, doesn’t it? As nice as this poem is, I can’t help but wonder how either the husband or wife would’ve felt if one of them died before the other. Probably not much different than I did.”

“That could be so, Renault. We don’t really know for sure; like I said, we can only guess at who the authors are, so nobody knows what happened to them or their marriage after this was written. But on the other hand…well, not even the death of a loved one _necessarily_ leads to despair.”

“What do you mean? How could it lead to anything different?”

“It’s always sad to lose someone you’ve loved, or a very good friend. But on the other hand, you’ll always have their memories, for however long you live. And the people around you will remember that love, too. I mean, you remember the friendship you had with Braddock, don’t you? And now that you’ve told me, I’ll remember it as well. The same goes for the love your parents shared, and what you could have shared with Kelitha. Love, or friendship, may not be “eternal,” in the most literal sense, but it can endure in memory a long time after the lovers themselves had died. So that makes it a bit more than meaningless, ‘least in my estimation.”

“You think so?” The expression on Renault’s face indicated he’d never thought about it like that before—and by this point, was so used to the sensation that he didn’t even bother to try and refute Varek.

“Yep. ‘Course, that’s not the only way to think about it. There’s actually a book in the _Journey_ that addresses that very question. Just wait till you get to the _Lamentations_. I think you’ll like ‘em.”

“We’ll see.” And Renault said this sincerely, not sarcastically—his last words for the night before both he and Varek went to sleep again.

-x-

The last four books of _The Chronicles of the Kingdoms_ encapsulated much of what Renault had seen in the first five. It contained many stories of horror and cruelty, yet several of truly touching mercy and virtue. Remembering what Varek had taught him, Renault accepted both the good and bad in these books, reconciling the vengeance with the grace by interpreting the former as metaphorical, and thinking about the lessons it was to teach.

Renault was fortunate that he had all day. He’d finished the last of the manuals Varek had prepared for him, so the hermit thought he could do with a bit of a break. A break, as the word was used in the hermitage, meant studying religion all day long. Renault didn’t complain a bit, though. By this point, his ingrained distaste for religion had been overwhelmed utterly by a need to see his present pursuit through. He promised he would read all of Elimine’s Journey, and he was determined to make good on it.

Thus, he plunged headlong into the next book, _Second Kings_. This seemed like the most pessimistic of everything Renault had read so far. Not because the atrocities it depicted were any worse than, say, the destruction of Caladine, but because God seemed to have abandoned humanity _entirely_ —He was almost absent in the narrative. It started off with the anonymous author excoriating the kings of the four lands for ignoring their prophets and sliding into unbelief. God did not want to destroy humanity as He had done to Caladine, but was so grieved by the iniquity of His creations that He withdrew His affection from them and removed His hand from over their heads. “Even the Dragons,” said the text, “separated themselves from mankind, abandoning the people to their own evils.”

What followed was essentially decline and anarchy. The masters of Ledni, Volni, Patri, and Gileon waged non-stop war on one another, forgetting their brotherhood and their former unity under God. The text described terrible atrocities, such as the men of Volni slaughtering all the children of Patri, or the king of Gileon parading the defeated king of Ledni around his capital city before feeding him to the dogs. Eventually, all the kings killed each other and their governments collapsed, and the book ended by saying no-one held power in the land except for “thieves and barbarians.”

 _Lamentations_ , according to Varek, was written during this troubled era. Like _Adorations_ , it was a book of poetry, but sad and despairing rather than affectionate and loving. Most striking of all, though, at least to Renault, was how it mirrored so much of what he had felt over the last few months. He had to steady his hands several times as he read its words, so shocked was he that they captured almost exactly his thoughts.

“Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless!” were the first lines. “What do men gain from their toil under the sun? It rises and sets, no matter what they do, and as it does their works and their lives disappear. So short are our lives, so fleeting our glories. For but a few years we enjoy the flower of youth, and then it withers and fades away. For but a few years do children delight their parents and lovers each other—before they die, by blade or age, a magician’s spell or a winter’s sickness. O God, why did you create us, and why have you left us in this era of chaos?”

That was Renault’s question. The exact same question he had asked when his father, when Kelitha, and when Braddock died. He remembered his mother telling him to read this passage not long after his father had died—but he was so stubborn as a child, and so enraged, that he never bothered. Now that he was reading it as an adult, however, he began to realize how foolish he had been.

These lamentations continued for many pages—the anonymous author proclaimed wisdom, strength, joy, beauty, and love to be “meaningless, all meaningless.” Then, however, a new character appeared in the monologue. About a quarter through the book, the despairing author took a question from someone—one of his students, apparently. The pupil asked,

“Teacher, if God is cruel for giving us these gifts only for a short while, would He not be even crueler had He not given them to us at all?”

The teacher, whoever he was, agreed, and the book took a happier turn after that. “Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless,” he repeated, “but rejoice! For through God even the meaningless can have meaning. There is a time for war and a time for peace, a time to kill and a time to die, and all things enter into their seasons. If the days of friendship are short, enjoy them while they last. If love dries up tomorrow, drink richly of it today. The sun rises and sets, yet never sees anything new. For it is the eye of God, who knows all things—then serve Him humbly and live by His wisdom!”

The pupil then asked what “wisdom” was, and the teacher spent the rest of _Lamentations_ explaining that. It was a list of very many proverbs and aphorisms fairly common across Elibe; Renault had heard of and even repeated many of them (without realizing where they came from). He didn’t pay them much attention, though. He was actually very distracted by something.

Varek noticed this, looking up from yet another letter he was writing (he was writing more and more of them these days, it seemed to Renault). “Hm? Hoy! Are you still reading?”

That snapped him out of his trance. “Oh…oh, yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Looked like you were out of sorts there for a minute. Just staring off into space. You’re not getting’ bored, are you?”

Renault shook his head vigorously. “No, no way! Not at all! It’s just the opposite. This book…Varek, the teacher in _Lamentations…_ That’s who you were referring to the other day, right? The line about a time to kill and a time to die?

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It reminded me of something very important I had once seen, but forgotten entirely. At least I think I forgot it. Until now.”

“Really? What was it?”

“I…I remember how my friend Braddock died. I told you already, but I just realized something else. For the first time, I think…I think I remember that Braddock hadn’t died in despair. Despite his pain, he’d been able to look at me one last time, and that was enough for him. He was _happy_.

“Why? How could someone possibly be happy at death’s door, if death truly was the worst thing in the world? I couldn’t understand it, because I always thought there was nothing worse than death. But now, after reading _Lamentations_ , I think I do.”

Varek nodded, telling Renault to go on.

“The pupil told the teacher that even if things like friendship and love only last a short time, and can be taken away by death, it’s still better than if they never existed at all. And I think that’s…that’s another thing Braddock was trying to tell me.” Renault wasn’t even looking at Varek anymore. He was staring far beyond him, far, far away, his gaze drifting back both miles and centuries. Right back to that cold, shattered monastery that was the site of his friend’s death. And he remembered what Braddock had been telling him, before the Ostian passed away…

_Everything ends sometime, Renault. Guess it’s…it’s the end for me. It wasn’t so bad…_

_Not…not a bad life at all…I was able to…to kill Paptimus…and…_

_I…met so many friends…Rosamia, Keith, Kelitha…and most of all…_

_Renault…I met you, Renault…_

“He had a smile on his face when he said that,” mumbled Renault, only half-aware he’d repeated Braddock’s words to Varek. “I never understood why he was smiling, but now, I think I do. Even if he could only spend a bit of time with me, and with the rest of our friends, he was happy for it. Even if it was just for a little while, he was glad he had it in the first place.”

“Is that so? Your friend was a wise man,” said Varek quietly. “The more you talk about him, the more I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”

“Yeah. I’m just surprised to see so much of what he told me to be repeated by you and your ‘Good Book.’ He wasn’t religious in the least, but…”

“Well, wisdom is wisdom, whatever its source. I don’t think you’ll like the next two books as much, but they’re the last in the _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_. After that, the focus turns to Elimine, and I think you’ll like it a lot better.”

“I was going to ask you about that, too. The _Kingdoms_ were written ages before Elimine was born. Why are they part of her “journey?”

Varek chuckled. “The word translated as “Journey” in the title can also mean “path.” Everything you’re reading here is taken to have laid the groundwork for the path she’d tread, along with the last parts, of Theomus continuing to walk the path she set. That is why they’re included.”

“I think I get it. Thanks,” Renault sighed, and then pushed on to the end.

The second to last book of this section was called _II Prophets_ , or “The second book of prophets,” and detailed the exploits of another batch of itinerant preachers who cropped up during the anarchic period. By the time this was written, a measure of order had been restored among the kingdom by men called “judges.” These judges, however, were scarcely better than the thieves and barbarians they replaced. As in the _First Prophets_ , these new prophets were depicted as travelling throughout the four lands and warning their rulers of God’s incoming wrath. The judges were usually less than sympathetic; there was one vivid description of the judges in Volni hanging one prophet for seven days and nights (a week of suffering was a repeated theme in the text). The prophet was protected by God, however, and did not die. On each day he was hung, God struck the judges of Volni with a different plague until they finally let him go. There were several more stories like that, but none of the judges seemed willing to listen, being more interested in continuing the wars the kings had started. The last prophet foretold that God would ordain a hero to arise and punish the evil judges, as well as bring order to the land once and for all.

The final book in _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_ was _The Unification_ , and it was all about that great hero. His name was Bernhart, and he was the son of a blacksmith in Volni. The judges of that land were particularly cruel and corrupt, and one day a powerful judge decided to have his father killed on a whim. Bernhart fled before the judge’s men could kill him as well, and sought refuge by hiding in an unburied coffin in a graveyard. The men found him, however, and buried him to keep him from escaping. As he began to suffocate, he desperately prayed to God—he was the first man to have done so across all the land in many years. God heard his prayers and rewarded his piety; with a great flash of light the coffin burst out of the earth and vomited Bernhart onto the ground. When he looked up, he saw a terrifying angel of the _Lord_ overhead, shaped as a trio of burning triangles, each with an eye in their center. It told him to go forth and fight against the corrupt and evil judges, and return a fear of God and love of justice back to the hearts of the people. At first, he tried to run away, but pillars of fire erupted from the ground in front of him, trapping him until at last he gained his courage and swore to fight for God and for the people.

The rest of the book detailed his many military exploits and eventual triumph over all who opposed him. Starting out as an orphan with nothing, his charisma soon attracted to him a small band, which he lead to victory over first roving gangs of thieves and bandits and then some of the personal militia of the judges of Volni. These victories attracted more people to him, until he was at the head of a great army, which swept across all the land, destroying the corrupt judges and their armies, freeing the people from oppression, restoring order from chaos, and rebuilding the temples and teachings of God which had been forgotten ever since this terrible era began.

Bernhart was portrayed as a wise and just leader, who harshly punished those who deserved it but was never excessively cruel and who showed limitless mercy to those who asked for it. The text recounted only two moral failings of his: His initial cowardice in the face of a terrible angel of God, and second, an affair he had with the wife of one of his generals. The general’s wife was a beautiful woman, and Bernhart was overcome by lust, so he conspired to have the general killed in battle and took the new widow as his own. God warned him that his actions were abhorrent, but he didn’t listen. Soon, while he was on a campaign, the woman gave birth to their first son. Bernhart was overjoyed, but the child then grew ill. He and his wife prayed desperately for mercy, but God gave none, and after a week the child died.

Bernhart’s punishment struck Renault as too cruel, initially. Why would God punish a child for what his father did? Then, once again, he remembered what Varek had taught him. The moral lesson—at least Renault thought so—was that both good deeds and evil deeds reverberated through time, blessing or cursing even those who had nothing to do with them. If someone’s father showed charity and mercy in his life, he would better the world around him, and his children would benefit even if they weren’t alive when he was building things up for them. But the opposite was also true, and that was what the tragedy of Bernhart’s son was supposed to teach.

After this episode, Bernhart repented, reaffirmed his commitment to God, and spent all his great wealth on helping the poor and building temples to God—even as a mighty leader, he would never again wear anything except a sackcloth, to prove the extent of his penance. God saw his change of heart was true, and gave him victory in a series of climactic battles that destroyed the judges of Patri, Gileon, and Ledni, and left him as the sole power remaining in Elibe. After the final battle, the angel of God Bernhart had first seen reappeared, visible to every single man and woman in the continent. It declared Bernhart the emperor of all humanity, and foretold he and his descendants would rule “Man and Dragon alike” so long as he kept favor with the Creator, mirroring the words at the beginning of the book: “He who breaks my commandments knows death, he who keeps them knows life. Let man never forget the life of Bernhart: I decree this, for I am the _Lord._ ”

Upon reading that prophecy, Renault closed the book. He wasn’t done, of course—there were three more sections to finish in _The Journey of Elimine_. But it was getting late, and he would continue tomorrow. He also wanted a bit of time to absorb what he’d read.

“Done readin’?” Varek looked up from the latest letter he’d been writing—so many recently!—and smiled. Despite his desire for privacy and general ornery manner, he seemed to have taken a genuine liking for Renault, now.

“Yeah.”

“What do you think of it so far?”

Renault took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s…an experience, I can say that for sure. There’s a whole hell of a lot more to it than I ever gave it credit for. Some parts are hard to read, but…so much of what I’ve been reading reminded me of what Braddock said to me, and how…how he wanted me to live.

“I’ve been through…so many years thinking it was all just nonsense. And to find out I’m wrong _now_? It’s…not easy for me to take.”

“But you seem to be taking it well, or at least, better than you would have last week.”

Renault looked away. “Well, it’s thanks to you. Being proven wrong and not throwing a tantrum over it is something an adult has to learn, right? I’m glad you taught me that, ‘cause it’s what Braddock would have wanted me to learn too. But it’s…damn sad, too, isn’t it? Maybe if I’d read this book earlier, I wouldn’t have fallen in with—into the path I did.”

“Maybe. But what’s done is done. If you can find a better path now—whether you believe in the God of Elimine or not—it’s better than not finding one at all. I think Braddock—and the teacher in _Lamentations,_ for that matter—would agree.”

Renault smiled, genuinely cheered—that had not happened often after Braddock’s death. “Yeah, you’re right. At least I hope you’re right…”

“We’ll see.” Varek yawned. “Tomorrow, at least. There’s always tomorrow.”

That was true. But Renault—who never thought he would be so eager to learn about a religion he once loathed—found himself increasingly impatient for tomorrow to come.

-X-X-X- _The Chronicles of the War_ -X-X-X-

Varek noticed Renault staring at him as he woke up.

“Eh?” asked the hermit. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“Er, nothing,” came Renault’s bashful response. “I was worried that I woke you. You had a…I dunno, troubled expression on.”

“Oh, that.” Varek shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, lad. I…had a dream, is all. Now, for today you can read the _Journey_ as much as you like. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, and I think I can get some small chores for you to do, or you can re-read some of the herbalism texts to make sure you’ve memorized ‘em. But it’s your choice.”

“Eh? Well, I’m making real good progress on the _Journey_ …I think I’ll continue with it, I wanna finish it as soon as I can. But are you giving me a break today or something?”

“Eh…” Varek just waved a hand in the air dismissively. “If you want to think of it like that, you can. Just don’t disturb me unless it’s somethin’ really important. I have a lot of writin’ to do and prayers to make.”

“Alright.”

With that, the two of them started on their day. Varek began with a prayer, as usual, though Renault noticed it was a bit different today—the hermit appended a request for guidance specifically at the end of his chants. He then got up and took a few sheafs of rare, thin paper from his store before sitting down to write. Renault didn’t ask him about any of this, knowing it was a bad idea to pry. Instead, he cracked open the _Journey_ and got started on its next section: _The Chronicles of the War_.

 _The Testament of Athos,_ its first book, was (according to Varek’s notes) written just after the Scouring, as were the other Testaments gathered in this section. Their compiler, Theomus, had apparently wanted to record the experiences of the great Heroes for posterity immediately after their struggle had concluded.

It began with Athos’ description of himself, his age at the time of writing, and his background. Athos was born in a small town called Aquleia twenty-three years before the Scouring began. He said he and all of mankind lived in a great Empire, founded two thousand years prior by Bernhart, the anointed of God. His successor at the time of Athos’ birth was named Vadim IX. His empire spread across the entire continent, and its citizens numbered both man and Dragon. Both species lived in peace, and enjoyed a flourishing, prosperous civilization of incredibly advanced technology. “In those days,” said verse 56, “men worked miracles, thinking themselves above God. We had built great cities floating in the sky, and our wars were fought with giant men of iron.” _Those ‘Knight Puppets’ we fought in the Reaper’s Labyrinth,_ Renault thought.

But all was not well. The Dragons had a leader of their own, and his name was Aharaz. Aharaz refused to “render unto the Emperor what was the Emperor’s,” that is to say, refused to acknowledge Vadim’s dominion over Elibe. He saw no reason either he or his people should bow down (or even pay taxes) to any human leader. This infuriated Vadim, who inflamed the hatred of the people against the dragons. It was obvious that war was coming.

Not to Athos, though. He didn’t concern himself with such things, at least not as a child. He paid no attention to the brewing storm, being more occupied with his three best friends. The first was Ryhart, a “strong-hearted youth whose bravery was exceeded only by his faith in the God of Bernhart.” The second was Bramimond, Athos’ “equal in every way; though Ryhart bested us both in tests of strength, we both beat him in tests of knowledge, and neither of us could overcome the other.” The last was his most “cherished companion”—Elimine. She equaled both he and Bramimond in wisdom, studying with him the libraries they so loved from childhood to adolescence, and matched Ryhart in piety, praying every day and giving whatever money she had to the poor. And by the time they were teenagers, she was the most beautiful girl in all the Empire—Athos described her in terms similar to those the husband used for the wife in _Adorations_. It was obvious he loved her deeply.

And he wasn’t the only one. The moment they turned eighteen (the age of marriage in those days of the Empire, as it marked the time when men could be drafted into the Imperial armies and were assumed would fight harder if they started families), Athos, Bramimond, and Ryhart all asked for Elimine’s hand in marriage, and all three gave their reasons for being the best choice. Athos was already known for being a prodigy in the art of Anima magic, and he swore to his beloved that the elements would be at her beck and call if she chose him. “The mountain winds will be your veil,” he said, “and the fires of the sun will light your hearth.” Bramimond, on the other hand, was a scholar of the older magics, frightening those around him (Athos, Ryhart, and Elimine were his only friends) but still earning respect due to his command of the shadows. “You will gain knowledge of all that is, all that has been, and all that will be by my side,” he told Elimine. “Take me as your groom, and the mysteries of all existence will lie open to you.” Finally, Ryhart offered her nothing by the approval of God. “I am neither the strongest nor the wisest,” he admitted frankly. “I have only my love for both you and the _Lord_. If you find me worthy, I can offer you nothing but my promise to serve you and our God as best as I am able.”

As it turned out, Ryhart’s innocent piety impressed Elimine more than the grand promises of power and wisdom from Athos and Bramimond. She wed Ryhart in a simple ceremony at Aquleia’s small temple. Athos, despite his heartbreak, still respected Ryhart and attended the ceremony. Bramimond, on the other hand, was devastated, and went on a journey “far to the south, to lands without name.”

Perhaps there was another reason he left: War was coming, and it would touch all of them. Emperor Vadim declared a crusade against the “heathen” dragons, and every man in the Empire—all the millions upon millions of them—were called up to serve. Athos and Ryhart were no exception, and their commander ordered them to don the “great iron armors” which were the mainstay of the Imperial armies. Athos and Ryhart were not excused, for none of them had any noble birth—Athos and Ryhart were the sons of small shopkeepers, and Elimine the daughter of Aquleia’s head priest, so she didn’t have enough influence to keep them from being drafted. The next verses detailed the progress of the war, which Renault knew to be the beginning of the Scouring. At first, the human armies did well, their numbers and machines driving back the powerful but less numerous Dragons.

About three years into the war, however, things changed—or more specifically, the Dragons did. Swarms of them began to appear. These new dragons were individually weaker than the old ones, and seemed to have very little intelligence. Unlike normal dragons, which commanded a variety of different elements, ranging from ice to wind to thunder, these “dragon machines,” as Athos called them, could do nothing except breath fire. Their main advantage, however, was that there were so many of them. They overwhelmed the human forces, and Athos gave many horrifying descriptions of the destruction they wrought upon mankind. The Imperial armies lost ground every day, and Athos and Ryhart found themselves caught up in a frantic retreat.

In desperation, the Empire pooled together all of its resources and created eight mighty weapons. Athos described them as “great castles, each as large as a city, which crushed the ground below on mighty wheels, floated on the ocean as great whales, or soared through the sky like great eagles. Even these, however, were no match for the draconic masses. They buried the “Divine land tyrant” under the ground, swatted the “Overlord of the clouds” from the sky, and destroyed the other superweapons in a similar manner.

Athos, and Ryhart fought in that last battle of the Divine Land Tyrant, a crushing defeat after which Athos noted “not even a tenth of mankind’s number was left alive, now.” He managed to escape, though their “guardians of iron had been shattered beyond repair.” Ryhart, on the other hand, was not so lucky, for a Dragon’s claw had pierced the chest of his machine and in doing so gored his own as well. Athos risked his life to rescue his friend’s body, and at last he abandoned the broken Imperial armies to return to one of the last remaining human settlements—Aquleia.

He presented Ryhart’s body to the wife he left behind, Elimine. She did not mourn, or even shed a single tear—she simply brought Ryhart to the temple, washed and prepared him as the funerary rites dictated, and laid him to rest inside the temple’s catacombs. Athos asked her why she did not grieve—she replied, “For every day and night I prayed and fasted for his safe return. But the Lord has deemed it right for my husband to return to Him. What purpose is there to question the judgement of the _Lord_?  Will it bring him back? No. Better it is to continue the work my beloved began.”

“Continue the work he began,” Renault murmured. He couldn’t deny that Elimine, at least in this narrative, took the death of her husband a lot better than he’d taken the death of Braddock. Rather than grieving—much less getting angry at the world, or going on some futile quest of resurrection—she’d simply accepted her husband’s death and resolved to continue the work he started. “That’s what I should have done, eh, Braddock?”

Athos did not believe it was possible to carry on Ryhart’s work. Mankind’s armies had been devastated, and it was only a matter of time before the Dragons consumed them all. Athos begged again for Elimine’s hand in marriage, saying he would give her the happiness Ryhart couldn’t in the short time they had left. Elimine was not sure, so she asked him for a night to think about it. He accepted, but when he and Elimine lay down to sleep, they had the same dream. An angel appeared in their heads, a man with wings of an eagle and the head of a Dragon. It told them, “salvation lies to the north.”

When they woke up, Athos immediately disregarded the dream, believing it to be nothing but a passing fancy. Elimine, however, chided him: “Oh, you fool! How can you disregard the sign that God has sent us? Come, follow me and I shall prove to you the power of faith.” She then said a prayer—essentially the same one Varek repeated daily: “Blessed Creator, Lord of all heaven and earth, I give praise and thanks to you as a new day dawns. Most holy God, as the day begins I ask for Your charity and grace. It is to You I owe my life, and on Your protection I rely. May You watch over me, and may my hands do good, my tongue speak justly, and my mind attest to Your glory, as You will.”

She told Athos to pray as well, “for all believers of God should pray like this,” and after he did so, they began their pilgrimage towards one of the most desolate places on Elibe—the uninhabited island of Dia, avoided even by the people of the Western Isles for a suspicion it was “cursed.” Athos had no idea what was there, but Elimine would not be dissuaded, so he had no choice but to follow her.

Not long after their journey from Aquleia, they came across a starving soldier on the side of the road. At first, he claimed to be the last survivor of his comrade’s band, but when they agreed he could follow them to the safety of Dia, it turned out he was a thief! In the middle of the night, while Athos and Elimine slept, he made off with their belongings, including their stores of food. Upon waking, Athos was furious, but Elimine did not worry at all. She merely claimed God would return everything to them, and continued on her journey. Soon enough, after another day’s travel, they came across the thief again. This time, he was truly injured, having been trapped by an old, dead tree which had crushed his legs. He begged for someone to save him, but was terrified when he saw Elimine and Athos approaching him. He tried desperately to extricate himself, but Elimine saw him before he could escape, and also realized he couldn’t escape—his legs were destroyed. She laid a hand on the dead tree pinning Theomus to the ground, and it disappeared into dust. She then did the same to his crushed legs, but they were healed completely instead—without the use of a staff. Astonished, Athos asked her why she would show such kindness to a coward and thief:

“A doctor serves the sick, not the healthy,” Elimine replied, “As I am called to save the sinners, not those who are already righteous. Besides, did not you abandon your army when you saw you could not win? What right have you to judge this man? Truly I tell you, you shall be judged as you have judged others, and if you will remove the speck from a brother’s eye, remove the one in your own first.”

Theomus, struck by her kindness, promptly returned everything he had stolen and swore to repent of his ways and serve her and her God for the rest of his life. Athos, understandably, was suspicious at first, but as their journey continued, Theomus proved the sincerity of his rebirth and religious awakening, even saving the lives of both Athos and Elimine on one particularly treacherous river crossing, taking a great risk to rescue the two of them from a terrible flood.

That would come later, though. The meeting with Theomus was important because it marked the beginning of what Elimine would be most famous for: The miracles she performed and the moral teachings she gave. Though advanced versions of the healing and curative staves well-known today also existed in Elimine’s time, she performed feats along her travels that far exceeded anything they were capable of, astonishing Athos and convincing him that she truly was chosen by God. Once, upon encountering a crowd of refugees, she turned a single loaf of bread into enough to feed all of them for many days, and on another occasion cured a leper with only a touch. She told all of them to take heart and not to fear, for God was with her and He would soon turn back the Dragons. She told them all to fall back, further and further north, to avoid the oncoming hordes until God began His reprisal. Word of her deeds spread far and wide among the fleeing remnants of humanity, and soon she, Theomus, and Athos were joined by seven other companions.

First was Bramimond, returned from his studies on Valor with command of terrifying and awesome shadow magic, but seemingly having forgotten his old friends Athos and Elimine. One was a youth from the now-destroyed city of Ostia, short in stature but great in courage—his name was Roland. Another was a brave knight from the north, the last survivor of his “legion,” named Barrigan. Then came a woman from the “Eastern plains,” a hermit living alone who abjured all technology save the saddle of her horse and the bow on her back; her name was Hanon. From the south came a mighty, heroic warrior who Athos deemed “the inheritor of Bernhart’s spirit,” his name was Hartmut. And then, as their pilgrimage neared its end, they encountered a wanderer from the isles, a harsh, barbaric man named Durbans. All eight of them shared one characteristic: They all had the same dream, of an angel telling them to head north.

After many trials, at long last the nine of them managed to reach the mist-shrouded isle of Dia. There, they saw a strange crystal altar in the distance, far larger than any man-or-dragon-made structure they could even imagine. Elimine admonished Theomus to stay behind, and led the rest of them to approach it. Floating above that altar was an angel, the same one they had seen in their dreams. It declared their entire journey had been a test, and they had proven themselves worthy. From its body, it then pulled out eight weapons, which it said would re-write the very essence of their world. Tomes for Athos, Bramimond, and Elimine, swords for Hartmut and Roland, a bow for Hanon, a spear for Barrigan, and an axe for Durbans—the Divine Regalia.

The rest of Athos’s _Testament_ detailed the long battles to drive off the Dragons and retake Elibe. Some of it struck Renault as a little extreme—one passage noted Durbans slew a thousand dragons, while Elimine’s magic destroyed ten thousand—but with the Divine Weapons at their prime, Renault supposed anything was possible.

Now it was the Dragons’ turn to know fear, and they were pushed back further and further, until they had only one stronghold remaining to them, in what was now Bern. In the final battle, Athos said, the world was turned upside down. The awesome power of the Divine Weapons warped the laws of nature—stars shone during the day, and snow fell ever in the middle of summer; Athos called it the “Ending Winter.” The power of the Dragons vanished, and they had to take refuge in “frail, winged bodies even weaker than those of men.” Hartmut then slew their leader and “with the Emblem of Flame, sealed away the terrible mother of their Dragon machines.” The Dragons were not destroyed entirely, however. Renault remembered hearing the next verses not (comparatively) long ago, when he was in Lycia:

“On that day were the Dragons driven from the land. They fled, but they did not die. On the forgotten Isles they built a Gate, twelve leagues tall and twenty wide. The spirit of the Creator was with Elimine, the spirit of the _Lord_ was against them. From His wrath they fled, and through the Gate they passed, till none remained. They sealed the Gate behind them, and we eight prepared to give chase, but an Angel of the _Lord_ came upon us. And this is what he said:

“Sons of men, daughters of women, lay down your arms and stand up on your feet. You have followed my commands and earned salvation for My people. Yet the Dragons have been humbled, and have turned from their evil ways. I shall have compassion on them, and will not destroy them.

“Forever more shall your races live, and forevermore they shall be at peace. Forevermore they will be separate, and nevermore will they join. From this land the Dragons have fled, and you shall not give chase, for I have compassion for them. Let no man ever again wage war upon Dragon, and let no Dragon wage war upon man: In the great depths between this land and theirs, I set my messengers: Many-toothed Malach, great black Leagdan, and Berulubab of the swarms. Those who break my commandments will be cursed and devoured, those who keep them will be blessed and prosper: I am the _Lord_.”

With that, the struggle of the eight heroes ended—now they had to rebuild their shattered world, shielding the remnants of humanity from the aftereffects of the Ending Winter. Bramimond “disappeared into the shadows,” Durbans “continued to hone his skills, and built a following on the Isles to the west,” Barrigan “returned to his icy homeland and united its provinces, calling it Ilia,” Hartmut “built a nation over the ashes of the Dragon’s homeland, naming it Bern in honor of Bernhart,” Hanon “tended her horses on the vast plains, which she called Sacae,” and Roland “was given, by Hartmut, a spot of land west of Bern which he called Lycia.”

As for Athos…the magician, now known as the Archsage, was tired of war, and even of mankind itself. Weary and despairing after seeing so much death, he planned to retire into the desert, enjoying some well deserved peace and quiet. He didn’t want to be alone, though. He asked Elimine to join him. But, once again, she denied his request. Heartbroken and desperate, he asked her why.

Renault’s mouth went dry as he read the next few lines.

“I still have a duty to my God and the people of Elibe,” she said. “I must continue my journey, to spread the good news of God’s love and to restore His land to its former splendor.”

“Why? Have you not given enough already? My dearest Elimine, my love for you shines brighter than the stars and burns hotter than Dragon’s breath. Why not join me, so we may bask in each other’s love forevermore?”

“Do you love me, truly?”

“I love you as I love myself, as my own soul.”

“Then follow my commandment,” replied Elimine. “Love others, as I have loved you. Do not worry about me, and do not mourn that I did not love you as a woman to a man. Remember that I loved you as God loves you, and show that love to all you meet. That is the last favor I ask of you, and so long as you keep its faith, I will be with you always.”

Those were her last words in the _Testament of Athos_. It ended with these words from its (supposed) author: “I have not seen her since then, though I have heard many stories of her virtuous deeds across the land. If she should ever read this, I can only beg her forgiveness: I have not the strength to love all mankind as she did. But, as I go into the desert and fade from the sight of men, I can pray that the rest of you heed her words and follow her message. Amen.”

“Varek,” he mumbled.” He looked up at the hermit, who was currently occupied with his mid-day prayers. When he was done, Renault repeated his name a little louder.

“Hm? What is it, Renault?”

“The…the ending of the _Testament of Athos_ …Elimine’s words were the same as yours.”

“Which ones?”

“If you love me, follow my commandments. That’s what you told me to do—‘If you loved Braddock, follow his wishes.’”

“Ah, that’s so.” Varek bowed his head slightly. “I apologize, Renault. I wasn’t tryin’ to proselytize you back then. Just that the one book I’ve read more than any other is _Elimine’s Journey_. I’ve been alone here so long that it’s pretty much my only source for turns of phrase, allusions, and what most people pepper in everyday conversation. Wasn’t my intent to ‘trick’ you into reading this book, or anythin’ like that.”

“No, no, I wasn’t saying you were. I just…well, it’s like it seems that whoever wrote this book _knew_ about me, somehow. How else can I explain it? Repeating what Braddock told me, telling me what I want…no, need to hear. How can it be?”

“Well, I might tell you it’s one o’ God’s miracles,” said Varek, humor twinkling in his good eye, “but I can understand if you’d be suspicious of that. In which case I’d just tell you it’s an example of good writing. A book this big _has_ to have something to appeal to downright near everybody, otherwise it never would have become as popular as it did. Regardless of whether you believe everything they say or not, seems like Theomus, and whoever compiled the _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_ , had a pretty good grasp on what’s important to people, and how the human mind works. That’s probably why you feel so touched by what you’ve read…and why I feel the same, along with so many people across Elibe.”

With that, he got up from his mat and went back to his table, preparing to read some more letters delivered via dove to him recently and to write some more of his own. That told Renault to continue with his own reading.

The next two testaments had their merits, but they didn’t strike Renault as profound as that of Athos had been. _The First Testament of Roland,_ began also with a brief description of the author’s childhood and participation in the war. Roland was the son of an Imperial noble and gifted with both books and blades, though (Renault noted with some amusement) perpetually mocked by his peers for his short stature. Like almost every other man in the Empire, he was drafted to fight inside one of the metal giants, but soon after the “dragon machines” appeared, his own was disabled and he was trapped inside of it. He thought he would die and fell asleep, not expecting to wake up, until he had a dream in which an angel told him to head north. When he awoke, he found that he had somehow appeared outside of his wrecked “giant,” and concluding he had been saved by God, followed the command the angel had given him.

After that, the text was mostly similar to Athos’ account, the journeys with Elimine, the reception of the Divine Regalia, and the fight against the dragons were almost identical. There were a handful of stories that didn’t appear in the first _Testament_ , though. There was one passage where an angel appeared to the company a second time, another where Theomus (of all people!) renewed Roland’s flagging faith in his cause, and one near the end where Elimine showed mercy to a winged Dragon child. The text also seemed to describe Elimine in a very mystical way. Several times it referred to her as the “Voice of God” and implied she had a much closer, direct relationship to the deity than any other Testament did. Other than that, it ended with the destruction of the final Dragon stronghold and their banishment from Elibe.

Then came _The First Testament of Hartmut_ , organized in roughly the same manner. Hartmut was the son of one of the Empire’s top generals, raised to follow in his father’s footsteps. His father scored many early victories when the war began, but perished when the human “floating fortress” was sunk. When he received word of his father’s death, Hartmut mourned for seven days and nights, before exhausting himself and falling asleep. He had the dream of an angel telling him to head north, and left his family behind to start on that journey, during which he met Elimine.

Hartmut’s testament focused more on God’s wrath and the terror of Saint Elimine in battle more than any other. The descriptions of the battles were much more detailed, and there were several large campaigns not mentioned in the other testaments. Many passages expounded on how the terrible war was punishment for the haughtiness and faithlessness of both man and Dragon. There were also a handful of odd stories involving Elimine that didn’t appear anywhere else, such as one in which she cursed an apple tree, saying to it “you will never bear fruit again.” According to Varek, this had a more allegorical meaning about the nature and permanence of sin. There were other unique stories that Renault liked, though, such as a sermon Elimine gave to a group of people from what would later be Sacae about the beauty of the natural world.

It was getting late, so Renault lit a candle before beginning the last book of this section-- _The First Testament of Theomus_ , the only one written by someone who was not one of the Eight Heroes. This was somewhat different in tone—it was almost as much about its author as it was about Elimine and the Scouring, at least so it seemed to Renault. Theomus began with a frankly lugubrious account of himself and his life. He emphasized repeatedly that he was an incorrigible sinner, and only thanks to the grace of Elimine (and therefore God) was he able to attain salvation. His parents, especially his mother, were good and upright people, but he was a greedy and ungrateful child, and ran away from home to join the company of a band of thieves. When the Scouring began, however, his bandit friends were all killed by Dragons, leaving only Theomus to flee. As he wandered through the devastated land, lost and starving, he at last came upon Athos and Elimine. The former he described as a man of great wisdom and virtue, but the latter he thought was “the greatest soul who ever lived, unmatched in kindness and virtue, and the light of her generosity was enough to banish even the darkness within my own heart.” He didn’t believe this at first, though. After he stole Elimine’s supplies, he had a dream telling him to turn back. When he ignored it, he found himself crushed under a dead tree soon after. And even after he swore his life to Elimine, he constantly thought about abandoning her until a series of frightening dreams five nights in a row told him to stay the course.

After that, most of his Testament focused on Elimine’s moral teachings. There was little description of the battles, which made sense, since as an ordinary man Theomus would not have been able to accompany the Heroes into combat. After his fifth dream, when he decided for sure he would follow Elimine forever, he asked her how he could live as she wanted. She told him this:

“You know the commandments: Do not murder, steal, or lie. I tell you, do none of these things in your heart or mind as well. If you are angry with a brother, reconcile yourself to him and gain the favor of God. Do not covet what he has, for envy is the mother of theft. And speak not badly of a brother or sister, and let nothing but good come from your tongue, for a bitter word is the father of deceit.

“You know the teachings: Love your friends and hate your foes. But I say to you, love your enemies, turn the other cheek to one who hurts you, and pray for those who persecute you. For if you love those who love you, you will be rewarded. How much greater, then, will be the reward if you go beyond what is asked? If someone takes your cloak, give him your shirt as well, and if you are asked for one mile, give two. Those who show mercy will be shown mercy, those who forgive will be forgiven. If you mourn, you will be blessed, for the afflicted will be comforted.”

“Love your enemies?” Renault looked up at Varek, who was eating his dinner. “That’s…that’s a pretty tall order, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” replied Varek between bites.

“Seems impossible in the world we live in,” said Renault, suspicion evident in his voice. “I mean, even Elimine couldn’t do it—she had to fight the dragons, didn’t she? How would a command to love those who attack you be anything but a promise of suicide?”

“Hah! I wish I knew for sure. The greatest theologians on Elibe have been debatin’ that question for longer than I’ve been alive. But I can tell you what I think might be true.

“As always, Renault, it’s not the best idea to take everything you read in the _Journey_ absolutely literally. Say someone’s after your life—attempting to commit the sin of murder, essentially. What would be a greater expression of love for them: Allowing them to kill you, thus drenching themselves in sin, or actively resisting them, and hopefully setting ‘em on the right path, even if you have to knock a few heads around to do it? Love is sometimes tough, after all.

“Now, in the case of war, things are a little harder. You _have_ to kill, just like Elimine and the other Heroes _had_ to kill the Dragons. That’s where what the Church calls “just war” comes in. When an entire nation is on the wrong path and has to be set right…there are going to be costs, and people are going to die no matter what happens. We can try to limit the damage as much as possible, but it’s hard for the soldiers on the ground to love their enemies. But even then…if they do their jobs with discipline and honor, and kill no more than they have to, and lay down their arms when peace has come…isn’t that a form of love towards their enemies? Hate would be just perpetuatin’ a war forever instead of laying down your arms when you’ve killed enough.”

“Just war? Loving through peace? Those sound like excuses,” said Renault.

“That’s an understandable way of thinkin’ about it, especially for a mercenary like you. It’s easy for men in churches to pontificate about the morality of killing when they’re not the ones doing the dying. But someone has to do it. There _has_ to be a moral element to killing, otherwise you’re not even evil—you’re just insane. Violence may be a necessity in a world like ours, for all the reasons I told you—we can’t live in paradise. But we shouldn’t live in hell, either. And for that reason, it’s necessary for us to have justifications when we need to resort to violence, even if they sound like excuses.”

“…I can understand that,” admitted Renault. “Not as if I can blame you or your Church for what you’re trying. My justifications for my past life weren’t any better, and look where they got me. I’ve got no room to judge.”

“Maybe. But even in that case, I want you to remember these are extreme circumstances. In most cases, your enemy isn’t going to be after your life. He may be harassing from you, stealing from you, even actually trying to hurt you, but it’s not that often a foe will want to kill you first and foremost. If that was true, all of Elibe would be a battlefield all the time.

“So the real threat in human affairs, Renault, is hatred. And the thing about hatred is it tends to be…how to put this…self-feeding. A man hurts another, the other hurts him back, which leads to him retaliating, on and on, through his children’s lives. The only way to stop the cycle, aside from death, is love. If, at one point, one side in the struggle just says, ‘I’m not doing this anymore. Do what you will to me, but you’ll get no evil in return,’ well…that’s the first step towards stopping the anger, and maybe replacing it with something constructive.

“You may find that out yourself first hand, Renault, at least someday. If what you’ve told me is true, most of your life’s been lived in hatred and violence. It’s pretty certain you’ve made a few enemies. If you ever want to leave that path, and really find another way to live, as your friend asked…you’ll probably have to learn how to love your enemies, and hope they can do the same.”

“I…” Renault raised his voice, wanting to argue, then shut his mouth. Varek was exactly right, he realized. As much as he wanted to do as Braddock had asked, and never lift a weapon again, if one of the people he’d hurt—such as Lucian’s family—ever encountered him, he could do nothing but hope they’d show him the forgiveness he’d never shown anyone else.

“Well, you’ll find more of that wisdom as you continue on,” said the hermit, returning to his meal. “Just think about what Elimine’s saying in the context of the rest of the book.”

Renault took that advice, and found that the rest of Theomus’ first _Testament_ did indeed contain similar aphorisms. While he didn’t participate in any of the battles, Theomus did tag along behind Elimine and the Eight Heroes in their travels. Thus, his account included many stories of Elimine preaching to crowds of refugees or healing the sick and injured she came across. Renault particularly liked a beautiful exhortation the Saint gave to the residents of a ruined town near the end of a war. When they despaired over how their town had been destroyed, Elimine told them to take heart, because God would protect them. “Look at the lilies on the ground” she said. “They grow and survive, even through Dragonfire, though they toil not in the fields or fight in the army. Yet even the Emperor was not dressed as finely as one of these little plants. If God has provided so much for them, surely He will provide much more for you. Fear not for your homes or your fields, for they will be rebuilt and replanted. Trust in God and your tears will become joy.”

And, like the other three Testaments, Theomus ended his with an acknowledgment of the challenges humanity yet faced. After the final battle, Theomus wrote that the Eight Heroes were “not overjoyed but abashed, for they knew their struggle was not over yet.” As they stood in front of the closed Dragon Gate, Elimine told the rest of the Heroes that she would travel across the land, spreading “the Good News” of God’s mercy. The book closed with these lines: “Do not forget what I have taught you, friends, and teach them to others. Do this and I shall always be with you, and the nations you will found, until the end of the age.”

As he turned the last page of _The First Testament of Theomus_ , Renault yawned. He’d been so caught up in his reading that he’d forgotten then time. Varek had already said his nightly prayers and gone to sleep, so Renault did the same.

-X-X-X- _The Chronicles of the Pilgrimage_ -X-X-X-

Renault woke up early the next morning to get started on the second last and second-longest section of _Elimine’s Journey_ : the _Chronicles of the Pilgrimage_. Unlike the _Chronicles of the War_ , this part was much less repetitive. It detailed Elimine’s journeys all across Elibe, written by Theomus as he followed her along. According to Varek (who had, once again, allowed Renault to spend all day reading—he also seemed to still be having some odd dreams, judging by how tired he looked), it wasn’t entirely complete. Several of Theomus’ accounts had apparently been lost, and it was a fervent dream of both theologians and archaeologists to find them somehow. Still, the books that the Church had managed to find gave a reasonably coherent account of what Elimine did after the Scouring.

Although Elimine must have journeyed through other parts of the continent first, the chronologically earliest account of her post-scouring life that survived long enough for the Church to find came from Ilia. _The Testament of Barrigan_ described the Hero’s interactions with Elimine as she helped him forge a nation inside the barren northern wastes of Ilia. Barrigan gave no description of his early life or history from before the Scouring—Renault assumed those had been lost during the war or over time. Instead, he talked mainly about how harsh the land of Ilia was and how difficult it was to make a living there. When Elimine arrived, she performed many miracles, such as making crops grow in the dead of winter, that helped the people survive. Most notable was an instance where she held a feast for eight thousand people. With one loaf of bread and one mug of cow’s milk, she created enough for everyone to eat and drink, replicating one of the miracles she’d performed during the war. This time, though, she applied a religious meaning to meal. The bread, she declared, represented God’s love for His people, and the milk His endless mercy and compassion for them. This took place on a Sunday, and was why Eliminean priests handed out small pieces of bread and cups of fresh milk (or water, if none was available) to the people at Sunday Mass, according to Varek.

After a year or so in Ilia, Barrigan reported, Elimine ventured to Lycia. There, the hero Roland gave his account of what she did for his people—along with a few stories of his own to prove how mighty he was. For instance, Roland described healing a blasted, destroyed field with the power of his Divine Weapon, the sword Durandal (Sacrificing his shield to do so, where it was placed in the sky as a memorial—or so a Lycian folk tale went, according to Volker, as that wasn’t in the text), before sealing it to sleep. Aside from those, this book focused more on a series of parables or small lessons Elimine taught to both Roland and her servant Theomus.

Renault particularly liked the one about the owl and eagle (which he surmised was the inspiration behind the statue on Varek’s dovecot). One day, as Elimine and Theomus were accompanying Roland on a tour of the slowly-recovering canton of Ostia, they came near a forest. An owl flew out of that forest, asking Elimine how to reach the land of God. He was disappointed when the Saint told him the land of God was far above the clouds, and his wings could not reach it. The next day, the trio came by the Orange Mountains, from which an eagle flew down, seeking Elimine’s wisdom. He also wanted to find the land of God, but was also disappointed: Elimine told him “God’s domain lies in a distant land beyond the night. Your eyes would not be able to guide you through the dark.” Taking pity on both birds, she and her companion backtracked and brought the owl and eagle together. She told them, “journey to God’s land together,” and the eagle used his powerful wings to carry the owl over the clouds, who then used his eyes to guide them through the night. Renault thought the parable was about how different people could combine their strengths to overcome their weaknesses, and Varek told him that was one legitimate way of reading it—others had come to different conclusions, as the story was intended to have different meanings for different people.

Roland’s second testament was full of such piquant little parables—it seemed animals talked quite a bit in the days after the Scouring, though Renault now knew enough not to take the stories too literally. After several more of those (the last of which involved a giant sea serpent and giant fish—they were constantly fighting, wrecking a nearby seaside town in the process, and Elimine had to broker peace between them), Elimine left Lycia and traveled over to Bern.

 _The Second Testament of Hartmut_ described her time in that country. There were more overtly supernatural stories involving God and His wrath here than in the previous two Testaments. Angels appeared several times and there were many signs and portents from God (such as aberrant weather or natural disasters). One of the strangest stories—and most horrifying, in Renault’s view—was contained in this book. One day, while she and Theomus were taking a tour of Bern along with Hartmut and his retinue, Elimine was struck by a terrible plague. Horrible, suppurating lesions appeared without warning all over her body, causing her such great pain that she could not move. Hartmut immediately stopped his entire army, and Theomus immediately picked her up and laid her under the shelter of a great oak tree, one of the few that had not been destroyed by the war.

Theomus was afraid, thinking he would also suffer from Elimine’s contagion, but she told him not to worry, that it was a test from God.

“From God?” Theomus asked. “Why would God inflict this upon you, His most trustworthy servant?”

“Perhaps Lady Elimine has sinned in some manner,” said Hartmut. “Come, let us pray for forgiveness, and ask the _Lord_ to lift His hand from us.”

“I have not sinned,” came Elimine’s calm reply. “The _Lord_ has simply deemed this my burden to carry for now.”

Neither Theomus nor Hartmut could understand, and begged her to explain why God would be punishing her for no reason.

“Who am I to question the will of God?” Elimine replied. “If the _Lord_ wishes me to rejoice, I shall do so, if He wills me suffer, I will do so. For He is the source of everything, the Creator of all life and Redeemer of all sins. Who am I to accept only good from Him, and not evil?”

They remained under that tree for seven days and nights, with Elimine’s condition worsening every day. Theomus begged and pleaded with God for mercy, but none came. At long last, he despaired, asking Elimine, “why would God do this to you? Does He have no mercy? Oh, poor Elimine, you’ve done nothing to deserve this suffering! Why not reject God and curse Him? What good can come from worshipping someone so cruel?”

At this, Elimine rebuked him harshly. Her disease had progressed so far it seemed she was on the verge of death—the flesh was beginning to fall from her bones, and her eyes had gone clouded and blind. But even so, she summoned the strength to correct her unfaithful disciple. “Oh, you fool! Give your words thought, and let not your mouth run faster than your head! Who are you to judge God? Can you see even a sliver of what He sees? Have you even a speck of His wisdom? Where were you when He crafted us from the dust? Where were you when He set the sun into the sky? ‘Till you can answer all of these questions, do not presume to question God Himself!”

Both Theomus and the King of Bern were silenced. Ashamed by their lack of faith, they both knelt (and Hartmut’s army followed their leader) and prayed to God, repenting of their foolishness and lack of faith. As they did so, it was early morning, and the sun was beginning to rise. Just as it rose in the sky above the tree Elimine lay under, seeming to form a halo around the great oak, Elimine’s body healed itself “in a flash of light” and she appeared before her friends, as hale and healthy as if nothing at all had happened to her. Theomus and Hartmut were overjoyed, and began to pray again, this time admitting they were both “fools” and that God’s mercy truly knew no bounds. Hartmut consecrated the ground on which Elimine lay and decreed a church be built there. Elimine and Theomus then continued on their journey, with Hartmut seeing them off as they left for Sacae—and both men found their doubts about God completely banished.

“I remember what you told me about not reading all these stories literally,” Renault told Varek (cooking his dinner) as he finished the book, “but I’m still having a hard time understanding what sort of morality this one was supposed to convey. Striking the Saint herself with a disease for _no reason_? I can’t…it doesn’t make sense!”

“Much in our lives doesn’t make sense, Renault.” Varek looked up only a moment from the stew he was stirring over the fire. “Sometimes evildoers get away with their misdeeds, and sometimes good people suffer needlessly, like what happened to Elimine. But notice how she didn’t get bitter or curse God. Even if it seems God is taking away everything good in our lives, being struck by a plague like Elimine was, or losing Braddock like you did, the Saint believed that God gave us those good things in the first place. And since we don’t have any of God’s foresight or wisdom, why curse His plans? Better to accept His curses with the same grace we accept His blessings, since they both come from the same source.

“And even if you don’t believe in God, it’s still not a bad attitude to take towards life, either. Sometimes bad men get good fortune and good men get bad fortune. What’s the point of wallowing in bitterness in either case? After Braddock died, did your despair and anger get you to a better or worse place? From what you’ve told me, the latter. So if raging against what you can’t change won’t do anything, maybe Elimine’s approach is better, whether or not you accept her religion.”

Renault couldn’t deny that. With a sigh, he conceded Varek’s point, deepening his appreciation for the man’s holy book. Then he continued onwards.

 _The Testament of Hanon_ was not actually written by Hanon—the founder of Sacae had repudiated much of the previous world’s technology, including writing, as she believed it was much better for humanity to live a “natural” life among the plains. This account had been secretly compiled by an anonymous Sacaean horseman who had not forgotten all the trappings of civilization. According to Varek, some believed it was actually written by Theomus, but he doubted that, personally, as several elements of the author’s writing style didn’t match with anything in the _Epistles_ , the _Testaments_ , or anything else written by Theomus. It was somewhat different from all the other books of the _Journey_ Renault had read so far because it was framed as almost a debate between two women: Elimine and Hanon.

When she first arrived in Sacae, Elimine said a prayer:

“Lord above, I beseech You, forgive me for my sins. I am a human being and no more, crafted by Your hands in my mother’s womb. I am weak, made of nothing but dust, so I beg you to lend me strength. I am mean, my life but a blink in eternity, so I beg you to lend me wisdom. And I am small, my human heart forever at war with its own deceit and misguided passion. So I beg you lend me the grace you have given me that I may give it to others. Amen.”

It was the same one Varek began with during the afternoon, followed by the litany he repeated fifty times after that. As it so happened, Hanon and a cadre of her horsemen (the anonymous scribe said he was one of them) encountered Elimine as she was praying. The plainswoman asked why her former comrade-in-arms was being so self-deprecating, and Elimine replied that “any glory I have gained belongs to God.” Impressed by her answer, Hanon offered Elimine and Theomus the opportunity to ride for a time among her tribe. They accepted, and every day, as Elimine rode on the back of Hanon’s courser, they would discuss their differing worldviews.

Hanon would ask her why she needed to rely on God, and Elimine would reply that all her strength came from God. Hanon asked about the power of the Holy Weapons, and Elimine said they were created by God. The back and forth continued through the entire book, interspersed with several songs and poems, apparently composed by Elimine herself, praising the beauty and abundance of the plains. There were also a handful of amusing asides, mainly involving Theomus. At one point, for instance, he condemned a plainsman for eating a grasshopper (insects were a common meal in Sacae), as it was an “unclean food,” according to the laws in _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_. Elimine chided him, however, and told him to apologize, for as she said, “it is not what passes into our mouths which make us unclean, but what comes out.” This was what both Varek and, long ago, his mother had told him, with the former having more success in teaching the lesson.

In any case, neither of the women won their ongoing debate, or even came to a direct conclusion—at the end of the book, Hanon said she would respect Elimine’s faith, while Elimine said Hanon would be honored for her virtue. They parted ways at the edge of one of Sacae’s largest plains, and Elimine continued her journey. She was growing old, now, and wished to return to the land where she was born.

 _The Second Testament of Theomus_ dealt with her homecoming. It was a fitting ending for the _Chronicles of the Pilgrimage_ , for it detailed the very last days Elimine spent in the world of the living. According to Theomus, Elimine was surprised to hear that her small home town had grown into a great city during her absence. A man named Tages had gained control of the region and named it Etruria, after a tribe called the “Etruscans” who had supposedly settled there during the reign of Bernhart’s grandson. Unsure of what sort of man he was, Elimine and Theomus disguised themselves as commoners and asked for an audience with the king. To their surprise, they were granted their request, for the King called himself “a servant of the servants of God.” Elimine asked him many questions and tested both his faith and virtue, and when Tages passed all of her tests handily, she revealed her true identity and gave him “a crown of laurels,” symbolizing God’s approval of his ways and his legitimate status as the ruler of her homeland.

With a successor firmly in place, Elimine knew she could at last leave this world behind without any worries. She took Theomus to a small spot outside of Aquleia where nothing grew except a single tree. She told him to sit under it and pray beside her, which he did, repeating the same chant Varek and other Elimineans said daily. When they finished, the ground began to shake, and the terrified Theomus threw himself down and covered his head with his hands, begging God for mercy. When the earthquake stopped and he looked up, however, he saw something amazing. A gigantic tower, larger than anything he had ever seen or could even imagine, had thrust itself out of the ground. It had seemingly built itself in moments, whereas men would have taken years to erect something even half as big.

Theomus knew only God was capable of such a feat, and begged Elimine to explain what it meant. She told him she was being called back to God, and would now enter the tower and ascend to its pinnacle beyond the clouds, where she would be united with her Creator and leave the world behind. Theomus begged her to stay, saying “How shall we live without you?” She told him he was now strong enough to stand on his own, and with him, the rest of Elibe. She then told him to wait here, for as long as it took to receive a sign from God that she had truly ascended. That was her last task for him, and the last test of his faith.

She then turned her back to him and entered the tower, and despite how badly he wanted to follow, or even to drag her back, Theomus sat under the tree and waited patiently. For not a week, but an entire month, he prayed nonstop, without eating or sleeping, for Elimine’s safe passage up through the tower. At long last, as he thought his faith and endurance would give out, his devotion was rewarded. After thirty days during the “Month of the Sun,” as the sun rose behind the tower, Theomus at last heard a loud voice call down to him from the heavens. It was Elimine’s! She told him this:

“Dear Theomus, I have passed the test my Lord has given me and have been deemed worth to join Him in heaven. Lift up your head, and do not despair. Instead, rejoice, and share my happiness that I have fulfilled the work I was set out to do. And, dear Theomus, as I leave you, I want you to remember this:

“Do not forget what I have told you, and remember how I have lived my life. Love all of mankind as I did, and show others the love I have shown you. Never allow the dragons to be brought back to this world, for it would mean the death of many people. Live peacefully in the lands God has given you, and let the people be happy with their lot. Do not pursue what God has taken away, and do not discard what God has given you. Do not stain your hands with blood, and live in peace with all creatures. This is my last commandment I give to you.”

Renault put the book down, breathing deeply. He blinked as he at last looked around—the only light in the room, once again, came from the candle on the table. Varek, by this point, had already gone to sleep. His disciple very much wanted to talk about all of what he’d read, but knew better than to wake a sleeping hermit.

So, quietly, Renault slipped outside to collect his thoughts. He stared up at the night sky, at the stars Braddock had so loved, and thought about both the words of Elimine and those his best friend had spoken to him, during a night not very different from this.

_I’m just…tired of violence, Renault. I want to try something different for a change…_

_If I can find a path off the battlefield, so can you…_

_Can’t you try? At least for me, Renault?_

_Maybe givin’ peace a try can be our next adventure…_

_Peace…_

“Peace,” Renault murmured to himself. “Peace…” He looked back at the hermit’s cottage, where he knew Varek was sleeping soundly, and which had never been touched by violence, not as long as he’d been there.

“Was this what you wanted me to find, Braddock?”

Renault felt a cool night breeze wash over him, and he closed his eyes to enjoy it. And when it passed, he returned to the cottage and lay himself down to sleep.

And for the first time in many years, that sleep was peaceful. For in the breeze that had swept over Renault, he thought he heard—or perhaps even felt—a single word.

That word, in Braddock’s voice, was “Yes…”

 

-X-X-X- _The Epistles_ -X-X-X-

Renault had finally come to the very last section of _Elimine’s Journey_. And though he couldn’t know it, he’d also come to the end of his time at the hermitage.

It was the morning of the 17th Wyvern, 959 A.S, and the moment he’d gotten up Renault had jumped from his spot on the floor to the table with the _Journey_ on it. Varek didn’t seem concerned with Renault’s studies—once again, he permitted his guest to spend all day reading his holy texts. If Renault had been paying a bit more attention, he might have noticed Varek’s routine was somewhat different, as well. After morning prayers, the hermit had gone up to his cabin’s storage and began gathering up various supplies and implements. A sturdy pair of traveling boots he’d never worn before, some particularly important books, papers, and correspondences, a thick cloak he’d never worn before either, a bag full of stored hardtack rations and jerky, and most notably, a Relive staff, Sleep staff, Warp staff, and an Aura tome.

It was as if he was packing for a journey, but Renault didn’t notice that. He was too absorbed in his own business.

The last section of the _Journey_ was the shortest, not far over a hundred pages long. Renault was certain he could finish it before afternoon broke. As its title implied, the _Epistles_ were a collection of letters sent to and from various personages and communities across Elibe. The first three were written, so they said, almost immediately after the ascension of Elimine described in _The Second Testament of Theomus._ All of them began with roughly the same opening prayer: “I, Theomus, greet you in love and peace, in the name of both the blessed Saint and our most holy God. It is my hope and prayer that my words may lift your spirits, grant you wisdom, and assist you in our mutual quest to give glory to God. Amen.” The first letter Theomus wrote to Aquleia ( _1 Aquleia_ ) was directed to a more secular audience—King Tages and his court. It was mainly platitudes and general advice to remember to obey God, to remain humble, and to treat the common people kindly and justly. The second letter, _2 Aquleia_ , was written to the congregation of the largest church which Tages had commissioned to be built (he had spent no small amount of money on several). Theomus called on the people to be humble, hardworking, and loyal to the King, so they would glorify God. This was the ultimate root of the Church’s general support of the Eliminean government and, to a lesser extent, secular authority in general, Renault surmised.

The third letter was most interesting, at least to him. It dealt with what Varek (when asked, on his way back upstairs to get some more things) called “soteriology.” That was to say, the theory of salvation. Throughout the previous parts of _The Journey_ , there had been little description of the afterlife—God punished most evildoers in this world, and the only mention of “heaven” or “God’s country” were made in some of the stories about Elimine in _The Pilgrimage_ and when she ascended. Here, in his missive (written about a year after the previous one), Theomus told the congregants of the rapidly-growing church what to expect from the best and worse places to go after death, and how to get to each. God’s country, said Theomus, was a paradise where “the souls of the departed righteous were collected, and then given flesh once again. Parents are reunited with children, lovers with each other, all in the best of health, and never again will they know fear or hunger or sickness or pain. Within the great palace of God, larger than any possible measure, they shall all live together in joy forever, with all their desires fulfilled as just reward for their virtue.” On the other hand, “the land of the cursed” was a terrible wasteland, entirely dark and bereft of any sort of light or warmth. Evildoers would wander there for all eternity, all of the sins they had committed wrapped around them in the form of terrible chains which both seared and froze their flesh, returned to their souls in afflicted and diseased form.

Faith in God was most important in reaching paradise and avoiding the curse, Theomus said, but he also declared that “faith in God is meaningless if one does not work in His world.” Even unbelievers, at least those who had not yet been exposed to the Good News Elimine brought, could enter into heaven as long as they obeyed God’s commands, even unknowingly. “God sees into the hearts of men, and considers it more important that virtue guides their actions, even if they have not knowledge. For is not a righteous heart the first virtue, and wisdom the second? Those who are ignorant of the Word deserve no blame, for ignorance is easily corrected. It is much more important, therefore, that they be rewarded for their good deeds, which God will ensure.”

That gave Renault a bit of relief. Though he still didn’t think God existed, if such a deity did, he found it comforting to believe that many of the good people he’d met during his travels, like Kelitha and Keith, would still have a chance at heaven even if they didn’t believe. Although Theomus just mentioned ignorance, not outright rejection—was there space in Gods country for people like Dougram, who rejected Eliminism but still lived righteously? Renault hoped so—both on principle and because he still felt Dougram’s blood on his hands.

The next letter was from Theomus to Renault’s own home town, apparently written five years after the Scouring, to Zodian, a leader among the people known both for his faith and his skill as an administrator. Under his leadership, the city had made great strides in restoring itself from the devastation of the Scouring, and Zodian himself had begun preaching sermons in front of the altar of a church built atop the ruins of a temple a Dragon had destroyed. _My mother’s cathedral_ , Renault thought. Theomus was very gladded to see Zodian’s success in both the secular and religious world, and saw fit to give him some advice on the organization of his religious body. This, Renault realized, was the groundwork for the present-day ecclesiastical hierarchy of the Church.

Zodian, Theomus declared, would be a “bishop”—that is to say, a leader among leaders, a guide and shepard for a particularly large flock of Elimine’s faithful. He was to preside from the largest church in the region, preaching Elimine’s word, giving uplifting sermons, and providing a Sunday mass of bread and milk (or water, if necessary) to “commemorate what Elimine did always for the poor masses). To assist in his spiritual duties, the bishop was to appoint priests, who would minister smaller churches in the region to keep their leader from becoming overwhelmed with work.

Theomus then described what sort of people ought to become members of the clergy. Priests “ought to have some mastery of staves and other healing magic, so they may assuage the pains of our people as blessed Elimine did.” Bishops were expected to use both staves and Light magic, “to protect the people should they need to do so.” Theomus said either men or women could become priests or Bishops (Saint Elimine was a woman, after all), but they would have to meet very rigorous moral standards. They were to be “honest and upright in all of their dealings, forever kind and patient, not given to petty gossip or angry words. You must be sober in word and deed, averse to drunkenness and promiscuity. You must have only one wife or husband if you must satisfy your desires, and whether accepting marriage or no, you must never consort with anyone outside of matrimony, for God detests both bigamy and adultery.”

Theomus also recommended these positions be hereditary, to an extent. “When you are too old to fulfill your duties, let your oldest son or daughter follow you,” said Theomus. He also recommended that “the children of those who guide us in religious matters should marry those who guide us in the world’s matters.” He was, Renault realized, calling for the children of the clerical hierarchy to marry those of the knights, counts, and kings of the secular hierarchy—the nobles. As Renault thought about this, he realized it made sense on several levels. Incest was _strictly_ forbidden in the _Journey_ —several verses in the laws forbid marriage or any kind of relations between “cousins up to the third degree,” and there were several stories in the _Chronicles of the Kingdoms_ and some parts of the _Chronicles of the Pilgrimage_ in which God smote or punished those who had relations with even distant relatives. The admonition for the sons and daughters of bishops to marry those of the nobility, Renault realized, was a way for the secular nobility to keep from becoming inbred and gave them a stake in the fortunes of the church.

“Smart, weren’t you, Theomus?” Renault pondered with a grin.

However, in some cases that was impossible, and Theomus had a plan for that. “Do not force your child to follow you,” he warned, “for God calls all people to different things, and the first son of a bishop may be called to a faraway ministry, or the first daughter to marry a prince and this bring him to the faith. There are also cases where some of us have embraced celibacy, and thus lack issue. It is acceptable for both men and women to renounce the desires of the flesh, to purify their devotion to God. I do not require it, however, for although the heart’s passion may lead to sin, it may also lead to children, who are blessings from God. Let each priest or bishop serve God in their own way. For those who are celibate or whose children wish not to follow them, however, if they should return to God or move to another region, let their replacement be selected by either the Bishop or a delegation of their brother and sister priests from the flock. Any layman selected for this honor must hold to the same standards of sobriety and righteousness as the priests and bishops.”

Theomus then offered a brief closing prayer for Zodian’s continued success and good health, which ended that letter. The next two were from Theomus to the ruler and people, respectively, of Ostia, and Theomus really started impressing Renault with these. _1 Ostia_ was almost an admonition—though Theomus provided an affectionate greeting to Roland, praying for his well being as he had for the recipients of his other letters, Theomus warned “I wish to chastise you, brother, not in the spirit of spite, but charity-to ensure you remain on the path of blessed Elimine, and do not fall victim to pride, that stumbling block for so many.” He reminded Roland that he may have wielded divine power, but he was still only human in the end, and not so far above “ordinary” people in God’s eyes. “Even the foolishness and weakness of God are greater than the wisdom and strength of men, and through God’s grace even the foolish and weak among us can grow wise and strong,” said Theomus. “For we are all weak and foolish before God, even you of the great Eight Heroes, yet God loves you and has mercy on you anyways. Remember this, then: We are all human, from dust created and to dust returned. All that saves us is our faith, and in that faith there is no male or female, no prince or pauper, no slave or free, no cleavings of blood or color. We are instead all one before God.”

The second letter to Ostia was addressed to the congregants of a church which no longer existed (according to Varek, even records of its name were lost). They had first written for Theomus asking for advice on how they should manage their affairs, and Theomus was more than happy to oblige. His guidelines, which hit Renault on an emotional level deeper than anything he’d read before, could be summed up in these lines:

“Be kind and merciful to one another, always. If one among you sins inveterately, and mocks God, then remove them from your presence so that none of you be led astray, and that the sinner be chastised by his isolation, and turn from his evil ways. If he does so, welcome him back with open arms; do not bear grudges but forgive. Avoid quarrels and broker peace: This is the true meaning of love.

“For what is love, if not ever kind, ever forgiving, and ever peaceful? It does not boast, does not mock others, and remembers all good done to it and forgets all bad. It banishes lies and evil and rejoices in truth and good. It always protects, always trusts, always perseveres, and always hopes. Truly I tell you, I could wield all of the Holy Weapons, but without love, I would be a weakling. I could banish a thousand dragons, but without love I would be a coward. I could give all I have to the poor and build a thousand churches, but without love, gain not the least reward from God. Elimine gave us three great gifts: Faith, Hope, and Love, and the greatest of these was Love.”

“Braddock…” Renault again choked back a sob. This was exactly how Braddock had loved him, he realized. No matter how badly he’d acted, Braddock had always forgiven him, forgetting his misdeeds and remembering his virtues. And here, despite living centuries before his best friend was born, Theomus had captured the Ostian’s relationship with Renault almost perfectly. Renault reminded himself of what Varek had said—the emotions he was feeling were testament to Theomus’ skill as an author, not necessarily divine providence. But even so, Renault was filled with respect for that author.

 _To Bern_ was almost a confessional—Theomus divulged to Hartmut how much of a sinner he had once been, in order to shore up the busy leader’s confidence and prove that if there was hope for Theomus, there was certainly hope for the mighty king of Bern as well. Theomus explained, as he did in his first _Testament_ , how he had been a callow and ungrateful youth, and then how he had met Elimine and been redeemed. He then offered many lovely descriptions of God’s great mercy and the infinite regenerative power of faith. Most notably, however, he explained the reasoning behind his journey away from sin.

Theomus believed his embrace of evil early on in life was the result of his own ignorance and the weaknesses in his reason. As he grew older and saw more of the world by Elimine’s side, he became aware of how ultimately self-defeating a life of selfishness and greed was, and that an exercise of reason proved the validity of Elimine’s way of life. Logic was thus wedded to faith, not opposed to it, and that devoting one’s life to others was the mark of a true adult, while “giving vent uncontrollably to one’s passing emotions” was the mark of a callow youth. As he said,

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, thought as a child, and understood as a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

Renault put the book down for a moment, pondering its spiritual meaning. He gazed towards the open door of the hermitage—Varek was outside, tending to his garden. Ever since Renault had met the hermit he’d felt more like a child than he ever had before. Despite being centuries old and a mighty warrior in his own right, he hadn’t once gotten the best of Varek in a duel of words.

Perhaps it was because he _was_ still a child, in many ways. He remembered how Bramimond had mocked him when he’d first arrived. As furious as he’d been—and he still felt a slight frisson of anger just remembering it, even now—the ancient Hero had been correct. He remembered, with some embarrassment, how poorly he’d treated his mother, and how ashamed Braddock would have been of him. But even though he’d learned to wield a sword, even though he’d grown much stronger, ever since he left his broken-hearted mother in Thagaste, his way of thinking had not advanced at all. Perhaps if his mental strength had kept pace with his physical strength, he wouldn’t have fallen into the wrong path after Braddock died.

Then again, he knew what Varek would say: “You’re on the right path now.” Thus, he kept reading. The next letter, _To Edessa,_ was quite short, only five pages long. Theomus put forth several guidelines on what he believed to be the most proper form of social organization. Writing to the comparatively small congregation in Ilia, he encouraged them to obey secular authorities (even if they didn’t agree with nonbelievers) and offered guidelines on policing their members, to ensure “even nonbelievers will be unable to impeach your virtue, and through this you will win them to the faith.” Most notably, he exhorted women to content themselves with taking care of their homes and churches, and to avoid the military or secular spheres. Women’s primary influence should be wielded in the Church, not the battlefield, for “Elimine and Hanon have already taken up all the burden of your fair gender—and more—during the Scouring. Honor their sacrifices, then, by living in peace and encouraging your husbands, brothers, and sons to do the same. Glorify yourselves through prayer and by leading the Church, for those who bear human life ought never take it.”

This, Renault realized, was why there were so few women in the militaries of Lycia and Etruria, and why Ilians were considered strange for having much of their military composed entirely of women (though it’s not as if they had a choice, since Pegasi only accepted women as riders). “Varek,” he asked, for the hermit had just returned, “Do you think Elimine would have approved of what Theomus wrote here? She and Hanon both fought, despite their gender. Wouldn’t she have been insulted?”

Varek shrugged. “Maybe. It’s possible Theomus could have been wrong. As much as we revere him and respect him, he was only human, not a Saint. I certainly don’t look down on any woman who takes up arms, regardless of what Theomus wrote. But Renault, don’t forget what I told you about context. Theomus penned this letter when humanity had almost been eradicated. Losing women on the battlefield would have made it even harder for our people to restore their numbers. Theomus’ primary concern would have been restoring the population, not patronizing women. Again, think of his intent, not the literal meaning of his words.”

Renault could accept that, and pushed on to the two last epistles. _The Plea to Durbans_ was written by the Hero Barrigan rather than Theomus, and Renault found it fairly boring. It was almost like an essay rather than a letter, though it was organized in verses rather than all the other books. Barrigan, despite his skill in battle, didn’t have Theomus’ skill as a writer, at least in Renault’s estimation. His writing made it seem like he was lecturing self-righteously and lacked the reflective, self-aware aspects of Theomus’ prose. Even so, there was much wisdom to be found here. The letter was apparently written five years after the Scouring ended, and directed to Durbans of the Western Isles. Apparently, even after the Dragons had been banished and the Holy Weapons sealed, Durbans had not stopped fighting. Barrigan’s letter was a plea for him to lay down his arms, and the Knight spent much of it describing the horrors of war and why “this peace is what all true warriors strive for.” Renault found himself agreeing with many of Barrigan’s arguments, particularly those which pointed out the ultimate pointlessness and self-defeating nature of un-or-poorly directed violence. That was certainly a lesson Renault had learned the hard way.

Finally, Renault came _To God_ , the very last of the _Epistles_ and the last portion of _Elimine’s Journey_. This was not a letter but a prayer, thus the title. Comparatively short, it still managed to pack in a lot of content, at least in Renault’s view. The first few verses consisted of praises to God, prayers on the reader’s behalf and admonitions to them to fear God, and an earnest wish that “Dragons will never be seen again on Elibe, and peace reign forevermore.” After that, though, Theomus provided a vision of how the world would end—eschatology, as Varek had called it. “If Dragons ever return,” he warned, “All the land will be turned to ash, God’s mercy gone from us forever. But, if the kingdoms of men persevere, we shall find salvation.” After “millennia” had passed—how far, he didn’t say—he claimed the Sun would dim, then fade entirely. All of Elibe would be frozen in ice, good and evil alike. Then God Himself would appear in the sky, re-heating the land with His own divine energy. The righteous would be freed from their tombs of ice, and ascend to heaven to live in eternal happiness with God, Elimine, and all the good people who had died before them for all eternity. Evildoers, on the other hand, would simply melt (along with everyone living in the land of the cursed) and be consigned to oblivion. “From God comes all reward for the holy and all wrath for the wicked,” Theomus concluded, “And it is on His mercy we all rely. However many years may be left to me in this world, I will dedicate them to the glory of the _Lord_. May all who have eyes see my testament, and all who have ears hear my prayer. Amen.”

With a great, heaving sigh, Renault at last closed the big tome and leaned back in his chair. He kept his eyes closed for several minutes, absorbing everything he’d read. Even after he’d opened them again, it took him a little while to realize he was being watched.

Varek had put down the book he was reading to stare at Renault, and had been for some time. “Congratulations, lad,” he smiled. “You’ve gotten through the entire _Journey_ , every word of it. That’s no small feat! Not even most of Elimine’s flock can claim to have read through all of it. People can have faith, but many’re just too busy—or, in places like Ilia and Sacae, don’t know how to read—to get through such a long tome. But you’ve managed it in a week! Definitely somethin’ to be proud of.”

“I guess,” sighed Renault. “But I can’t feel too proud of myself. Reading all this just proved to me how stupid I was acting all these years. It…damn it, Varek,” Renault grumbled, forgetting Theomus’ admonitions for peaceful language, “You were right. My mother was right, too. There’s a whole lot more to this book and your faith than I ever gave you credit for.

“And for all this time, like a fool, I just wrote it off. I think I should be _angry_ —angry at my own stupidity--but…now, at this point, I just don’t have the strength. Not even enough to be angry at myself.”

Varek chuckled. “Well, maybe it’s because you’ve taken Theomus’ advice to heart, and controlled your passions like a man should. Or maybe you’ve just spent all your anger on that tree outside.”

Renault winced. “Damn, you remember that?” But he didn’t try to deny it, either.

“Aye. But don’t worry, I’m not angry with you. It was just a tree, after all. And if you were able to learn something from that outburst, you weren’t as foolish as y’ could have been, so I’ll not condemn you.”

“Maybe you’ll condemn me for something else,” Renault mumbled.

“And what would that be?”

He kept his eyes away from Varek’s. “Even after all of it…after everything I’ve read…I don’t think I can believe. I respect your faith now, Varek. And maybe I can even follow it, to an extent. But I don’t know if I can ever really share it.”

Varek nodded. “That’s fine, Renault. I already told you I didn’t want to convert you.”

Honestly, that had been the answer Renault had been expecting, but it still relieved him greatly to hear it. With another sigh, he finally met Varek’s gaze, the expression on his face happier, now. “Th…thanks, Varek.”

“You’re welcome, Renault. Believer or not, I’m grateful to have helped you learn.”

“Er…Varek…Do you want to know why?”

“Why what?”

“Why I still don’t believe.”

“If you want to tell me.”

“It’s…God.” Renault sighed, thinking over his words carefully. “I understand everything you said, about looking for deeper spiritual rather than literal meaning in the text, but…while I can believe in God, and paradise and the cursed lands, as parables, I can’t believe in Him as actually existing, and I know that’s how you do. I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life, but nothing like an angel, or any of the miracles God is supposed to have made. I’ve never felt God’s presence, either. So…even though I can respect your belief, Varek, and even though I can admit you, and my mother and friends were right, and your religion’s not entirely worthless…I just can’t accept the faith in God that’s the heart of it all.”

“That’s a legitimate reason, Renault. Feeling God— _experiencing_ God—is deeply personal, and even believers are affected by it in different ways, and not even all of them do. So if I won’t judge any o’ those folks, I won’t judge you either.

“Still, I will ask what you plan to do now. So you’ve read the _Journey_ , and you’ve made an informed, educated decision not to believe. I’m glad for that—all I wanted was to open your eyes, and I’m proud of you for makin’ a choice without prejudice, even if it’s not mine. But now that you’ve done that…well, where do you plan to go from here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to stay at with me, or…do you think you’ve spent enough time under my tutelage?”

“Huh? Varek…”

“I’m not sayin’ I want you to leave me, Renault, not this time. I won’t lie, I’ll…” he was blushing, slightly, “I’ll miss you—a bit—if you want to part ways, now. But I’ve been alone for a long time, and I’ll get by if I’m alone again. I’m asking if _you_ want to leave. If _you_ think you’ve learned everything you can from me, and you’re ready to move on.”

“No way! I want to stay here. I might not accept your faith, but I’ve still learned so much from you, Varek. And there’s more I want to learn, too. Braddock…he would have wanted me to learn, like I’m doing now. I think this is the way of living he wanted me to find. Not exactly, since he wasn’t religious, but…a life of peace, of thinking about my actions instead of lashing out blindly…that’s what he wanted, so I want to continue what I started.

“There’s still a lot I don’t understand, anyways, and I don’t want to stop till I do. I know the Church has Archbishops, and “Synods,” and all that kind of thing, but those aren’t even mentioned once in the text. I want…I want to learn about why they exist, too. And if you’re willing to teach me, then I’ll definitely accept your offer.”

Varek chuckled. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, lad. And I’ll be happy to keep teaching you. But there’s one problem.”

“Eh? What is it?”

“Renault, I’m leaving.”

_::Linear Notes::_

Whoooo! This is the longest chapter yet—hopefully ever—so there are a LOT of notes here, my friends. Lemme list em:

Lopt is a reference to the villains from Fire Emblem 4.

Wyvernleaves is sauerkraut, the German type of long-lasting, preserved cabbage.

Obviously, _Elimine’s Journey_ is based on much of the Bible. The story of Caladine is a rough combination of the stories of Sodom and Babel. What happens to Clead’s 5 sons is roughly based off of the stories of Esau and various tales from Deuteronomy, Numbers, Joshua, and Judges.

The story of Melisma (named after a country in Vixen 357) is based off of the story of Ruth.

The various laws God gives are obviously based on all of those given in Leviticus and Exodus, though there’s no version of the Ten Commandments here.

Varek’s musings on “spiritual” truth come from a Rabbi, actually, though alas, I no longer have the link to his essay ;_;.

Clead is sort of based on Lot, though not entirely.

The Books of Lamentation and Adoration are based on the poetry in the Bible, like the Song of Songs and the Psalms, or Ecclesiastes. The line about the breasts is directly from Song of Songs 4:5, with “doe” replacing “gazelle” XD

 _Prophets_ are based largely on the books of Amos and Micah.

The story of Bernhart, including his affair, is based on King David’s, and the “judges” are a reference to the Judges from the Biblical book of the same name.

Theomus himself is a bit of a combination of Saint Augustine and Paul of Tarsus.

The story of Durandal and the Owl and Eagle from FE6 and 7.

The “This peace is what all true warriors strive for” line is from Zelda. XD XD XD

Lastly, Eliminean attitudes towards gender are based on Cecilia’s supports.

One note: At 30,000 words, this is Wayward Son's longest chapter! :D

 

 

 


	65. Light and Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Varek leave their hermitage.

**Chapter 65: Light and Dark**

“I’m leaving, Renault.”

A handful of words from a blue-haired friend had shaken Renault’s world once before. The first time, he had been a young man of twenty-three listening to an Ostian mercenary telling him they’d be parting ways. Now it was an Eliminean hermit telling him he’d be leaving his little anchorage, though reflecting on it later on, Renault would realize Varek only said he’d be leaving the area, not Renault’s company.

At the time, though, Renault didn’t realize that—and thought the new path he’d just started to tread had come to a crashing halt.

“W...what?” He couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve found a new path in your life, Renault. Well, I think I’m starting to head over to a new one as well. I feel it in my bones, and I think God’s telling me to do so as well. I’m leaving this hermitage and goin’ back to living in the world.”

“H…how?” Renault couldn’t hide the emotion in his voice. “I thought being a hermit, a recluse like you…wasn’t it a vocation? A calling? How can you just leave it like that?”

“It’s a calling—from God. And now I think God’s calling me for something else.”

“Self-serving! You’re just saying that! And besides, you _said_ I could stay here! Were you lying?”

“I have my reasons for believing it is God talking to me, Renault,” and Varek raised an eyebrow, “and I just said you could stay here if you wanted, not that I’d necessarily stay with you. In any case, what business is it of yours? You’re a guest here. Not my boss. Who’re you to tell me what I can and can’t do with my life? You’re not a member of the Church, eh? Can’t excommunicate me for dereliction of my hermitly duties.”

“I…oh, yeah.” Renault’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment—he was still capable of that, at least, even in his false body. “S…sorry, Varek.”

The hermit laughed, his good humor returning. “Well, I liked hearing that apology. So in return, I’ll tell you a secret. I know you’re gettin’ so emotional because you don’t want to part, right? You’ve grown attached to me, and I admit I feel the same. You think you haven’t learned everything you can from me, and that you’re not ready to set out on your new path alone, right?”

“Y-yes.”

“Well, Renault, remember, I just said I was going to leave the hermitage. I never said I’d be leavin’ _you._ I already told you you’re free to do what you want, so I won’t mind if you don’t take my offer, but…I wouldn’t reject a traveling companion, either.”

“Oh… _oh!_ ” Renault felt a wave of relief wash over him as he realized he wouldn’t be abandoned by the closest approximation of a real friend he’d had since Braddock died. Then he felt another wave of embarrassment as he realized how silly his assumptions were in the first place. This elicited another laugh from Varek…which, after a few moments, receded into a more somber expression.

“Anyways, lad, I bet you’re wondering why I’m leaving so suddenly, and right now, aren’t you?”

“Well…yeah. But I’ve definitely learned better than to pry, so if you want to say it’s God’s will and leave it at that…”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll tell you why I’m leaving, Renault. But to really understand the reason, you’ll have to understand a lot of other things too. I bet you’ve got a lot of other questions too, don’t you? Like how I ended up here in the first place, and why Bramimond, the master of Dark, keeps an old Light-headed fool like me around anyways. You want to know all that, don’t you?”

“I won’t lie, I do. But you never asked me to explain everything about my past, so I thought I wouldn’t ask you about yours.”

“Reasonable. But now I want to tell you all about myself. And I won’t ask you to repay the favor, either. Consider this a freebie! If you want it, of course.”

Renault certainly did. So Varek took a seat at his small table and invited Renault to join him. Then he began his tale.

-x-

“How to start this…Hm. First, Renault, let me ask you an odd question. Are you familiar with the noble houses of Etruria and Bern?”

“Huh? N…not really. It’s been so long.” Renault paused to ponder, raking through his over-cluttered, fuzzy memories. “I remember a few. Caerleon, Nerinheit,Vinland…from Etruria. Bern, not so much. I never paid much attention.”

“Well, Bern has a few of its own. Ever heard of House Varlago?”

“No.”

“One of the bigger players in Bernese politics. International politics, really. They’re a force to be reckoned with in the financial world. They run the biggest bank in Bern and lend to all the countries of Elibe. They almost control the purse-strings of both Bern and Etruria. Their coat of arms is recognizable all across the continent. A pair of crossed swords in the shape of a V with a knight’s helm in between, both colored purple.”

“Again, I never really kept up with that sort of thing, but I probably ran into those guys at some point or another. Noble houses hired mercenaries like me pretty often. Usually for the kind of stuff they didn’t want their ‘official’ knights to get involved in. Shady business.”

“Aye. And mercenaries aren’t the only ones they use.”

Renault said nothing.

“I’ll be honest with you, lad, and tell this to you straight out. I don’t think it’s coincidence we met. We both share a…checkered past.”

“What do you mean?”

Varek rolled up one sleeve of his cassock. On his right arm, just above the elbow, Renault could see a strange marking. It was a tattoo, of sorts. The letters weren’t in the common script, though. They were…Draconic, strangely enough. Not many people could read it, but Renault was one who could. The letters, when translated, approximated _Varlago._

“Do you recognize this, Renault?”

“No, not at all. I think it says ‘Varlago.’ Were you one of them? Why would they write it in a dead language, then?”

“It’s a bought man’s emblem. When a great house of Etruria or Bern buys a man to serve them in…questionable business, they brand a certain emblem onto his body. It’s almost always in a secret language, so no-one except the house’s leaders will know who he belongs to. The lords of Varlago had a particular affinity for Draconic, so their emblem is the house’s name in that language. Only well-read Sages would recognize it, makin’ it good for a secret emblem.

“It’s an assassin’s mark, Renault.”

“You were an assassin for them?” There was no judgment in Renault’s voice. “I thought you might’ve been when we first met. You’ve got the right body for it. But you’re not Bernese, are you?”

“No. I was born in Lycia.”

“So how’d you end up working for a Bernese banking family? And then end up in here?”

Varek sighed. “That’s not as long a story, but it’s not pleasant.”

“I don’t mind. My story sure isn’t pleasant either.”

“All right, then.

“I was born…Saint’s blessings, I don’t even know. They never told me. I was laid at the door of an orphanage in Ostia. Never met my parents. The people there were the closest things to those I had.

“Wasn’t real popular with them or the other kids there, either. I was quiet, didn’t like talking much, and avoided others when I could. There was some bullying, but the teachers tried to protect me when they could. Eventually, the kids just left me alone and I left ‘em alone. That was fine with me. My memories of that place weren’t that bad. One of the tutors there taught me to read, and even fed me a little extra from his own plate come mealtimes. It could’ve been a whole lot worse.

“But that orphanage…well, money was always tight, and it was getting tighter. When I was about twelve…or at least twelve years after they took me in, they were visited by a suspicious pair of travelers. Spoke in funny accents, the kind you hear in the deep mountains of Bern. They wanted to see the kids, and if one of ‘em was to their liking, offered a lot of gold to give them a ‘better life.’

“They were slavers, of course. Obvious to anyone who saw it. But they flashed the symbol of the house of Varlago, and the poor people who ran the orphanage couldn’t do a thing. They needed the money, anyways. So the two of ‘em took a look around the place to see what…who…they liked. Back then, I was a quick, athletic kid. Didn’t play games with the others much, but I liked to explore, and the teachers had quite a time trying to keep me from climbing over every shelf and roof I could find. And the slavers were looking for quick and limber, so they chose me.

“Not much to say there either, I guess. They weren’t kind to me, but they weren’t as cruel as slavers could be, least I’ve heard. I didn’t really care when they took me—never placed much value in my life before, and didn’t start now. I was quiet and didn’t give ‘em too much trouble, so they didn’t treat me too bad. Only a few beatings here and there, and by the time I knew it I was in Bern.

“Capital city, I mean, Biggest, most intimidating place I’d ever seen up to that point. That was the first time I really thought about running away. But, of course, they wouldn’t let me go that easy. That was when they slapped the chains on me, stuffed me down a secret passage in an alley, and after an hour of leading me through darkness, kept me in a dungeon’s cell. That was when they branded me, too. First time I remember crying from pain.

“Then I was led upstairs, and when they finally took off my blindfold…I thought I was in heaven.

“They’d taken me to the dining hall of Varlago’s manse. They shoved me in, and it was only me and the master of the house in the largest, fanciest room I’d ever seen in front of a table filled with the most delicious kinds of foods I’d only ever dreamed of before. I was suspicious, of course, ‘specially since my arm still hurt. But the food was the best I’d ever seen—far better than the gruel at the orphanage—and when the man told me I could eat, I couldn’t help myself. And when I started digging in, he started talking to me.

“He apologized for how I was treated and the brand, which he said was for my “safety.” He said I could call him “Uncle Varlago.” And he said a young orphan boy like me could live like a king if I only did what he asked…

“I was twelve years old, and to an orphan like me, all that food and a friendly voice were enough to forget everything I’d seen. It wasn’t if I had anyplace to go—even I knew that nobody would miss me if I were gone, and Varlago seemed nice, so why not accept his offer? I did.

“From that day forward, I was trained as a spy…and an assassin. “Uncle” Varlago inducted me into the secret society of nightblades his house controlled. I learned how to live in the shadows, how to pick locks, and how to use a pair o’ knives. Wasn’t long before I was one of the best of ‘em. Any time Count Varlago needed to have some documents stolen or forged, or someone watched, he’d call on me. And if someone couldn’t pay his debts or broke a contract…well, they’d call me too.

“I did my job without question or complaint. I somehow felt more at home among the rogues and cutthroats than I did back at the orphanage. Maybe ‘cause they didn’t talk much more than I did.  And in return, I was given all the food I could want and a warm bed to sleep in. I never went cold or hungry as long as I was with Count Varlago, and that was enough for me. Enough to do whatever he told me to, even if it meant killing or stealing. I don’t have clean hands, Renault.

“But there was one more thing…someone I met.

“Varlago had three children, and the oldest was named Juge. We met when I was about sixteen, four years since I started workin’ for his father, and that was about forty years ago now, I reckon. It was an assassination mission…not one we were sent on, but one we were defendin’ against. One of Varlago’s rivals wanted him and his whole family dead. At the time, all the regular troops he had were away on an errand for the King. So it was up to us spies to protect him and his family. One of the assassins had made it to Juge’s room and I heard him screamin’ before I caught up. I managed to kill the blackguard before he could harm the boy, but not before Juge caught a glimpse of my face.

“After the battle, he demanded to see the “blue-haired hero” who saved him, and against his better judgement, the Count obliged. He should’ve known better, but I guess he couldn’t help himself from spoiling his son. Juge was a little younger than I was, about fourteen, and before I knew it he’d latched on to me like a big brother.

“Since that day, Varlago became paranoid—understandably—about his family’s safety, and we spent most of our time guarding them. Since Juge liked me so much, I was assigned to be his personal bodyguard. I still went on missions every now and then, but for the most part I watched over him as he studied, which he spent most of his time doing. He had no interest at all in economics or finance. What he was _really_ interested in was Dragons. The Varlago family had a few artifacts from the Scouring, and Varlago himself could read the script, but for Juge, it was a passion. The count would spend so much money procuring books for his son, so as he studied I eventually learned a bit too. Not just Draconic, but even touches of the old, forbidden language…Shadetongue. Wasn’t easy getting _those_ books, but Varlago managed. Those were good times…probably the happiest of my life. But they ended about thirty years ago.

“By that time, I’d considered Juge a younger brother and Varlago himself almost a father to me. But it was foolish for an assassin to imagine ties of emotion counted for anything. One week after Juge’s 18th birthday, I was sent on my final mission. It shouldn’t have been hard…just an assassination of a nobleman. But something went wrong. We were seen.

“And not just by anyone. By Juge.”

Renault nodded, paying rapt attention, as Varek continued. “Juge never knew what sort of work his “big brother” really did, nor was he aware of the shady dealings his father was involved in. But that night...he wanted to see what I did. So he snuck out and followed me. And when he found out, he was horrified. He never imagined his hero would be involved in something like murder—it was obvious he wouldn’t be a friend anymore.

“That was the first time I had second thoughts about my course in life.

“Before we could catch him, Juge had ran back to the family manse. He got into a huge argument with his father, renounced the family name and way of life, gathered up some supplies as fast as he could, and then ran away. Varlago was furious, and sent me and my team to bring him back. It didn’t take us long to catch up with him. He was raging, and even tried to fight us off with a bit of magic he’d learned. But it didn’t take us much to overpower him.

“But when I saw the expression on his face…I couldn’t do it. Despite everything, he was still my friend…my only friend. I knew he was right, somehow, and he made me realize what I was doing was wrong. So I betrayed my team, and Varlago. I knocked out my comrades and told Juge to flee. He still hated me and said he never wanted to see me again. I didn’t care. I still just told him to run.

“And then I ran as well—in another direction. I knew Varlago would be furious, and that he wouldn’t forgive me. If he searched for me as well, it might have given Juge a little bit of time. I ran till my legs couldn’t carry me and fell asleep where I dropped. When I woke up, I started running again. I didn’t know or care where I went. I only knew I had to leave my old life behind, as fast as I could.

“The next day, I knew my pursuers were catchin’ up to me. So, in a fit of desperation I hid in a church. Just as I thought, they passed me by—guys in my business avoided churches like the plague, because the best way to attract unwanted attention was to shed blood around a lot of Elimine’s flock.

“It backfired for me, though. I ended up being found. Even though it was late at night, there was still a priest on the grounds, and through a stroke of dumb luck, he happened on my hiding place. I thought I’d have to kill him to keep him from giving me away—but when he saw me, he just smiled and said, “If you need, you can rest here for the night.” No judgement, no condemnation—he knew, somehow, that I wasn’t lookin’ to spill any more blood. So I took his offer. The next day, he asked why I came, and I told him everything—my life history, my evil profession, everything. It was my first confession, I suppose. I saw no harm in openin’ up, since I already lost everything anyway.

“Again, he didn’t judge me, or hand me in. He just asked if I’d like to find another way to live.”

“Another way to live?” Renault stared at Varek, astonished the hermit had heard the exact same words as he had.

“Aye. Quite a coincidence, eh? Or maybe it’s just a common saying for guys like us. In any case, I took his offer, and he introduced me to Elimine’s _Journey_. He said I could stay in his little church as a guest as long as I liked, so long as I lived by the precepts in that book. So I kept out of sight in one of the spare rooms for a few months, hoping Varlago would give up the search for me eventually, and read through the _Journey_. Not as if I had anything better to do at that point in life.

“I had the same reaction as you did to a lot of what I read. But by the time I finished, I also realized why Juge had condemned me an’ my way of life when he found out about it—and why he was right to do so. And the first time I got down and prayed, like Elimine did…that’s when I truly felt the presence of God, like He was right beside me, watching over me. Wasn’t long after that I took the vows to be confirmed.

“For some reason, I didn’t feel at home in that Bernese church, though. I think the priest realized it too. Especially since it still wasn’t entirely safe for me anywhere the Varlago name was well-known. I ended up smugglin’ myself out of the country and staying in Sacae for a while as a mendicant. I wandered from place to place, wherever I felt called, for about ten years. That’s when I started having dreams…dreams of a very specific place in Bern, even though I’d never been to that region before. But I didn’t question what I thought God had planned for me. I packed up and left Sacae and made my way back to my homeland…well, my second homeland, after Lycia.”

“Dreams?” asked Renault.

“Aye. Maybe they’re nothing…maybe they’re just superstition. But Elimineans like me put a lot of stock in ‘em. Clead, Bernhart, Elimine…they were all called by dreams.

“But in any case, it wasn’t just the dreams. I’d swear on my life that something was guiding me. Before I knew it I’d come to the mountain range in the north—safe and sound, apparently Varlago’d given up his search for me. When I got there, everything was shrouded in mist—very strange, and sort of dangerous. But something told me to press on, _ordered_ me to press on, and I did, ‘till I could walk no longer and dropped down to sleep.

“When I woke up…I found myself here.” He gestured around the little cottage. “Strangest thing I’d ever experienced in my life, but the dreams told me to expect something like it, so I wasn’t too worried. Guess Bramimond—or somebody—wanted me here even if I didn’t have the guide. I wasn’t alone, though. There was a man lying there on my bed. An old man, he must have passed away not long ago—this place’s former occupant. I heard a voice in my head telling me to bury him here. I didn’t question it, and when I was done, I went to the big building I saw when I stepped out of the cottage—the Temple of Seals. And there, I met the master of this place.”

“Bramimond? Did he tell you why he kept an Eliminean around this place?”

“He did. And I’m going to let you hear the answer from him personally.” With a sigh, Varek stood up. “Come on, lad. We’ve got to say our goodbyes to our host.”

-X-

The Shrine of Seals had not changed at all since Renault had been here last—which made sense, since neither he nor Varek had any reason to venture near it in all that time, nor had any of their few visitors. The stones still seemed in perfect, unblemished condition, and when they went inside the sigil on the ground—the large circles cut into quadrants by a cross—was still in the exact same position.

“Lord Bramimond,” said Varek to the empty air, “It’s time for me and Renault to go. We wanted to pay our last respects to you.”

The sigil glowed softly, and then brightly. For the second time, Renault found himself draw far away.

And for the second time, he awoke on a hard, cold stone floor, surrounded by total darkness. Now, though, he wasn’t surprised, nor was he afraid. He knew he had nothing to fear from this darkness, nor its master.

He heard a voice coming from in front of him, and it sounded like Varek’s. He knew it wasn’t though, for when he looked up, standing in the black expanse before him were Varek and another, clad in greyish-green gilded robes—Bramimond. The former’s mouth was closed, and the voice came from the latter.

“Goodbyes, is it?” asked the Hero, a small touch of humor in his voice. “I don’t really need such things, but I appreciate them all the same. Your presence has been a comfort to me for these years, Varek, and I am thankful for it.”

“Glad I am to know that, Lord. Will you be alone from now on?”

“Your replacement is on his way here. He’ll arrive in three days.”

“Ah, that’s good. I suppose I won’t have time to meet him, though.”

“No. But that’s a rare thing anyways. There is one thing I want you to do, though.”

The shadows shifted, and a book materialized in the air. Renault felt a chill run through him as he recognized it—it was the path to the Shrine of Seals that he’d stolen from the man he’d murdered, nearly a year ago.

Varek recognized it as well. “Hm? This is…”

“Take it back to its rightful owners.”

“…Aye. I’ll do that.” Without asking how it got there, Varek grabbed the book and placed it carefully in his traveling pack. He then turned to Renault. “Anything you want to say, lad?”

Renault gulped, sighed, and nodded. Truth be told, he didn’t really want to do this. It was embarrassing, to confront the man…being…who’d humiliated him so utterly and irrefutably. But Renault knew he had to, and refusing would only make him a coward unable to face up to his mistakes.

“Bramimond,” he said uneasily, only forcing himself slowly to look up at the ancient Hero. “You…you were right.”

No response came from Bramimond.

Renault continued anyways. “I was a fool. I was a coward. And Braddock would have been ashamed of me. But you…you revealed the truth to me. And because of you, I was able to meet Varek, and set myself on a path Braddock would have actually wanted me to follow. So…thanks, Bramimond. Thanks for everything.”

“Well, I’m glad you finally figured that out. Maybe you’re not as dumb as you first seemed when you came here.” There was a touch of cutting sarcasm in that voice, and Renault clenched a fist in anger—until he realized that voice was his own, just as it had been Varek’s a minute ago.

“And I’m glad to exceed your expectations.” Renault said this through gritted teeth, and what he didn’t notice was Varek’s expression, a combination of pleased and proud. The hermit had been expecting his disciple to say something foolish, and was quite pleased when he did not.

“I still want to know some things, though,” Renault continued. “Varek told me his life story, and how he came here. It was…similar…to mine. I think you knew that, and that’s why you brought us together. You can see people’s pasts, and their futures, too, maybe. But I want to know…why are you even doing this anyway? Why did you bring Varek—and his predecessor, the man he buried—to your sanctuary, and why did you go so far as to create a hermitage for Elimineans here? Aren’t the Dark and Light opposed to each other? So why would you, master of the Silencing Darkness, accept them?”

“Because…” and for once, Bramimond’s voice didn’t sound like Renault’s or Varek’s. “Because…so long ago…it was long ago, but…I…he…loved Elimine.

“I wanted to know what Elimine saw in Ryhart…that she didn’t see in me. So, every generation, I called out to someone on Elibe. Someone who has tasted darkness, but also light. Someone who could understand the paths both Elimine and I had tread. I brought them here, and still do, so I can watch them. I want to see how servants of Elimine’s God live their lives. I want to see that the faith she gave so much for—and rejected me for—still lives. It gives me comfort…a small comfort, to be reminded of her, in this eternal, endless darkness. That…that is the only indulgence I have ever asked from the Dark.

“So I called Varek here, as I called Fahm before him, and his predecessor, ever since I sealed myself here. As I knew, they found the eremitic life suited them. And that Elimine, wherever she is, may rest in peace.”

There was no way Renault could fully understand Bramimond’s feelings. But, as strange as it may have sounded, he sympathized, if only a little. Given how lonely he had been after losing Braddock, he could understand why Bramimond would call certain Elimineans to this isolated place. Even if he would only observe them, it must have eased his loneliness—at least slightly—to watch over those who straddled the line between Light and Dark, just as his own devotion to the Dark and love for Elimine caused him to.

“I…that makes sense.” Renault bowed his head, feeling truly abashed, and as a result gave an apology that was quite rare for him. “F…forgive me, l…Bramimond. I’m sorry if I made you remember things you…didn’t want to.”

Again, no response from Bramimond. Renault took that as an indication that all was well. “But I have one more question for you.” He glanced quickly at Varek, then back again. “Bramimond, if that’s why you called Varek here, why did you call _me_? Did you mean for me to replace him, like he did this…Fahm, person? But…I don’t believe in God. And even if I did, why would Varek allow me to come with him, then?”  

“No. I didn’t call you here. But it’s not by random chance you arrived…”

“What do you mean?

“You and Varek have both had dreams. Similar dreams. It’s no coincidence you came here, Renault. No coincidence that you would be led off your path by a former assassin, someone with blood-stained hands, as well. You had dreams about your friend, and before you arrived, Varek had dreams about someone coming to the sanctuary…premonitions.”

Now Renault was really surprised. “Varek, is…is that true?”

“It is, lad. For a few days before you came I had visions of someone appearing at my doorstep. I made little of ‘em, since they showed me things I couldn’t control. Figured there was nothin’ for me to do but wait and see how they turned out. And as for why I never told you, well, I figured you’d believe I was just trying to convert you.”

Renault was growing angry at being misled, but that evaporated as he considered what Varek told him. He really would have dismissed it all as an old, “religion-addled” fool’s senility if Varek had admitted it to him before.

“Dreams’re the same reason I’m going on this journey now,” he continued. “You know how important they are to Elimineans. From the days of Bernhart to Elimine, God has always spoken to us in dreams, as we believe. For the past week I’ve been woken up by ‘em—something, someone tellin’ me it’s time to “return to the world.” That’s why I’ve seemed so tired and distracted. Once you finished reading the _Journey_ , I knew it was time to do what they told me to do.”

“Bramimond!” Renault turned to him, now slightly angry. “Are you the one sending these visions to us? Trying to lead us to where you want us to go?”

“Think about it for a minute,” came his reply, sounding bored and irritated—like Renault, again. “You’ve been dreaming about Braddock for a very long time before you met me. I might have called Varek here, but do you think I’d take so long calling you?”

“So then who was it? It couldn’t be…was it God? You lived through the Scouring, and witnessed a lot of what _Elimine’s Journey_ purports to represent. So was it true? How much of it is true? Was I wrong about God as well? Is Varek right? Is there truly a God, who chose Elimine as His saint?”

“…I don’t know.”

“What?” Renault’s anger had given way to surprise. “What do you mean you don’t know?

“If I did, I would have told Varek when he first came here,” replied Bramimond. “I have been searching for centuries for an answer to Elimine’s question. But the past is not clear, nor is the future. That book of Varek’s…it’s not entirely accurate. But it’s not entirely false, either, in its details. The shadow twists back in time, but when I try to peer at the very beginning, I see nothing. So, too, when I see the future, up to the end of time…

“I know not how this world came into being, nor how it will end. Perhaps Elimine was right…or perhaps Hanon or Durbans were. Or none of them. I have no answers…”

“It’d be a pity if he did,” said Varek with a smile, “’least for me. I’d like to think I chose Elimine’s path because of my own free will, not because someone else told me to—even if that someone was Bramimond himself. That makes a little sense, eh, Renault?”

“I guess.”

“In any case, I think we’re about done here. Thanks again for everything you’ve done for us, Lord Bramimond. I will…even though we won’t meet again, I will pray for you.”

“…Thank you.”

Those words from Bramimond were the last Renault heard before he and Varek were once again engulfed in light, and felt his mind and body separate, Renault could only think of one thing: That his doubts—about _everything_ —were greater than they ever had been before.

-X-

“Ehh…isn’t this Bern?”

Renault rubbed his shoulders and shifted his neck a few times as he and Varek were materialized in a deserted alley in what was apparently a very big city. Renault was used enough to Warp magic that he recovered from an initial disorientation almost immediately after re-materializing. Varek wasn’t quite as sprightly, and it took him a few moments to get his bearings and realize where he was.

“Y…yes, this is Bern. It has to be. Because after 30 years, I still remember it.”

“Remember what?”

Varek pointed towards the end of the alley, where Renault could see a large mansion at the other side of a street. Though it wasn’t as beautiful or adorned as a patrician’s house in Etruria (the Bernese weren’t known for being ostentatious), its size alone indicated it belonged to someone important.

“Varlago’s place?”

Varek nodded, and Renault grew agitated. “Wait, why’d he send you _here?!_ We gotta hide! If Varlago still has his grudge—“

“I don’t think so, Renault. One of the letters I received said that Count Varlago was on his deathbed. His mind’s goin’ away, from what I heard. But it also said he was calling for people. The first was his estranged son, Juge. But he also wanted to see someone else. The letter said he wanted to see…Varek.”

“It might also mean he wants to kill you!”

“Maybe. I doubt it, but you may be right.”

“I can’t—“

“You _will_ let me go through with this, Renault,” Varek said sharply. “I appreciate your concern, lad. Maybe this is a fool’s errand. But not many a man wants to see more death if he’s on his deathbed. What good would it do for Varlago to kill me now, when he’s almost dead himself? I’m willing to bet my life on his good intentions. And if I’m wrong, well…not as if I’m losin’ much.”

Varek would hear no more. He promptly headed towards the mansion’s gate, with Renault tagging behind him.

“Hold!” called one of the two guards posted there. “What business have you here?”

“This is Count Varlago’s home, right?”

“And who’s asking?”

“My name is Varek,” came the patient reply, which was rewarded by surprised glances being shot between the two men. “I heard the Count’s looking for me.”

“You might have heard something like that, yes,” said the other guard suspiciously, “but how do we know you are who you say you are? Perhaps you’re an assassin after our Lord’s life.”

“The Varek he’s searching for was part of his employ, right?”

“Perhaps.”

Varek drew back the sleeve of his cassock and showed his tattoo to the guards. They both drew back with audible gasps, having recognized it. And to Renault’s chagrin, they readied their weapons.

Thankfully, they didn’t attack. “Very well, old man, you might be who our lord is seeking. But we’ll not let you out of our sight ‘till we’re sure. Hey!” The guard shouted, and another pair of men rushed out of the mansion. “You two, this old hermit might be the guest Lord Varlago has been looking for. Escort him to the private chambers, but keep an eye on him as well!”

An easy order to follow. Varek handed his traveling pack to Renault to keep, and the two new guards grabbed the old ascetic gently but firmly and guided him indoors. “Hey!” Renault cried, and stepped forward to follow the man, but he was blocked by the remaining two soldiers crossing their spears in front of him.

“I don’t know what relationship you have to either Varlago or the man claiming to be Varek,” said one guard, “but he didn’t say he was looking for anyone like you. If you’re worried about that funny-looking hermit, just stay right here and don’t cause any trouble. If your friend truly means well, he’ll return to you unharmed.”

Renault grimaced and clenched his fists, but the self-control he’d began to learn under Varek came to his rescue. He said nothing sarcastic or disrespectful—he simply nodded, stepped back, and waited for his friend to return.

And, though he didn’t actually start, and though he wouldn’t admit it at the time, he was half-tempted to pray for Varek’s safety.

-x-

The guards were not at all gentle, but Varek didn’t expect them to be. After all, an old man appearing out of nowhere asking to see the much-loathed master of the house was nothing if not suspicious. Still, Varek felt he had no other choice—he was not the sort of man (or Eliminean) to abandon a person on his deathbed. If Varlago wanted to make amends now, Varek would at least make the attempt, no matter the risk.

He was led up the stairs and down the halls he had once patrolled as Juge’s bodyguard, and he knew he was heading towards Varlago’s main bedroom. He could have navigated through this place in his sleep, even after all these years. After several minutes, the guards came to a door on the third floor and opened it, allowing Varek to re-unite with a man who’d once almost been a father to him.

The years had not been kind to the great banker Varlago. He had once been a hale, hearty man with an unruly mop of purple hair, but it had all fallen out, replaced with ugly splotches all over his bald, wrinkled pate, which extended to the rest of his frail, skeletal body; at least the parts of it which weren’t covered by thick blankets. He could still see, however. Coughing, he raised his head to look at his visitors. “Who, who’s there?”

The voice was strained and weak, but Varek still recognized it, even after all these years. He didn’t say anything at first, though.

“We found a man claiming to be Varek,” said one of the guards, tightening his grip on the hermit. “My lord, did you not ask to see him?”

“Y-yes, but it was just a passing fancy. Th…there’s no way he’d return, not after so long.

“F…father,” Varek murmured.

He was afraid his voice had been too low to hear, as the guards prepared to take him away, but to his surprise and good fortune, Varlago’s eyes widened.

“W…what? What did you say?”

“Milord?” The guards were plainly confused.

“Bring him closer.”

They did so, though Varek would have walked up to the bed on his own, anyways.

“F…Varlago,” he repeated, louder this time. And he rolled down the sleeve of his robe once again, to allow who had once been his adopted father a look at the brand he had ordered seared onto the flesh.

“It…it can’t be, but it is…it truly is…” Wonder shown in Varlago’s eyes—almost as clearly as the tears rimming them.

“Milord?” The guards were even more confused, now.

“Leave us,” said Varlago. “Leave us, now!”

“But—“

“This is between me and Varek. You’ve done your duty, now _go!_ ”

The exertion caused Varlago to hack and cough again, and Varek promptly moved to comfort the dying old man. The guards started to grab him again, but stopped when they saw that Varek was cradling Varlago and keeping a hand on his forehead. That, at last, was enough to convince them their strange guest did not mean their lord any harm. They still cast Varek suspicious looks, but they bowed and respectfully made their exit. Now, the hermit and the banker were finally free to have their very last conversation.

“Oh, lord…Varek…is it really you?”

“It…is.”

“H…how you’ve changed. Traded your assassin’s cloak for a hermit’s cassock, eh?”

“That I have.”

“Ah…Varek, I’m so glad. You, at least, h…have found salvation. I should have followed you…”

Varek said nothing in response, so Varlago continued.

“Listen, I don’t have much time left. Varek, before I die, I…I want you to know, that…I’m sorry. Sorry for…everything.

“Oh, God forgive me. I’ve lived s…such a wretched life. I’ve wronged so many people, including you. Looking back on it now, I can’t imagine how I could have been so callous. All I thought about was money…interest and debts, coin after coin…how empty my soul was. If only I could have learned that before you and Juge left me…

“Only now, at the end of my life, do I realize how wrong I was. S…so lonely, I’ve been so lonely…my other children care nothing for me, but only for the family business, and…none of them even want to see me, now. My only consolation for these past years have been the words of the blessed Saint…I’ve given m-much to charity, and tried to live a good life, according to her teachings, but I know it’s not enough…”

“It’s…it’s enough for me,” said Varek. “Varlago…father…I forgive you. You might’ve introduced me to the path of darkness, but I still chose to walk it. And if I can be forgiven even if I abandoned it late in life, then so can you.”

“Oh…Varek, oh…” A smile crept across the old man’s face, and the tears that rimmed his eyes now seemed to be of joy. “Th…thank you, thank you so much. Though I don’t deserve it, I…”

“Don’t say any more. You’re forgiven. That’s all that matters.”

“Heh, heh.” Varlago let out a chuckle that turned into a cough. “You can forgive my sins, eh? You, a hermit…I’d have never thought it was possible, but…to see you share my faith, I’m so glad. In that case, then…Varek, my child, can…can you give me the last rites? I know I don’t have much time…”

Varek nodded, and began the ritual. Though he didn’t have holy water, he could still repeat the words.

“Blessed God, Lord of Heaven and Earth, on this day do I prepare one of your wayward sons for his return to You. He has repented of his sins and accepted Your grace into his heart. The Blessed Saint has shown him the proper way to live, and I ask that she continue to guide him in death.”

Varek had not brought the _Journey of Elimine_ with him into the room, as the guards had not permitted him to carry _anything_ on his person. He had long since memorized the relevant passages, however, so it didn’t matter. First, he recited several verses pertaining to God’s love and beneficence from the _Adorations_ ; after he finished them he would have sprinkled some water on Varlago’s feet if he had the cup. He then repeated several lines from the _Lamentations_ on the briefness of life, the everlasting nature of God, and the overwhelming importance of obedience to the deity, which would have been followed by sprinkling holy water on Varlago’s chest. Finally, he repeated the very last prayer Elimine had given before her ascension in the Tower, at which point he would have salved some of the holy water on Varlago’s forehead. Since he had none, Varek simply said “Amen” and made the sign of the Church—drawing a circle on his chest with the index and middle finger of his right hand, then slashing down through its bottom radius.

Varlago apparently found this immensely comforting. With a great sigh—his coughing seeming to have receded—he settled back onto his bed, a contented smile on his face. His chest rose and fell steadily, meaning he was still breathing, but Varek knew it would stop soon.

He stood by the bed for several minutes, holding the hand of the man who had once been his father—and who was again, now. Varek wanted to stay by Varlago’s side until the moment of his death, but realized he couldn’t stay too long, lest the guards became suspicious. He patted Varlago’s hand, then knelt to kiss the sick man’s forehead before turning and preparing to make his exit. His job here was done.

Well, almost.

“V, Varek…wait,” called Varlago. It seemed he’d not fallen asleep entirely yet.

“Eh?”

“There’s…one more thing I want to ask of you. Forgive me…”

“It’s nothing.”

“O…Open the drawer next to my bed. Please…”

Varek did so. Inside was something curious—a letter.

It was contained in a dry, nondescript white envelope sealed with red wax. The only thing that indicated something strange was its intended recipient. On its back, written in an unsteady hand that was still recognizable as Varlago’s, was this: “To my beloved son, Juge.”

Varek wasn’t sure what he was looking at. “Varlago, this is…”

“I…I haven’t seen or heard from my son in thirty years,” breathed Varlago. “My last wish was to see the two of you again. By God’s grace, I managed to see you, Varek, but Juge, my dearest Juge…my prayers haven’t reached him. My men have been searching for him for the past few years, but after so long, his trail is nothing but cold, and my other children don’t want to spend any of the family’s money searching for a rival heir.

“But even so, I…I want to know, so badly. What happened to my firstborn? D…did he escape to safety? Did he manage to find happiness? Ah, I can only hope, but whatever the answer may be, it’s…agh, the will of God. Even if it’s a slim hope, though, I want…if he’s still alive, if he can be found, I want him to know…

“I want him to know that he was right. He was right to condemn me, and leave me. If only this father could have learned from his son, sooner…but if it’s too late for me to tell him now, he can at least know my feelings through this, my final letter. It will tell him that I still loved him, right up to the end, and that I’m so sorry for everything.

“Varek, I want you to take this letter. And if you should ever encounter Juge on your travels, give it to him. I’m sure he should remember the friendship you two shared, so long ago. He should listen to you. Maybe then my soul will finally rest in peace.”

“That’s…” Varek wasn’t sure how to say it without breaking the old man’s heart. “I’ll take the letter and keep it with me, that’s for sure. But I sure don’t know if I’ll ever run into Juge again. I don’t even know where to start looking.”

“The abbey,” Varlago whispered.

“Eh?”

“Diotica Abbey, to the south, just a ways from the Cursed Monastery. A few weeks ago, I donated some of the books in my library to them. When Abbess Meris thanked me for the donation, she mentioned seeing books written in Draconic before. Some thirty years ago, a visitor there asked for refuge for a time. When he left, as thanks he gave them some of the books he took with him, saying he didn’t need them any more. They were all written in the Draconic language. I think…I think that visitor may have been Juge.”

“It couldn’t be,” Varek breathed. “Juge and…Ab…Abbess Meris?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“I’ve…exchanged letters with her before. She never mentioned receiving anyone like Juge.”

“It was years ago, before she became head there. Go to her abbey, and ask her. It couldn’t hurt…it’s better than nothing, at least. Forgive me for burdening you like this, Varek, but…there’s no-one else I could turn to.”

“I understand.” Varek stood up, clutching the letter tightly. “There’s no need to apologize. I’ll do my best. If Abbess Meris can’t help, I’ll find someone who can. I was worried about what I’d do with my life, now that I’ve left my hermitage, but the mission you’ve given me is as good a purpose as any. Rest well…father.”

“Th, thank you, Va…my son. I’m so glad…so glad I was able to see at least one of you again.”

Those were not the last words Varlago would ever say—he clung to life for a day or two afterwords, his guards and caretakers commenting approvingly about how serene he had become. But those were the last words his adoptive ward would hear from him. Kissing him on the forehead once again, Varek stood up and left the room, and this time Varlago let him go.

-X-

After half an hour, Renault still didn’t know the names of his two companions. They had been staring warily at one another ever since Varek had disappeared into the manse, and had not said a word to Renault despite his attempts to start conversation. The Bernese man’s reputation for discipline was well-deserved indeed, so it seemed.

By this point, however, Renault was beginning to wonder if he might have to test that discipline. He very much wanted to avoid fighting, since Braddock had given his life to allow him a more peaceful path, but he was also beginning to worry about Varek. To his immense relief, however, as dawn shifted to early morning he saw the hermit exit the manse, flanked by the same pair of soldiers who seemed respectful rather than suspicious, now.

“All went well?” asked one of Renault’s guards, seeming mildly surprised.

“Aye. Lord Varlago was mighty glad to see ‘im. Dunno what they talked about, but his mood’s a lot better. Guess this man is who he says he is. A thousand pardons f’r our initial rudeness, Your Holiness.”

“You were only doing your job. Don’t worry about it, and may Elimine’s blessings be with you.” Varek made the sigil of the Church, which all four of the soldiers reciprocated, before exiting the gate and walking past Renault.

“Huh? Hey, wait! What happened?” Renault broke into a jog to catch up to Varek, who hadn’t stopped.

“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”

“How so?”

Varek showed him the letter Varlago had given him. “Count Varlago’s had a change of heart over these years. He’s come around to his son’s way of thinkin’. He apologized for how he treated me back then, and he’s sorry for all the crimes he committed. He knows he’ll die soon, and he’s accepted Elimine’s judgment. But his last wish was that his son knows. He wants Juge to know that he was right, that he’s forgiven, and that his father loves him. And because I was closest to Juge back in those days, he wants me to deliver the message.”

“You want to…find Juge?” Renault couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But the last time you saw him was thirty years ago! He could be anywhere on Elibe right now! That is, if he’s even alive!”

“That’s right, lad. I said we had a long journey ahead, didn’t I?”

“Do we at least have any leads? Wouldn’t Varlago’s spy network be able to tell us something?”

“We have a few, but the trail’s pretty cold. Juge knew they’d be lookin’ for him, so he took some precautions to keep himself from bein’ found. He learned more than a bit of magic, studying those Draconic texts with me. Some battle magic, but also just enough to cast a few tricks to throw his pursuers awry. None of Varlago’s men were able to catch a clear glimpse of where he’d gone.”

“Then we’re doomed!” Renault groaned.

“The trail’s cold, Renault, but it’s not entirely absent. And as long as there’s even the slightest chance of success, I’m going to try and fulfill Varlago’s last wish. I was called for it—least that’s what I believe. Whether I—we—succeed or fail, I believe we’re doing what God wants.”

Renault knew he couldn’t win this argument, and just sighed. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do—and was certainly in no hurry. “Alright, then. Where do we start?”

“Varlago donated some of his books to the Diotica Abbey, to the south, a few weeks ago. Abbess Meris—she’s a friend of mine, we’ve exchanged letters--said they’d actually received some similar works many years ago. A wanderer who sought refuge gave some books in Draconic to ‘em before he left, as a thank-you for allowin’ him to stay a while. From the description, I’m guessing…

“It was Juge.” Renault sighed again. “Well, lead the way, Varek.” He handed the hermit’s traveling pack back to him, expecting him to take it.

Varek just smiled wryly. “Oy, have a bit of compassion for an old man. You didn’t think I let you accompany me for no reason, did you? Put that strong back o’ yours to use!”

With those words, and a laugh, he resumed his trek towards Abbess Meris’ convent. Renault stood there for a moment, holding the heavy bag of supplies, until he figured out what just happened. “Hey,” he yelled indignantly, “ _Hey!_ What kind of a holy man do you think you are, Varek?! Elimine wouldn’t approve of this!”

Cursing and shouting even as his friend’s continued laughter drowned him out, Renault followed Varek onto the next stage of his journey.

_::Linear Notes::_

Couple of notes:

1: The importance of dreams in Eliminism is based somewhat off general Christian beliefs, both Catholic and Protestant. The Old and New Testaments are both full of dreams and visions of great portent.

2: The name “Juge” is *very* important. Read Nino’s supports, and remember how much her family knew about Dragons…


	66. The Abbey - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Varek's first stop is Diotica Abbey--where Renault will continue learning.

**Chapter 66: The Abbey-Part I**

Renault wasn’t often thankful for his inhuman body, but today he was. The wagon on which he and Varek had been riding for the past three days shook and bounced up and down so wildly that he was sure he would have gotten sick to his stomach if it wasn’t for Nergal’s experiments—or if he didn’t have Varek’s seemingly supernatural patience; the hermit had so far endured this ludicrously bumpy ride with nothing but a contented smile on his face.

Renault could understand why; they’d been given this ride for free, after all. After they’d left Varlago’s manse, Varek had shown him a map of Bern. Diotica Abbey was about a two week’s journey to the southeast of Bern City. That alone wasn’t so bad, Renault had endured much longer, harsher journeys by foot before, and Bern had safe, excellent roads along with mild weather this time of year. Even so, it made more sense to travel on a mount if possible, so the two men had made their first stop at one of the city’s many stables. There, they happened upon the wagon of a travelling merchant who was also planning to make a stop at the abbey and offered to take them along at no cost. “Never wise to refuse a good turn,” Varek had said, and he and Renault had hopped on.

Even so, Renault was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t a case of “getting what you paid for.” “Dammit, Varek,” he grumbled as the rickety wagon gave another great bump, “why couldn’t you have just Warped us to Diotica?”

“Those staves are rare and expensive, and it’s a bad idea to waste their charges,” came the calm reply.

“Then how about asking the Bernese military for some help? You’re on good terms with Harod, I know that. Couldn’t you have requisitioned a couple of Wyverns for us? We’d be there by now if we were flying.”

“Bernese soldiers aren’t hirelings.” Varek seemed a bit exasperated now. “Maybe they would’ve done if I asked, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable with it. They have more important duties than ferrying an old hermit and his loud-mouth companion across Elibe. Don’t think God would approve me of me wasting their time if it’s not absolutely necessary.”

“All right, all right,” sighed Renault. “You’ve made your point. And things could certainly be worse.” _Though not by much_ , he thought as the wagon gave another bump.

“I’m not actually lookin’ forward to the visit myself,” said Varek with a touch—just a touch—of irritation. “But I’ll endure it, since I have to. That’s a mark of maturity, Renault. Everyone has duties, and everyone has to deal with things they’d rather they didn’t. The ones who do without carrying on and making a fuss are men, the ones who can’t keep their mouths shut are the children. And I think we’d both rather be the former than the latter, eh?”

Renault remembered how often Braddock had chided him for being petulant and whiny, and he nodded and accepted Varek’s admonition. “But, wait,” he said, “why wouldn’t you be happy about visiting the abbey? It’s not a bad place, is it? And I thought…Abess Mary, or whoever, was your friend?”

“Abbess Meris,” Varek corrected, “and yes, she is my friend. She’s done a very good job, guiding Diotica, and the convent’s grown under her watch. I’ve nothing but respect for her, and as far as I know, Diotica’s not bad—quite the opposite. It’s a very fair sight indeed, even more so than most of the other monasteries and convents in Bern. The architecture’s beautiful and it’s one of the most peaceful places on the continent.”

“Sounds great. Then why do you seem so apprehensive?”

“I don’t get along too well with people, Renault. Even you annoyed me the first few weeks after you arrived—now, don’t get offended, that’s just the truth. I got used to you, obviously, but there are at least 40 nuns at Diotica, last I heard, and aside from Meris I’m not used to any of them.” He sighed. “Doubt it’ll be easy for me to get along with so many people, but it’s not like I have a choice. I’ll just have to do my best.”

“Well, if dealing with people’s so stressful for you, why’d you even leave Bramimond’s hermitage in the first place? It was pretty nice there. And no matter where we go on Elibe, we’re gonna run into other people eventually. If you dislike that, you shouldn’t have gone on this trip in the first place.”

“I already told you I didn’t have a choice. I was called by God—least, I believe I was. And even if you don’t agree, this is a quest Varlago gave me. Not a good idea for a man to refuse another man’s dyin’ request.”

“Yeah, but—“

“My duty’s more important than my own preferences, and my own minor annoyances. Would I have liked to spend the rest of my life at that hermitage? Yes. But I was called to do something else, and a real man obeys his calling, even if it’s not the easiest or most pleasant thing in the world for him. We all have to do things we don’t like at some point or another in our lives, Renault. It’s a mark of maturity to be able to do so without whining and carrying on. For both our sakes, I hope you learn how to do that sooner rather than later. And I’d be willing to bet your best friend would say the same if he were here.”

That was enough to sufficiently chastise Renault—and impart to him the gravity of the lesson. He didn’t even have to stop himself from letting loose a petulant retort, this time. Instead, he kept his mouth shut, nodded, and accepted the lesson.

This meant that the rest of the trip to Diotica Abbey went much more smoothly, even if the ride wasn’t…and Renault wouldn’t make the same mistake with Varek that he did with Braddock. He’d remember what the old hermit had taught him today for as long as the two of them were together—and for the rest of his long life thereafter.

-x-

“We’re here!”

Renault thought he’d never hear those words. “Finally!” he cheered, not even waiting for the wagon to come to a stop before hopping out and stretching. After that he opened his eyes and took a look around. It was a sunny afternoon on the 2nd Moon, 959 A.S., and while good weather was always a blessing, Renault was particularly thankful for it now—it very much enhanced the beauty of Diotica Abbey.

It sat at the base of one of the mountains which began Bern’s easternmost range, right next to a small forest. The compound itself wasn’t quite like any monastery Renault had seen before, but since he’d only seen one up close (Par Massino), that wasn’t surprising. Instead, it bore more similarity to the churches and cathedrals Renault had encountered over the course of his travels.

The abbey was surrounded by a large, circular wall about two stories tall, made out of sturdy grey stone. Around its circumference at its northern, eastern, and western sides there were circular towers built into the wall, each adorned with an icon of Elimine. The northern tower was larger than the others; if Zodian’s Rest in Thagaste was any indication, it was likely that tower served as Abbess Meris’ personal office. At the southern end (where Renault was), however, there was a rectangular extension, similar to a cathedral’s nave. One story tall and extending about fifty feet from the circumference of the abbey’s outer wall, there were ten smaller appendages (5 on each side) on its left and right, and it terminated in a three-story tall belltower, at the base of which was an oaken double-door. Renault recognized several verses from _Elimine’s Journey_ carved onto the door, in a flowing, intricate style (The letters “s” and “f” were so swirly he couldn’t recognize them immediately) that seemed to be a sort of calligraphic script, leading Renault to surmise these were the main gates. Unlike the great cathedrals of Aquleia, no gold had been used to adorn the walls or ceilings of this building, but a similar effect had been achieved with apparently carefully-cultivated ivy. Though the leafy vines which covered the outer walls didn’t seem so much different from those anywhere else on Elibe at first glance, the sun shone off of them in such a way to make the walls seem as if they were encrusted with glittering gold. It very much provided a breathtaking view.

 “Great, isn’t it?” Renault had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn’t notice the merchant with whom he and Varek had been riding come up behind him. “My trade route takes me by here a lot. Always lifts my heart whenever I see it. Lightens my wallet, too…the crafts these nuns make aren’t cheap! It’s worth it, though,” he laughed.

“Uh-huh.” Renault didn’t have a hard time believing that—if the nuns kept their abode so well, they very likely maintained a similar standard of craftsmanship—well, craftwomanship—in whatever else they provided.

“Hello!” called a clear female voice from the top of the belltower. “What brings you here, sir?”

“I’m here to buy some of your wares and clothing,” the merchant called, then gestured to Renault and Varek, who’d come walking up behind him. “Also, I have a couple of travelers who want to make pilgrimage here.”

“Travelers? I see, I’ll inform the Abbess.”

The method of doing so involved her ringing the bell of her tower three times, loud enough to echo far across the land, at least it seemed to Renault. Nothing happened for a few moments, then the main door at the bottom of the tower opened to reveal a trio of women coming out to greet them.

Two of them were dressed in regular women’s attire Renault had seen many times throughout Elibe. A simple white surplice with long sleeves which was quite modest, the hem coming down to just above their ankles, topped by a sort of long white veil which fell down to their backs and was kept on their heads by a copper circlet. Between them was an older woman Renault assumed was the Abbess herself.

She was just a bit shorter than average, and a bit on the rotund side, though not very much so. She was dressed in a female Bishop’s raiment—white surplice similar to that of her underlings, but with a miter rather than a veil on her head and a crozier in her right hand—similar to what Renault’s mother had worn, though Renault recalled that the hems of Monica’s sleeves and collars were tinted blue. She seemed about Varek’s age, given the wrinkles beginning to appear on her face and how her greying hair had streaks of red in it. That red hair, along with her name, told Renault she was of Lycian extraction, like Varek—it seemed the superstition of “bountiful” redheads still persisted even two hundred years after Renault had crossed paths with another red-haired woman of who’d been given that name. There were many laugh lines near her clear green eyes, though, and her countenance seemed to radiant a benevolence and good humor which had been absent in the Meris of the Etrurian Civil War.

“Elimine’s blessings upon you, my brothers,” she said warmly. She turned her attention first to the merchant and asked, “Have you anything to sell?”

“Ah, yes,” said the merchant humbly, “Thank you, Mother. I’ve brought these you may be interested in…”

For the next few minutes, while Varek and Renault stood behind and watched patiently, the merchant and the abbess haggled good-naturedly over the prices of the respective goods each wanted. Eventually, the merchant handed over several reams of wool from the western parts of Bern, spools of fine Etrurian cloth, five hundred gold pieces, and as a personal present, a bottle of fine wine he had acquired in Sacae. In return, Abbess Meris gave him many of the crafts her nuns produced with such raw materials: Several fine, expensive-looking robes with gold threading that looked suitable for a noble, a rich purple cape that reminded Renault of the one Khyron used to wear, a quartet of thick grey traveling cloaks, a stack of wax candles, a pair of exquisitely carved wooden sculptures of Elimine, and, as a personal present to the merchant, a box full of tasty fruit pastries freshly baked from the abbey scullery.

Both sides were quite pleased with the transaction and left each other with a smile, the merchant hopping back on his wagon and setting off further north. At last, Meris was able to turn her attention to her other guests.

“My, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she chuckled. Her two younger servants, Renault noticed, were staring at him and Varek and blushing slightly. “That merchant is a good man, but you need to do a bit of convincing to really get the best out of him,” she said with a wink. “Might I ask who I have the honor of speaking to, and what I may be able to do for you?”

“No need to apologize,” Varek stepped forward and bowed courteously, then made the sign of the Church, which Meris reciprocated. “The two of us are travelers—me, I’m called by God on a pilgrimage, or at least I’d like to think I am. My companion…he’s not exactly a bodyguard, but he is here to help me however he can. I was given a quest from a man on his deathbed and told this place would hold clues on where to go next. My friend’s name is Renault, and mine is Varek.” He looked pointedly at Renault, who started, stammered, and then just bowed his head.

“Varek…” Meris repeated, almost unsure of what she was hearing at first. “Varek, you don’t mean…”

“Aye,” the hermit smiled, “That Varek. The one from the hermitage, the one who owes you for the herbalism manuals you were so kind to send a few months ago.”

Meris let out a delighted laugh, and her subordinates couldn’t keep themselves from breaking out into bashful giggles. The strange old hermit apparently had a degree of fame in this abbey. The Abbess herself rushed up to the friend she had previously known only through letters, but rather than wrapping him up in a hug she knelt and picked up the hem of his cassock, bringing it up to her lips and kissing it. Varek, in return, took one of her hands in both of his and bent down to kiss it, in what seemed to Renault to be a somewhat more chaste version of a knight kissing a lady’s hand. He remembered a young man…Serapino, yes, performing a similar display for his mother on the occasions he came to visit. The ritual seemed to be a modest way for two friends of the opposite gender who had both taken holy vows to show their affection for each other.

“Varek, I never thought I would have the fortune of meeting you in person.” Meris still couldn’t stop laughing, and the other two sisters were whispering excitedly to each other. “This is truly a blessed occasion!”

“I feel the same way, Mother.” Varek couldn’t keep himself from grinning, either. “Even the descriptions of this place couldn’t do it justice. You’re truly glorifyin’ God, here. I’m thankful that the sputtering candle of my faith could be relit by the bright torch of yours.”

“Ah, Varek, it’s the other way around—your letters have been a constant comfort to me; whenever I felt myself questioning my path and falling to the darkness, your words would lead me back to the light of God’s love. But it _is_ a surprise to see you here. You’d chosen the eremitic life, I know. Has something happened? It’s not unheard of for one’s vocation to be changed, but…” There was concern in her voice, now.

“No, nothing like that. As I said, I was called by God. I mentioned the dreams I was having in my last letter, didn’t I? I concluded they meant that God was telling me my time as a hermit was over, and that I had learned and grown as much as I could have from that way of life. God said it was time to begin a new leg of my spiritual journey, with a new companion too. That’s what brought us here.”

“I see.” Meris sounded somewhat relieved. “But you also mentioned a quest?”

“That I did. It was given to us by the Lord of House Varlago, Bern’s biggest banking house. It was his last request.”

“Lord Varlago? We recently received a very great donation from him…he said his time was coming. So he has returned to God, and his last wish was to send you here? I expect there is more to this story, and you would like to tell it privately. Please follow me.”

As she and her servants turned and entered the door to the rectangular structure—though this abbey was not a cathedral or church, it was called a nave as well—Renault and Varek did so. Inside, the floors were simple varnished wood and the walls were grey, with several similarly unadorned doors leading to the appendages Renault had noticed earlier. One of the doors was open, and when they passed it Renault saw it led to a small cell containing two small beds on either side of the window, and two chairs in front of a small table on the other side of the chamber.

“Those are the guest rooms,” Varek said to him quietly. “One of the purposes of an abbey like this is to serve as resting place for weary travelers.”

They then exited the door at the other end of the nave, entering the interior of the abbey proper. It looked as pleasant and peaceful on the inside as it did from the outside.

Generally, it was similar in layout to the monastery of Par Massino, though contained within circular walls rather than rectangular ones. On the east side of the compound were plots of land for farming, chicken coops, and an apothecary’s hut, on the west side were a granary, a library, the sculleries, dormitories, and a sort of workshop which, Varek said, contained many looms for the expert seamstresses here to work. To the north, there was a lovely little church built directly in front of the Abbess’ tower. After the nave—the long, rectangular entrance to the church which looked like a smaller version of the one Renault had passed through—there was a circular sanctuary which would contain the altar; behind that, it was easy to surmise, was the door to the main tower. In the center of the whole place stood a giant oak tree, one of the largest and healthiest Renault had ever seen. It seemed likely to him it served the same purpose as the smaller tree within the sanctuary of Zodian’s Rest—aside from providing shade and a place to rest for the nuns, it was also a commemoration of the tree under which Elimine lay when she was being tormented by God. Renault had never understood that before, but after reading the _Journey_ , he finally did.

They passed through the doors of the abbey’s church, past the rows of wooden pews which stood under the beautiful stained-glass windows, and then past the altar to the door which led to Meris’ personal tower. The church was a bit more decorated than Par Massino’s had been, perhaps because it served nuns rather than monks, or perhaps because Diotica was in a less isolated area than Par Massino. In any case, once they reached the door, the two nuns bowed respectfully and headed out of the church, and Meris, Varek, and Renault entered the tower by themselves.

The tower was three floors tall; the first was a simple meeting room and the third would be the Abbess’ personal chambers. They thus entered the stairwell in the back of the first floor and made for the second, which was Meris’ work chamber. There, Renault saw four chairs around a table in the center of the room, upon which lay several papers, scrolls of parchment, and a rosary. It was surrounded by bookshelves containing various works of theology and history along with reams of letters sent from all across Bern.

“All right, then” said Meris, as she took a seat at the table in front of Varek and Renault. “What was Varlago’s last request to you, Varek?”

Slowly and carefully, the hermit told Meris essentially the same things he’d told Renault when they set out from Bern: That he had once worked for Varlago and grown close to the man’s oldest son before all three of them had a falling out. Varlago called on him for a deathbed reconciliation, and Varek obliged, but Varlago hadn’t managed to tell his son, Juge, that he wanted to see him one more time. Thus, Varlago begged Varek to search for Juge, and handed him a letter to give to Juge which would tell him that his father still loved him and was sorry for everything. Juge had been absent for nearly 30 years, however, and Varlago’s agents had been unable to track him down. The only piece of evidence Varek had to go on was Meris’ letter to Varlago, which said that a man matching Juge’s description had donated Draconic books to the abbey several years ago to her predecessor.

“My,” said the Abbess, sitting back and taking a deep breath. “That’s quite a story, my friend, and a weighty quest, as well. We _might_ be able to help you, but I must be honest…I can’t be certain of it.”

Meris took one of the books from the table and opened it up, motioning for Renault and Varek to look as well. It was a diary—the diary of Abbess Lucita, who had overseen Diotica before old age forced her to hand things over to Meris. She flipped to about the middle of the diary, and this is what the entries said:

_4 th Pegasus, 930 A.S._

_Such a strange visitor we’ve received today! A young man showed up at our door, begging for refuge. We of course welcomed him, for Elimine commands us to open our arms for all, but we are also keeping a close eye on him to ensure he means no harm. He says his name is Jugo._

“Jugo, eh?” Varek chuckled. “Yes, it was probably Juge.”

_17th Wyvern , 930 A.S._

_Some strange men have come around recently, asking if we’ve seen a young man named Juge, and gave us a description matching that of our new visitor. We told them no and sent them on their way, but my suspicions are starting to deepen. I’ll have a talk with “Jugo” tomorrow._

_23 rd Wyvern, 942 A.S._

_Jugo told me his story and begged me to keep it secret. On the honor of the Rite of Contrition, it shall remain so, and I won’t repeat it here. Suffice it to say he is no threat to us and has good reason to hide here. I told him he may stay with us for as long as he likes._

The entries for the next few months were fairly mundane descriptions of daily life around the abbey. The only interesting things the previous Abbess noted were how Jugo spent most of his time studying in his room, and occasionally visited the library, but otherwise kept to himself, and how the abbey was visited once more by some strange men, but after they were told there was no “Juge” there, they left and were not seen since.

Finally, after about 5 months, Lucita wrote this:

_16 th Valkyrie, 930 A.S._

_Jugo left today. He said he had learned as much as he could here, and that he would continue his journey for knowledge, far from his family’s prying eyes. He thanked us for his hospitality and told us he would miss us. Truth be told, I think we will miss him as well. When asked where he was going, he demurred and simply said “not too far.” He even mentioned he might be back soon. As a gift to us, he offered us all the tomes he had been carrying with him. I’m sure they’ll make fine additions to our library._

Renault groaned. “Well, dammit! He left without saying where he was going? So much for our lead. We’ll never find him now!”

“Not so fast, Renault,” said Varek. Turning back to Meris, he asked, “Do you still have the books Juge donated?”

“We do.”

“Have you ever looked at them?”

“No.”

Varek looked somewhat surprised. “Why?”

Meris flipped forwards a few pages and pointed to one of the entries:

_7th Sun, 931 A.S._

_I’ve just taken a look at the books Jugo donated. About half seem to be texts written in Draconic on the nature of magic, but the other half are in Shadetongue! He seemed like such a kind and sincere person, but what could he have been doing with such terrible books? I can only hope our trust and hospitality had not been abused while this traveler worked some foul ritual within our midst. I’m certainly glad he’s gone, now! Oh, it would cause such a scandal if it were known our abbey harbored such a man. Perhaps I should burn them, but that might release any evil spirits they contained.  I shall, therefore, lock all these books up in the deepest parts of our library, never to be mentioned again. Elimine save us, and God forgive us!_

“That wasn’t much fair,” said Varek, unable to hide his disappoint. “Shadetongue is just a language, no more. They may have been able to learn something from those books.”

“Maybe so, but Abbess Lutica, may she rest in peace, was very fearful and suspicious of Dark magic. She wouldn’t tolerate anything even slightly related to it under any circumstances—she would have burned the books outright if she wasn’t afraid doing so would have released evil spirits!”

“But she didn’t, which is good for us. So I take it they’re still around somewhere?”

“Yes, in a locked chamber inside of the library basement.”

“Wait a second,” said Renault. “Why are we so worried about Juge’s books? How can they help us?”

“Juge loved to take notes in the margins of whatever he read, He’d just jot down whatever he was thinking of at the time—infuriated more than a few librarians, as I recall. If those books of his are still around, he might have written down where he planned to go next in his notes.” Varek blinked. “Regarding those, Lord Varlago said he also donated some books to you. Those likely have Juge’s notes written in them as well, if they were held by Varlago for over thirty years. May we look at them as well?”

“Of course. Though, I must note, none have been translated.” Meris sighed. “I am the only one here who can read Draconic, and I’m so busy keeping the abbey running, corresponding with other Bishops, and instructing the sisters that I have no time for translation.”

“Hmm…” Varek raised the brow of his one good eye. “Forgive us if this seems impertinent, but…blessed friend, both Renault and I are able to read Draconic. If you’d allow us, we’d both be happy to translate what Varlago donated. It would be a public service to the people of Elibe. In the past, Lord Varlago jealously horded his knowledge, but he has been converted and light of Elimine shone through his heart, by the end. I’m sure he would want us to bring the wisdom contained in those texts to the rest of the world, now that it’s too late for him to do it himself.”

“You would be willing?” Meris leaned back, delight evident in her expression. “You display kindness worthy of the Saint herself, dear brother. But Varlago gave us over a hundred books. It would be no small task.”

“Yeah, and we don’t have that sort of time,” added Renault. “Shouldn’t we try to figure out where Juge went as soon as possible? The longer we take, the farther he’ll get from us!”

“That’s true, Renault, but it’s already been thirty years,” Varek sighed. “All the haste in the world won’t do us much good, because it can’t turn back time. Even if our progress is leisurely, I doubt it’ll have much bearing on the success or failure of our quest.

“Secondly, while Lord Varlago’s charge is important, it’s not the only reason I left that hermitage. I think God told me I’ve prayed enough, and that it’s now time for me to give back to the world, to God’s people. If anyone asks me for help, I won’t refuse it if I’m able. That is the meaning of repentance, after all.”

 _It’s the sort of thing Braddock would have liked me to do_ , Renault thought to himself. “I…alright, I understand. I’ll help you too, Varek.”

“I’m certainly glad to receive your assistance as well, Renault,” said Meris, quite kindly. “But if I may…and forgive an old woman for asking…what association have you with Varek?”

“He…he’s my friend.” Renault shot Varek a look, begging for help, and the hermit sighed and obliged.

“Renault…Renault is a traveler I found outside my hermitage some time ago. I think I may have mentioned meeting someone new in one of my letters—I was speaking of him. He has led a…strange life, and used to be a soldier. But now he fervently wishes to follow the path of peace. In order to show him how a peaceful life is lived, I figured some time here—one of the most peaceful places I know of—would do him good. I suppose you could say he’s a disciple. Would you agree, Renault?”

The former mercenary nodded vociferously. “Yeah! That’s it exactly.”

“I see. That makes sense. But are you a member of Elimine’s flock, Renault?”

“I…” A few years ago, Renault would have said “no” without hesitation. But now…

“He is not a member of our Church.” Varek covered for him. “But he respects our faith, and he is trying—sincerely—to find a new path in life. I believe God called me to aid him in this task as well. He has never posed any threat to me, and won’t to you.”

“But I’m not a believer,” said Renault, and thought _by any standard, I’m a horrible sinner as well_. “Am I still allowed to stay here?”

 “Well, the doors of Diotica Abbey are open to all.” There was not a hint of judgment in Abbess Meris’ voice. “If my friend Varek is willing to vouch for you, you may stay as long as he does. I thank you both for your generosity, and I hope both of you find the answers you seek…as well as peace.” She stood up, still smiling. “Now, if your visit will be a long one, it would be good to acquaint yourselves with your new home! Allow me to show you around the abbey, if it please you.”

Even as she left the room, Renault didn’t get up immediately— only when Varek called him from the stairwell did rise with a stammered, “Oh, y-yeah!” He had been struck dumb, at least for a moment, by surprise, for he had not at all expected someone aside from Varek to accept him as Meris did.

Against all his prior experience, Renault was beginning to hope his time here might not be so bad.

-X-

Renault heard the sound of someone’s stomach growling. Embarrassed, he looked down before remembering his body no longer felt hunger. He then looked up, over the Draconic text in front of him, and saw Varek blushing slightly.

The hermit coughed. “I think it’s about time for some lunch. Don’t mind me, Renault, just keep up with the translation. I’ll be back soon.”

Renault nodded and went back to his translation as his mentor got up to head to the abbey’s kitchen. It took only a few moments for Renault to absorb himself in the reading again. While the language of these texts wasn’t extremely difficult, they weren’t easy, either. In the week he and Varek had been here, they had spent most of their time in the large (if not well lit—it was the afternoon but Renault was still working under the light of a candle) abbey library, but had only translated two of the manuscripts Varlago had donated, neither of which had been more than a hundred pages. Still, Renault wasn’t discouraged. Varek had told him they were in no rush, and he knew he’d get better and better at translating the more he worked at it; Meris had thoughtfully provided a pair of manuals of Draconic grammar, which both he and Varek consulted if they ran into problems. Even after just a week they were consulting it less and less. Finally, the reading itself was fairly engaging. The text Renault was translating now concerned architecture: It was a guide, of sorts, for Dragons on how best to erect their dwellings, and described the sorts of homes ice, wind, and thunder Dragons preferred.

Renault scribbled furiously on several pieces of parchment to the side with his black-ink-covered quill (a large but strangely shaped feather from a type of bird he’d never seen), all of which had been traded in by the merchant with whom he’d arrived, fortunately. He was so absorbed in his work it took him some time to notice that someone had been calling him—quite politely.

“Excuse me.” This was accompanied by a light rapping on one of the wooden bookshelves nearby.

“Hm?” Renault didn’t stop, instead continuing to write the last sentence of his translation so the ink on the quill would run out, rather than dribbling and creating a stain as it would have if he just halted abruptly. He then looked up to see Abbess Meris smiling at him kindly, and realized she’d been there for a little while.

“A-Abbess Meris! S, sorry, I didn’t notice you, I—“

“It’s quite alright. I should have been a bit louder, maybe, but I didn’t want to disturb you. The Saint certainly knows how much trouble it can cause a scribe if something startles him. A week’s worth of work, undone by a single spilled inkpot!”

“Yeah, definitely,” chuckled Renault. He’d known this woman for less than a week and he already felt comfortable around her—she very much deserved her position, he supposed. He was certainly appreciated her consideration. “So, what is it?”

“I wanted to talk to Varek about something. He’s not here?”

“Oh, he just went out for lunch. You should be able to find him in the refectory.”

“I see. Thank you.” Pausing, Meris asked, “You’re not joining him?”

“I, uh, I’m not hungry.”

“Truly? I’ve seen very little of you since you’ve been here, and I’ve not once seen you taking a meal. Are you sure you’re well, Renault? I certainly would not want to hear of someone starving within these walls. You’re not ill or anything, are you? Or perhaps the food we make here is not to your favor? I’m very sorry if—“

“No, no, nothing like that at all!” Unconsciously, Renault’s right hand slipped up to the phylactery hanging in front of his chest, gripping it to shield it from view. “I’m just…uh, a bit embarrassed about taking my meals. I, um, eat at strange times and I like to do it alone. That’s why you don’t see much of me.”

“Is that so?” Her voice grew a bit sterner. “You’re not eating anything in here, I presume? Librarian Magna will be _most_ upset if she hears of someone taking food into the library, and believe me, that’s not a sight you want to see!”

“Oh, no way! Er, Varek just brings me stuff in our room. I’m…sorry if it looks like I’m being a bad guest…”

Laxity returned to Meris’ voice. “In that case, there’s no reason to worry at all. The comfort of our guests is the most important thing, so feel free to eat however you like, even if it strikes the rest of us as a bit strange. We’ll get used to it. In any case, thank you, Renault. I’ll head to the refectory now.”

Renault nodded, but before he went back to his translation, he paused, then murmured, “Uh…one more thing.”

Meris turned back to him. “What is it?”

“Abbess…uh…Your Excellency, or…well, I just wanted to ask you something. But it’s a bit…weird, I guess. I’m sorry if it seems like I’m prying.”

“Well, ask it and I’ll decide. But you shouldn’t have much to worry about. Answering questions is part of my job, traveler.”

“Well, alright. Abbess, I…I want to understand this. What are you doing here?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I oversee the abbey. I guide the sisters in the faith, instructing them in the way of life Elimine wanted us to live, and I also train them in magic if they have the talent for it. I manage the donations, lead the congregation in prayer, and perform most of the other tasks one must to keep a cloistered community like this operational.”

“I understand that, thanks. But I was wondering about something a little different. I…maybe I put my question the wrong way. What I meant was, why is this abbey here? What’s it supposed to do? What’s the point of keeping yourselves cooped up in here?” Quickly, he added, “I-I’m not trying to be obnoxious. You’re a friend of Varek’s, and as far as I’m concerned, any friend of his is a friend of mine—that’s how much I respect him. And you’ve shown both of us such hospitality that I agree with his high opinion of you. But this sort of isolation…I can’t really understand it.”

“Well, Varek was a hermit. Didn’t he tell you that he preferred a quieter life?”

“He did, but I always chalked that up to his personality. He always told me he wasn’t…easy to get along with.”

This elicited a good-natured chuckle from Meris. “Well, that’s certainly true.”

“But that can’t be true for _all_ of you here, right? This isn’t a hermitage, and there are dozens of people here—Varek just lived by himself. And aren’t you financed by the church, and part of its hierarchy? You mentioned having a predecessor, which Varek didn’t—not in the same sense, at least. So I…I wanted to know just how this abbey functions, and what its place in society is. Why you’ve chosen to live like this, and what you hope to accomplish. I know it’s a strange, ambitious question, but…”

Meris shook her head and smiled. “Not at all, Renault. It’s a very good question, I understand. You’re right it’s not one easily answered, though. To do so would take…quite a bit of time. Renault, do you know much about the history of our Church?”

“N-no, not really. I’ve read _Elimine’s Journey_ , but aside from that…”

“I see. Well, you’ll have to understand the development of the Eliminean Church to understand why monasteries, nunneries, and abbeys such as this exist. Here is something that may help, though.” She disappeared into the shelves for a few moments, rummaging around for something, and then popped back out with four large tomes that each were as big as several of the manuscripts Renault was working on put together. She placed them on the table as Renault gawked.

“These volumes were completed just ten years ago. They are titled _950 Years Of Light: A History of Elimine’s Church_. It was written by the venerable logician Ocken—have you heard of him? If not, suffice it to say he is one of the wisest churchmen alive, at least in my estimation. He is also a historian, and this tome represents his crowning contribution to the profession.”

“D-do you expect me to read all of that?”

“Well, not all at once. But if you want to understand what we’re doing here, acquainting yourself with this history will give you a good foundation for doing so. After that, I—or Varek, for that matter—would be better able to help you with any questions you have.”

Renault sighed. “Alright. Well, I’ll take a look at it when I have the time. If I have the time, at least.”

Meris nodded and smiled, and turned to leave once again. As she did so, she was interrupted by Varek, just returning from his meal.

“Oh, Abbess. Are you doing some reading here as well?”

“No, I was actually looking for you!”

With a laugh, the two of them began their conversation. It turned out Meris had received a letter recently from Archishop Cortez asking for advice on dealing with a user of dark magic found practicing in one of Bern’s dioceses. He mentioned he wanted to ask Varek for advice but couldn’t get a hold of the hermit. Varek chuckled and told Meris to write the Archbishop a letter saying he was presently visiting Diotica, and that his advice would be to show the “aspiring” Shaman leniency, but encourage him to take his studies to Sacae or Ilia, where he might be able to find practitioners of the Dark arts to guide him. That form of magic, though useful, could be very dangerous in the hands of people who didn’t really know how to use it.

Meris laughed and thanked him, then headed off to her tower to begin writing the letter. Varek took his usual position across from Renault, then noticed the new tomes on the table. “Eh? What’s this?”

“Oh, the Abbess gave it to me,” Renault said. He repeated the conversation he’d had with the Abbess, and Varek nodded knowingly when he’d heard all of it.

“Meris’ as wise as ever, it seems. If you want to understand why our Church has places like nunneries and monasteries, along with all these different Orders, our history’s the best place to start. You also said you wanted to know why we have Synods and Archbishops and all that, before we left the hermitage. Well, this book’ll tell you that as well. As much of an accomplishment as reading the whole _Journey_ was, it’s not enough to truly understand our religion. Only by knowing history can you really get the full picture.”

Renault grinned. “Can’t that be said for most things? I never became a historian, but I liked the subject, and I’ve read enough to know how important it is. You can’t master politics, economics, strategy, or a lot of fields without a solid grounding in their history.”

Varek chuckled. “That’s certainly true. But it’s something that can wait, though. For now, let’s concentrate on our translations. You can get started on your history before we go to bed.”

That sounded fair enough to Renault. He and Varek continued to work for several more hours, each managing to finish up a few more of the Draconic papers. Afterwards, when it grew darker, and the light of their own candle was beginning to dim, they picked it up and made their way out of the library. Saying goodbye to the librarian (a woman who was actually much kinder than she looked) and several sisters they passed by, they made their way back to their room—one of the ten small chambers jutting from the compound’s nave. It was the lowest one on the east side, closest to the main doors. As they neared it, Renault heard a familiar sound—something he’d always heard at around this time whenever he came near.

It was a woman’s voice, praying fervently.

That wouldn’t have been out of place in an abbey, obviously, but what struck Renault as strange was its source. It came from the chamber directly next to his—a chamber whose door was always closed. He had never once seen it open, but he had noticed a sister slipping a tray of food under a flap on the bottom of the door on occasion. That made him somewhat suspicious.

“Hey, Varek,” he asked as the two of them entered their room.

“Hm?” The old hermit was kneeling on one of the room’s two beds, preparing to pray, while Renault took a seat in front of its work table.

“Who’s in the room next to ours? I keep hearing that lady’s voice, but she never comes out, not even to eat. Is she a prisoner or something?”

Varek chuckled. “No, not quite. Well…not exactly. She’s a prisoner…in a sense. A prisoner of faith.”

“A prisoner of faith?” Renault couldn’t hide his suspicion. “Did she do something wrong, or commit a crime? Or is she trapped here? Are they mistreating her?”

“No, no, Renault. Don’t be silly. She’s what we call a recluse.”

“What’s that?”

“Read Ocken’s book and you’ll find out. I have to start my prayers, now.”

Varek did, so Renault, somewhat grudgingly, lit the small candle on the desk and plopped Volume I of _950 Years of Light_ open in front of him.

Ocken may have been a logician, according to Meris and Varek, but he was a churchman first and foremost. It opened with a prayer, where the author begged the forgiveness of both the reader and God for any errors or omissions he may have made, claiming he only did the best he could with his limited abilities. Whatever truth he managed to convey, said Ocken, could only be credited to God and not him.

At this point, Renault wasn’t expecting much, believing what he’d read to be little more than propaganda. To his surprise, however, the book seemed to be not only comprehensive but honest as well. Ocken began with a frank description of his sources. He had apparently written these volumes at a feverish pace while traveling all over Elibe, and drew not only from the annals and archives of Eliminean bishops and royal princes, but also from journals and accounts written by military leaders and travelers from Ilia and Sacae, along with oral traditions and interviews from wise men in those regions. These would prove a counterbalance to the relatively weening accounts of Church history given by those who believed in or belonged to the Church.

Ocken’s narrative began immediately after the Scouring. Sources from this period were _extremely_ scarce and shrouded in myth, but it was possible to construct a basic outline of events by cross-referencing the records of the Church’s first Etrurian Bishops and _The Legend of Tages_ (a mostly-but-not-entirely-fictional story of Etruria’s first king) with several military diaries found in an archaeological dig in Lycia and stored within the archives of House Ostia.

Ocken dubbed the first century of the Church’s existence, up to approximately 103 A.S, as its “nascent period.” Up to that point, an “official” Church of Elimine—that is to say, an organized religious body with a well-defined hierarchy and set of doctrines—did not truly exist. Ocken, therefore, strove first to answer the question of how it came into being.

Following the Scouring, Saint Elimine and Theomus had traveled across Elibe for approximately 10 years (the relevant portions of _Elimine’s Journey_ were very vague about their timeframe and only a handful of accounts, including those from Tage’s court itself, survived) before the Saint ascended to heaven. Due to the miracles she had (ostensibly) performed, and certainly due to the followers she had accrued both during the war and afterwards, many people all across Elibe had flocked under her banner and joined her faith. The problem was, they were more often than not entirely unsure of what that faith was supposed to be. Many were unaware that it was based off of the old Imperial religion championed by Bernhart (since all the temples and their priests had been virtually eradicated by the Dragons), and some even began to worship Elimine as a Goddess. This was _exactly_ the opposite of what Elimine wanted, supposedly, so Theomus took it upon himself to rectify the people’s ignorance. He managed to piece together the main tenets of Imperial worship from scrolls he’d stolen from a temple during his days as a thief, and appended to those the _Testaments_ he’d recorded from Athos and Roland and written himself.

The effort of compiling this first edition of the _Journey_ took about five years, and Theomus spent the next fifty—the remainder of his life—spreading his new Gospel all across Elibe. That would be a near-impossible task for a single man, however. He thus sought the aid of King Tages; the ruler believed—correctly—that spreading a religion which encouraged peace and obedience (as well as literacy, since one had to be able to read the _Journey_ ) would make his job as a ruler much easier. Tages therefore assigned his most erudite and well-read soldiers, bureaucrats, and magicians (those who had survived the Scouring, at least) to the command of Theomus. They scribed copy after copy of the _Journey_ , and accompanied Theomus on his travels to distribute them as widely as possible. They also learned how to cast magic from staves and tomes of Light, to assist in healing and defending anyone in need they encountered.

Theomus’ entourage gained and lost members on a fairly constant basis, however. Whilst traveling through Etruria, they noticed the administration of the new towns and cities were often understaffed and encountered many problems in maintaining peace and order. Seeking to help, Theomus ordered several members of his troupe to reside permanently in the larger settlements, in order to assist the secular authorities by keeping records, healing the injured, encouraging cooperation among the citizenry, and generally performing the various clerical functions of the priesthood well-known even today. Theomus gave the name “dioceses” to their areas of administrative control, making them the first “Bishops.” These Bishops also taught the residents of their dioceses how to read and write, with their most apt pupils mastering the use of staves as well. These would become the first priests, and some of them joined Theomus’ entourage, while others continued to transcribe copies of the _Journey_ and then went on pilgrimages of their own, acting as missionaries wherever they went. Ocken noted that these men and women were the ancestors of the “mendicant orders” that the Church would recognize officially in the future, but that story would come later.

In this manner, Theomus created the foundations of what would later become an ecclesiastical hierarchy. The first men Tages lent him became the Bishops of cities like Aquleia and Thagaste. Their disciples accompanied Theomus to Bern, where they set up bishoprics in the capital and its surrounding towns. The disciples _they_ trained settled in Pherae, Kathelet, Caelin, and the other fortress-towns which would later become the semi-independent cantons of Lycia.

Theomus also attempted to plant Bishops among the people of Sacae, Ilia, and the Western Isles. He was successful, to an extent, but his religion never took hold in those regions the way it did in Etruria and Bern. Ocken laid the blame for this not on the people themselves but the “fractious” (in his words) nature of their societies. Islanders and Sacaens were organized into clans and tribes, respectively, that had fallen to quarreling with each other even before the Scouring had ended. While the people of Bern, Etruria, and Lycia were united under relatively powerful central authorities (though after Roland’s death, the Lycian cantons broke up), there was no king in Sacae or the Isles to put a stop to the incessant inter-tribal warfare. Many of Theomus’ bishops in these regions become involved with such conflicts (occasionally even squabbling with each other), which lowered their standing in the eyes of the general populace and made it much less likely anyone would accept their faith. In the case of Ilia, a pre-existing religion centered around native deities had already been well-established before the Scouring (Imperial authorities before Vadim IX were fairly tolerant of different religions) and Theomus was unable to make much headway against it, despite a degree of support from Barrigan, who had been converted by Elimine.

Ocken’s objectivity as a historian genuinely impressed Renault. For centuries, he had always associated the Eliminean faith with judgmentalism and hypocrisy; this assessment had only begun to change upon meeting Varek. Now, Ocken provided him with yet another example of a religious man who could nevertheless be tolerant and understanding of different points of view. He seemed to lay more blame for the Church’s failures (at least during this early period) at the feet of her disciples rather than the people they attempted to convert. Even his language was measured and considerate. Words like “heathen” and “infidel” never appeared in the text; Ocken preferred “non-believers” and “the unconverted.”

Meris’ recommendation had been worthy indeed, and Renault wanted to tell Varek about how much he was enjoying the reading. When he looked up, though, he noticed his candle was flickering out, and his roommate had gone to sleep some time ago. A yawn was enough to convince Renault that he ought to get some rest as well. He knew his praise could wait until tomorrow, after all, and thus enjoyed a relatively peaceful slumber.

He saw Braddock again, in his dreams. But this time, his friend didn’t seem as far away.

-X-

And so it went, for about half a year. Renault and Varek would spend the day in the library, slowly working through the Draconic texts they’d been assigned to translate, and then study Ocken’s history throughout the night, until they went to bed. It was extremely engaging reading, and Renault found himself devouring all the volumes Ocken had written as quickly as he’d burned through _Elimine’s Journey_ itself. Varek was happy to answer any questions Renault had, and on occasion, if he couldn’t answer them, Abbess Meris could.

Theomus was only human, Renault read, and by 67 A.S realized his life was coming to an end. He died in his homeland of Etruria, and was interred within the Tower of the Saint, where Elimine had ascended. Before he died, he organized a council of all the Bishops in Elibe—the wisest of all his followers, dubbed the First Ecumenical Synod—to create a “second edition” of Elimine’s _Journey_. Correcting what they saw to be errors in the text, adding several more sections they had unearthed during their travels (most notably the _Adorations_ ), and appending a selection of Theomus’ letters which became the _Epistles_ , they successfully created the complete, comprehensive version of _Elimine’s Journey_. That was the book Renault had read at Varek’s hermitage, and it was the emblem of the Eliminean faith, having survived virtually unchanged for over nine centuries.

Despite this accomplishment, the growing religion was beset by organizational problems and wracked with internal dissent. Theomus died after the First Synod had concluded, and almost immediately afterwards his disciples had fell to bickering amongst themselves. They may have been united in constructing a definitive version of their holy text, but they differed vociferously in its interpretation. The next 46 years, up to 103, were marked by a near constant war of words among the bishops. They feuded over the extent to which the dictates given in the _Chronicles of the Empire_ were to be overruled by those given by Elimine (particularly in regards to diet and food), debated the amount of secular power Bishops should be allowed to wield, the nature of Elimine’s “divinity,” and a bewildering array of other esoteric theological nitpicks Renault couldn’t keep track of. In many cases, these wars of words became _literal_ wars. Bishops were growing fat and greedy on the increasing worldly power they enjoyed as more and more people flocked to the Eliminean faith—and put their money into the collection plates which fed the Bishops’ coffers. The churchmen began to hire mercenaries and assassins to “take care of” other bishops or even nobles and merchants outside of the Church they disliked. Their un-Godly behavior contributed to the political instability of post-Scouring Elibe; the first war between Bern and Etruria in 86 A.S was partially caused by a Bernese bishop’s attempted assassination of an Etrurian one.

No-one on Elibe wished humans would spill one another’s blood after they had been nearly eradicated by the Dragons—did not Elimine herself call for peace between all men? It became apparent that the Eliminean faith would have to reform or it would end up destroying itself—and likely take much of Elibe with it. The conclusion of the first Bern-Etruria war in 93 A.S hammered this point home.

Etruria emerged victorious from the bloody conflict, largely due to the interference of bishops in both countries. Despite the Bernese clergy’s attempted assassinations of their Etrurian fellows, they realized their fortunes were tied more closely with that of Elimine’s homeland than their own, or at least they were convinced of that after the son of Tages II surreptitiously sent many of them generous bribes. The Eliminean faith proved particularly appealing to the Bernese people, and Bernese Bishops levied their growing influence to hamper their country’s war effort. Even so, Bern fought well, and the war concluded with _both_ sides gaining territory; a peace brokered by the Bishops resulted in them taking many pieces of land from Sacae and a “donation” from Lycia. It had come at a steep cost, though: Riots had broken out in many cities in Bern, and several bishops themselves had died in the struggles. On the Etrurian side, the Bishops of Thagaste and the growing town of Vinland had tried to assassinate _each other_ , and all-out war between the personal armies of mercenaries they’d accrued was only averted when Gelm (son of Tages II and grandson of Tages) threatened to send his own army against both. It was obvious to all that things had to change.

Thus, ten years after the war had ended (after which a series of smaller religious conflicts between Bishops in the newly-independent Lycian cantons added more encouragement), Gelm asked the most influential Etrurian bishops to convene a second Ecumenical Synod in order to squelch the never-ending strife among the clergy. Those Bishops obeyed—grudgingly—because they realized they had no choice.

The Second Ecumenical Synod of 103 A.S essentially created the Church of Elimine in its modern form. Every single Bishop in Elibe—some appointed by Theomus himself, others appointed by those, and others appointed by disciples of disciples—convened within the Grand Narthex of the Tower of the Saint. There they would stay for over a full year, painstakingly hammering out every last detail of church organization and theological disputation they could, all in order to save Elimine’s faith from her faithful.

Renault skimmed the theological debates. He found their minutiae uninteresting; the most important thing was that the Second Synod forced every Bishop—and thus, everyone who wanted to consider themselves faith to Elimine—to accept certain dogmas as indisputably true. One was that Elimine was not a “Goddess” in and of herself but a “Divine Saint” to whom God had directly given a small portion of His power. Another was that any passages in earlier parts of the _Journey_ which seemed to contradict Elimine’s words would be considered “abrogated” or “fulfilled” by Elimine. Most important was the declaration—which seemed to have been made under pressure from the kings of both Bern and Etruria—that the Bishops would “aid, to the best of their ability, the princes of the world in governance, and never work against a just secular authority.”

The Second Synod would not be the last word in matters of theology; over the centuries the Church would convene twelve more (for a total of fourteen by the time Ocken was writing) to clarify other points of exegetical and episcopal dispute. Even so, its theological wrangling succeeded in formulating a set of beliefs virtually all the attending Bishops could agree upon, and which were also appealing to most of their followers, ensuring their religion would continue to grow in the years to come. Renault could appreciate their accomplishment, but he couldn’t get overly excited about it. More interesting, in his view, was the construction of an official hierarchy by the Second Synod.

In order to halt the increasingly violent feuds between Bishops, the Synod determined that a small, elite governing body of religious matters should be set up in each country. These bodies would have the power to arbitrate disputes between Bishops and reprimand or remove those who weren’t doing their duties or who cleaved from official Church doctrine as laid out by the Synod (their powers would increase as time passed and more Synods were held). Their members would be elected from among the Bishops of each country themselves, so that anyone who wanted the authority of Archbishop, as this position was called, would have to accrue the support of at least a plurality of the clerics they wished to rule. Such a system would also have the advantage of encouraging bishops to put their money and influence into winning elections as opposed to assassinating each other. The Archbishops would also take a vow of chastity (the first time the concept of “vows” appeared in Eliminean dogma, though a later Synod would permit them for the lower hierarchy and laypeople) and forbid themselves from getting married and having children. This was due to the fact that they were elected rather than appointed like Bishops and Priests. While it made sense for a Bishop or Priest’s child to follow their parent’s vocation (which, given the services they provided as both public servants and healers, was a profession as well), the Synod determined that hereditary Archbishops would be seen as competitors to the royal houses, and also that they should be chosen for exceptional virtue and wisdom rather than familial connections (of course, many Archbishops flouted those rules, particularly Gosterro in the early 700s). There would be eight of them for each country (to commemorate the Eight Heroes), and as a single body they would be called that country’s “Head Church.”

All of those “Head Churches” were claimed to be equal, but it was obvious from the start that the Head Church of Etruria would be preeminent among them, due to the strength of the Etrurian state and the number of believers it contained. Future Synods would clarify the relationship Etruria’s Head Church had to the others, but while the Eliminean Church as a whole would uphold a pretense of equality among the Head Churches, within fifty years both laymen and the clergy themselves referred to the “Supreme Church” of Etruria.

Ever since reading _Elimine’s Journey,_ Renault had always wondered how the elaborate Church hierarchy had came into being, and now, at last, he had his answer. Such ecclesiastical organization may not have been what Elimine intended, given how she preached of the equality of all mankind, but some form of hierarchy was necessary for the Church in order to keep it from slipping into anarchy and tearing itself apart in conflicts between congregations and their bishops. Though both the people and the episcopate did not embrace the changes immediately or wholeheartedly, the reforms did serve their intended purpose, for the most part. Archbishops were elected in Bern, Etruria, and Lycia (the other countries not yet having enough faithful to justify setting up Head Churches), and they promptly clamped down on the constant feuding among their subordinates. They were also successful in rooting out deviations from the Second Synod’s orthodoxy (termed “heresy”) and ensuring both bishops and priests were qualified for their positions, increasing the stature of the Church in the eyes of the people and thus encouraging even more to embrace the faith. The first volume of _950 Years of Light_ ended on a positive note: Ocken claimed that by 200 A.S., “The Church was at last secure.”

It took Renault about two months to finish this first volume—he and Varek had to spend so much of their time translating. Though it had answered many of his questions, it hadn’t taken care of all of them, and it also left him with another very important one. Fortunately, his new best friend could answer that.

“Varek,” he asked, on the chilly night of the Fifth Sage, 959 A.S, just as he’d finished reading.

“Hm?”

“Can I tell you something?”

He chuckled. “When have I ever forbidden you from doing so?”

Renault smiled self-consciously. “It’s not really something I can convey in just a few words, though. It’s more…well, a lot more involved.”

“It’s not too late yet. I’d say we have another hour before it’s time to sleep. Out with it, lad.”

“Well…” Renault straightened up in his seat, so he could get a better look at Varek, sitting on his bed in their small room as he usually did. “I don’t want to insult your faith—we both know I’m beyond that. And after reading Ocken’s history, I don’t think I can just dismiss all the challenges the Church had to overcome. But even so…I still can’t believe. In fact, this book’s just reinforced one of my reasons for not doing so.”

“And what reason would that be?” There was no judgment in Varek’s voice, just curiosity.

“The Church’s corruption,” replied Renault, and his voice grew cold and hard. “Braddock…my best friend died because of it.”

Varek said nothing, simply motioning for Renault to go on.

“He died because G—an…a powerful authority in the church allowed a criminal to take refuge in one of his monasteries. My friend died trying to bring him to justice. If that churchman had just handed the criminal over to us, Braddock might have lived, and…everything would’ve been different. But that…criminal…was useful, and the churchman kept him around to satiate his own greed. And everything, everything that happened to me was because of that…”

“I’m sorry,” said Varek quietly. “Whoever that churchman was, he was a disgrace to my religion. I’ve met a few like him in my time, and they _disgust_ me. Vipers in white vestments, all of them.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. It makes me feel all better,” Renault sneered, and then, hearing himself, stopped and shook his head. He realized he was reverting back to his old patterns of behavior—the ones Braddock disapproved of. “No, no, that’s not right. I’m sorry, Varek, I was being stupid again. It wasn’t your fault, and I had no right to take a shot at you like that.”

“Apology accepted, Renault. Not as if I can entirely blame you, either. Whenever I hear stories about the Church’s corruption, it gives me half a mind to leave her. Saint’s blessin’s, one of the reasons I became a hermit in the first place was that I didn’t get on too well with the hierarchy! When I was stayin’ with the churchman after leaving Varlago, I had some nasty run-ins with his superior. I won’t speak ill of a man behind is back, but it was enough to turn me to the mendicant life in Sacae.”

“So then how can you still believe?!” Renault burst out, his voice rising—it was fortunate there were no other guests in this section of the compound, except for perhaps the recluse. “Just look at everything Ocken’s written. Corruption isn’t some rare thing in the Church, or something that’s happened recently—it’s been there almost from the start! Look at all these Bishops killing each other and whoring out their religion! Even after the Second Synod, it didn’t stop, it just wasn’t as obvious! How can you possibly support an institution that’s been so corrupt for so long?”

Varek didn’t respond at first—he gave the emotionally-volatile Renault a few moments to calm down and catch his breath. At last, he said, calmly, “As usual, that’s a good question, Renault. A _very_ good question. But—and you ought to be used to this by now, lad—let me ask you a question of my own.”

“Go ahead.”

“Renault…would you say your friend Braddock was perfect?”

“Huh? What kind of question is that?” Renault hadn’t the faintest idea of what to make of it.

“Just humor me for a bit. Was he completely flawless? Had he never committed a crime of any sort?”

“I mean…he was great!” Renault grew somewhat angry and defensive. “He was intelligent, loyal, kind…everything you could want. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him!”

“He was still human, though. There had to be some mistakes he’d made at some point in his life.”

“Well…” Renault couldn’t argue with that, at least not honestly. He remembered Braddock telling him the true story behind his life—the fact that he had been born Maxim, prince of Ostia. He’d murdered an innocent man and sparked a devastating civil war in Lycia, though the villain Paptimus had manipulated him into doing it. Even so, he himself admitted that didn’t exculpate him. “Yeah, Braddock made some mistakes…some…very big mistakes. They hurt a lot of people…but it wasn’t his fault, a-at least, not entirely! He was still a good man!”

“Of course, Renault. I wasn’t trying to deny that. But if Braddock could still be a good man, even if he made mistakes that harmed many, couldn’t I feel the same way about my Church?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll be the first to admit the Eliminean Church—and its representatives—have been responsible for a lot of evil in the world. But you also have to admit it’s done a lot of good, Renault. Re-read what Ocken wrote. Many Bishops were venal and vicious, but many others were honest, upright men and women who brought prosperity to their dioceses. They spread literacy, fed the hungry, healed the wounded, and ministered to the sick. In many parts of Etruria and Bern, support from the Bishops kept the nobles from being overwhelmed and saved their governments from collapsing.”

“I…I guess that’s true, but what does that have to do with Braddock?”

“Well, why did you stay loyal to him even if he wasn’t perfect? Because the good he did, or at least, was capable of doing, outweighed whatever flaws he had and whatever sins he’d committed. And that’s the exact reason I stay loyal to the Church: I think the good she’s done, and is capable of doing, outweigh her flaws and her sins.”

“Does that mean you’re just going to overlook all the crimes committed in the name of your religion, Varek?”

“Not at all. Exactly the opposite, in fact. Renault, don’t you think it’s possible to love someone even when you realize they’ve done a lot of wrong? Indeed, _because_ you love them, you’re determined to set them back on the right path, to _reform_ them instead of destroying them or abandoning them.”

“I’d hope that’s what Braddock would feel about me,” Renault admitted.

“Well then, you can understand my feelings for the Church. As angry as dissolute priests and greedy bishops make me, they _don’t_ make me want to leave my religion. What they make me want to do is punish them, guarantee they can never hurt anyone else again…and then work to improve the Church from the inside, to make it less likely such vipers can ever fool her in the future, and to ensure that she keeps doing even more good while committing even less evil.

“I may just be one man—I’ll certainly never be able to root out every bit of corruption in the Church by myself. But I can do what I can, and I’m happier doing it than just abandoning what I believe in. That’s how old Ocken feels, too, along with Meris. By laying bare the problems and failures of our religion, we can correct them and make it better. That’s the best way of showing fidelity to Elimine’s teachings, and love for her God, that I can think of.”

“I understand your reasoning,” said Renault. “I have to admit, you’ve beaten me again. I’d never thought of it like that before, but if you love the Church like I love Braddock, I guess I can’t call you too much of a fool.” They both shared a laugh at that. “But even so…the Church has a _lot_ to answer for. Braddock was just one guy, and his crimes…well, they were bad, but I already told you they weren’t his fault. It’s a long story, but just take my word for it. On the other hand, it seems to me that the Church’s corruption is _systemic_. There were so many corrupt bishops, and so much bloodshed because of them. I can understand that a larger institution can do more good _and_ more bad than one guy like Braddock, but the Church just seems…well, more _rotten_ than he ever was. It doesn’t seem to be as inherently good as Braddock was, especially when you compare it to the sort religion Elimine envisioned, at least according to the _Journey_.”

“Perhaps so, but that’s to be expected when we shift from individuals to organizations. Let me use another analogy, Renault. You know a bit about politics and governance, right?”

“Eh? Well, a bit…”

“And you’ve run into your fair share of corrupt governments and politicians, haven’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, a degree…no, not just a degree, a _lot_ of corruption and immorality is pretty much inevitable for any large institution,” continued Varek. “What’s true for government is true for churches as well. Renault, surely you’ve encountered crooked, incompetent, and outright immoral secular rulers, haven’t you?”

He thought of the incompetent Galahad of Etruria and the merciless Lundgren of Caelin. “Yeah.”

“But even if you can think of bad individuals, or even generally corrupt governments, does that mean the institutions of governance should be overthrown?”

“Well, no. Then we’d have anarchy, which would be just as bad.”

“So then what d’you think a good solution to the problem would be?”

“Reforming those governments, cleaning up their corruption, and getting good people to the levers of power. That’s the sort of action Braddock would take, and…” Renault trailed off when he remembered what Varek had said about “reforming the Church from the inside.”

Varek smiled. “Do you see now? I understand it’s harder to love imperfect institutions than imperfect people. But if you can look at corrupt secular institutions and still believe in government, you can look at corrupt religious institutions and still have faith.”

“I see now. Th…thanks, Varek.” It wasn’t much of an acknowledgment, but the tone of Renault’s voice indicated just how much of an impact the hermit’s argument had made. Renault’s loathing of Eliminism had been sustained for two centuries by two sources: Theodicy and the role of the Church in his friend’s death. Varek had already shown him a solution to the problem of evil, and now he’d convinced Renault that while corruption within the Church may have caused Braddock’s death, that didn’t necessarily mean the Church itself—or what it stood for—were responsible.

From that point on, Renault would never criticize the Church as harshly as he used to—though it would be some time yet before he embraced it himself. At the moment, however, Varek was just happy to see that his message had sunk in. He encouraged his disciple to get some rest, and Renault heartily agreed. Aside from the work they had to do tomorrow, a good night’s sleep would allow the ideas running through Renault’s head to settle.

-x-

The next three volumes of _950 Years of Light_ were as engaging as the first. They certainly were more consistently absorbing than the texts Renault translated during the day. Those were mostly dry treatises on what would today be considered “natural philosophy.” Renault didn’t know why, but whichever Dragon had commissioned the series of texts Varlago had donated had been obsessed with flowers. Since he found horticulture boring, Renault therefore looked towards his nightly studies with a decent degree of eagerness.

(He couldn’t know it at the time, but his translations of the “Flower-Loving Dragon’s Journals” would later help a monk figure out the mysteries of the heredity of traits)

According to Volume 2, the Second Synod did its job very well—the Church grew and expanded in both worshippers and wealth over the next two centuries of relative peace. Great cathedrals were built, schools for the training of clergy were founded, and the Church soon enjoyed the genuine support of the vast majority of the population in both Etruria and Bern (though the noble houses of the latter remained suspicious of religion). As a result of this growth, however, the Church required a symbol that would be recognized all over Elibe. It also needed even more clarification and enunciation of “proper” and “official”—the word “orthodox” began to be used in this period.

The Third Ecumenical Synod was held (in the Grand Narthex, as usual) in 168. There, the gathered Bishops and Archbishops (all following the lead of the eight Etrurians, of course) selected a sigil which would represent their Church everywhere. Many such symbols were already in use by the common people all across Elibe at this point, but the Archbishops found it prudent to select one so as to avoid confusion. They settled upon the most popular—a circle almost intersected by a single straight line. Aside from being simple and easy to remember, it also commemorated several important events of _Elimine’s Journey_ —first, Elimine’s miraculous recovery from the diseases God sent to her under a tree as the sun began to rise, and her final ascension to Heaven as the sun also rose behind the Tower of the Saint. The symbol thus became known as the Eliminean Tower, Small Tower, or, most commonly, “Sun Tower.”

Not long after, a Fourth Synod was held in 189. At this conference, the Archbishops laid down a set of “proper actions” Elimineans had to follow in addition to the dogmas proclaimed by the Second Synod. It was no longer enough to believe the proper things—it was now necessary to practice those beliefs.

First, the Synod proclaimed there were 8 virtues Elimineans should be expected to uphold throughout their lives. These virtues could be found all throughout the text of the _Journey_ , but were exemplified by the Eight Heroes themselves. They were Faith, Love, Charity, Patience, Mercy, Fidelity, Courage, and Temperance. While upholding these virtues would affect one’s behavior in the course of one’s life, they were somewhat vague. The Synod, therefore, also created a set of more tangible actions Elimineans were expected to perform on a regular basis. These actions, or rituals, were called “Rites,” and they would form the backbone of Eliminean practice up to the present day.

The first was the Rite of New Life, where a qualified priest or Bishop would sprinkle some holy water over a newborn baby’s head while reciting certain verses from the _Journey_ , representing God’s blessings to the child. The second was the Rite of Ascension, where a youth 18 years of age would be anointed with water a second time and verbally proclaim his or her belief in the teachings of Elimine. Renault remembered skipping this ceremony when it was time for him, infuriating his mother, and felt a rush of shame at the memory. The third Rite was that of Marriage, where a man and woman would exchange a pair of rings. They would be joined together as Tagar and his wife, and Elimine and Ryhart, with a qualified member of the clergy again anointing them both with holy water and reciting passages from the _Adorations_ , to express God’s blessings of their union and pray for their happiness together. The “qualified” part of “qualified member of the clergy” was beginning to grow into a concern, so the next Rite declared by the Synod was that of Ordination. Essentially, it meant that no-one could consider themselves an official member of the Church’s hierarchy until a Bishop had tested them and found them worthy, or “ordained” them. The Bishop would then perform a formal ceremony (sprinkling water upon them as well) and present them with a certain garment: a colored sash for male Priests or scarf for female Clerics (a commemoration of the scarf Elimine wore, though theirs could be colors besides Elimine’s purple) and a Sun Tower medal. When a Cleric or Priest was found wise and worthy enough, an Archbishop could promote them to a Bishop, enhancing their magical abilities with a special “Ring of Guidance” and bestowing upon them a distinctive miter and crozier. These rituals had the double advantage of making it easier to catch charlatans and frauds who pretended to be representatives of the Church, and making its true representatives stand out, increasing their respect among the people.

The last three Rites were those of Death, Mass, and Confession (also called Contrition). When a believer was on their deathbed, a priest would sprinkle water over their entire body and recite a set of chants as well as selections from the _Journey_ , as had been done during the Rites of Birth, Matrimony, and Ascension. These would be the communicant’s final blessings: As the water purified and blessed them during the most important stages of their life, so it would bless them as they prepared to give up their lives. If a priest could not be found in time, the ritual could also be performed soon after death. The body would then be buried, as the Synod determined that other forms of interment, such as cremation, might be hazardous the soul’s well-being and thus discouraged except in times of war or to guard against plagues.

Mass and Confession, on the other hand, were required to be held constantly, every week, rather than just at certain points of one’s life. During Mass, all the believers within a certain area—a subdivision of a diocese called a parish—would congregate on the holiest day of the week (the day God created the Sun in _The Beginning_ , or Sunday) in a church run by an ordained priest or cleric (or, if they were wealthy, the seat of the entire diocese—the cathedral of the Bishop or even Archbishop, for the residents of Aquleia, Bern City, and Ostia). There, they would listen to a sermon from the Church’s representative, on a subject deemed by the Synod to be “morally enriching and spiritually inspiring.” Then, on occasion, they would sing “hymns,” or holy music (the nature and composition of such songs was also determined by this Synod, but Renault knew little of music theory and skimmed those parts). A collection plate would then be passed around for believers to donate whatever they could to the Church. Then they would line up before the altar, where the presiding clergy would give them a small piece of bread and a drink from a cup of milk (or purified holy water, where none was available). This would commemorate Elimine feeding the masses in Sacae; the bread and drink also represented God’s sustenance and unlimited compassion, so partaking of them would remind the parishioners to be grateful to God.

This, by the way, was an aspect of Eliminean worship Renault was not only reading about, but experiencing—though not directly. He was not a believer (yet), so he was not allowed to partake of Mass or Confession. But he and Varek were sometimes allowed to watch the Sunday ritual. As a child, he would have found it to be a humiliating chore. Now, however, watching the women filter into the pews, listening to a soothing sermon from Abbess Meris, and looking at them munch on the bread she distributed and gulping down the glasses of water (or occasionally milk), filled him with a sense of peace.

Braddock would have liked these women. He was sure of it.

Both he and Renault probably could have used the last Rite as well—that of Contrition And Confession. Every week—typically on Saturdays, though this was not an absolute requirement--believers would be required to sit down with their priest, cleric, or Bishop (for nobles) to discuss, or “Confess” the sins they had committed and what they could do to make up for them. This typically took place in a small booth called a “Confessional,” though any private place could serve. There, the guilty would say, “God, my Lord, I have sinned, and now I repent. I’ve transgressed against my fellow man, and ask for Your forgiveness as well as theirs.” They would then describe what they did. The clergy would then recommend apologies for small crimes, reparations (along with a donation to the Church) for things like theft or property damage, or turning oneself in to the authorities for serious crimes such as murder, rape, or fraud. However, all of these could only be performed by the guilty party themselves, as the clergy was sworn under the “Seal of Confession” to never reveal what their parishioners spoke of. When the ritual was complete, the priest or cleric would then place a hand on the parishioner’s head and say, “I have received your penance. If the Creator is to accept it, let the path of your heart change as well.” This would clear away the parishioner’s sins—if they were sincere in their contrition and actually did make the proper amends, of course. In the case of very small sins, like swearing, individual laymen could just say the “Rite of Contrition” out loud and that would suffice.

The Church would further reinforce the power of its hierarchy with its Fifth Synod, held in 272. During this time, the popularity and growth of the Eliminean religion had continued to give rise to many different ways of worship and practicing the faith, but now that a formal dogma had been revealed to the community of believers as a whole, these offshoots of belief didn’t diverge from orthodoxy enough for the Church to consider them a threat. A missionary to Nabata named Valdine took it upon himself to research one of these offshoots in 250 A.S (Varek had told Renault about this some time ago) and a few years later published a report of his findings. Both he and his colleagues were so impressed by the piety of the Nabatan community that they decided to formally incorporate their beliefs and practice into Church dogma. The Fifth Synod inaugurated new ways of life for Elimineans: Monasticism and Eremitism.

Renault had long wondered why Abbess Meris—and others he had met in his travels—had decided to live such cloistered lives. That question, indeed, had been why he’d first received these volumes in the first place. And now, at last, he had an answer. As it grew, the Church absorbed many different types of people into its fold, with many differing sorts of personalities and interests. Some never quite fit into the larger societies of (relatively) urban countries like Etruria or Bern, or weren’t suited for an agricultural way of life. Such people were often introverted, studious, quiet, or simply disliked being around others.

Valdine’s Nabatan community had been composed of such people. Tired of the busy life of the world, they embraced solitude, choosing to close themselves off to the outside as much as possible and lived almost completely self-sufficient lives, dedicating themselves to prayer and contemplation. The Church realized that such a way of life was spiritually enriching and valuable to the faith on its own, and also provided an opportunity for introverts, eccentrics, or anyone who didn’t fit in with secular life to do something productive rather than just being ejected from their societies. The Fifth Synod thus authorized the construction of communities such as this, which would be called “monasteries” or “abbeys” in all of its dioceses, so that way of life would be spread far from Nabata. Valdine wrote a guide for living in such monasteries, dictating how they should be organized. An Archbishop would personally ordain an overseer called an “Abbot” or “Abbess,” with the rank and powers of a Bishop, who would command the monastery as a whole and guide and care for the monks or nuns living there, who were called “Brothers” or “Sisters.” Valdine also described when to engage in prayer, how the Abbot or Abbess and the other believers should behave, and what connections they should have to the outside world (monks were encouraged to provide services such as translation and transcription and nuns to grow food in their personal gardens to donate to charity). This guide was called the _Rule of Valdine_ , and its adherents were called Valdinians. They were the first and oldest monastic order of the Eliminean Church, and still existed today.

The _Rule_ also noted that some believers were _extremely_ introverted, and provided instructions for them as well. Such people were called “hermits,” “eremites,” or “recluses,” and were encouraged to live lives of complete isolation (even more so than monks or nuns, who lived in cloistered communities) or completely itinerant ones, moving from place to place and preaching the word of Elimine (these were called mendicants). When asked, Varek told Renault that he had indeed chosen the Valdinian path of eremitism.

Finally, the Church also declared specific ways to pray, inspired by the prayers of the Nabatan community. Those were what Varek said every morning, afternoon, and night, and even non-monks or hermits were encouraged to recite them on a regular basis. Productions of rosaries—the special necklaces with the Sun Tower emblem attached to them—was begun in Etruria, Bern, and Lycia, and within a few years such rosaries had become synonymous with the Church all over Elibe.

The next three hundred years of Elibean history were marked by a degree of political unrest; while new (or re-discovered) technologies (such as the use of fertilizer and more advanced methods of irrigation) allowed both food production and population to rise, there were a series of small wars between Lycia, Bern, and Etruria, capped with a war between Bern and Ilia (caused by the role of its mercenaries in the previous conflicts). The Church at first tried to keep its distance from such conflicts, having learned by the Second Synod the problems that meddling in wordly affairs could cause. Thus, its Sixth Synod, held in 330, was concerned with the creation of another monastic order: the Nessarites, named after an abbot named Nessarion who had originally been a Valdinian. He wanted to set up a monastery in Illia, but as that region did not yet have enough believers for Archbishops or a Head Church to be commissioned, he could find no Archbishops willing to bless a new monastery. The Sixth Synod therefore approved the Nessarite monastic order, which, unlike the Valdinians, would not rely on Archbishops for the approval and creation of their monasteries and which would thus possess a measure of independence—though they would be subject to oversight from traveling priests who would drop by occasionally.

The Seventh Synod, held 348 years later, was the first to provide a formalized method of Church discipline. Before, Archbishops could “condemn” or “remonstrate” clergy or laymen for behaving inappropriately, but now they decided on a process of “excommunication.” Any believer who had committed a sin known to their priest, cleric, or Bishop but refused to repent (either through not making Confession weekly, or not following the penance prescribed there) could be excommunicated—expelled from the assembly of believers and forbidden to even enter a Church or other holy area. Priests and Bishops could also be excommunicated for advancing doctrines which conflicted with either the _Journey_ itself or approved Church orthodoxy, as expressed in the Synods, or breaking the Seal of Confession. Only be petitioning the Head Church of whatever region they lived in and expressing sincere contrition could the stigma of excommunication be lifted. The Head Church of Etruria was also given the power to excommunicate the Archbishops of the other Head Churches.

While this helped curb some of the conflicts within the Church which had begun to reappear following the Third Synod, it wouldn’t keep worldly affairs from intruding upon religious ones forever. The Bern-Ilia war had been particularly brutal; though the Church was officially neutral in the matter (and covertly supported Bern against the largely-heathen Illians), both Etruria and Lycia lent diplomatic support to Illia and put economic pressure on Bern, which combined with the harsh Illian winter and the skill of their Pegasus Knights resulted in a Bernese defeat. To say Bern was a sore loser would have been an understatement; in the closing days of the war their troops massacred the inhabitants of two villages and went on sprees of rape and plunder in many more. In 463, the Church convened a Synod—and demanded the presence of nobles from Bern, Etruria, and Lycia, the only time in its history they attended—to forbid such abhorrent behavior. The clergy demanded a code of conduct be imposed upon all military men (and women) sworn to royalty. The nobles were reluctant to do this, but faced with the threat of the Archbishops fomenting rebellion if they refused (common people had long been mistreated by soldiers in all three countries and were on the verge of revolt), finally agreed on a code of “Chivalry.” The professional, landed warriors of each country—that is to say, the knights, barons, and counts who served the Kings—would swear more than loyalty to their lords. They would promise to defend the weak, fight fairly and honorably, treat prisoners well, and to never harm civilians or rape women (even Illian Pegasus Knights, who were viewed as subhuman by not only Bern but Etruria as well).

These were the vows of chivalry Renault, during his years as a mercenary, had heard from people like Wallace—but had never sworn himself. Since they applied only to those who were directly beholden to the nobility, mercenaries (who were hired by anyone) and conscripted men (who were simply dragooned into service by a baron or count and took no oaths) were technically exempt. Still, there was pressure on everyone to follow them, and the Eighth Synod did succeed in reducing the amount of violence over the land; Elibe knew relative peace until the late 600s. This event closed the third volume of _950 Years of Light_ , and Renault left it feeling rather impressed—though Ocken’s biases had to be taken into account, it seemed indisputable that the Church had accomplished something important here. As a mercenary, Renault would have cursed it for robbing him of job opportunities, but now that he had abjured violence thanks to Braddock’s last words, he was grateful to it.

The Ninth (526), Tenth (578), Eleventh (621) and Twelfth (684) Synods concerned themselves primarily with spiritual and moral matters, as befitting a time of peace. The Ninth introduced something new to the Eliminean spiritual landscape: “Church Elders.” The Archbishops declared that certain people who’d shown exceptional holiness in life, above and beyond what was expected of even Archbishops, would (after their death) be awarded the rank of “Elder.” Elders would be used as exemplars of the 8 Noble Eliminean Virtues and laymen would be encouraged to look towards them for guidance in living spiritually and morally correct lives. The Synod declared men like Valdine, Nessarion, and several of the early Archbishops (along with several martyrs who had been killed by the Sacaeans they’d tried to convert in 97 A.S) to be Elders and provided a method of voting among the Head Churches of a region for establishing more. Even today, Ocken noted, some non-Elimineans were under the impression these “Elders” were worshipped, or even had spiritual authority out of the ordinary, but that was not the case at all; they were more “mascots” than anything else, intended to help commoners figure out what the best of their faith looked like. No-one prayed to them for intercession or anything like that, though in the next few centuries, many would go on pilgrimages to the graves of these Elders (or repositories of their clothing, spellbooks, or other personal effects, which were called “relics”) in the hope of receiving some of their enlightenment. The Synod also introduced the concept of vows to monastic and eremitic life. Theomus had recommended several times in the _Journey_ for the faithful to practice celibacy, fasting, or other forms of privation for periods of time, so the Archbishops decided that certain hermits, monks, and nuns could take these challenges if they desired to test themselves spiritually. After conferring with their superior in the monastery or abbey (this was not required for hermits, but they were encouraged to contact the nearest Bishop), a monk or nun could take a vow of poverty (living entirely off charity with no possessions of their own aside from the meanest cassock), silence (forbidding themselves from speaking even a word, and if it was necessary for them to communicate, using hand signs or writing instead), fasting (going at least a day, or sometimes a whole week, without food of any sort), and chastity (forbidding themselves from having sexual relations of any sort).The last vow, at the time, did not preclude anyone from getting married, at least not until the Eleventh Synod addressed _that_ problem.

The Tenth Synod approved the creation of a new monastic order—the Cytheans, named after Elder Cythea, who had lived from 428 to 460 A.S. She was a devout Lycian Bishop who had built an orphanage for children in Ostia, written a guide to their establishment and administration, founded several more in neighboring cantons, and died defending one of them from a merciless bandit attack. Her guide to caring for children spread beyond Lycia and was commonly used by parents and caretakers in Bern and Etruria within one hundred years, so the Church acknowledged her accomplishments by making her an Elder and authorized the construction of a series of specialized nunneries dedicated primarily to caring for orphans or serving as boarding schools for parents who couldn’t give their children a better education. While the Etrurian government had begun to create its own set of schools to educate its people, even in the present day, the “Cythaean Schools” were the primary source of religious and secular education for the vast majority of Elibe’s population who couldn’t send their kids to Bernese or Etrurian magic or military academies attended by the nobles. The nunneries of the Cythean order also operated independently from an Archbishop, like those of the Nessarites. They actually had a closer relationship with the secular lords of their barony or countship, as the nobles had more of an interest than distant Archbishops in the education of their citizens. The Synod also laid down guidelines for the architecture of its churches, monasteries, and cathedrals—the circle motif, along with the belltowers, trees, and icons of Elimine, were based off of the Sun Tower symbol of the Church. Upon reading Ocken’s descriptions, Renault finally understood why Zodian’s Rest and Diotica Abbey were both designed the way they were.

As Elibe’s population increased and their standards of living rose, the bonds between people were no longer as strong. On the one hand, both the Church and the nobles perceived marriage to be crucial to the maintenance of a stable society. On the other, neither were willing to enforce the authoritarian methods which would have prevented premarital trysts and cohabitation along with divorce and abandonment, as these phenomena came hand in hand with the concentration of more and more people into cities; it was easy enough to keep boys and girls from fooling around if they worked from dawn till dusk on an isolated farm, but it was nearly impossible to keep the genders from mixing in a crowded city. The Eleventh Synod thus modified the Church’s traditional attitudes towards marriage and divorce. Premarital sex carried the death penalty as prescribed by _The Laws_. While such draconian punishment was rare, many young men and women were exiled from their communities or shunted to monasteries and nunneries as a result of premarital liaisons. The Church, therefore, said that it was a lesser crime if the couple would get married in the future, as they would be considered “spiritually married” if they “loved” each other. The implication, of course, was that they would _immediately_ get legally married; this would lead to many unhappy unions consented to only under pressure, but it was better than the alternatives. Divorce was technically forbidden as well, but the Church reclassified it from a severe sin that disrespected the Rite and insulted God directly, to a venal offense towards a person (braking one’s vows to a spouse, or to each other if both parties wanted out of their marriage). Thus, the Church would grant a divorce if one or both of the spouses paid it a handsome fine (which might be considerably larger in cases of adultery or abuse). While not a perfect solution—the fines were so steep this was only an option for the wealthy, and even then a bishop had to approve it, and most didn’t—it at least provided some escape for those in unhappy marriages. It also forbid anyone who took a vow of chastity to get married, but did allow anyone who took such a vow after the fact to “annul” their marriage. This did give poorer couples a means of escape if they were willing to accept a religious life.

Afterwards, the Twelfth Synod in 684 concerned itself with relatively little, just a few abstruse matters of theology (centering around the nature of the soul and paradise) along with recognition of a new religious order: the Zelphinians, named after a laywoman, this time. A mystic named Zelphine had gained some notoriety on the outskirts of Etruria, by the Sacaean border. She had locked herself up in an abandoned church, but her piety was so well-known the nearby villagers brought her food and water. In return, she prayed for them and gave them advice on spiritual matters. A traveling Etrurian Archbishop herself sought Zelphine’s advice on a whim, and was so impressed that when she returned to the Supreme Church, she recommended the strange old woman’s way of life be made an official part of Church dogma. Thus was born the Zelphinian eremitic order, where extremely pious men and women would voluntarily sequester themselves within the walls of monasteries, abbeys, or cathedrals, spending their entire lives praying for others and occasionally lending advice on whatever matters they were asked.

Renault almost let out a gasp of surprise when he read of the date of this Synod—though he kept himself from doing so, as Varek was sleeping. His mother Monica would have been pregnant with him at the time—did she attend with his father, Sergion? Renault vaguely remembered her telling him she had. But whatever the case, he realized that he was no longer reading someone else’s history—he was reading his own as well, now.

The next Synod had been held in 702 A.S, and he knew very well why. The seeds of revolt had been growing in Etruria, and in an attempt to stop them, the Archbishops had declared rebellion against the King synonymous to rebellion against God. While Bishops had been required to support the kings of their land ever since the Second Synod, the Church explicitly ordered its lay believers to do so as well.

They would fail, as Renault well knew—otherwise, he and Braddock would not have had to fight.

Ocken subsequently described the course of the Etrurian Civil War—the first large-conflict in many years, aside from a bloody but contained civil war in Lycia and an aborted invasion of Sacae by Bern. Renault found himself mildly insulted to read no mention at all of him and his friends in the text—Ocken spent much more time describing the war’s causes and effects rather than its actual fighting; he only said this:

“Following the assassination of Exedol Caerleon, his younger brother took up his position as Mage General. Unfortunately, Khyron proved to be quite inept at first, leading the King’s army to a crushing defeat at the old Castle Nerinheit. Royalist fortunes soon turned, however, thanks to two things. First was the defection of several Rebels who gave away their plans for the siege of Aquleia. Second was the introduction of a new supreme commander of the Royalist armies. Khyron was bumped down to make room for a “Great General,” a mysterious man of no known parentage named Henken. I can come to no solid conclusions based on my research, but Khyron would claim, near the end of his life, that the Great General had actually been Char, the leader of the rebels in the Lycian Civil War.

“Whoever he was, the Great General’s ascension marked the beginning of the end for the rebels. Henken stopped the Rebel advance at the gates of the Holy Royal Palace itself, then drove them back, straight out of Thagaste. Bishop Monica was killed by a rebel during the battle, which prompted the Church to “declare war” on the insurrection, opening Her coffers wholly to the King. Unfortunately, at the height of his success Henken was assassinated by the Rebel leader Paptimus himself, but even his death could not undo the advantages in morale, money, and materiel the King’s forces now possessed. The soldiers Jerid and Gafgarion were promoted to Great and Knight Generals respectively, forming a command triumvirate with Mage General Khyron to ensure that Etruria’s armies would have a leader unless all three died; this system remains in place today.

“Jerid and Gafgarion defended Thagaste from a rebel counterattack while Khyron led a small contingent east to repel an advance led by the insurrectionist general Garl Vinland. Exceeding everyone’s expectations, he scored a devastating victory at Caerleon, albeit after failing to rescue the citizens of the nearby town of Solgrenne, who had been executed by the Rebels. Reeling from their defeats, the mercenaries who comprised the core of their army deserting in droves, the rebels made attempted to rally at old castle Nerinheit. However, even with some sort of demonic armor on their side, the fortress fell on the 4th Sage of 703 A.S.

“After that, the war was essentially over. The remaining Red Shoulders—those most fanatically loyal to the Revolution—fled to the Western Isles, where they were a constant threat until the last of them was killed at Mount Ebrakhm two years later. Paptimus attempted to join them, even murdering his friend Glaesal Nerinheit during his escape, but one of Khyron’s soldiers caught and killed him at Lordsport on the 13th Sage, 703 A.S.”

Renault had been reading this on a night where Varek hadn’t gotten to bed before him, and it seemed the hermit noted his rather displeased expression. “Not likin’ what you’re reading?”

“It’s not that, exactly, but…” Renault pondered his words, because he still didn’t want to reveal the truth of his past to Varek just yet—at least not in the thin walls of an abbey. “I don’t like how he treated the Civil War. He doesn’t even mention Khyron’s Autonomous Company! W—I mean, they were as responsible as anybody for the Rebels’ defeat. And none of them were even mentioned here? All the work they did, and Ocken couldn’t even write down their names?”

Varek raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were the type to get so passionate over history, Renault.”

The disciple realized how silly he must have looked and blushed—one of the few expressions his body was still capable of making. “Well, it’s just…I, uh, used to be a soldier myself, so I don’t like it when people just brush away our sacrifices.”

“Hmm. That’s understandable. Still, try to see things from Ocken’s point of view. He’s a religious historian, not a military one. Can’t expect him to spend more time on battles than Synods. But that doesn’t mean the Autonomous Company’s been forgotten, though. Khyron wrote a lot about them in his memoirs, and they’ve shown up in a military history of Etruria a retired Great General published a few years ago.”

“Really?” Renault felt a wave of relief rush through him. “I see. I’m glad.”

Varek merely nodded and smiled as his disciple went back to reading. There was a bit of knowledge behind that smile, though. Varek had read Khyron’s memoirs, and remembered the names of Renault and Braddock. When Renault had mentioned the name of his best friend, Varek had thought it just coincidence, as neither name was rare in western Elibe. Renault’s story about his ageless body and dabblings in dark magic, however, awakened a few suspicions within him. His outburst over the Autonomous Company stoked those suspicions further.

But they would not be confirmed until later.

For now, Renault continued to push through to the end of the fourth and last volume. The Civil War (and the smaller pacification of the Western Isles which followed it) had actually been a good thing for Elibe as a whole, Ocken argued. It encouraged much-needed reform of Etrurian politics and society and ending up encouraging cooperation between Etruria, Lycia, and Bern, birthing decades of social, cultural, and economic efflorescence Ocken deemed a “Renaissance,” or rebirth. The Church, however, also needed to make significant reforms to keep up with this progress.

The catalyst for these reforms was the assassination of an Archbishop on the 27th Archer, 704 A.S.

Renault’s 27th birthday, and the day he had murdered Archbishop Gosterro.

His blood ran cold when he read this. Fortunately, Varek was sleeping and did not notice how his student was reacting, though he would notice Renault seemed curiously quiet for the next few days. Renault was able to keep most of his thoughts to himself. But he couldn’t escape from what Ocken’s history had acknowledged: The impact he and his quest had (inadvertently) had on Elibe.

At first glance, it seemed his assassination of Gosterro may have had positive effects. Ocken admitted that Gosterro had been a deeply corrupt man, and few, even in the Church, were sorry that he had died. However, his death resulted in chaos on the Western Isles; though details were unclear it seemed he had been part of a plan to defeat the remaining Red Shoulders there, and his untimely demise almost ruined it.

Ocken never named Renault as the criminal behind this misfortune—he only said, “Despite the Church’s best efforts, no-one has been able to figure out who the assassin was or why he wanted to kill Gosterro.” The fact that no-one knew what Renault had done, though, did little to assuage his guilt. However much the Archbishop had deserved it, the fact remained that the innocent people on the Isles hadn’t, and Renault was at least indirectly responsible for their deaths. And, of course, Gosterro’s death had aided Nergal’s plans, and those were far, far worse than anything even the most corrupt clergyman could conceive of.

The knowledge would lay heavily on Renault’s heart for the rest of his time on Diotica—and indeed, for over twenty years, until he had a chance to correct his mistake of assisting the dark sorcerer. But at the moment, he realized that wallowing in guilt would do no good—he would simply have to learn whatever he could, do good rather than evil, and hope that Nergal would not be successful with whatever plots he wove.

And, of course, continuing to learn about the history in which he’d played a part would help Renault in that endeavor. Thus, he pushed on to the end of the last volume.

The force of Gosterro’s personality combined with his intelligence and political acumen had given him a level of influence unheard of—before or since—among the Archbishops. Theomus had recommended a council of eight precisely because he feared concentrating so much religious power in a single man, but that was precisely what Gosterro had done—his other seven colleagues, with the exception of perhaps Alleffine, had neither the desire nor the strength of will to stand against him, allowing him to turn the Church into, essentially, his personal plaything.

Archbishop Alleffine was the one who realized this had to change, and it was she who most strongly pushed for the convocation of the Fourteenth Ecumenical Synod, held in 705 A.S, following Gosterro’s death and the subjugation of the Isles. There, the assembled clergy agreed on a set of changes which would alleviate the worst excesses of the Church.

First, they reorganized the layout of the Church’s scattered dioceses. Many had been inaugurated during the first years following the Scouring and barely changed since. By the 700s this had become a headache for both secular and ecclesiastical authorities, as the patchwork of dioceses no longer conformed to the existing network of villages, towns, and cities. Some bishops had very few parishioners in their jurisdictions, while others had too many to keep up with. The Synod took a survey of all its assembled bishops and also enlisted the help of Etruria’s best cartographers to ascertain which dioceses needed to be shrunk, expanded, divided, and merged to best reflect the actual demographics of the people. This was not an easy task, and bishops, priests, and their parishioners had to be shuffled around, leading to no small confusion for the next several years, but in the long run it vastly improved pastoral care and coordination with secular authorities.

Second, and more importantly, they handed over some of the power of the Archbishops to the lower clergy through in introduction of something called the process of “Un-Election.”

It meant this: If one bishop felt an Archbishop was corrupt, or even just performing poorly, he or she could canvass the other Bishops of the country and get their opinions. If a majority of them (four-fifths) felt the same way, they could convene what was called an “Anti-synod.” The Archbishop they sought to remove would be given a chance to defend him or herself, at which point the gathered Bishops would vote, with, again, a four-fifths majority required to force the Archbishop to step down.

It was not an easy task—getting two-thirds of the Eliminean episcopate to agree on anything aside from dogma was very difficult, and getting four-fifths of them to agree on the fate of a prelate they theymselves had elected was even harder—but if it was too easy Archbishops would almost certainly be kicked out as soon as they were elected, leading to chaos. Requiring such a large majority meant that only the most egregarious offenders would be at risk for such discipline—such as Gosterro, whose flagrant immorality (his body had been found next to that of his mistress) was well-known. And even if it was not easy for them to be unseated, at least Archbishops knew, now, that it was a possibility, placing a curb on the worst of the excesses they were willing to risk.

Thanks to these changes, the Church was able to share in the general prosperity enjoyed by Elibe over the next few centuries, playing a large role in perpetuating it as well. Ocken spent the last pages of his last volume describing how the Church encouraged peaceful relations between all the countries of Elibe, averting a war between Etruria and Bern (for instance) about a hundred years later through skillful application of diplomatic pressure as well as under-the-table offers of benefits for both sides from the mines of the Western Isles, which the Church had controlled following the death of the last Red Shoulder. Ocken was somewhat ambivalent about those mines, noting that the Church administered them more compassionately than either Etruria or Bern could be expected to, but that conditions there could be exceptionally harsh as well. Despite this, Renault had to concede that after Gosterro’s death, the Church’s influence on the land was, overall, far more beneficent than he had initially given it credit for, even though it was far from perfect.

Perhaps due to this peace and prosperity, there had been no issues requiring a Synod to be convened for two and a half centuries. The most recent one—the one Ocken ended his history with—had been held in 950. There, the Church agreed on the foundation of a new mendicant order: the Serapinians.

A young acolyte named Serapino had acquired a measure of fame for himself during and after the Civil War. He had been dragooned into the Rebel army but managed to convince one of their leaders to defect, thanks to his piety and sense of justice (according to Ocken—Renault knew the true story of Dougram’s defection was somewhat different). Afterwards, he had wandered off to the Western Isles, where his kindness and mercy won the hearts of virtually everyone there, even the most notorious pirate lords. He worked together with Mage General Khyron and Knight General Wayland to cement an alliance between the Bernese and the native pirates to destroy the last remnants of the Red Shoulders. Afterwards, he would travel to Lycia, Bern, Sacae, and Ilia, where he usually managed to find himself in the good graces of the local authorities, perhaps due to his pleasant disposition, natural affability, and skill at peacemaking. After he died in 740, many Elimineans saw in him an example they wanted to follow, and dedicated themselves to assisting mayors of towns or rulers of baronies as traveling scholars or assistants, as Serapino had done for Dougram and Khyron. Due to the itinerant nature of these men and women, and the fact that Serapino had little knack for self-promotion during his life, it took over two hundred years for his disciples to be noticed, but when they were, the Church embraced them. They were given guidelines and instructions on the art of governance and how best to serve secular rulers and military leaders and officially recognized as the Serapinian mendicant order, with Serapino himself being promoted to Church Elder. Ocken closed his history with these words: “I cannot hope to achieve the same heights of virtue as Elder Serapino did. But, with this History, I do hope that whatever meager skills I have demonstrated will help others follow his path. It is the same Path our blessed Saint Elimine showed us, and I pray, as she did, that God will watch over us all as we walk it. Amen.”

Renault laid a hand on the pages of the book as he read, feeling his throat constrict. Serapino had been his best friend, at one point, though of course, in Renault’s adulthood, no-one else could compare to Braddock. It had been his father Sergion’s death, and Renault’s subsequent fall into hatred and rage at religion, which had broken them apart. Even so, Renault felt a pang of grief at how he had treated the young mendicant. Serapino had never been anything but kind to him, yet Renault had dismissed him as merely an annoyance. How ashamed Braddock would have been at the disloyalty he displayed! Yet Serapino was now considered an Elder of the Church, founder of an order dedicated to bringing peace and mercy to all. Renault, on the other hand, was now nothing more than a footnote in Khyron’s memoirs. And that was far better than he deserved. If his collusion with Nergal had been as well-known as Serapino’s heroics, he would certainly be remembered—as vile villain, not a paragon of virtue like his friend now was.

 Serapino had come far in the world, Renault thought. Much farther than he had.

He sighed, closing the book, then looked at Varek for a moment. It was late at night, and the hermit was snoozing peacefully—the drowsiness Renault felt indicated he should do the same soon as well.

But as he looked at his friend, before blowing out the candle, Renault smiled.

He’d never go farther in the world than Serapino. But with Varek’s help, perhaps he could come farther than he had.

_::Linear Notes::_

The history of the Eliminean Church is, as you may be able to surmise, loosely based on that of the IRL Catholic church. I’m indebted to the Catholicism tag on Tumblr (Yes, that site can be irksome at times, but there are good people and good content on it as well) and “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Understanding Catholicism” by Bob O’Gorman and Mary Faulkner.

 


	67. The Abbey - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault begins to learn of Eliminean cultural life.

**Chapter 67: The Abbey-Part II**

_-X-New Year’s Joy-X-_

When he put down the last volume of _950 Years of Light_ , Renault didn’t think he’d experience any of its lessons firsthand. He’d already participated in the Etrurian Civil War—aside from that, he didn’t think anything else Ocken wrote would have much direct relevance to his life. As the year 960 dawned, however, he would soon find out he had been mistaken.

In addition to the theological and political history of the Eliminean Church, Ocken had also described its social and cultural history. Woven into the fabric of the faithful life, even for the meanest layperson, were the celebrations, feast days, and holy duties which they looked forwards to—or dreaded, in some cases. And over the next year, Renault would get to participate in all of them first hand.

And, of course, those weren’t the only big events his long, strange life had in store for him.

The first inkling of a real disruption to his routine came just the day after he’d finished _950 Years Of Light_. Following his long conversation with Varek, they’d both had themselves a very good sleep, and awoke on the 23 rd Valkyrie, 959 A.S—just a week shy of the next year. When they entered the library for their translation work, as they had almost every day for the past five months, Librarian Magna—an old, white-haired Sister who was even taller than Renault and with an even more fearsome face, yet who had the sweetest disposition he could recall—met them with a smile even warmer than usual (which was saying something).

“Oh, Varek,” she gushed. “It’s almost time! Are you excited?”

“Time for…oh!” After a moment, recognition lit his face, and then a slight blush of embarrassment. “Saint forgive me, I almost forgot! Aye, Sister, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Huh?” Renault wasn’t sure what they were talking about. “Looking forward to what?”

“You don’t know?” Magna seemed genuinely surprised.

“He’s not…familiar with our practices yet,” Varek said. Turning to Renault, he explained. “There’s a holiday comin’ up soon. Didn’t you read about it in Ocken’s book, lad? New Year’s Joy?”

Renault thought for a moment, and then it registered. “Oh, oh yeah! The commemoration of the new year. He said it was…the tenth? No, ninth Synod that made it official. We…you have a special Mass, and then a celebration, right?”

“Exactly! You’re a good learner, Renault,” Magna laughed. “I’m sure Mother Meris will be glad to hear you’ve been making such good use of Ocken’s tomes!”

Renault only managed a stuttered “t-thanks” before Varek led him back to the little desk in a corner of the library that was their usual workplace.

“Oy, Renault,” he said as they sat down, “Before we start…you do know what’s coming after the New Year, right?”

“After…” Renault concentrated again. “Wait, that’s the Month of the Sun. Theomus spent a whole 30 days of this month fasting and praying for Elimine’s safety when she entered the Tower of the Saint, right? So to commemorate what he did, the faithful are supposed to…take a vow of some sort, or give something up, for a whole 30 days. Then, the 30th Sun is supposed to be the day of Elimine’s Ascension, so there’s a big celebration and everyone gives each other gifts. At least that’s what Ocken said…”

“That’s right. So I have to warn you, Renault, the nuns here will be under a special vow for the whole month. I’ll be joinin’ them too, I think. You need to get ready for that. I won’t ask you to take the vow yourself, but I _will_ ask you to respect everyone who does.”

“Well, what sort of vow will they be taking?”

“That would be up to Meris, since she’s the spiritual leader of this little community. For laypeople, the vows are usually not demanding; fasting for half a day or giving up liquor for the whole month are common. But these nuns are supposed to be, well, particularly holy. Meris would ask them to do something a little harder.”

“Like what?”

“Fasting’s not really practical for the younger or the older sisters here. I think she’ll ask ‘em to take a vow of silence.”

“A vow of silence?”

“Aye. No one’ll speak a word for the whole month, until the 30th Sun.”

“That’s…I could see a hermit succeeding, but a whole community?”

“It’s doable, Renault. At some monasteries, the brothers all take a vow of silence that lasts their whole lives. They have a sort of sign language they use with their fingers. But even for just a month here, well, you’d be surprised at how much you can convey without your voice. Gestures, expressions, and occasionally a bit of writing can serve as well as speech. It’s a lesson you might want to learn, by the way.

“In any case, I believe I’ll be sharing that vow. So the morning mass on the first day of the Sun will be the last words you’ll hear from me until the 30th. I want you to be aware of that, so you don’t do anything foolish.”

“Alright. It’s…I’ll admit I don’t really understand it, and it seems strange to me, but I _do_ remember what Ocken wrote, and I remember _II Theomus_ , too. If this is really what you want to do, I’ll support you, and if it’s what the other sisters here want, I’ll support them as well.” He thought for a moment. “Hell, when I think about it, maybe I ought to take that vow too.”

“Renault, don’t swear.”

“Oh! D—I mean, r-right. Sorry.”

“’s fine, I have to keep from makin’ the same mistake on occasion too. Anyways, are you sure you want to take such a vow? You’re not a believer.”

“Does that mean I’m not allowed to?”

“Not really, but it’s a serious task. Don’t enter into it without thinkin’.”

“I’m not. The way I see it, if I’m trying to follow your way of life…if I believe it’s the sort Braddock would want me to lead…I think I should at least try to hold myself up to your standards. Maybe I’ll fail, but it’s better than not making the effort at all. Isn’t that what you’d say?”

Varek chuckled. “It is indeed. Alright then, Renault, I’ll hold you to that vow. You’ve got a week to think it over…and prepare yourself if you still want to go through with it. And until then, we’ve got work to do. Let’s get started!”

-x-

_Holy, Holy, God Most Holy…_

_Save us today from sinner’s debt._

_Holy, Holy, God Most Holy,_

_Your teachings we shall never forget…_

_Glory, Glory, Heaven’s Glory,_

_Praise the Saint for Clearing the Way…_

It was early in the morning on the 1st Sun, 960 A.S, and Renault figured there were worse ways to greet the day than with such a beautiful hymn. He was still quite uncertain about the existence of the God they praised, but hearing about God no longer offended him, and he could very much appreciate the women’s voices. He tried to enjoy them as much as he could, because he knew it was the last time he would be hearing those voices for thirty days.

At least, according to what Varek had told him. The first thing Renault had heard when he woke had been the hermit telling him, “it’s almost time. You’ll probably not want to miss this, lad.” When asked what “it” was, Varek reminded him that it was the Holy Mass of the New Year—held on the morning of the 1st Sun, to commemorate the beginning of Theomus’ vigil in front of the Tower of the Saint. It would begin with the sisters singing hymns of praise, which was what Varek wanted Renault to hear. Then, Abbess Meris would give a sermon, at the end of which she would describe the vow she expected the sisters to swear. After that, they would partake of Mass, which was when the vow would take effect. Renault asked if it was appropriate for him to attend, and Varek said it was fine for nonbelievers to listen to Church hymns and sermons, they just couldn’t partake of the Mass itself. After that, they made their way out of the guest rooms and towards the abbey’s main church, just in time to take their seats in the pews and listen to the choir begin its singing.

As the echoes of the final bars of _Heaven’s Glory_ began to fade, the choir (composed of ten women, the finest singers in the abbey, standing in a line behind the altar) made their way back to the pews, sitting in the rows nearest to the front. Abbess Meris stood up from the frontmost pew as they did so, making her way to the altar behind which the singers had just been standing. There, she began her sermon. 

“Beloved sisters—and brothers,” she said with a smile, drawing chuckles from her audience and a mildly embarrassed grin from Varek, “as a new year beckons, we gather here today to give thanks to You, God, for all the gifts you have given us. We thank You for the bonds of sisterhood we share, for the strength of the walls that protect us, for the fertility of the soil on which we grow our crops and the sustenance they provide us…all these come from You.”

“Amen,” said the assembled sisters.

The sermon continued for about half an hour, in Renault’s estimation. Abbess Meris read some selections from _The Beginning_ , explaining how Clead’s loyalty to God should be an inspiration to them all, and how his flight to the cave marked a new beginning for the spiritual growth of humanity, just as the beginning of a new year should mark a new period of growth for everyone in Diotica. She exhorted everyone listening to devote themselves even further to the path of Elimine than they had last year—to be more diligent, more patient, and more forgiving; she laid particular emphasis on the importance of forgiveness, quoting extensively from Elimine’s sermons in the _Testaments_. After that, she concluded with this:

“To further nourish our spiritual growth, beloved Sisters, I believe we ought to take a vow for the duration of this month. Such a challenge would inspire us to reach for greater heights of virtue, calm our hearts, and lighten the loads we bear in search of enlightenment. Our holy friend Theomus, he who served our Saint and taught us how to emulate her service to God, gave up much as he stood in vigil during her Ascension. For a full thirty days he did not sleep or eat or speak to a single soul; nothing passed by his lips except the words of his prayers to the Creator. I cannot ask you to repeat every one of his blessed mortifications; the challenges he was able to endure would be beyond ordinary people such as our humble selves. Choosing one to commemorate, however, is both reasonable and laudable. Therefore, as I offer the Sacrament of Mass to you this blessed morning, if you choose to partake of it, I ask that you observe a vow of silence until the day our Saint ascended. If you have anything to say to each other, say it now. Otherwise, let not a sound pass out of your mouth after today’s bread and milk have entered it.

Murmuring amongst themselves, the women got up from the pews and formed an orderly line in the isle in the center of the church. The sisters in the lines chattered excitedly but quietly amongst themselves, but Renault noticed they stopped entirely after Meris gave them the sip of milk and bite of bread for Mass. Thus, as the line grew smaller and more and more newly-silent nuns left to begin their day, Diotica’s church grew more and more quiet.

“Remember, Renault,” Varek whispered to him quietly, “nobody here will say a word to you until the 30th of this month. You’ll have to get used to understanding gestures and expressions rather than words.”

“I understand. And I’ll try to do the same, too.”

“You’re absolutely sure? This is the last time I’ll warn you that it’s not such an easy task.”

“I’m sure. Like I told you last week, I’ve been challenged on the battlefield before. If Braddock wanted me to live a more peaceful life, why not try a more peaceful challenge?”

“…Hm. Alright, as long as you know what you’re getting into.”

Varek nodded at him, stood up, and took his place at the very back of the line of communicants. Renault, for his part, respectfully and patiently waited in his seat, remembering what Varek had told him: Unbelievers were allowed to listen, but not actually partake of the ritual.

As he waited, however, Renault felt a strange sensation. One that he hadn’t felt for quite a long time.

He got the feeling that someone was staring at him— _glaring_ at him—with the sort of hostility one would expect only on the battlefield.

“Eh?” Renault shifted in his seat. He thought it was just his imagination—perhaps being around so many people had reawakened the state of mind, the hyper-awareness, that he used to feel on the battlefield. Or maybe he was just paranoid. But when he glanced around, he saw something. Just for a moment, but he was sure he saw it.

It was one of the sisters. She was very young; couldn’t be older than twenty, and her modest attire indicated she was relatively new—a mere novice, likely introduced to the abbey just a few weeks ago. She was wearing the simple, basic white clerical vestments without the veil given to full sisters, and while it was hardly revealing or form-fitting, it did tell Renault she was neither particularly attractive or unattractive—at least if Renault recalled such standards correctly, as it had been centuries since he’d ever been “attracted” to anyone. She was a bit on the short side, just over five feet tall, and fairly slim. Renault could see the outline of her cheekbones under her hazel eyes; a shade darker than the brown hair that fell around them in a conservative bob-cut favored by female Elimineans.

Those eyes were focused directly on him, and despite her best efforts to keep her expression neutral, she couldn’t hide the resentment simmering in their depths.

Before Renault had a chance to lock his gaze with her, however, he heard a tapping—Meris had rapped her fingers on the altar; as she was waiting for the girl to take her bread and milk, indicating her desires nonverbally, as the vow had taken effect for her. The odd girl immediately turned and scampered up to the altar, quickly popping the bread into her mouth and gulping down her glass of milk. Then she turned and left the church, following the other sisters outside as fast as she could without giving Renault a second glance.

It was a very strange experience, and something told Renault it was more significant than it seemed. But, in any case, he didn’t dwell on it. He waited for Varek to receive “Elimine’s Benediction,” as the bread and drink at Mass were called. The hermit had been last in line (there’d been three sisters between him and the one staring at Renault), so he and Renault were alone with Meris in the otherwise empty church. Varek quietly padded up to Renault’s pew, tapped his disciple on the shoulder, and pointed to the door. Renault knew they’d be heading to the library to continue their translating, so there was no need for him to break the vow of silence he’d taken as well. Without a word, he stood up and followed his friend out of the church to begin their work.

-X-

The days passed by quite quickly, at least in Renault’s estimation—before he knew it, it was already the 15th. He was very happy to find out that a vow of silence wasn’t difficult for him at all.

This was partially due to two things. The first was the particulars of Renault and Varek’s current situation. At the moment, neither he nor the hermit talked much to anyone or even each other. Since their job was translation, they spent most of their time secluded in the library, where the only sound they would hear for hours would be the scratching of their quills. Aside from Magna greeting them with a smile rather than kind words, the vow of silence didn’t affect them much. Sometimes, when Renault ran into a difficult passage (by this point, he and Varek had moved on to a collection of Draconic texts on economics Varlago had donated away—those he’d paid far more attention to those than his son had, since they were obviously quite relevant to a banker), he had to remind himself not to ask anything to Varek out loud, and always caught himself before a noise escaped his lips. Instead, he’d look up, tap Varek’s hand, and point to the section giving him trouble with a pleading expression. The hermit would then noiselessly write down the correct translation for Renault, and then they’d both continue onwards, with Renault figuring out what to do next time from Varek’s example. After that, they’d just return to their comparatively isolated quarters, do some reading, and go to sleep. They never really talked much with the sisters of the abbey anyways.

The second thing making these thirty days of silence not too difficult was Renault’s previous experience as a mercenary. His soldier’s discipline gave him a degree of self-control that enabled him to accept harsh conditions without too much complaint, and a vow of silence was hardly the harshest he’d ever encountered. Even more importantly, as a mercenary he’d found it necessary to keep as quiet as possible on many occasions. During covert operations or infiltrations (such as setting fire to old Nerinheit castle, or assassinating Gosterro), Renault had been careful to not let a single noise escape his mouth. If he had been able to pull that off when his life was on the line, doing the same in a peaceful, pleasant abbey was no trouble at all.

Even so, there were a couple of occasions where he had a bit of trouble keeping his vow. Today would see the most notable of them.

It was late in the afternoon, and Renault was enjoying a walk around the abbey while Varek had his lunch in the refectory. He rather treasured these kinds of breaks when he could get them—quite a change from his previous attitudes. Before, he’d always hated quiet and solitude, as he would not be alone but bedeviled by memories of Braddock and despair at the loss of his friend. Those ghosts would not leave his side unless banished by the din of battle. Now, though, it was just the opposite. Now that Renault was convinced he was on the right path, tranquility allowed him to focus on the good memories he and Braddock had shared, and contemplate how his friend would have liked an abbey such as Diotica, and how he would have approved what Renault was now doing.

The abbey itself was well suited for such contemplations. Thought nothing about it had changed physically at all, the silence of its inhabitants seemed to lend it a new cast. It was never particularly noisy before, of course, but there had always been a few quiet conversations here and there during the day—Sisters commiserating or conversing with each other, instructing new adepts, or praying in church or even outside, under the large tree in the center of the compound around which Renault currently meandered.

Now, though, the abbey was almost entirely quiet—the nuns kept their oath with discipline even Renault found admirable. He hadn’t heard even a single whisper from anyone else in two weeks. Not only that, it seemed even nature herself had taken a vow of silence as well. While the sound of insects buzzing and birds chirping had been common during the spring and summer months, it was winter now, and the season was never kind to this region of Bern. The birds and insects disappeared when the chill came, meaning the only thing anyone would hear at this abbey would be the crunch of snow under their feet.

One might be tempted to call the place “as quiet as a tomb,” but Renault wouldn’t agree. The silence here didn’t seem oppressive—quite the opposite. He remembered all the times he’d spent just enjoying Braddock’s company—staring at a starlit sky, watching birds, or enjoying the view from a mountaintop, as they had when they’d been dispatched to the Orange Mountains to deal with Barbarossa. They hadn’t needed to say anything—simply being by the other’s side was enough for them. While Renault obviously wasn’t as close to any of the nuns here as he was with Braddock, he felt the same sense of camaraderie dwelling within the silence here. Thus, he found it uplifting rather than oppressive.

Alas, while these may have been happy thoughts, Renault allowed himself to get more wrapped up within them than was wise. Mercenaries did not often daydream, as they had to be alert virtually all the time, but Renault was almost losing himself into his contemplations right now.

Thus, he almost didn’t notice he was going to bump into someone.

 _Almost_ was the key word. Before the collision occurred, he heard the sharp intake of a young woman’s breath in front of him along with the soft thump of something falling on the snow, and immediately stopped and looked down. Before him he saw the young brown-haired initiate who had been glaring at him two weeks ago.

He opened his mouth and was just about to say “Sorry” when he remembered the vow. Instead he gave her the most helpless, plaintive expression he could, and then clasped his hands and bowed his head, as near a universal symbol of apology as he knew existed.

It did him little good. The young woman glared at him angrily, seemed as if she’d bitten off an angry condemnation, and then picked up the book and darted away as quickly as possible. So quickly that Renault thought she might have made a good Swordmaster or Assassin in another life!

He had no idea of what to do, or what to make of the situation. Perhaps the woman misinterpreted his bow or something? It was possible, if the expression on his face hadn’t been apologetic enough, but he didn’t think that was the case. Even a “scary” ex-mercenary like him wasn’t _that_ out of touch with social niceties, and he’d made it a point to look as contrite as possible. Whatever the case was, though, the initiate was already out of sight, now, and it would do very little good for Renault to follow her in any case. He just made his way back to the library to wait for Varek to come back from lunch. And when he did, they’d have a brief conversation.

Of a sort—they were both under a vow of silence. The moment he saw Varek come back to their desk, Renault took a spare sheaf of paper (something he probably shouldn’t have done, when he thought about it later—paper wasn’t as rare as it once was, but it wasn’t something to be used frivolously) and quickly scribbled something on it, and showed it to Varek.

_Can I ask a question?_

Varek nodded, and Renault jotted this down, in as small a type as he could manage:

_Nearly ran into a girl just now and she ran off before I could apologize. She seemed angry at me and I remember her glaring at us at Mass. Did either of us offend her somehow?_

Varek took a look at this, thought for a moment, then shook his head. He took his own quill and wrote in response:

_I noticed that too, but I’ve never seen her before or interacted with her. If she has a problem with us, it’s not our problem. And don’t waste paper._

Renault understood the wisdom in that admonition, so he nodded as an apology and allowed both of them to return to their translations. He thought that odd lady would give him no more trouble—after all, it wouldn’t be hard to avoid her in a place like this—and that the matter wouldn’t come up again.

In time, however, he would be proven wrong.

-X-

As strange as it might have seemed (at least to anyone who’d known him before he met Varek) Renault had been anticipating this day with quite some eagerness.

It was the break of dawn of the 30th Sun, which meant today would see the Feast of Elimine’s Ascension—and thus, the breaking of the vow of silence.

As he roused himself from slumber, Renault wanted to give Varek a happy greeting. He stopped, though, because he remembered the vow hadn’t ended yet. Instead, he followed his mentor back to the church where it had first been taken.

Everything was yet as quiet as it had been for the past month. Every last woman in the abbey was converging upon its main building, but there was no sound at all aside from their feet pushing through the snow. Renault and Varek followed them in and took their places in the pews farthest in the back.

Just as there had been at the beginning of the month, ten of the abbey’s best singers were arranged behind the altar. And when the last communicant had taken her seat, and everyone was finally settled down…the silence of the month of Ascension was broken at last.

First came the haunting strains of a high-pitched voice (a “soprano,” Renault recalled reading in a book on Church music he’d picked up out of interest a week ago). They sung the old words of a hymn similar to the one he’d heard at the beginning of the month, but not exactly the same:

_Holy, Holy, God most Holy…_

_Save us today from sinner’s debt._

_Holy, Holy, God most Holy…_

_Your teachings we will never forget._

After these verses, the soprano was joined by another four sopranos, singing the same lines. They then fell silent, as a slightly lower voice, an “alto,” as she was called, began her own solo.

_Glory, Glory, Heaven’s Glory,_

_Praise the Saint for clearing the Way…_

_Glory, Glory, Heaven’s Glory…_

_God save us should we ever stray…_

And was then joined by the other four altos. After the second repetition had finished, all ten of them, alto and soprano alike, raised their voices together in this final refrain:

_Let your mercy roll forever on,_

_Spread its wings over all the world ,_

_On you only can we rely,_

_God most holy, hear our cry!_

The singer’s voices had grown loud enough as they reached the crescendo of the hymn that Renault thought the very foundations of the church might begin to shake. He’d never imagined the women (none of them were particularly large) to be capable of making such rousing music. It was enough to make him think there was something to the power of faith. Whatever it was, though, silence once again reigned throughout the church as the echoes of the final verses died away and the singers went back to the pews. To replace them, once again, was Abbess Meris.

“Beloved brothers and sisters,” Meris began, “Today, we gather here to commemorate the triumph of light over dark, of life over death, and of good over evil. Today we gather to remind ourselves that faith will be rewarded, that anyone who seeks God will find Him, and that there is no limit to what He may give us if we but ask. Today is the day our blessed Saint ascended to heaven, proving her worth as the most devoted follower of the Lord, and proving that He will always uphold His promises. For thirty days Theomus waited and worried, and though his faith was tested, it did not falter. How much greater, then, was his joy when he heard Elimine’s voice calling to him from the Tower, and saw her rise to Heaven as the sun rose over it? For his dear Elimine had never tasted death, and would rejoin her Creator having never tasted it. Though neither he nor we may be so fortunate, we all will join her on the other side of life, in the company of He who gave it. Today, then, let us rejoice, as Theomus did. Let us thank God and praise Him, as Theomus did. Let us cry tears of happiness, as Theomus did. As he found joy in his mentor’s Ascension, let us find joy in our sisterhood. My beloved, this morning I offer you the holy Benediction of milk and bread. When it enters your mouths, may your voices emerge after it. There is a time for war and a time for peace, a time to kill and a time to die. There is time for penance and a time for celebration, time for thought and time for cheer. We have, as Theomus did, repented and contemplated. And now, as Elimine released him from his vigil, I will release you from your vow of silence. Rise now, and accept what you have earned.”

They did so. And, in a reverse of the ceremony at the first of the month, the more sisters that rose, the noisier the church became. With every woman who rose to take a bite and drink, Renault heard a sigh of relief, and as more and more of them exited the church the air was filled with laughter and loud conversing, as the ladies who’d waited so long to speak finally had a chance to do so. When, at last, Varek rose and accepted the morsels from Meris, he went back to Renault with a big smile on his face.

“Well, that’s that, lad,” he croaked. “Argh, m’ voice is a little scratchy! Guess that’s what happens when you don’t use it for a whole month.” He laughed at himself, then looked at Renault curiously, who still hadn’t said anything. “Oh, right, since you can’t take Mass…Renault, I release you from your vow.”

“Phew!” Renault’s own voice was a little worn out, and he coughed a couple of times to clear a throat he’d barely used for some time. “That wasn’t too bad, but I’m glad it’s over. How’d I do, Varek?”

“Very well, Renault, even better than I anticipated. Your discipline’s truly admirable—didn’t hear a peep from you all month. I hope you’ve learned somethin’ from the experience.”

Renault pondered that for a moment. “I think I have,” he replied. “I think it was good for me. All that quiet…so different from life on the battlefield. I think I know a little better now…about the sort of life Braddock wanted me to lead, I mean.”

“Then we can consider this month a smashing success.”

“It’s not entirely over yet, is it? Today’s a really happy day, right? There’re supposed to be celebrations going on ‘till nightfall. I’ve read that there’s a special breakfast, people sing and dance, and…uh…other stuff too, I think.”

“That’s right, Renault. In fact, I’ll be heading down to the refectory for a meal soon. I don’t have many pleasures in life, but those Saint’s Day pastries are…well…” he blushed slightly.

“Saint’s Day pastries?”

“Yes, it’s a special food baked just for this holiday. Kind of a flaky, baked dumpling filled with meat and cheese. They’re baked so they look like a pair of concentric circles, one inside the other—they’re supposed to resemble the sun Theomus saw when Elimine ascended. They’re _delicious_.”

“I’m glad you have an opportunity to try ‘em, then,” said Renault kindly. “I don’t think I’ll be joining you, though…I don’t eat, and it’ll seem rude if I just drop by and sit there without touching my plate.”

“That’s right, Renault. Very thoughtful of you.” Varek seemed honestly impressed. “Truth be told, it’s not exactly a celebration for either of us…though I share their faith, I’m still an outsider here. You know, why don’t you go to the library and start working on our next translation? It’s a bit of a shame to do work on Elimine’s holy days, but these days were made for us, not us for the days.” Renault recognized the quote—Elimine had said its rough equivalent in _I Theomus_. “If you’re not doin’ anything else…”

“I got it.” Renault nodded and followed Varek outside. They went their separate ways—Renault to the library, Varek to the refectory—but when he’d almost reached the library, Renault was struck by a bit of curiosity. Stealthily, he scampered back over to the refectory and peeked through one of its windows.

He hadn’t seen so much good cheer in decades. It was filled with women laughing, talking, and eating their way through plates full of pastries, fruits, and all manner of different confections (the scullery ladies must have spent almost all of the previous night making the feast). There were several candles across all of the tables in the room, for a total of thirty—Renault remembered that one was lit every day for the duration of the month, to commemorate Theomus’ sigil. Most notably, near the center of the room, a pair of nuns had got up and started dancing with each other! There was nothing but delight in their eyes as their fellows broke out into loud laughter and started clapping as the two of them clasped arms and danced around in a circle. Neither was good, of course, but that didn’t really matter. The point was to have fun, as suited for a day or rejoice.

Renault felt a pang of nostalgia, tinged with a bit of sorrow, as he watched this. He remembered Braddock dancing with Rosamia after their successful defense of Caerleon. He would have loved something like this.

Sighing, Renault turned away, leaving the revelry behind him. He instead wandered back to the library alone, where he opened the text he’d been working on yesterday and picked up where he started. It was a few minutes before he noticed he wasn’t alone.

“Renault, is that you?”

“Eh?” A bit surprised, he looked up to see the librarian. “O-oh, uh, M…I mean, Sis…”

“Just Magna is fine.”

“Magna. What’re you doing here?”

“Well, I didn’t see you in the refectory with Varek, so I got a little worried. Are you alright? You’re not hungry?”

“Oh, n-no, not really. I just prefer eating alone, you know me. Besides, well...I’m not really a believer,” Renault mumbled, bashfully and apologetically. “Not really my place to join the celebrations, right?”

Magna drew back, though she didn’t seem offended. “I see. I understand that. I appreciate your consideration, Renault, and your respect for our beliefs. But…”

“Hm?”

“There’s one part of this holiday you can experience!”

“What do you mean?”

She motioned for him to wait a moment, and then disappeared behind one of the stacks. She came out a soon after with a what seemed to be a package in her hand, and laid it carefully on to a table near Renault.

“What’s this?”

“Open it and see!”

Renault stood and picked up the parcel. When he opened it he saw, folded and wrapped very nicely…

A cloak. A fine, warm, posh-looking cloak of a dull purplish-grey color. It was reasonably lightweight, but also looked very warm and well made; tough enough to last through decades of hard travel, Renault surmised.

“What is this?”

“It’s for you, Renault,” Magna grinned. “Don’t you remember? It’s customary for people to exchange presents on this, the most joyful of all the days of the year! And so I commissioned a little present for you, Renault, since you’ve been so good here. The seamstresses worked very hard on it…I hope you like it!”

Renault just stood there, dumbly, for several moments—making Magna feel rather apprehensive—before realization dawned and his face went bright red. “I-I can’t accept this!” Noticing that Magna seemed to be hurt, he immediately clarified, “It’s not that I don’t like it, it-it’s a wonderful gift. But how can I accept it? I told you, I’m not—“

“Even if you don’t believe, your presence here has been a boon to us,” she smiled. “You’ve served Varek well and you’ve helped us so much with our books. Faithful or not, that deserves praise.”

“But I, uh…” he blushed. “I didn’t get you any presents either…”

“That’s fine. The translations you and Varek have been doing are a gift enough.”

“T…thank you, Magna.” Renault truly meant that, and he truly didn’t know what to say, either. No-one in the centuries since Braddock’s death had shown him anywhere near this degree of kindness.

“You’re very welcome, my friend. Now, I ought to get back to the refectory, but in case I miss Varek, could you give him this?”

She handed him another parcel, which was likely a book, a present intended for Varek.

“Of course. I’ll tell him it’s from you.”

“Not just from me, but from all the sisters here!”

“Right.”

With that, Magna laughed and padded happily away, leaving Renault alone to get back to his translations. And after a few minutes, Varek returned. The first thing he noticed was Renault’s new cloak, which the disciple had actually put on (it often got fairly cold in the library).

“It looks good on you,” he said with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Your Ascension present, I take it?”

“Y-yes. I didn’t ask for anything, I swear! They just—“

“I know, lad. That’s just how the sisters of this abbey are.”

“Well, speaking of that…” Renault handed him the package Magna had left. Somewhat surprised, Varek opened it up to find, to his delight, a very new copy of the _Journey of Elimine_. It was about a third of the size as the tome he’d been previously using but had all of the content, as it was made out of the newer, thinner Etrurian paper which had been developed in the past few years. A very thoughtful gift, to be sure, and perfect for Varek.

“Now that’s what I call a good turn!” The hermit laughed. “Even if we were to leave today, I’d say we’ve gained more from our stay here than either of us would’ve expected.”

“You’re right about that. I never thought I’d experience hospitality like this again…” Renault’s voice trailed off.

“Well, let’s do our best to pay ‘em back.”

And so ended the Month of the Holy Ascension, at least for the two of them—the nuns of the Abbey would spend the rest of the day praying, feasting, and celebrating. But tomorrow they’d return to their routines as if nothing had happened—just like their two visitors.

-X-

About two months later, on the 27th Horse, Renault and Varek would receive a payback, of sorts, of their own.

They were working, as they always were, in the library. They were just about halfway done with translating all the texts Varlago had donated, though it didn’t feel that way to Renault. And this afternoon, surprisingly enough, someone would join them.

It wasn’t a _total_ surprise, since this was the nunnery’s library. Many sisters came to study and read quietly. For the most part, they left Varek and Renault alone to work. Today, however, would be somewhat different.

When he heard the quiet padding of a nun’s feet coming towards his table, Renault looked up for a moment, expecting to see Magna. It wasn’t her—just another nun. Renault paid her no mind and went back to his translation (Varek hadn’t even looked up). When he heard the distinctive footfalls of someone scrambling away quickly, however, he looked up again, and this time Varek did too. It was then Renault remembered the newcomer’s hair had been brown.

From down the hall outside the door, they heard Magna’s quiet voice. “Goodness, Leith, you nearly ran into me. What’s the hurry?”

The girl—Leith—said something quiet Renault couldn’t hear. He was able to make out Magna’s response, though. “Those two? You mean Renault and Varek? They’re harmless!”

He and Varek looked at each other, realizing something was amiss. With a sigh, Varek stood up, figuring this would be something he’d have to deal with. Renault followed him, unsure of what was going on.  When they exited the library, they saw Magna arguing with the girl—Leith—over something.

“’Scuse me, Sisters, but is something the matter?” Varek asked peaceably. “I heard someone say my name. If Renault or I have done something wrong, intentionally or unintentionally…”

“Oh, no, no,” said Magna. “You’ve done nothing! This girl here, I just don’t—“

“You don’t belong here,” Leith hissed. “Neither of you belong here!” And she glared at the both of them with the same burning hatred Renault remembered from the Ascension mass.

Both he and Varek were taken aback; the hermit was momentarily struck speechless. Neither had any idea of what they’d done to deserve this sort of vitriol. They’d never even spoken with the girl before.

“Huh?” said Renault, thoroughly confused. “I…look, I won’t claim to be a good man, but I haven’t done anything wrong in all the time I’ve been here. Isn’t Diotica Abbey supposed to be a haven for travelers, whether or not they belong to the Church? And my friend Varek is one of the holiest ascetics in all of Bern! You can’t possibly say he doesn’t belong here.”

“You’re scum and he’s a fraud,” she continued. “Why can’t you just leave us alone? Is there _anywhere_ on Elibe I can get away from you people?”

Varek still couldn’t speak, so surprised was he, and Magna could only sputter, never expecting the new initiate to possess _that_ level of bile towards the two travelers. Renault, however, hadn’t been silenced. He had learned much patience over the course of his time with Varek, but any insult of his mentor would push it to its limit, and in the defense of the man he’d come to admire so much, the violent personality he’d been trying to leave behind would return once more.

“A _fraud?!_ ” Renault’s face twisted into an angry scowl, of the sort he hadn’t worn since his final battle with Lucian several years ago. “You don’t have _any_ idea of what you’re talking about, you damn b—“

“ _RENAULT!_ ”

That shut him up _immediately_. Because the voice came from Varek—and the hermit sounded angrier than Renault had _ever_ heard him.

As silence returned to the library, Varek turned back towards Leith, who had taken several steps away in what seemed to be abject fear. Varek’s anger wasn’t turned towards her, however. Exactly the opposite.

“Sister Leith, I don’t know why you hate my disciple and me so much. But it is obvious you’re hurting, and your soul carries a heavy burden. God wouldn’t want me to add to it, and I apologize on Renault’s behalf, and my own, for doing so. We’ll take our leave immediately, so as not to trouble you further with our presence. I’ll pray for you tonight, and I’ll also pray to repent of however I may have sinned against you, and that we may meet as friends when your burden has lifted.”

He then turned away from her and gave his companion a hard glare. “Follow me, Renault.”

“But—“

“ _Now_.”

Leaving Leith and Magna behind them (and as they exited the library, Renault heard the latter berating the former), Varek led Renault back to their room near the entrance to the abbey. “I’m _very_ disappointed in you, boy,” he snapped.

“What? Why? That girl insulted you!”

“Yes, but that’s no reason to react as you did! I know what you were going to call her! In the Saint’s name, Renault, remember what I’ve told you, and remember what she said: You’re not made unclean by what passes into your mouth, but by what passes out of it. And we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve been told to watch that foul mouth!”

Renault didn’t really need a reminder of that (at least he thought so) but, unbidden, his memory did so anyways. He remembered Jerid telling him that his mouth always got him into trouble, Henken advising him to learn control of himself…and most of all, Braddock.

 “Yeah, true…alright, I’ll admit I could have handled that better. Braddock probably would have. But, Varek,” and Renault’s voice was still somewhat petulant, “I only got angry because she insulted _you!_ You never did anything to her, and you’ve been nothing but a perfect guest here since we first arrived! I wouldn’t have cared if she just shouted at me, but I’m not gonna let anyone degrade you and get away with it!”

“Renault…” The expression on Varek’s face softened; the anger and annoyance was replaced by exasperation. “I’m flattered you’re so loyal to me,” he said, “But you have to understand. I’m not as interested in loyalty to _me_ as I am in loyalty to what I believe in.”

Renault sighed and bowed his head. He knew very well where Varek was going with this, and he also knew very well that Varek was right.

“I’d rather you stand by the teachings of Elimine than by me, personally,” the hermit continued. “Even if you don’t believe in her God, you can still follow her advice. Think, Renault, _think!_ You know that living a life of violence was exactly the opposite of what Braddock wanted, right? Well, being as cruel and thoughtless as you were back there is exactly the opposite of what _I_ want. I _don’t_ want you to shout and people and insult them, even if you think they deserve it, and even if you think you’re defending _me_. Your intentions may be good, but your actions aren’t. Again, remember what Elimine and Theomus said! Let no evil pass from your lips! Forgive those who hate you! Be patient, be kind, slow to make war and quick to make peace. If you can do that, it’d mean far more to me than defending me against a thousand insults.”

“I…” Renault hung his head, unable to refute his mentor’s logic, as usual. “I’m sorry. You’re right, Varek. I was…I was being a fool again. But…da—I mean, you have to understand, this isn’t easy for me! I’ve lived virtually my whole life as a mercenary! I never knew how to do anything but bash in other people’s heads before I met you! And it’s not like I interacted much with women, much less religious ones, all that much before I came here. I don’t have any idea of what the proper way to behave or speak around them is!”

“That’s true,” said Varek sympathetically. “Not as if you picked up the basics of eremitic life immediately, and that was when I was tutoring you personally and only. But let’s see if I can give you a little extra help.”

By this point, they’d walked back to their room, where Varek went over to his traveling pack and pulled out one of his books, which he handed to Renault.

“The Analects of Archbishop Urbain,” Renault read out loud. Urbain…the name was familiar. He was mentioned in _950 Years of Light_ : One of the first eight Archbishops of Etruria elected after the Second Ecumenical Synod, Urbain had been declared an Elder of the Church by the 9th Synod. He was known for his great compassion, unimpeachable character, and unparalleled skill with both the written and spoken word. The _Analects_ contained most of his collected writings and speeches, most of which were on theology and living a virtuous life. Many, however, also gave counsel on how to speak well, write well, and use language skillfully, along with advice on social decorum, proper comportment in public and private, and prudence in both secular and religious affairs.

“I want you to read through this whenever you get the chance,” said Varek. “You don’t have to bother with the theological treatises at the beginning, but at the least, I’d like you to start with the first batch of essays midway through the book: _On Etiquette,_ followed by _Techniques of Eloquence,_ and the _Dialogues_. If you need any help understandin’ any of that, of course, I’ll always be willing to provide.”

“…Alright.”

“Well, after what just happened, I think it’d be best for both of us to take a day off. No more translating today. Renault, let’s both try to keep low for the rest of the day. I don’t know what Sister Leith’s problems are, but it’s obvious something’s weighing upon her…and it doesn’t have anything to do with us, specifically. I’d wager she’s been bearing it long before she arrived at this nunnery. We don’t want to exacerbate whatever it is. For now, I want us to avoid her as much as possible.”

“I can certainly do that. If I’m trying to live a peaceful life now, the last thing I want is to get into a fight with some crazy nun!”

“Don’t sulk like that, Renault, it’s part of the problem too. On that note, we’ll come back to the library tomorrow, early in the morning. We’ll make sure Magna can move us to a more private area to avoid Leith, if she needs the library as well. And when we do, I want you to apologize to Magna.”

“Wh—alright, fine. I understand. I guess I owe her.”

Varek nodded. “Glad to hear that, lad. Now, I’m going to do some praying for guidance. You can get started on the reading, if you want.”

That seemed fair enough to Renault. He turned away from Varek, who’d already begun reciting his prayers, and opened up to the middle of the book, where Varek had advised him to start.

And over the next three months, he would absorb devotedly the lessons those texts contained.

 _On Etiquette_ , as could be surmised by the title, was a tract on social decorum, but it was also much more. Urbain argued—and Renault found himself convinced—that adherence to decorum and certain standards of politeness was more than just useful, it contributed to the maintenance of civil society and improved standards individually. “It is understandable,” wrote Urbain, and at this Renault thought the Archbishop was speaking directly to him, “that many would disregard etiquette as mere frivolity. What use does a soldier have for florid words? Why would a miner need a gilded tongue? Does pretty language not merely obscure ugly truths? These are true, yes, and I have no desire to cast myself as a pompous aristocrat lecturing those he perceives—but who truly are not—his inferiors. Yet if you would be so kind, dear reader, please allow a humble man of God to show you a side of the argument you might not have heard before.”

Politeness, argued Urbain, was more than just a frivolous distraction enjoyed by those with more leisure time and thinner skins than most. It was, more than anything else, an _orientation_ —an attitude towards the world that could be evinced by even the saltiest sailor. Even if one had a foul mouth, according to Urbain, they were most vulgar if they used their harsh words to insult and harm others, or even if they spoke without thinking. “Thoughtlessness,” he said, “is more profane than vulgarity. As the blessed Saint taught us, what comes out of our mouth pollutes us, not what comes in. But how do we release impure and tainted words? There are two ways. The first is when we speak with an intent to harm, obviously. The second way, which is harder to detect, is when we speak without thinking.

“A man who swears a great deal, but only does so after considering his words, will ultimately cause less harm than a golden-tongued bard who vents the sweetest language without the slightest thought. The first man may irritate some with rough talk, but he will only speak when he can bring truth, levity, or compassion. He will lift up the spirits of those around him and earn himself renown for his wisdom and forthrightness, even if he is profane. The second man, however, will sow discord and strife with inappropriate jests, cruel gossip, and meaningless slander. Remember Lamentations 84: A fool gives full vent to his emotions, but a wise man restrains himself. No matter how lovely his songs, the thoughtless bard, who does not allow himself to think before spewing nonsense words of either love or hate, joy or anger, will be reviled by all, even if a single vulgarity never leaves his lips, and even if he means not evil. When happy, his bleatings will make him seem a drunkard absent of wisdom, when angry, his snipes will be as destructive as a bandit’s poisoned arrows. Words which are ill-chosen can cause as much harm as those chosen to harm.

“True etiquette, then, lies in both considering yourself and the people around you in light of what the Saint taught and what God expects of us. Remember the wisdom of the 73rd verse of _Lamentations_ : “It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.” Let propriety _and_ compassion guide you in all things, and avoid cruelty _and_ thoughtlessness as much as you are able. If you are a sailor or soldier, worry not for your slang and cant; God will not punish you for that. What you will be judged on is the effect your words have. If a sailor swears and guides his ship out of a storm, his words will bless him. If his words contain not a drop of evil yet lead his crew to calamity, they will curse him.  That is the truth behind Elimine’s words.”

“Thoughtlessness,” Renault mumbled. That had always been his problem, as he had admitted to Varek before, and it had always been what Braddock wanted to warn him against. His best friend had always encouraged him to think more deeply about his words and actions, to keep from hurting anyone who didn’t deserve it. Renault’s failure to do so had very much caused his present predicament, and would have caused Braddock so much pain and shame.

Varek had been right—his behavior towards Leith earlier today had certainly been thoughtless. It had been the sort of thing Braddock would’ve chastised him for. And, he figured, he’d wait far longer than enough to put a stop to it.

By the time he finished the treatise, it was getting late, and Varek was getting ready to sleep. Renault did so as well, and the next morning they returned to their usual routine at the library. Magna assured them that Leith wouldn’t be there—she’d told the girl where Renault and Varek usually were, and how to avoid them—and apologized for the younger adept’s behavior, saying she had no idea what Leith’s problem was, but according to Meris, Leith meant no harm and was dealing with unpleasant memories from her past. That was sufficient for Varek, and it was sufficient for Renault as well. Taking to heart Urbain’s advice to be guided by propriety and compassion—the sort of advice Braddock might have gave—Renault bowed to Magna and said something he almost never had before: A sincere apology.

Varek was most pleased, and told Renault so when they returned to their room in the evening.  In return, before they went to bed for the night, Renault offered a question.

“I’m glad you’re proud of me, Varek. It looks like Urbain’s teachings are already helping me live the way Braddock would’ve wanted, and it hasn’t even been a day yet. But…I dunno. I guess I’d like to ask your advice on something.”

“Of course, lad. What’s your question?”

Renault thought for a moment, sighed, and then spoke:

“Last night, when I read _On Etiquette_ , Urbain talked a lot about compassion and thoughtfulness. I know what both words mean—I’m not stupid—and I can train myself on the second concept, but the first…Varek, what do you think would help me become more “compassionate?” It’s obviously not a trait mercenaries cultivate…but then again, my best friend was as compassionate as they came, unless you p—er, made him angry, of course. Me, nobody could ever accuse me of compassion. Was it just a difference of birth between us? Was he just better than I am? And if so, is there no hope for me to demonstrate the sort of compassion Urbain recommended?”

“Hmm…” Varek leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure I’d say that, Renault. You’ve already demonstrated more compassion to me, and to the nuns here, than you probably ever showed to anyone in your previous life. I’d take that as proof improvement is possible, even for you. I think compassion is not just a state of being but a skill that can be cultivated, like any other. You had to learn swordsmanship, didn’t you? It’s not as if you were a master the first time you picked up a blade.”

“Obviously not.”

“It’s the same with compassion. If it doesn’t come naturally to you, I think by practicing it, more and more it will come naturally to you, eventually. And it’s not “faking” either—any more than mastery of swordsmanship, or anything else gained after much practice, is fake.”

“So, then how would you recommend I start?”

“Well, think of things this way, Renault. At least when you start interacting with people again. The heart of compassion is empathy. Do you know what that is?”

“Understanding other people.”

“Yes, sort of. Understanding them is part of it, but not all of it. Now just how they are or how they behave, but _why_ they do what they do. It’s the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, to think as they think, to feel what they feel—to share their joy and their pain.

“That’s easy enough to do with someone you consider a friend—you and I have empathy for each other, as you had with Braddock. If you can manage to show that sort of empathy to people you don’t know, however—or even an enemy—then you’ll have made a great deal of progress on the path to true compassion. Instead of hating such people—even when they attack you—try to understand their deeper motivations. Ask them—not literally, of course—‘why might you feel this way? How do you hope to benefit? What are you afraid to lose?’ Questions like that. You won’t necessarily get an answer, of course, but just pondering the questions can make you a little more patient, and a little less willing to react in anger. Some people are just irredeemable, and no matter what their situation is you’ll end up in conflict. But others…sometimes, if you try and see where they’re coming from, you won’t hate them so much, or at least, they won’t bring out the worst in you.

“It’s how I dealt with Leith back there. I can understand why you got angry, Renault—when she called me a fraud, it took me a bit of effort to keep from snapping at her!”

Renault was surprised to hear that Varek’s patience was anything but infinite. “R-really?”

“Aye. Remember what I told you? I don’t get along too well with people. But that’s why I’m aware of my own failings, and work as hard as I can to correct them. That’s what Urbain meant by not being thoughtless. So when Leith insulted me, I didn’t just let loose with the first thing that came to mind. I paused—took a breath—and kept myself in check, so I could consider what my next words should be. In that time, I tried to think of what was happening with the person on the other side of me. Why was Leith so angry? If we hadn’t done anything to her, it must have been something else. We couldn’t be certain of exactly what, but if she had come to a nunnery to escape it, it must have been serious. So, when I thought about it like that, and realized how much suffering Leith must have gone through to make her so angry, my irritation at her was transformed into pity and concern. That allowed me to react in a more appropriate way. And that, Renault, is what demonstrating compassion and empathy is all about.”

“Hmm…so you’re saying to think before I speak—even remaining silent if I have to take the time—and think about the other person’s situation, so I might identify with them rather than getting angry at them?”

“Yep.”

Renault sighed and rubbed his head, but there was nothing petulant or combative about that gesture—it indicated he was aware he had a lot to learn. “Alright, I’ll try that next time, Varek. I dunno if I’ll be good at it, but…no harm in the attempt, right?”

“That’s the spirit, lad. You might not even get a next time—for all we know, we may not run into Leith again by the time we leave. But either way, you’ll be a better person if you follow Urbain’s advice. And that’s what Braddock wanted for you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then, keep working on it. Oh, and don’t stop here, either. Keep going through the _Analects_. You’d do well to learn from the rest of Urbain’s writing.”

“Alright…”

Varek smiled knowingly, realizing it was late. “Tomorrow, though. You’ve done enough for today.”

And with that, the two of them went to sleep.

 

-X-

It had been about a month since he had begun the _Analects of Urbain._ But, even in that short span of time, Renault had already begun to evince great changes in his speech and behavior.

The next several treatises which followed _On Etiquette_ were no less edifying, in Renault’s view. In _Techniques of Eloquence,_ Urbain modified some of what he said in his previous essay. “There are words appropriate for a sailor, and words appropriate for a soldier,” continued Urbain, “and I have no wish to tell either how to live their lives. The motivation of their words, as I have said previously, is more important than the shape. Yet, friends, I would beg your indulgence for just a while longer. In certain situations, careful attention to language may be more a boon than diversion, and may help those with good intentions more than hinder them. Allow me to explain.”

First, in Urbain’s view, it was important to consider that the vulgar, acerbic language of soldiers, sailors, and other such groups was a result of the harsh conditions they had to deal with. On the battlefield or on a cramped ship, there was no harm in letting loose with any manner of profanity. Yet, Urbain questioned, was language suited to certain situations suited for all of them? If one wanted an underling to obey your orders on the battlefield, shouting invective at him might be the only way to get his attention. But what if you were speaking to a child, or a lover? You might simply paralyze them with fear, or break their heart with abuse. “It is clear, then,” said Urbain, “that the wise man realizes that words are never just empty air. They have power—even the cruel ones, and even the ill-considered ones. That is what makes them dangerous. For they reflect our inner state of being! And while one’s inner state may be suited to the battlefield, where his life depends on it, bringing it to one’s wife and children will expose them to a battlefield for which they’ve not been trained, and which will only paralyze them. Therefore, one ought not use words suited to the battlefield off the battlefield. Whether he succeeds or not, the wise soldier will attempt to arrest his profanity around his lords, and around those hearts and souls are not as strong as his. In this way he will demonstrate the compassion and concern for others that was the hallmark of our blessed Saint.”

“Henken…you were right,” mumbled Renault to himself when he first read this. He remembered how his former master—as a stoneworker—had told him his inability to control his swearing was foolish. He’d always just denied that wisdom by saying “Mere words can’t hurt anybody!” Now, however, he realized how myopic such a view was. If he was willing to fight people over “mere words,” didn’t that demonstrate they had power? Perhaps that was what his old master—and his mother, and Braddock—had been trying to tell him for so long, and he had to ward off another wave of grief as he realized that he’d only heeded their advice after they were long gone. But, at the very least, it was better to heed it later than never, and Renault also realized Urbain’s commentary could help him do so. He could remember many instances throughout his life where his violent language led him into violent situations. When he expressed his anger, it fed on itself rather than solved problems. An angry mode of speaking, therefore, would be useful if he wanted to stay on the bloody path of a mercenary, but if he wanted to find the peaceful way of life Braddock desired, it would be much easier for him to do so if he began talking in the calmer, gentler ways Urbain recommended. At the very least, it would go a long way to keep him out of trouble, and he’d had more than enough trouble to last many lifetimes.

Aside from simple practicality, Urbain also counseled, one’s use of language could also help or hinder them in cultivating virtue and the sort of emotional orientation Elimine would be proud of. “Remember, friends,” he said, “how our blessed Saint behaved both alone and in public, and recall the blessed merits God encouraged within her, as well as for all people. Our Saint was humble, never full of herself despite her many meritorious deeds. She was patient and merciful, tolerating even Theomus, who was so reprehensible he could infuriate even a stone! And she was kind, both to her fellow humans and even to her enemies the Dragons, whom she allowed to flee Elibe with their lives. Though we may never be able to equal her virtues, we may at least strive towards them. And, by speaking in gentle, kind, and compassionate ways, we may find ourselves growing kinder, gentler, and more compassionate in our hearts as well as our tongues. Men and women pick up the characteristics of their environment, and the words which come out of their mouths become part of their environment. Let what you speak be good and uplifting, then, and your environment will become better and more pleasant, leading to your inner self becoming the same. It is, in short, a virtuous circle.”

Once again, Renault had to concede Urbain’s argument. He couldn’t recall a single instance where getting angry and using harsh language had actually mollified him rather than stoking him on further, while there were many times a kind, calming word from Braddock made him feel better than swearing or ranting would.

Finally (and here Urbain came to the driest and most technical part of his text), the purpose of language was not only to express emotions but to convey ideas, and to convince others of the merits of those ideas. Therefore, it was imperative for any educated person to learn how he could use language as a tool of persuasion. Urbain argued that angry, emotional, and vitriolic language might be able to browbeat the weak-minded into submission, but it would be entirely useless against the physically strong (who would simply respond with violence) or the mentally astute (who could not be swayed by emotion). Considered, thoughtful language, therefore, would be more effective in swaying both groups of people. “After acknowledging that, however,” he said, “we must still come to the conclusion that there is more to the skillful use of language—that is, the art of rhetoric—than even a great deal of thought and consideration can help us with. We must not ignore the form and order of our words—our grammar, the structure of our arguments—our logic, and how they sound whether they come from our mouths or our pens—that is to say, the different arts of public speaking and good writing. With what time I have left to me here, reader, I shall give you what advice in all those matters I may.”

Renault spent more time with these, along with the next section ( _The Dialogues_ , which were a series of debates and discussions Urbain had with many different people which demonstrated the lessons he taught) than any others in the book. He learned the basics of constructing an argument, the proper use of evidence (and referring to such evidence in written essays and letters), as well as what Urbain called “logical fallacies,” which were essentially poor arguments that were easy to refute. The “Appeal to Popularity,” for instance, in which a falsehood was argued by true just because many believed it, or “The Attack on the Man,” which involved criticism of a person’s social status, appearance, or other irrelevant characteristic rather than anything pertaining to their actual statements.

Most importantly for Renault, however, was Urbain’s advice on making the spoken word more eloquent. He gave a hundred pages of suggestions and advice on speaking: When to raise one’s voice (such as when speaking to a crowd) or when to keep quiet (when talking to a single person), a glossary of useful words and terms to expand one’s vocabulary and allow them to at least understand discussions involving a variety of subjects, a reminder to keep quiet rather than relying on interjections such as “uh” and “um” and to avoid contractions and overuse of slang such as “woulda,” “gonna,” and similar phrases (since they made one sound uneducated and disrespectful), and so on. The more he read, the more Renault noticed his very speech begin to change. And he got the feeling he was all the better for it.

The fruits of his labor were first really demonstrated—at least in his view—on a quiet afternoon of the 8th Knight.

After spending all morning translating, Renault thought the time was ripe for a break. Varek didn’t need one, but he gave his permission to his disciple. Thus, Renault stretched, took a deep breath, and left his seat, saying goodbye to Magna before heading out for a walk.

The abbey outside was somewhat busier than usual. Nuns bustled to and fro, carrying decorations, parcels, and trays of non-perishable foods all over the place. Tomorrow was a holiday, Renault remembered. The 9th Knight was the anniversary of Elimine’s birth, he recalled. On that joyous day, the faithful were expected to raise their voices in prayer (as they should during all the other holy days) and also place a special emphasis on charity and peacemaking, giving gifts to the less fortunate all across Elibe to commemorate the gift of life Elimine had received on this day. It was also supposed to be a day of complete peace; the Church had declared that “none shall shed or even touch blood as we commemorate our Saint’s birth.” Soldiers were forbidden to fight, and a truce spread across the entire continent during the celebrations. All Elimineans took the injunction against blood to mean they should harm no living thing either, so they prepared a variety of vegetarian treats (such as fruit pastries, fried vegetables, and especially “Wyvernleaves” in Bern) to enjoy. This was what many of the nuns were doing right now. Some Elimineans, less benignly, also tried to avoid touching any sort of blood _at all, for any reason_. Some faithful doctors and healers refused to even look at patients who had been injured, because they thought they might touch some blood and thus incur sin. This seemed to Renault to be a case of sacrificing the spirit of the law for its letter, but it was nothing he was particularly concerned about at the moment.

He almost had something to be very concerned about, though—almost. As he meandered along, Renault caught sight of a familiar brown-haired foe. Thinking quickly, he immediately ducked behind a nearby building—the seamstresses’ workshop—before Leith could notice him. He breathed a sigh of relief as she passed by without incident, then left his hiding place and glared at her as she continued to walk away. He thought better of it, though—if she realized she was being watched, she might look back at him, which might spark an incident of the type he’d just tried to hide to avoid. Thus, he promptly returned to his previous route. As he resumed his wandering, however, something occurred to him, and he began to walk purposefully rather than aimlessly—towards the main church.

That building was fairly busy as well. Before holidays, many Elimineans tried to confess their sins so they could be as pure as possible for the celebrations, and this was what the nuns were trying to do today. Renault noticed there was a number of them lined up behind the small booth called the “confessional” near the church nave, and figured Abbess Meris would be spending most of the day in there, listening to the worries of her flock and doing what she could to forgive their sins and give them peace.

Renault didn’t want a confession at the moment, but he did want some advice. And for once, he wouldn’t be able to go to Varek for it, since the hermit wouldn’t know as much about his questions as Meris would.

He knew, of course, that it’d be inappropriate to take time away from the other parishioners for his own concerns. He thus took a seat in one of the nearby pews and waited patiently for the line of nuns to diminish, even when new ones came in. It would take some time, but Renault figured Varek wouldn’t mind if he’d skipped one day of translation—he’d certainly earned a break, considering how hard he’d been working. After an hour or so, the last nun left the confessional, looking as if a great weight had been lifted from her back, and none came to replace her, at least not immediately. So it wasn’t long after until Abbess Meris popped out, and she allowed herself a small smile when she saw that she had one more visitor.

“Oh, Renault. This is quite a surprise! I’ve never seen you in here—except with Varek, once or twice. Why are you alone? Do you wish to make confession?”

“U—er…no,” he said, remembering Urbain’s lessons on eloquence. He waited a moment before speaking his next words, and also remembered Urbain’s counsel to speak, when possible, as calmly, gently, and respectfully as one would, so the humility and compassion one wished to cultivate (and Renault did) would be expressed and thus reinforced in his voice. “…Forgive me, Abbess Meris,” he said at last. “I’m not eligible for the Sacrament of Confession. But I did want—er, I would like to hear your advice on something. If you’d allow it, that is.”

Meris wore a somewhat quizzical expression, though Renault would only find the true meaning behind it a little later. She didn’t seem offended, though. “Well, I would be a poor Abbess indeed if I refused anyone who sought my wisdom…even if I have but little,” she chuckled. “I’d be happy to help you, Renault, though I can’t guarantee I’d be able to give much.” She sat down next to him on the pew and motioned for him to begin with his questions.

“Eh…Abbess,” and Renault made a particular point of referring to her with her formal title, as Urbain had suggested such a behavior would convince one’s audience of good, respectful intentions and would reinforce a spirit of humility appropriate for a student, which Renault certainly was at the moment. “Do you know a woman named Leith here?”

“I do,” said Meris. “She’s our newest acolyte, and arrived here only a few days after you. You’ve had a…confrontation, with her, have you not? I heard about it from Magna. My apologies, Renault. I beg of you to forgive her. She has had a…difficult life.”

“I understand that.” Renault had to consciously keep himself from letting out a nasty barb at Leith. “I will…try to forgive her, as best as I can. Varek advised me to, as well.” It would be a task easier said than done for Renault, but he was being quite sincere, actually. Aside from Varek’s counsel, he also knew that Braddock would have wanted him to treat the young woman kindly, given how “chivalrous” he’d always been, despite not being a knight. “But even so…Abbess, do you know what Leith had against Varek and I? It would be easier to forgive her if we knew why she hated us in the first place.”

“Hmm…well, I understand that too.” Meris shifted in her seat, though her expression and tone of voice were still sympathetic. “However, I cannot speak too much of it. Leith’s burdens are her own, and it would violate both spirit and letter of the Seal of Confession to reveal them to another. I can only tell you this, Renault: Her anger towards you was not personal, but general. Rest assured you and Varek did nothing wrong to her, and she has never even seen you before today. It is the simple fact that…well, you remind her of people who have committed terrible crimes. That is all I will say.”

“…I see. Forgive me for asking.” Renault would have liked to ask what sort of “people” Meris was referring to, but when he thought about it, it wasn’t hard to figure out. He still looked like a soldier, thanks to his size and bearing, so perhaps Meris’ family had been killed in a border skirmish between countries or by bandits. Or perhaps some men—sharing nothing with him and Varek but their gender—had transgressed upon her body. Whatever the case may have been, Renault now understood why Leith seemed to dislike him so much, and saw no need to pry further.

“That’s quite alright, Renault. I hope it eased your curiosity, at least somewhat. And perhaps helped you understand Sister Leith a little better…I beg you be patient with her. She is honestly trying to overcome her prejudices, and has told both Magna and me that she’s sorry for her outburst. She’s just not yet ready to apologize personally to you and Varek. I hope you’ll be willing to wait, though I apologize if it’s an imposition. We all have spiritual challenges to overcome, and anger happens to be hers.” Somewhat more quietly, Meris added, “it was mine as well.”

“Hu—er, excuse me?”

“Oh dear, you heard that?”

“I did, though I understand if you don’t want to discuss it…”

“Hmm…” Meris thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s inappropriate to reveal others’ secrets, but there’s nothing wrong with telling my own. And if it might help you understand us here, Renault—and perhaps make you more sympathetic to Leith’s plight—I would say it’s worth it.

“The truth is, Renault, when I first came to Diotica Abbey, some…oh, so long ago, twenty years, I think—I was as angry as Leith, in many ways.”

“Really?” Renault had a hard time believing that. Abbess Meris had always struck him as being as kind and contemplative as Varek, if not more so. Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised, given Varek’s past.

“Yes, though I hasten to add I was never much wronged by anyone. The reasons behind my anger were far less legitimate than Leith’s. Forgive me if this sounds strange, Renault, but know you what my name means in an old Lycian tongue?”

“B…bountiful,” Renault muttered. “Brad…” he stopped himself from releasing an “uh,” “E…excuse me, a friend of mine from Lycia told me about that. A superstition concerning red hair and fertility, or something similar…”

“That’s right. But this unfortunate Meris you see before you, well, she can bear no children.” She laughed—and there was a bit of pain in it, but not much bitterness. “Alas, I only discovered _that_ after I married. My husband divorced me—understandably, if not compassionately—and I was left with nowhere else to turn but the Church. I eventually found my way here, where I hope I’ve been of some use.”

“You have! Definitely!” said Renault vehemently, momentarily forgetting what Urbain had taught about calmness. “Oh, I mean…pardon me, Mother. I…lost myself, there. I still have much to learn of self-control. But…you’ve been most kind to Varek and me. The sisters here love you as well. I can’t imagine Diotica prospering as it has without your guidance…”

Meris’ smile was genuine. “Thank you, Renault. And I mean that sincerely. But truth be told, no-one would have believed that when I first arrived here. Lord, I must have been the most troublesome nun to ever set foot in these walls! My Lycian parents had disowned me, since my condition was shameful to them, and there were few places in Bern which would give shelter to the foreign ex-wife of a merchant. Even though I was lucky that Diotica accepted me, it took me some time to realize that. For the first few years of my discipleship, I wasted so much time ranting about the evils of men, blaming the world for my unhappy situation, and coming up with hare-brained revenge plots against my former husband. Blessed Mother Lutica must have had the patience of the Saint herself to put up with me!”

“That…might well be true,” Renault admitted, with a touch of embarrassment.

“But I eventually learned better—at least, I hope I have,” she laughed. “Well, I can only pray that I have. With God, all things are possible, even the reformation of someone as incorrigible as I was.”

 _I wonder if I could hope for the same,_ Renault thought. He didn’t say that out loud, though. Instead, he asked quietly, “Abbess, how did you manage to do that?”

“Pardon?”

“S…er, I apologize. It must have seemed like another bizarre question from me. But…I do want to learn from you. I’m not a believer, but I have been trying to find a new path for myself, under Varek’s tutelage. If you’ve any advice for me…I would appreciate it. Though if you’d rather not waste your time, I understand that too…”

“Not at all, Renault. That sort of question is just the sort of thing I’m here for, though I’m afraid all my answers will be tied to religion…it’s what I know best.”

“That’s fine.”

“Well…” Meris thought for a moment. “I suppose I really started letting go of my anger and resentment—and started accepting God—when I realized I oughtn’t take everything so personally.”

“…Personally?”

“It sounds strange, doesn’t it? Let me explain.

“When I first came to the abbey, I thought that all my troubles in life were not just unfortunate but _malicious_. I mean I was convinced that they had been _intentionally_ inflicted upon me, one way or another. When my husband divorced me, I thought it was because he took pleasure in hurting me, when my parents disowned me, I thought the same of them, and for my condition in the first place, I thought that God Himself must have been laughing at me…

“But as I learned from the previous Abbess, I was being haughty and prideful—irrationally so. Would a truly all-powerful God concern Himself with an unknown woman just to laugh at her? Of course not! And did the people around me cause me pain simply to enjoy themselves? It was silly of me to assume they cared enough to do so. My husband was not a particularly kind man, but he was no crueler than most men across Elibe. I had been so wrapped up in my own problems I never once thought about his. He had not been particularly eager to marry, but pressured into it because his father wanted heirs for the family business. I came to believe that there was nothing _personal_ —nothing consciously _malicious_ —in his divorce. We were _both_ victims of our societies; that is, vast, impersonal forces beyond our control. Not only his family but everyone around him told him he needed an heir, and he had no way of knowing I couldn’t provide one. I didn’t either. So why hate him for a mistake he wasn’t responsible for?

“And my condition itself? As a nun, I helped care for those born blind, those afflicted with leprosy, those with limbs lost to gangrene or minds ruined by the horrors they had seen. I do not count my barren womb as a blessing, but it is far from the worst curse imaginable. Why should I curse God because of it, then, if others bear burdens far greater than mine?

“There is strength in acceptance, Renault. Strength and wisdom, at least so I’ve come to believe. Our blessed friend Theomus once said this, and I believe it to be true for all of us, men and woman alike: “When I was a child, I spoke and thought as a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things.” Anger, hatred, and resentment for the world, it seems to me, are childish things. As one matures—both physically and mentally—she realizes that there’s no point holding such emotions because of circumstances no-one can really be blamed for. And when you come to that conclusion, those emotions end up dying on their own. In my experience, that is.” Meris took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Renault…that was probably longer than it ought to have been. But at least if you ever need a good night’s rest, one of my lengthy sermons would put you right to sleep!”

Renault had to stop himself from letting out a laugh, before he noticed Meris was laughing and wouldn’t have minded if he joined in. He thus allowed himself a few chuckles, but he was quite serious when he said, “No, Abbess, that’s not true. I…did learn much from your preaching. You’re right…I think you’re exactly right. Varek told me the same thing about anger. And…I believe the advice I’ve received from both of you will help me overcome it. Thank you.” Renault glanced at one of the windows, realizing it was getting late. “Ah! Varek’s probably wondering where I am, I should—“

“Of course, Renault. If he’s angry with you, just tell him it’s my fault for keeping you so long.”

“I think we both know he won’t be too angry, Abbess,” Renault grinned. “But I certainly will tell him of your kindness to me.”

That was no empty promise—after leaving the church and returning to Varek, Renault told his mentor everything Meris had revealed to him. Varek, for his part, was not at all surprised. “There’s a reason I’m so glad to have her as a friend,” he smiled, before he and Renault resumed their last bits of translation for the night.

Renault did not call other people “friend” easily. But he did know one thing: He was as glad as Varek to have known that strange, wise woman and her abbey.

-X-

 “Renault, might I ask a favor of you?”

“Hm?” The disciple put down his quill and looked at his caller. It was librarian Magna, and she was speaking very quietly. This was because Renault wasn’t alone in the library. Today, the 3rd Wyvern, he and Varek were translating more books, as usual, but Varek had decided to take a little catnap. Renault wasn’t surprised—they’d been working very hard recently (as the latest texts were particularly difficult), and Varek was older than Renault, in body rather than mind, at least. That meant, however, that he would be the one to fulfill whatever request Magna had, as both knew it was a _very_ bad idea to wake the hermit up.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” Magna whispered, “and we have to deliver a meal to someone. But no-one’s available! The nuns we usually ask to do this were dispatched as apothecaries to a nearby village last week, and I would have asked Varek, but…” She blushed a bit as she acknowledged his snoring.

Before replying, Renault waited a moment, rolling his words around in his head to see how he could express himself most respectfully _and_ respectably, as Urbain might have recommended. “…So you’d like me to perform the task. I’d be happy to, but…to whom will I be delivering the meal?”

“Oh, thank you so much!” Magna had really taken a shine to him ever since he’d begun speaking in the ways Urbain recommended, Renault noticed. “It’s our recluse, Lady Kerril. She lives in the cell just next to yours, I’m sure you know her.”

“We do…I’ve heard her praying many times. I’ll see that she’s fed, sister.”

“Thank you again!”

Renault nodded and allowed himself a small, reserved smile as he exited the library and headed to the refectory. As he expected, the scullery women were waiting for him, and when he told them Magna asked him to provide Lady Kerril’s meals, they happily gave him a tray filled with food. Renault was somewhat surprised at the sparse fare—it was just a couple loaves of brown bread along with some steamed vegetables and a bit of meat. Renault couldn’t understand why they weren’t feeding Kerril anything heartier at first—the nuns of Diotica were known for the excellent food they produced; not just the delicious pastries and jams they sold but the wonderful pies, meat dishes, stews, omelettes, and various and sundry other meals they’d serve their guests. Upon a moment’s reflection, however, he realized that Kerril had probably taken a vow of poverty or privation, and did not want to eat food that was too rich. She had probably asked specifically for bland meals that offered her nutrition and nothing else, as a “mortification,” as Elimineans called such travails.

Renault thus made his way over to his neighbor’s room with no further hesitation. He politely knocked on the perpetually-closed door. “Lady Kerril, I have your meal.”

He heard a shuffling, and then an old, frail woman’s voice, so faint that he could only barely make out what she was saying. “Is that so? Thank you, friend. Please just slide it under the door.”

When Renault looked, he noticed there was actually a small slit carved into the bottom of Kerril’s door. Precisely to accommodate her meals, of course. He did as she asked, then prepared to make his exit when she stopped him.

“Forgive an old woman for pointing this out, but…isn’t your voice a little deep for a nun?”

Renault didn’t know whether to chuckle or blush. “N-no, Your Holiness. I am a man…and not one of the nuns. A traveler.”

“Is that so? I’ve heard much about you. Varek, was it?”

“No. Renault.”

“His disciple? Ah, I’ve heard of you as well. Magna is most proud, you know. Believer or not, she says you are truly walking the path of the Saint.”

“That’s…most surely an exaggeration, Lady Kerril.”

“Maybe…but I know Magna well…at least as well as anyone can from the other side of a door. You must be making progress for her to speak so highly of you.”

“I hope so,” he said. Then, after hesitating a moment, he asked, “…May I ask you something?”

“Of course. Answers are all I can give inside these walls.”

“I don’t mean to disrespect your faith, but…why have you locked yourself in there? To spend your whole life in such isolation? Isn’t that too much? Even the other nuns here are at least allowed to see the sun. Is your…condition…not unfair?”

She gave no response, and Renault feared he’d offended her. But before he could stammer out an apology, he heard a quiet voice from behind the door.

“What seems like a burden to one can be a blessing to another. A gift to one woman may be a hurdle to her sister. The sun brings my sisters closer to God, but it would only distract me. So, too, with good food and conversation and all else outside my little chamber. I don’t begrudge those for whom such things increase their reverence for the Lord. But for me, praying and contemplation are all I require for sustenance and satisfaction.

“It is the life I’ve chosen for myself, Renault, and I would choose no other, even if given a thousand chances. You may consider me strange if you wish, but I beg you, do not consider me pitiful.”

Her voice fell silent, thoroughly this time. Renault thought about what she said, absorbing every bit of it. And then replied,

“Don’t worry, Your Holiness. I won’t. I definitely won’t.”

He bowed, though she obviously could not see the gesture, and then walked away.

-X-

Renault should have known this day would come. After all, the moment he started thinking he’d be at the hermitage forever, Varek had taken them away. After a year and a half at Diotica, he’d gotten so used to things he couldn’t imagine leaving. That should have been a clue that he’d be doing just that quite soon. Even so, the decision Varek made when they’d rifled through the last of Juge’s journals came as a surprise to him.

It was the 25th Wyvern, which made today another great holiday—the 960th anniversary of the Scouring’s end. No-one was exactly certain when the war had actually ended, but people in Bern had begun celebrating a “Victory Day” on this date by 10 A.S, so the Church (and everyone else) assumed this was when Dragons had finally been driven from Bern. They weren’t celebrating with the rest of the nunnery—after attending Meris’ morning mass (Much like those she’d given for the Ascension and Elimine’s Birth, it started with a hymn before the Abbess gave a sentimental homily praising God for returning peace to Elibe, after which everyone had the Benediction), they’d headed right back to the library to study, as the usually did. There was much celebration going on around them, so they were missing a little bit. The Feast of the Scouring’s End, as it was called, involved more singing than the other holidays; all of the sisters, even those who didn’t sing hymns, were gathered around the huge tree in the center of the complex and belting out a joyful little ditty celebrating victory and peace. Neither Renault nor Varek wanted to join in, because they were very, very busy.

They weren’t translating, however. Just four weeks ago, they’d finished, finally, transcribing the last of Varlago’s books. It was one of the most arduous tasks Renault had ever completed, but it was worth it, in his estimation. After all that, he and Varek could fairly be considered masters of Draconic language, history, and culture. Even more, their translations would help the spread of knowledge all across Elibe, improving life for scholars, sages, and educators the world over.

Renault was certain this was the sort of path Braddock would have liked him to take. Improving the world around him without risking his life or taking the lives of others—that was the way Braddock wanted him to find. And thus, for the first time in his life, Renault was immensely proud of something he had done off the battlefield.

His task wasn’t _entirely_ complete, though. Now that they’d finished with Varlago’s books, they could finally start on the reason they’d actually came here in the first place—Juge’s books.

Varek’s old friend was, first and foremost, a seeker of knowledge. He was never as interested in worldly affairs as his father and siblings were—ever since Varek had known him, he’d always wanted to know more about Dragons. Their secrets, their history, and the nature of their magic. He’d delved into as many Draconic texts as he could find, of course, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted to know what lay even deeper than the Anima and Light magics that most Dragons had studied before the Scouring. He began to search for tomes and texts written by more eccentric Dragons, along with their human apprentices—seekers who had often been ostracized by both their cultures.

Juge had begun to research Elder magic.

He had, as Varek recalled, been somewhat naïve, and never really figured out that Dark magic—as “elder” magic was called by virtually everyone else—was feared and distrusted by almost everyone on Elibe. It didn’t matter to Juge, though. He could never understand why anyone wouldn’t want to pursue knowledge. Thus, when he ended up taking refuge at Diotica Abbey, he also managed to smuggle in, along with his other Draconic books, several old texts and scrolls pertaining to that distrusted, maligned school of magic. The nuns never noticed until after he’d left and donated everything because he never mentioned them—he didn’t think there was anything exceptional about them.

Reading these books was a little harder for Renault, as he hadn’t gotten quite as good with Shadetongue as he had with Draconic, even under Nergal’s tutelage. Varek, however, was quite familiar with the language, having lived on top of the resting place of the Silencing Darkness for so long (when he’d first arrived at the hermitage, his predecessor had left several books on the language in the top floor storage of the hermitage). Thus, just as he’d done for the Draconic texts, he had helped Renault work through Juge’s books in Shadetongue, improving his disciple’s skills as well.

The books didn’t seem to be as bad as their nasty reputation would suggest. The first several were dry, academic treatises on how Dark magic worked. Renault understood very little of magic theory, and thus very little of what he read even as he translated. The only thing he could gather from those books was that Dark magic relied more on the manipulation of time than either Anima (which manipulated the elements) and Light (which controlled energy). This explained, Renault surmised, how Bramimond had been able to send his consciousness backwards in time and engineer his memory as he had done.

The next few, however, were more comprehensible and more interesting for Renault. Perhaps related to its mastery of time, it seemed Elder magic was also capable of warping the boundaries between worlds. The texts didn’t go into this in any great detail, but they described the hypothesized nature of other universes, the glimpses certain Dragons had seen of such worlds, and proposed theories on how to reach them. All this was purely hypothetical at the time the text was transcribed (though Renault guessed such hypotheses were proven when the Dragons built the Gates), but they also contained some rather intriguing ruminations on what might come _out of_ the Gates, rather than _through_ them.

As it happened, the authors of these texts (anonymous as they were, for understandable reasons) questioned the origins of the language in which they wrote. They postulated that it was the script of a people which had once occupied Elibe—but which was not native to Elibe itself. Such a people were masters of what were called Elder magic; they had to be if they had crossed over to this world from another before human or Dragon had even emerged. But they were all gone now, obviously. What happened to them? Why had they left?

The last words of the last of Juge’s texts addressed this explicitly: “Some questions are best left unanswered.” But judging from the numerous annotations in these books, Juge didn’t agree. He wrote his notes in the margin in Common script, and Renault could read them quite easily (at least sometimes; while Juge’s handwriting was surprisingly good he had to fit it within the small margins). They were generally excited compliments on what he was reading; some parts were circled with “Great insight” etched nearby, while he noted “Cross-reference these” with a list of the Draconic-language books he had (those had been treatises on Anima magic, which Renault and Varek had translated as efficiently as they’d done for Varlago’s books). And there had been two notes he’d left on that last page. The first was “want to know more!”

The second was, for Renault and Varek’s purposes, much more important. It said this: “Check the Cursed Monastery!”

“Well, that’s it, Renault,” said Varek, staring carefully and contemplatively at that scrawled little note, having no idea how important it would turn out to be. “I think we know where to go next.”

“H…I mean…Pardon? What have you found?”

Varek smiled at his apprentice’s newly-found politeness. “The Cursed Monastery. I’ll have to ask Meris to be sure, but I believe I know where that is, and it seems likely that Juge ventured there. It might have had the sort of forbidden texts on Dark magic he was looking for…or at least, it seems he believed it did. He probably heard the rumors about that terrible place. Pretty much everyone in Bern did, and we still do. I suppose he must’ve assumed there was a stash of dark secrets hidden within its catacombs.”

“Why? What sort of place is this Cursed Monastery?”

“That’s a very sad story, Renault. You see, this cursed monastery actually used to be one of the holiest on Elibe. It used to be called Par Massino.”

Renault’s blood went cold.

“P…Par Massino?”

“Aye. Par Massino was once a prospering, famous monastery, the most famous in this region, in fact. It was situated in the mountains just east of here, above a high and dangerous trail that was near impossible to traverse by foot or hoof. That just added to its reputation, though. For living in such an inhospitable area, the monks had to develop truly exceptional self-discipline and piety, and its abbots were invariably men of superior judgment, wisdom, and virtue. It was truly one of the gems in Bern’s spiritual crown, and proof that any people, not just the Etrurians, were capable of attaining enlightenment.

“That’s what makes its fate such a waste…such a horrible, terrible waste. Renault, one night someone killed all the monks there. The presiding Abbot was named Grigorious, and he was an exorcist of some renown…perhaps a villain he’d previously defeated wanted to take revenge on him. Whatever the case may have been, some one or…some _thing_ turned that holy place into a graveyard. There was only one survivor…a young acolyte, just recently arrived from Ostia, wandered down from the mountains and collapsed on the road just outside. He would have died if he hadn’t been found…it was a miracle, really, a troupe of pilgrims wanting to visit the monastery found him before he could freeze to death. He told them that Par Massino had been attacked by a “white demon.” He was half-mad with pain and fear, and they couldn’t get any more information out of him but that. Bern launched an investigation, but the only thing they found was that the wounds on the corpses were caused by blades. They searched all over the mountains, across the entire country, but no culprit was ever discovered. They never even had anything like a lead.

“Ever since then, Par Massino was said to be haunted. Every Bernese man, woman, and child avoids that place as if it were a gate to the Cursed Land itself. And for all anyone knows, it may be. There are stories about that place…young mountaineers looking for a challenge say they’ve heard screams coming from it at night. Some say there have been expeditions launched to investigate it…which have never returned. I don’t know if there’s any truth to any of those rumors. Personally, I doubt it. Seen a lot of strange things in my time, but never a ghost. I do think there may be books Juge would’ve wanted to look at there. Grigorius studied Dark magic in order to combat it better. Juge might have wanted to see if there was anything left. So I think Par Massino ought to be our next destination.” Varek chuckled. “I can understand if you don’t want to leave Diotica, Renault. It’s a nice, peaceful place here. Don’t remember feeling this good in years! But I—“

He stopped cold in his tracks when he saw the expression on Renault’s face.

“By the Saint, lad, you’re as white as a sheet! Don’t tell me these ghost stories scared you!”

“It’s…I…” Renault could force the words out of his mouth. He did believe in ghosts—200 years later, he hadn’t forgotten about the Reaper’s Labyrinth—but that wasn’t why he was so distraught. No, it was guilt that assailed his mind, harder than it ever had since his first confrontation with Bramimond that seemed so long ago. Bramimond had shown him how utterly foolish he had been in slaughtering the monks of Par Massino, and that atrocity—along with the murders of Dougram and Lucian—would have made Braddock loathe him, had his best friend been alive as a witness. And thus, Renault found himself facing the shame and despair Bramimond had first forced him to confront.

But Varek didn’t know any of this, and Renault wasn’t yet willing to tell him. So, instead, at last he managed to stammer, “V-Varek, I…P…Par Massino? Are you sure?”

“No, not yet…like I said, I have to ask Meris to make sure Juge might have gone that way. But judging from these notes, it was his most likely destination.”

“V…Varek, please, you have to reconsider!” Renault stood up, losing his emotional composure, and his companion made no secret of his surprise. “We can’t go there! It’s too dangerous!”

“…Lord, you certainly do believe in those ghost stories, don’t you?” Varek sighed. “Well, I’ll not laugh at you. We live in a strange world, and the Church has trained men and women to specifically deal with ghosts and spirits. I doubt they would’ve done that if it were all a bunch of old wives’ tales. And even if nothing’s there, Par Massino is still in quite a perilous area…those mountains had taken many lives even before the tragedy.

“But, Renault, I made a promise to Varlago, and I intend to see it through. Even if it means risking my life, and even if it means confronting restless spirits. If you don’t want to follow me, for whatever reason, that’s fine. I won’t look down on you. But Par Massino’s my _only_ lead right now. If I find another I’ll skip it, but if not, I’ll head there. With or without you.”

“Varek, you can’t…”

“I’m sorry, Renault. This is part of my pilgrimage—the mission I believe God has set for me. I can’t shy away from it, not for any reason.

“I will have to prepare, though. Have to get some supplies ready, and tell Meris I’m leaving. I’ll give you three days to think about it. If you want to follow me, I’ll be glad to have you. If not, I’ll pray for you. But either way, the decision will be yours.”

Renault wanted to argue, wanted to scream and rant, even wanted to grab the old man and threaten him to keep him from leaving the abbey. But one look at his face was all Renault needed to know that Varek would not be swayed, no matter what.

And that, too, told Renault he wouldn’t need three days to come to a decision. Despite the chill in his bones, he knew that he would follow his mentor back to Par Massino.

_-X-Forgiveness-X-_

 

Renault wasn’t eager—at all—to see Par Massino again, of course. But that wasn’t the only reason he hesitated. While he hadn’t come to “love” Diotica Abbey, he had felt almost as comfortable there as he had at Varek’s hermitage. And while he wouldn’t call Meris and the other sisters “friends” the way he would with Varek, they had shown him no small degree of kindness, and he’d come to feel no small degree of kinship with them. He therefore felt a pang of loss as he looked at their home for what might be the last time, for all he knew.

He and his friend were currently standing outside the abbey in the early morning of the 29th Wyvern. They had said their farewells to Meris, Magna, and a handful of the other sisters yesterday, and saw no point in delaying their departure any further. Just as they were about to start their trek to Par Massino, however, they heard someone calling out to them.

“Wait!”

It was a familiar voice, and when they turned they saw, to their surprise, Sister Leith rushing out of the doors to the abbey.

“I…I’m glad you haven’t left yet.” She was breathing heavily, as if she’d been running, and she was also glaring at them resentfully, as if she blamed them for leaving so early without her knowledge. Neither of them said anything, however, as they knew how much she disliked them and had no desire to antagonize her further when they’d probably never see her again.

They’d be surprised again, however. Her intentions were not at all hostile. “I…I wanted to give you these.”

She held out to them a pair of leather pouches which could be held by their waists with a buckled strap—a sort very useful for travelers. Renault and Varek didn’t take these at first, but when it seemed like she’d get angry at them if they refused, they at last accepted.

“We thank you for your gifts, Sister,” said Varek. “We’re blessed by your kindness.”

Unable to help herself, Leith blurted, “Thank the Abbess for her kindness! All this was her idea! If it were up to me, I—“ She cut herself off, and Renault and Varek both knew her importune words contradicted the lessons Meris likely wanted to teach her.

In the past, Renault might have let her have it with something angry and sarcastic. Now, though, he found…he wasn’t as angry, actually. He’d taken Urbain’s lessons well—considered, measured words dampened his emotions, while the quick retorts he’d been so fond of in the past stoked his anger. He realized now that he had been as responsible for his angry reactions to the same extent the world around him had “provoked” them.

So, instead of a wrathful retort, Renault simply said this:

“It seems we’ve both been blessed by her wisdom, then. I hope she continues to take care of you well.”

Leith apparently wasn’t expecting such a gracious response. Her eyes widened and she bit her lip, but before the two men could continue on their way…

“I hope so too,” she said, and more quietly, “ And…maybe…maybe I hope my gift to you, and your time here, serves you well. You… _seem_ to be decent people. More decent than others like you. And I’m probably wrong about that, too! But at least you don’t _seem_ so bad!”

Hardly the highest compliment, but for someone as wounded as Leith, it represented a great deal of progress indeed. Both Renault and Varek accepted it for what it was, nodded and waved back to her, and continued on their way.

 

_:::Linear Notes::_

The cape they give Renault is the one he’s wearing in his official art. Leith’s pouch is also what he’s wearing there. Urbain’s treatises are based off Augustine’s _Confessions_ , several Renaissance etiquette guides, and the Columbian Orator. Recluses like Kerril do exist in Catholicism. The holidays are also loosely based off Roman Catholic holidays, but only loosely. And for the reader who was wondering, the real impetus for Renault’s conversion is gonna come next chapter. Just be patient :D

 


	68. Return to Par Massino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault finally makes a reckoning with his greatest sin.

**Chapter 68: Return to Par Massino**

For the first time in nearly two hundred years, Renault felt fear.

It was not an emotion wholly alien to him. He’d been afraid during his first fight at old Castle Nerinheit, again when he almost died in Bulgar, and again when Nergal had betrayed him. But ever since he had been transformed, he had feared virtually nothing. Despite encountering all manner of vicious opponents and even supernatural creatures as he wandered across Elibe, he’d confronted each and every one of them without the barest hesitation. Perhaps not because he was a courageous man, but because his sheer obsession with resurrecting Braddock precluded feeling virtually any other emotion.

That obsession was gone, now. Which meant there was nothing shielding him from the terror coursing through his body as he stood before the open gates of Par Massino.

The journey alone would have been enough to scare away most men. If he and Varek weren’t in excellent physical condition (despite his age and blindness in one eye, the hermit still had his Assassin’s reflexes), they might well have died long before they arrived. The roads leading to the eastern mountains had been in poor condition the first time Renault came here. In the centuries hence, they had deteriorated to near non-existence. The horror stories about Par Massino must have truly spread far and wide and buried themselves deep within the Bernese consciousness for this entire region to have been abandoned on account of them. The only silver lining on that terrible cloud was that even bandits and highwaymen apparently believed in the ghosts, because Renault and Varek hadn’t even been waylaid once. Needless to say, the trail leading into the mountains was even worse, with freezing snow rendering them nearly blind and falling rocks almost crushing them several times. The only thing they had going for them were their supplies—since Renault didn’t need to eat, he could carry plenty of food and water without consuming any, essentially doubling what was available to Varek and halving what he needed to carry.

Yet, despite all this, Varek had not given up. And, as a result, Renault had gone along right beside him, no matter how much he didn’t want to. It had taken nearly four weeks to get there, and they’d barely spoken a word to each other in all that time—there was nothing to really talk about. In the end, though, last night they had reached the same alcove where Renault and Braddock had once rested before their final battle.

And now, on the morning of the 30th Moon, 960 A.S., Renault was about to revisit the place where his friend had died.

“We’ve come this far, lad,” Varek said, noticing his disciple was standing stock-still, staring grimly at the open doors. “No sense stopping now.” He took a step forwards, realized Renault still hadn’t moved at all, and sighed. “I can understand if you don’t want to go through with this. You can wait back at that alcove, if you wish. But I’m _going_.”

That was enough to stir Renault into motion. As much as he feared this place, Varek was his friend—almost as close to him as Braddock was, even though they hadn’t known each other as long. And his love for Varek was enough—just barely—to outweigh his fear of what he knew would be the restless horrors from his past waiting for him in there. No matter what, he wouldn’t abandon Varek. Not now.

Thus, trembling with dread, his face white as a sheet, Renault followed Varek into the monastery.

And the moment he passed through the threshold, he knew that the stories were true.

The wind disappeared— _immediately_. It had been blowing and howling quite loudly when they were standing outside, but after the first step past the huge doors, it was cut off as swiftly and fully as if it had never existed at all.

“D-did you notice that, Varek? No way that was natural! We should get out while we still can!”

“Strange, but not unheard of. I admit I feel uneasy too, but I haven’t yet seen anything truly dangerous. No reason to stop our investigation. Come on.”

“I’m serious! You feel it too, don’t you?!” Renault was losing his composure, forgetting Urbain’s lessons. “I’ve felt it before, and I know what it means.”

Renault was not lying. He had only experienced this terrifying tingling sensation, this nausea, this _horror_ once before. But he had experienced it, and even two hundred years later, he did not forget it:

It was the same thing he’d felt at the Reaper’s Labyrinth.

But Varek didn’t know that. “I believe you, Renault. But we haven’t seen anything hostile yet. And if we’re quick, maybe we won’t at all. So keep your head and stop wasting time!”

Renault was trembling worse now, so badly he almost couldn’t stand, but nevertheless he followed Varek in his investigation of the monastery. Fear of ghosts wasn’t the only thing tormenting Renault—he was facing his own guilt, as sharp as the blades he once wielded here. With every he took now, he remembered those he had taken centuries ago—along with the lives he had ended. He relived the deaths of every innocent monk here, fully realizing now how wrong he had been to cause them, how horribly ashamed Braddock would have been if he’d witnessed what Renault had done. There had been no reason—none at all—for those people to have died, and he had been a fool to listen to Nergal’s honeyed words.

“I shouldn’t have…Braddock, I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry…”

“Eh?” They were about to enter the library, and Varek stopped for a moment. “Renault, what are you mumbling about?”

“N-nothing. Sorry, Varek.”

They pored through the library and found nothing of use. Virtually all of the texts were still there. In fact, the entire monastery was still mostly in the condition Renault had left it after he’d paid it a visit following Nergal’s betrayal. Any evidence of the Bernese investigation’s camp was gone now, of course, but aside from that, this place could have passed as a portrait of the world two hundred years past. No-one had tried to loot it or defile it at all…

Or if they had, they hadn’t succeeded.

“Nothing’s here,” said Varek, somewhat dejectedly. “At least nothing that Juge would’ve been interested in. All theological treatises and books on Light magic. I was certain there were old tomes on Dark magic stored here. That’s what I was told. Hmm…they wouldn’t be kept out in the open, though. Renault, let’s look for a hidden passage or chamber somewhere. We might not find anything, but if we do—“

“Catacombs,” Renault whispered.

“Hm? What was that?”

Renault paused for a moment. “Varek,” he said. “If you find what you’re looking for…a trace, _any_ trace of Juge, you’ll leave here, right?”

“Of course, as soon as possible. Even if this place wasn’t so scary, it’s also a grave for my fellow Elimineans. I’ve no wish to disturb their slumber.”

“Alright. Then you might want to look to the catacombs.”

“The catacombs?” Varek was suspicious, but then he thought about it for a moment. “I suppose that makes sense. If you want to hide something, underground’s as good a place as any. Where might they be?”

“Southeast…Southeast of the dormitories.”

“All right then. You seem to know your way around here. Lead the way!”

Varek knew there was something very strange about Renault’s behavior, ever since he’d first revealed they’d be going to Par Massino. He’d never seen Renault so frightened, which was odd enough, but now Renault was running around the place as if he’d _been_ here before. The suspicions Varek had been harboring for weeks were growing every moment now, but he didn’t open his mouth to reveal them. Not yet. It would likely destabilize Renault even further, and that was the last thing he needed at the moment. He simply followed his disciple out of the library and past the dormitories, and soon enough they came across the small, squat, church-like structure they knew served as the entrance to the monastery’s underground.

And there, they found what they sought.

In front of the threshold was a pile of furniture—chairs, stools, and other miscellaneous junk that someone had piled in front of the catacomb entrance. It was a complete mystery as to why they were there, but they were likely to have been placed recently—at least more recently than Renault’s last visit. The answer lay in what seemed to be an odd wooden sign hanging in front of the pile.

Its position in the pile had saved it—and a funny little book nearby—from the predations of the elements. It read, in large letters, “WARNING: DO NOT ENTER IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE!”

“No sense disregarding that advice,” said Varek. “I’d like to know who put this here, and why, but I’m not going to be a fool and let my curiosity kill me. Besides, maybe this holds the answer.”

He reached into the pile and grabbed what seemed to be a small notebook from between two chairs hastily plopped together. He flipped it open and began to read.

_If you won’t listen to the sign I posted up there, I only hope this journal will convince you to stay away. If you won’t listen to me now, I won’t be guilty for what happens to you._

_My name is Juge. I am a scholar of Dragons, their magic, and its history. I wanted to delve further into their secrets, and studied the forbidden texts of masters even that ancient race expelled. I came to Par Massino, despite all the terrible stories I had heard, because its last Abbot, Grigorius, had supposedly possessed a stockpile of ancient tomes and books on Dark magic so vile they had to be sequestered away for the safety of the world. But I, I believed that the pursuit of knowledge was worth any risk and any price. No matter what those forbidden tomes contained, if they held knowledge I thought there was no worthy reason not to pursue them._

_I know better now._

_This entire monastery was as peaceful and quiet as you could imagine when I first arrived last night. I knew someone—or something—had killed all the monks here, and I felt bad about disturbing their rest, but my desire for knowledge was too great, and I was glad to see nothing out of the ordinary at first. I spent a few days poking through the library and the grounds, but did not find anything—just a pile near the library where the Bernese investigators must have buried the monks, not wanting to go through the trouble of properly interring them. I’d almost been ready to give up, before I remembered there was one place I hadn’t searched: The underground catacombs._

_The moment I stepped inside the doors I felt a chill—not the kind you usually get from the cold around here. But with my Torch staff in hand, I pressed on anyways. None of the skeletons came alive and tried to attack me, so I figured I was just feeling paranoid. I went down and down until I reached the third level, where I found two torches in front of an unmarked door. I knew that was the right place, because I recognized the torchstands as being specially made, holy symbols which were countersigns to Dark spells, designed to seal them in._

_What I found there would have been enough to convince me to seal this place forever on its own. I used to believe that all knowledge was valuable for its own sake, but not anymore. Some things are best left forgotten. And the horrors I saw in there fall into that category, without a doubt. I could sense powerful enchantments from some of those books which would kill me if I even touched them, but the ones I could read I can barely even bring myself to describe. Some explained how to steal the life force, or quintessence, from living beings. Others were about the use of pain to power arcane magic; one text even described how a trio of witches sacrificed human children to cast curses and hexes! Such outright malevolence is a ground where no sane magician, even the exiled masters of the Dark I had previously read of, would ever dare to tread. The madmen—and madwomen—who wrote these books had been taught their wicked lessons by neither man nor dragon. Somehow, they had managed to contact the beings which lie beyond our world, though—thankfully—none of what I saw explained how to bridge the gap between us, or even if such a feat is still possible. I dearly hope not, for its obvious whatever is out there will bring us nothing but evil._

_But perhaps you won’t believe me, or perhaps, even worse, you’re exactly the kind of lunatic who’d want to utilize such nefarious magic for your own schemes. If so, know this: Those tomes are not undefended._

_I’d almost finished reading one when I heard a voice from behind me. “Get out,” it said. I whirled around but saw nothing. I thought my nerves were getting the best of me, but when I turned back around I couldn’t deny it any more._

_Floating in the air in front of me was a glowing blue skull. Only the faint remnants of a tonsure around the top of its head told me it used to be one of the monks._

_That was enough for me. I dropped the book and bolted out of the room as quickly as I could, and just in time too, for as I ran towards the stairs leading back up, I could hear terrible voices behind me. They were wild, angry, screeching, calling me an interloper and telling me I should be punished. I glanced back for just a moment to see a writhing mass of glowing blue skeletons surging towards me, shouting my name in voices full of unearthly hatred._

_I was so frightened that I stumbled, and that almost allowed them to catch up to me. I felt one of their bony hands clamp down on my shoulder, driving its nails into my flesh. As it did so, I felt not only my skin being cut but something **cold** run through me, as if I’d been sliced by a blade of ice. That was enough to make me run as fast as I ever did in my entire life. I broke free from its grip and raced up the stairs, all the way to the first level underground, and just managed to rush out of the catacombs before they could reach me. _

_Thankfully, it was still daylight. I don’t think they liked the sun, because when I finally tripped and fell over, I expected to be overwhelmed, but when I looked up I saw they weren’t advancing beyond the threshold of the catacombs._

_I was glad to have been saved, but I knew I had to save others, too, just in case someone else made the same mistake I did. As quickly as I could, before the sun could set, I jotted down the account you’re reading now. Then I gathered together as much detritus as I could and piled it in front of the catacomb’s door and made a warning sign. Before I leave, I’m going to place this journal in front of the barrier I made as another warning. I’m also going to travel to the nearest village and tell them what happened to me. I have to ensure no-one else disturbs the monks sleeping here._

_I will continue my quest for knowledge. But I understand now that I cannot sacrifice my humanity in the name of that quest. That almost led me to a fate worse than death._

_\--Juge the Scholar, 18 th Moon, 931 A.S._

“Well, that’s Juge, all right,” said Varek contemplatively, after he’d finished reading the account. “He was always the sort of person who’d look after others, at least when he could. I’m glad to see that didn’t change…or at least hadn’t by the time he came here. And I think we ought to follow his advice. Let’s get out of here, Renault. I’m not fool enough to do any more investigation, and some things are better left undisturbed, especially when they deserve respect.”

Renault let out an immensely grateful sigh of relief. It seemed his worst fears hadn’t come to pass at all. Even though this place apparently was haunted, so long as they didn’t disturb the catacombs no harm would come to them. All they’d have to do was make a quick exit and Renault could forget all about this horrible episode in his life. Already he was starting to feel better, more composed, and regained his hold on his emotions.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. When had it ever?

The first inkling he had that something was amiss was when Varek slowed down as they neared the gates.

“…What’s the matter, Varek?”

“I…I dunno…” Surprisingly, Varek let out a loud yawn. “I’m just getting’ sleepy, is all.”

“We can rest when we get back to that alcove. Come, let’s not waste any more time!”

“Ah…no…no hurry, lad. Let me just…rest a bit…”

Staggering, Varek made his way over to the nearest wall, just by the library, and plopped down onto the snowy ground next to it. Renault knew this was entirely out of character for Varek, and realized that something was going very wrong. He began to lose control of himself again, and ran up to his friend, shouting and yelling all the way. He grabbed Varek and shook him roughly, but there was no response. The hermit was fast asleep, despite the chill in the air, and it seemed nothing would wake him up.

“Damn it!” Renault didn’t know what kind of magic was at work here—Juge’s account made no mention of sleep enchantments or anything like that. He still hoped they could escape from the angry ghosts of Par Massino, though. For whatever reason, he hadn’t been afflicted with drowsiness, so he thought he’d just carry Varek to safety.

That plan failed when the massive stone gates of the monastery slammed shut.

“NO!” Renault was on the verge of hysteria, but it was far too late. He might have believed the wind had closed those gates—if they were as powerful as a hurricane’s, and if they hadn’t stopped entirely earlier. Perhaps someone had closed them with the mechanism in the belltower nearby, but who was here? No-one—at least, no-one that Renault would have recognized as a man. No earthly force could be responsible for anything Renault had just witnessed, but un-earthly forces were another matter.

Then the sun disappeared too.

Though it was always cold in this region, truly heavy snowfall waited until the winter months. Yet, somehow, a mass of black, ominous clouds—like no snowclouds Renault had ever seen—materialized around the sun in a blink of an eye, blocking its light and making the area nearly dark as night.

He realized now that the angry ghosts of Par Massino had been waiting for all these years. Waiting for _him._ They had always been here, ever since he’d slaughtered them all, but it took a very long time for the spirits of the restless dead to muster their power—that was why they hadn’t killed him before. Two hundred years hence, however, was more than enough for their strength to build up. Now, they could easily manifest themselves in the physical world, and give full vent to their accumulated hate and anger.

That anger was directed, though. They might have been willing to scare off an over-curious youth like Juge, but they wouldn’t just destroy anyone who happened to wander by. No, they really wanted revenge on the man responsible for their deaths. And now that they had him in their grasp, they would never let him go like Juge did.

 _Renault_ …

His breathing was erratic and he was once again trembling so badly he could barely stand up.

_Renault…_

He clapped his hands to his ears, hoping to drown out the terrible voices to no avail.

_Renault…_

“No…No…No…” He had forgotten all about Varek, now. He wanted to run, but couldn’t—perhaps because he knew it would be futile.

_Renault…_

He felt something icy-cold, far colder than even the snow around him, grip his shoulder.

He looked up and screamed.

Grabbing onto him, drawing itself closer and closer, was a transparent apparition glowing faintly blue. It was dressed in rags that were covered in holes and tears, but still vaguely recognizable as a monk’s cassock. Its face was even less identifiable—nothing but a skull adorned with a few tatters of rotting ectoplasmic flesh, the twinkling blue lights in its empty sockets burning with unfathomable hatred.

“No! NO!” He twisted out of the thing’s grasp and got to his feet, hoping to run away…only to be faced with several more phantoms floating in front of him. He turned and tried to run in another direction, but even more blocked his path. He saw several float out of the walls of the nearby library, ignoring Varek to concentrate entirely on him. He was surrounded—there was nowhere for him to run.

They drew closer and closer, slowly but surely. He heard their unearthly voices rise in a horrific cacophony, penetrating his very mind with their furious excoriations, and despite how their words seemed to blend together, he could still make out each and every one of their insults.

_Murderer…_

_The time for your punishment has come…_

_We’ve waited so long…_

_You will suffer as we did…_

_You will be forever cursed…_

_Die…_

_Sinner…_

“No, no, please,” he babbled, more frightened than he’d ever been in his life, his composure and self-control lost entirely. “Please, don’t do this to me! I-it wasn’t my fault! Nergal, he told me to do it! He lied to me! It was his fault, I—“

_LIAR! BLASPHEMER! SHAMELESS HYPOCRITE!_

“Aaaagh!” Pain lanced through Renault’s head as his own memories betrayed him. He saw himself at Par Massino again, two hundred years earlier, rampaging through the monastery as if he were some armored Grim Reaper. He remembered his bloodlust, his rage, his hatred, all of which would have existed even without Nergal. The dark sorcerer may have misled him, but that was no excuse for what he had done.

With that defense unavailable, now, Renault sunk to his knees again and tried another track. “N-no, please,” he whimpered. He’d never once asked for mercy from anyone before, but his warrior’s pride had completely dissipated in the face of a supernatural opponent who could exploit his absolute weakest point: His own guilt. “I’ve changed, I swear it. I-I’m trying to repent for what I did! Varek, he’s one of you! He’s faithful, and he believes in me! P-please, let me go! Let us go!”

 _Pathetic coward_ …

The ghosts continued to close in, and their contemptuous laughter nearly drove Renault mad.

_No penance, no mercy…_

_Not even your worthless life could make up for your crimes…_

_You are covered in the blood of the innocent…_

_We will exact their vengeance…_

_Suffer…_

_You deserve your torment…_

_Prepare yourself…_

They were almost upon him now, dozens of phantasmal claws reaching out to tear him apart.

Renault had exhausted every plan he could have thought of. Yet, in his panic, he still clung desperately to any shred of hope. He didn’t want to die, not like this. So he did the only other thing he could think of. He did something he hadn’t done ever since he was a very young child, something he’d entirely forgotten how to do, until he’d re-learned it from observing Varek.

He began to pray.

“God help me, Elimine help me…Please, I’m begging you, please help me…”

The angry ghosts, just inches away from touching him, stopped in their tracks.

Renault wasn’t even consciously aware of what he was doing. Half-mad, out of instinct driven by pure fear, he mindlessly chanted the same prayers Varek did.

“Blessed Creator, Lord of all heaven and earth, I give praise and thanks to you as a new day dawns. Blessed Elimine, speaker of the Lord’s wisdom and His most favored emissary, I commemorate your sacrifices as a new day dawns.”

As Renault said this, the ghosts of the monks drew back, hissing in anger and indignation.

“Most holy God, as the day begins I ask for Your charity and grace. It is to You I owe my life, and on Your protection I rely. May You watch over me, and may my hands do good, my tongue speak justly, and my mind attest to Your glory, as You will. May the words and deeds of Your blessed Saint, the holy Elimine, stir me and keep me on the path of righteousness. And as You guided Elimine on her Journey, may You guide me on mine as well. Amen.”

The ghosts were angry now, even angrier than they’d been before. Yet the prayers seemed to be a ward against them. As long as Renault kept repeating those words, the spirits were driven farther and farther back.

 _Hypocrite_ , they howled, _Blasphemer! How dare you appropriate our holy words as your own! How dare a sinner mouth the blessings of the Saint as if he believes! Have you no shame, wretched coward? Was it not enough to have murdered us? Must your filthy tongue make a mockery of our faith as well? Wretched knave, a thousand deaths would not be a thousandth of what you deserve!_

Renault wasn’t sure what to make of this. Were the ghosts retreating because they were repelled by holy words (being undead creatures), or, since they had once been monks, were they unwilling to harm anyone who even seemed to be a member of their religion? But whatever the case was, at least they had relented in their assault, which gave Renault just a sliver of hope. His fear began to recede and he regained a bit of control, and began to pray even more fervently, not knowing how to do anything else. It seemed to work—the ghosts drew back even further. Renault had finally regained enough composure to remember his friend Varek, and looked back to see how the hermit was doing.

It seemed the ghosts of the monks had no ill intentions towards the faithful after all. Varek was entirely unharmed, and snoozing as peacefully as if nothing was happening at all.

And, for whatever reason, that sight awakened something within Renault.

The sight of Varek’s long blue hair, even if it was greying, reminded him of Braddock. He remembered the pain Braddock had always been in during his dreams, the horror and sadness in his friend’s eyes, and realized that whatever these ghosts could do to him was nothing compared to how much Braddock, or at least his memory, had suffered on account of his actions. That knowledge was enough to sweep away the fear in Renault’s heart and replace it with something else. Not just guilt, but contrition—the desire to make up for what he’d done, if only to help his friend’s soul. And that contrition led him to do something he would never have done before, something he was in fact too cowardly and terrified to even conceive of just a few moments prior.

He was never entirely certain what had happened to him at that moment. Perhaps Bramimond, watching him from afar, had strengthened his spirit in ways he couldn’t himself. Or perhaps it was the memory of Braddock, the man Varek reminded him of, and his own devotion to that memory, which finally unearthed up whatever remnants of honor, courage, discipline, and responsibility he possessed. Or perhaps it truly was God and His Saint, Elimine, who interceded on his behalf. Whatever the case may have been, Renault felt his fear slipping away, and he regained control of himself and his mental state. He stopped trembling entirely, feeling as calm and serene as if nothing had happened at all. He stood up, staring directly at the mass of phantoms in front of him, and did not take a single step back or make any attempt to run away. Instead, he raised his arms wide, as if he were _beckoning_ the ghosts to come and take him.

“You’re right,” he mumbled. “I can’t run away any more.”

The ghosts seemed to swirl in the air around him, their glowing blue forms blending into one another and then separating as they hissed vitriol at him.

“You’re right!” He raised his voice now, nearly shouting. “I bear full responsibility for your deaths. And Dougram’s, and Lucian’s, and all the other innocent people I’ve hurt. Nergal may have manipulated me, but I was the one who let him. And Braddock won’t _ever_ be able to rest until I’ve made up for it.

“So then, do whatever you want! Consume me!” His voice grew louder and louder, until he was screaming again. “I’ll accept your curse if it’s what I deserve. I’ll endure an eternity in Hell if it’ll let Braddock rest in peace! _Just do it! Come on! Take me and release my friend!_ ”

As one, the ghosts of Par Massino surged forwards, all of them screaming as well—in triumph and exultation. Renault closed his eyes, expecting their icy claws to stab into his flesh at any moment, killing him at the very least—or, perhaps, if they could somehow draw his soul from his phylactery, doing much worse than that. But now he wasn’t afraid. Now he could finally repay Braddock for all his kindness, and finally do at least something to ease his friend’s suffering.

But then he heard a gust of wind, a loud hissing from all around him, and, for some reason, no sudden agonizing pain as they tore into him.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes, and saw that the ghosts had not advanced, as he’d expected, but were staying still. And they were different, somehow, as well. The lights burning within their empty sockets no longer seemed as malignant, and they no longer seemed as intent on his blood. It was as if they were being held back—or that something was convincing them to stay.

A new apparition was in their midst.

It was also glowing blue, and though it was shaped as a tall man, its features were blurred and hazy. Renault couldn’t tell who it was or had originally been. But something felt familiar about him. He thought he could make out long hair…and then it called his name, in a voice he could have recognized anywhere.

_Renault…my friend…_

“B…Braddock…”

The apparition of Braddock came closer, standing in front of Renault, then knelt down and wrapped a pair of phantasmal arms around him. The touch was warm, not cold, as Braddock’s had been, and Renault understood that this new ghost was not only embracing him as a reunion, but also shielding him from the other spirits who sought his death.

_I want you…to keep going…_

With those words, the phantom of Braddock disappeared.

“No! Please, no!” Renault reached out and nearly fell over. His friend was gone.

“Damn it,” he sobbed, “Braddock, Braddock…” He was so consumed by grief, now, he barely noticed that the other ghosts, those of the monks, had not disappeared. They still floated around him, but they maintained their distance, drawing neither closer nor farther. And they continued to whisper amongst themselves, though now their voices were less hateful.

_Your death will not return our lives…_

_Have you really changed…?_

_Elimine preached forgiveness…_

_But there is no forgiveness without repentance…_

**_Renault…_ **

All of them called his name in unison, catching his attention. He looked up to see that their forms had changed. No longer were they skeletal in appearance. Now it seemed as if they had flesh and hair (albeit transparent and glowing) and no longer seemed so hostile. There were eyes in their sockets, now, and they were looking at Renault with unfathomable expressions that he could only hope weren’t of hate.

_Do you truly repent…_

“Repent? Yes, yes, I repent! I’m sorry! I’m sorry for what I did to you, and I’m sorry for what I did to others. I was a blind, deluded fool, too stupid to think beyond my own obsession, and I allowed myself to be used by Nergal. The only thing I want now is to make amends to Braddock. I don’t want him to be pained in death over what I’ve done in my life. I want to repent! I want to make things right! If my death is what you need, then I won’t resist. Please, just let Braddock rest! That’s the only thing I want!”

_If you want your friend to rest…_

_You must repent…_

“Yes, yes! I told you, I’ll repent! Kill me! Damn me! If you want a thousand years of torture, fine! Just don’t do it to Braddock!”

_Your death is not enough…_

_Your suffering is not enough…_

_You must undo the damage you caused…_

_Give back what you took away…_

_Make up for your crimes…_

“W-what? How? What do you want from me?” Even as he said these words, he remembered something what Bramimond had told him, and what Varek had reinforced:

“Why not find a different way to live?”

Renault looked up at the ghosts surrounding him, who still had not moved any closer. “To live…you’ll let me live?”

He took their silence as a “yes.”

“Then…what do you want me to do?”

_Bury us…_

“What…bury you?”

_Our bodies…The soldiers did not know how to treat us…we were all left under that pile in the corner of the monastery…we are displeased…we cannot rest…_

_Inter us in the catacombs…we wish to sleep with our brothers…give us this, and you’ll take the first step to forgiveness…_

“I…”

_Do it…_

_If you want to change, you must begin here…_

Renault stepped forward.

This would end up being yet another mystery of his stay here. He was never entirely certain how much time had passed from this moment. It was as if he’d lost control of his body, and something else was propelling him forward. His mind was blank, and the only things he was aware of were the ghosts floating all around him, swirling through the air, not to attack him, but to press him on.

_Go…_

_Forwards…_

_Begin your work…_

_Bury us…_

_Repent…_

_Repent…_

_Repent…_

Mechanically, Renault strode towards the closed-off entrance to the catacombs. With the voices of the ghosts ringing in his ears and spurring him on, he carefully removed each piece of detritus forming the barricade blocking the door. It wasn’t easy—Juge had been thorough—but working tirelessly and nigh obsessively, Renault was able to clear everything away, leaving the path down open.

Then came the hard part.

Neither Renault nor Varek had brought along a shovel or anything else that might have been useful for digging. So Renault was left with nothing but his bare hands. That didn’t stop him, though—or, perhaps, in his dazed, nearly brainwashed state, he didn’t even notice. He instead followed the ghosts to the pile of earth in the corner of the monastery where the Bernese troops had buried their bodies. Renault drove his hands into that pile and began to dig.

The icy ground was hard, and Renault’s hands were bleeding even before he reached the first body. He did eventually, though, and when he found it—nothing but a skeleton at this point, after so many years—he took off the cloak the sisters of Diotica had given him, gathered up all the bones, wrapped them up reverently within the cloak, and brought them over to the catacombs.

Down he went, without the aid of any kind of light source—he didn’t need one, for the ghosts were guiding his steps. He descended to the second level of the ossuary, where there were several open chambers which had been intended for the monastery’s current occupants at the time he’d killed them all. He laid the remains into one of the chambers, then returned whence he came to repeat the process. As he did, he heard a sigh of satisfaction, and felt one of the spirits wink out of existence behind him. The rest were still present, though, and they were still pushing him forwards.

_Bury us…_

_Repent…_

_Your atonement is not complete…_

_Bury us…_

_Continue what you have started…_

_And make up for your crimes…_

And so it went—for how long, Renault didn’t know, notice, or care. With single-minded obsessiveness he dug each and every one of the monks out of their ersatz graves to give them a proper interment within the holy catacombs. There were at least 40 monks buried there, but without taking a single moment to rest, Renault had placed them all in their proper tombs.

The blue ghosts were no longer floating around him—they were all gone as he placed the corpse of the last monk in its chamber. They were not absent, however—Renault still heard their voices.

_Not yet…_

_Not finished yet…_

_Restore the seal…on the forbidden books…_

He stood, silently. He had no idea how to do that, since he had no magical ability whatsoever.

_We will show you…_

Once again spurred on by the now-invisible spirits, Renault returned to the surface and headed to the library. There, he collected two things: A spare Barrier staff which was lying on the floor near some of the books, and a very rare, powerful Aura tome. He could use neither, but fortunately, the ghosts could, working through them. He returned to the catacombs and descended to the third level this time, returning to the accursed room where he’d once began his devilish work. Now, however, he would be doing good rather than evil. He shut tightly the doors to the room, flipped the Aura tome open with his right hand and held up the Barrier with his left, and began to chant words in Draconic that he had never heard before, but that the spirits of the monks were channeling into his voice. They channeled their combined power into his body as well, and their energies sparked a pair of blue flames within the torchstands on either side of the door. The secrets of Par Massino were protected once again.

That was actually the first spell Renault had ever cast himself in his entire life, albeit with supernatural aid. It would not be the last, however.

But that would come later. Even after all this, his job was not yet done.

_You defiled our sanctuary, despoiled our possessions, and ruined our home…_

_Repair the damage you did…_

_Make this place livable again…_

Renault realized what they wanted him to do: Clean up the entire monastery.

It had been ravaged by his last battle here. Dried blood from his killing was everywhere and much of the furnishings had been wrecked by his rampage. He wouldn’t be able to restore the place fully, but even what little he could do would take a long time, longer than burying the monks.

But even so, still behaving as if the spirits were driving him, he complied with not a word of complaint.

The first thing he did was wipe away all of the centuries-old bloodstains in the buildings (the elements had thankfully removed the grisly reminder of his sins from the outside ground). He took some spare blankets from Varek’s packs and drew water from the monastery’s well, which was still flowing, thankfully. Renault then combed each and every last inch of every building in the monastery’s grounds—the dormitories, the apothecary’s hut, the library, everything—and scrubbed away every last drop of blood that he found there. He had nothing like soap—that sort of thing was an expensive luxury which could only be found easily in big Etrurian cities; elsewhere it had to be fabricated from animal fat and plant extracts—but even so, the centuries-old stains seemed to come away easily with just some water and the wet blanket. If it was the spirits helping him, Renault was grateful for their assistance, though perhaps it was also just his warped perception of time. It was hard to tell thanks to the clouds blocking the sun, and everything seemed to be going so quickly that he didn’t even feel the need to sleep—or perhaps the spirits were funneling energy through him.

As he scrubbed away, he also tried to restore all the furniture and other detritus lying around the monastery to their original places. Much of the monastery’s furnishings had been completely destroyed during the battle here, but many had also been misplaced or just thrown away by the Bernese investigators, who were less interested in being gentle and reverent and more interested in figuring out what happened to the monks—though they were never able to. Still, Renault did what he could. He took all the chairs and various knickknacks Juge had piled in front of the catacomb door and put them all back where the ghosts told him they’d originally been. He went through the library and painstakingly reorganized all the books there in just the way Grigorious had originally arranged them—a weighty task, since Renault had overturned several bookshelves and the inquisitors several more. He returned to the kitchen and placed the various pots, pans, and other implements the fighting had scattered back to where they’d originally been. And when he returned to the church, he wasn’t able to replace the pews that had been destroyed in his final confrontation with Grigorius, but he at least could clear away all the broken pieces of them that had been left behind.

And that, as it turned out, would be his last task at the monastery.

With the church as clean as he could make it, Renault turned to leave—and stopped when he saw someone floating in front of him.

It was another glowing blue phantom, but this one was different from all the others. It wasn’t a rotting skeleton clad in tattered robes, but instead a healthy man—albeit transparent, of course. His cassock was in good condition, and though his expression was stern, it was not as hateful as those the ghosts had originally worn.

Renault also recognized him, for they had fought twice: The first time, as men here at Par Massino. The second time, as Morph-template and Morph at the Bluemoon Tower in Lycia.

It was Abbot Grigorius.

_Renault…_

“…Abbot.”

Renault fell to his knees and lowered his head, raising his hands in a gesture of submission, supplication, and contrition.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to you. I’m sorry I dishonored the memory of my friend. I have…been trying to change, but I know there is still far for me to go…so very far. Forgive me. Please, forgive me. If there’s anything more you want from me, I’ll do it.”

_Not yet, Renault…_

_You’re not forgiven yet…_

_Your sins are too grave…_

_But even the worst sinner can be redeemed…_

_This is what Elimine taught…_

_You’re not forgiven yet…_

_But in time…_

The vision of Grigorius faded away, leaving one more word ringing in Renault’s ears:

 _Perhaps_ …

And with that, the curse of Par Massino was lifted.

It was easy to tell by how the atmosphere of the place changed alone. The wind had returned, though it was blowing gently rather than howling. The palpable aura of dread and despair which had once hung thick over Par Massino had dissipated. And if you needed something obvious, well, the fact that the huge gates creaked open once again and the black clouds above parted, revealing a warm, happy, sun, would have proved beyond all doubt that Par Massino was no longer haunted.

But Renault still wasn’t entirely himself. He still had those glazed, blank eyes that indicated he wasn’t all there in his head. Mechanically, he stomped out of the church back to the library, against which Varek was still snoozing peacefully. Oddly enough, despite the weather, he didn’t seem cold at all—and the ground around him actually had _melted_ snow on it. The ghosts must have been keeping him warm and comfortable, since he was a believer like them.

But it seemed that the enchantment of sleep they’d cast on him was disappearing as well. “Eh? Mmm…” Varek’s brows furrowed, and at last he opened his eyes, “Eh? Don’t tell me I fell asleep. ‘Specially in this weather! Funny though, I don’t feel cold at all. In fact, I feel as well-rested as I’ve ever been!” He yawned loudly and smacked his lips. “Sorry about that, Renault. I really must be getting old, taking a nap like—“

He stopped in his tracks when he got a good look at Renault.

“By the Saint, lad, what happened to you?!”

Renault’s skin was so pale, his eyes so red, his hands so torn, that he looked very much like a ghost himself. Renault tried to say something, but all that came out was a strangled croak.

He then fell to his knees, and subsequently flat down on his face, after which everything went black.

_-X-Renault’s Confession-X-_

The first words Renault heard when he came to were chanting. Not prayers, though. They were in Draconic. He also remembered hearing them before…Khyron, yes, his old boss Khyron, and later on, Rosamia, who Braddock had loved, had spoken those words. Whenever they were using those magic healing staves.

Healing?

“Uh…”

Renault slowly opened his eyes. He saw Varek kneeling over him, looking very concerned.

“Renault, you’re awake! Thank God. I was worried about you, and it’s been a long time since I’ve worried about anyone!”

Renault couldn’t help but crack a smile as he raised himself to a sitting position. “I could say the same, and I’m as glad to see you’re alright, too. But where are we?”

“The library. I dragged you in here after you collapsed. You really ought to try and stop that, lad.”

“I’ll try.” He considered his next words. “…but, Varek, weren’t you sleeping just now?”

“Aye, I was. I’d wager it had something to do with the curse that lies…well, lay, now, on this monastery. I may take naps now and then, but I’d _never_ fall asleep in a cold place like this. I’d freeze to death before I woke up! But when I came to, I felt…warm, of all things. The ground around me was warm too, so it wasn’t just me. Must’ve been the magic of this place. And that’s gone, now…I could feel it in the air.

“And I think you must be quite the exorcist to have pulled that off, Renault, ‘cause I don’t know who else could have done it. The first thing I saw when I woke up was you, and you looked like you’d been through Hell itself! It didn’t seem like you’d been attacked, thankfully, but you still weren’t in good condition. I took you out o’ the cold as fast as I could and fetched a Mend staff from my pack. I’m just glad it worked, but after all this, I desperately want to know…Renault, what in the world happened to you?”

“I…Varek…” Renault’s expression clouded.

“Well? If it was very disturbing, I won’t pressure you, but to say I’m curious would be an understatement.”

“No, it’s not that. But…Varek, I’d like to ask something of you.”

“Eh? Alright…”

“Could…could you perform the Rite of Contrition for me?”

“The Rite of Contrition?!” Varek made no effort to hide his surprise. “What’s this about? If this is a joke, Renault, I don’t find it funny!”

“I’m not joking, Varek! Please…”

The hermit saw that Renault was being entirely sincere. “…Alright, if you really need it. But I still want an explanation.”

“You’ll have it, trust me. Just give me the Rite.”

Despite his confusion, Varek acceded to Renault’s request. He bade Renault kneel before him.

“God, my Lord, I have sinned, and now I repent. I’ve transgressed against my fellow man, and ask for Your forgiveness as well as theirs.”

Varek nodded and said, “I’m listening, lad. Begin your confession.”

And Renault did.

He told Varek everything. Absolutely everything.

He described his birth to Lady Monica and Bishop Sergion of Thagaste on the 27th Archer, 677 A.S, over 280 years ago. How his father’s death had led him to hate religion and become estranged from his mother, who’d replaced Sergion as Bishop. How he’d been “discovered” by Tassar and joined his band of mercenaries, where he also met the man who could be called his brother—Braddock.

He told Varek what had happened at Scirocco, how he and Braddock had eventually joined Paptimus’ revolutionaries, and how they’d betrayed Paptimus when they found out Paptimus had betrayed them. He described the trials Khyron’s “Autonomous Company” faced, ranging from the Reapers Labyrinth to Barbarossa, and the deaths of Keith and Kelitha. After the war had ended and Braddock finally triumphed over Paptimus, Renault, his voice breaking, detailed how he’d forced his friend along on one last mission—to kill Trunicht, who had sought shelter at Par Massino. Renault succeeded in that quest—but the assassin Yurt, who had been tailing them, managed to kill Braddock as well.

Renault made no excuses for himself as he continued his story. He told Varek about how he had encountered Nergal as he wandered, grief-stricken, up the mountains, and how he had murdered many in the dark sorcerer’s name: His friend Dougram, Bishop Gosterro himself, but most of all, the innocent monks of Par Massino. And, of course, all their sacrifices were for naught—a distinct note of bitterness entered Renault’s voice as he recalled how Nergal’s dark magic turned him into the “quasi-morph” he was now, while giving him only a puppet of his best friend in return and subsequently abandoning him.

Renault skimmed over the centuries he spent wandering, begging only to be forgiven for his friend Lucian’s death. That was the last murder he had committed before he had taken the map to the Shrine of Seals and sought out Bramimond, who had revealed to him the truth of his wretched existence before sending him off to Varek’s hermitage.

From there, Renault skipped the months he’d spent with Varek and moved on to what had just happened to him at Par Massino. He described the terrifying apparitions he had seen, how he had begun to pray out of fear, how Braddock’s ghost had appeared to save him, and how the monks then demanded he repent for his crimes by restoring the monastery.

When he finally ended his bizarre confession, night had fallen—and it had been early afternoon when he’d woken Varek up. Even so, the hermit didn’t seem the least bit impatient.

“That’s…an incredible story, Renault.” Varek took a deep breath as his confessee fell silent. “If it were anyone else, I’d be angry at them for disrespecting the Rite with such wild stories. But you’ve already told me some of this before, and I’ve seen proof you’re telling the truth.” He gestured to Renault’s phylactery. “To be perfectly honest, I’d suspected for some time that you were…a lot older than you looked. I’d thought you might be the Mercenary Lord mentioned in some of the histories I’d read of the Civil War, since you got so emotional when you read those sections of Ocken’s work. But I never imagined you were responsible for the destruction of Par Massino…or Lucian’s death. Guess I know now how you managed to find this place.”

“…Varek, I’m sorry if it seems I misled you,” said Renault. “I should have told all of this to you when we first met. I’m a coward…a coward and a fraud.”

“That’s true, Renault,” said Varek easily. He’d offer no false words of comfort today. “And you’ve committed far worse sins than cowardice. Murdering Lucian and everyone else at Par Massino, and helping that…Nergal…with whatever his twisted plans were…those are the gravest crimes I’ve _ever_ heard of any one man commit. If this is what you’ve done for two hundred years, it may well take you two thousand to fully make up for it.”

Varek stared coldly at him. “Let me guess…you’re worried I’ll condemn you and abandon you, eh? That I’ll demand we part ways here and now, because I wouldn’t want to be shackled with a reprobate like you?”

Renault remained silent, accepting Varek’s rebuke. He was afraid of what the hermit would say next, but also knew he had no choice but to accept what he deserved. To his delight, however, it turned out his friend wouldn’t be rejecting him just yet.

“Well, don’t worry about that.” The expression on Varek’s face changed—he looked almost _proud_. “Elimine also said that all things are possible through God. And judging by what you’ve done here, forgiveness might be possible for you too, Renault.

“The ghost of old Grigorius was right. You’ve taken the first step towards true redemption today, lad. And if you were willing to take that first step, I’m willing to walk with you the rest of the way.”

Renault’s face lit up, and in his joy he reverted to his old way of speaking. “R…really, Varek? After everything I’ve told you, you won’t abandon me? Truly?”

“Aye. I’m a sinner too, you know. I won’t lie and say that anything I’ve done compares to what you’ve done, but I killed many people under Varlago’s orders. And not all of ‘em deserved to be killed. There’s no reason you couldn’t redeem yourself if I could…but it will take you a long time, far longer than it took me.” His face hardened again. “There’s no forgiveness without repentance. It’s not enough to just say the words, you also have to repair the damage you’ve done. Grigorius said that to you as well, and don’t forget it!

“It’s the hardest work of all to make up for taking a life, because you can never bring one back—as you learned the hard way. But if you save lives and improve lives, as much as you can, the stain of your guilt will lessen, day by day.

“That’s how your going to live your life, Renault, at least every moment of it you spend by my side. I’m not going to condemn you or abandon you for what you’ve done, but I’ll never let you forget it, either. As long as you’re with me, you’re going to be giving back to the world you’ve taken so much from. If someone needs help, we’ll give it. If we encounter a wrong, we’ll right it. That’s the only way for you to find redemption…for either of us to find redemption, for that matter.

“Do you accept that, Renault?”

“…I do.”

“Glad to hear it.” Varek smiled—and then yawned. “But it’s a quest we can start tomorrow…I’m getting’ tired. It’s late at night, you know!”

It was indeed, and truth be told, Renault was feeling tired as well. Though Varek’s healing magic had kept him from dying of exhaustion, it couldn’t really help him the way a good night’s sleep could. So Renault, without complaint, settled himself down on the floor of the library he’d cleaned up a few hours before. And Varek, after giving himself a meal of some of the hardtack rations they’d carried with them here, did the same.

-X-

“Varek…I apologize for this, but could I ask another favor of you?”

“Hm?” He and Renault had both woken up about half an hour ago (though neither knew exactly what time or date it was) and he’d just finished up his breakfast of more hardtack rations. Varek had anticipated they’d return to their journey after this, but Renault, it seemed, wanted a little detour first.

“Before we start off again, there’s someplace I want to go. It isn’t far.”

“No reason why not, I s’pose. Where is it?”

“It’s a small cave just under a day’s climb up the mountains past here. It was where I first met Nergal…and where Braddock’s body lies.”

Varek nodded. “I understand. Lead the way, Renault.”

Together, the two of them left the now-peaceful (though still empty) monastery and made their way up the great mountains, where no path lay. Since the weather was much calmer, it was nowhere near as difficult a trek as it had been when Renault first came here.

The entrance to the small cave looked exactly as it was when Renault had left it. Though he knew it was well possible that Braddock’s body had been found and defiled after all this time, he now had new hope that it hadn’t been.

Wordlessly, Varek followed him into the cave’s opening, and then into the second opening which led down into the chambers Renault and Nergal had once inhabited. Though the dark sorcerer had managed to create an entire library for himself down here with his magic, Renault remembered the some parts of it, at least, had persisted even after Nergal had betrayed him and abandoned the sanctuary. Indeed, he and Varek walked down the curved stairs, through the empty remnants of what had once been a library, before entering what had once been a throne room—and what would, if nothing had changed, still hold Braddock’s body.

Though there were a few slivers of sunlight streaming in through cracks in the ceiling, it still was too dark for Renault to see clearly. “Varek…could you provide some light?”

Taking out his Torch staff, Varek did so, and this allowed Renault to see that what he’d been searching for was indeed still here.

“Braddock,” he murmured, losing his composure, “BRADDOCK!”

He rushed over to the altar in the center of the room. After all these hundreds of years, Braddock was still there.

Not in any state an outside observer (like Varek) would recognize, of course. He was nothing but a skeleton now, clad in armor that had rusted so completely it was impossible to tell it had once been blue.

Even so, Renault knew it was him. It couldn’t have possibly been anyone else. The Bernese investigators had apparently not thought to look further up the mountain for answers (at least not doggedly enough to penetrate Nergal’s illusions) and after they’d left, the rumors about the monastery had discouraged any further adventure-seekers from happening upon Braddock’s body. And for that tiny stroke of good fortune, Renault was incredibly grateful.

“Braddock, Braddock…” Renault would have been crying if he could still produce tears. He draped himself over the altar and its bones, allowing a torrent of words to gush forth. He begged Braddock’s forgiveness for all he’d done, apologized a hundred times for the crimes he’d committed, told the corpse everything that had happened to him, about how much Braddock would’ve liked Varek, and above all, just sobbed.

This reunion, of sorts, lasted about an hour—Renault hadn’t been keeping track of time, but Varek was. With patience befitting his ascetic vocation, he hadn’t interrupted Renault or made any attempt to leave, allowing his disciple to fully release the emotions which had built up inside of him for so long. Only when Renault’s voice grew quiet and his sobbing seem to subside did Varek walk up to him to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You…do you want to leave now?” Renault’s voice still trembled, but he still sounded more coherent than he had an hour ago.

Varek, in return, just nodded.

“…Alright. Varek, I’m sorry you saw me like this…and I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“Think nothing of it, lad. You had to do this, and I’d be a fool to forbid you. But…” He gestured to the skeleton. “Do you really want to leave your friend’s remains here?”

Renault pondered this for a moment. “No…no, I don’t think so. This place still stinks of Nergal’s sorcery, even after all these years.” He made no effort to mask his loathing for the man, and Varek made to effort to chastise him for his lack of forgiveness. “I want to move him…give him a proper burial. Varek…do you believe the monks would care if we buried him in Par Massino? That’s where he died. Not in their catacombs, but somewhere on the grounds…”

“From what you’ve told me, Braddock did show concern for them, and he was a good man. I doubt they’d mind.”

“Alright. Thanks…thank you.”

Renault reverently gathered up Braddock’s bones as he’d done for those of all the monks earlier. He and Varek then headed out whence they came, leaving that dark place behind them forever. As they exited back out into the sunlight, however, they saw yet another something they weren’t expecting.

A shadow fell across the ground in front of them, followed by another. Renault tensed, wondering if Wyverns still hunted in this region—as he remembered they did when he first came here. When he and his friend looked up, though, they saw that Wyverns were indeed soaring through the air—but these weren’t wild ones. Renault could make out riders on their backs.

“Wyvern Knights?” Varek pondered. “Why would they be here?”

His question was answered when one of them noticed him. There were five in the air, and one of them swooped down to alight in front of the travelers while the others hovered nearby, keeping a respectful distance. Renault had been preparing for a fight, but his trepidation turned to surprise when it turned out he _recognized_ the newcomer.

“Mission successful, everyone!” Harod cheered as he dismounted his Wyvern. “We’ve found our man—and his friend—alive and unharmed. But, by the Saint, Varek,” and at this, he drew the sigil of the Church on his chest, a gesture which Varek reciprocated, “what are you doing all the way out _here?”_

“I’d ask you the very same thing!” Varek made no attempt to hide his astonishment. “How’d you even know we were out here in the first place?”

“A little birdy told us. Well, a little birdy named Abbess Meris, specifically. She was apparently very worried when you told here where you were going, and she sent off a letter to Bishop Cortez asking for advice and prayers. He sent a letter off to Archbishop Gann of Bern’s Head Church, and _he_ sent a letter to the King, who then told me to check out this area and make sure you’re alright. Glad to see I can come back with good news!”

“You came all this way for _me_? For us, I mean? Lord Harod, God knows I appreciate the sentiment, but it really wasn’t necessary…I’ll have to say a thousand prayers for wastin’ so much of your time!”

Harod waved a hand, and his good-natured grin indicated he bore no ill will whatsoever. “Please, don’t worry about it, Father. It’s been ages since I’ve been able to just fly for fun, and Meris’ request gave me the perfect opportunity. And besides, you _are_ one of our country’s greatest treasures—at least as far as I’m concerned. If there was even a suspicion that you needed help, there’s no way I wouldn’t give it. Especially if you ended up in a place like this!”

He chuckled again, but this time the expression on his face was more contemplative than jocular. “It’s strange, though…I’ve heard so many horror stories about Par Massino, but it doesn’t seem so bad at all. I don’t feel any danger here, and my warrior’s intuition is pretty good about that. The air’s clean, the sun’s bright, and there’s not the sense of…wrongness, I guess, people’ve always said hangs over this region. And it’s something I’ve felt, too. I once had to fly near the monastery for a mission a few years ago. Just getting close to it made me feel nauseous, and it didn’t get better until I’d left the site far behind me. But now…

“Well, with the Saint’s own words, I’d swear it’s like nothing ever happened here. It feels as clean as you’d expect a holy place be. And my squad investigated the monastery while we were looking for you. Seems like somebody gave the monks a proper burial and gave the whole complex a good cleaning. What the he…I mean, what in the world did you two do back there? Some kind of exorcism?”

Renault and Varek looked at each other. “It’s…hard to explain,” said the hermit, “and not really the sort of thing suited for open conversation. I s’pose you could call it an exorcism, though.”

“Well, whatever it was, it seems to have worked.” Harod cast Renault a quick look, then turned back to Varek. “Anyways, Your Holiness, is there anything we can do for you? I imagine you’d wanted to continue your pilgrimage away from this place now that you’ve purified it—and the Church would canonize you as an Elder for that feat!—but if there’s any assistance my men and I can lend…”

“I think there’re a few things you can help with, actually. In fact, I can think of four favors I’d like to ask.”

“Four?” Harod raised an eyebrow. “Little greedy, aren’t we?” The twinkle in his eye told everyone he wasn’t serious, though.

“They aren’t too serious,” smiled Varek. “First, could you give us a bit of help with burying a body?” He gestured to the bundle Renault was holding. “We…found this man just after we cleaned up the monastery. He’s not a monk, but he deserves a proper burial, in our estimation, and I doubt the ones resting at Par Massino would mind the company.”

After several moments of consideration, Harod reluctantly agreed. “We’ll take your word for it, Father. What else?”

“Second, could you send the King, Meris, and the bishops letters saying I’m alright and that I’m continuing my journey? In fact, could you also tell them that Par Massino has been exorcised? It’s at peace now, and it’s a fine monastery. I’d think it’s a shame to let it go to waste. The Church can make it thrive again, if She so chooses.”

“That I can definitely do.”

“Now, my third request…” Varek blushed slightly. “Do you think you could give my disciple and I lift?”

Harod laughed. “Of course, I thought you’d never ask. Where to?”

“Well, Renault and I are…looking for someone. His name is Juge, and he ought to be a magic user of some renown. Have y’ ever heard of him?”

“Forgive me, Varek. Can’t say that I have. Any of you?” His underlings, their Wyverns having landed a small distance behind him a little while ago, called back “Juge? Who’s he?!”

Varek sighed. “I thought so. Well, we picked up a journal of his, and it seems that he’d visited Par Massino some years ago. His last entry said he’d be going off to the nearest town to warn them of the ghosts there. We’ve laid those spirits to rest, but we still have to find Juge himself, so we figured we’d head to the place he’d mentioned going—retracing his steps, I guess. You have any idea where the closest town to here is?”

“Hmm…there’s a little mountain hamlet called Catarlina about ten miles southwest of here. It’d make sense for your Juge to make a stop there. We could take you there easily. It’d be a mighty challenge to get there on foot, with these mountains!”

“And we’d be mighty grateful, Harod. We don’t deserve y’r generosity…oh! One more thing.”

Renault tensed as Varek fished around his pack and took out a very familiar, very distinctive old book. It was the guide to the Shrine of Seals he had stolen from Lucian—that Bramimond had taken away from him—and then, subsequently, returned to Varek.

Harod recognized it as well. “This is…how did you _ever_ come across this, Varek?”

“It’s a long story. All I know for sure is that its original owner is dead, and that he would want me to give this treasure back to the Royal family. He doesn’t need it anymore, at least not in God’s country.”

“Oh, Lucian…” Harod ran his fingers over the book, and a pang of guilt ran through Renault as he realized the Wyvern General must have been friends with the Swordmaster. “Well, that’s the life of a mercenary,” said Harod. “Rest assured, I’ll return this book to the king.”

“Thank you, Harod. Oh, one last question…what day is it today?”

“Haven’t been keeping track?” Harod motioned to one of his men. “Check the date-book, would you?”

“Yes, sir.” A faint rustling of pages. “Um…it’s the 8th Sage.”

“The 8th Sage!?” Renault and Varek looked at each other, neither able to hide his surprise. “But we arrived on the 30th,” murmured Varek. “I’d have had to been out for a week…”

“What’re you talking about,” Harod asked, “is anything wrong?”

“N…no. My disciple and I must have just…lost track of time, is all. A good thing y’ found us when you did, then!”

“The Saint guards her faithful…and their friends, I guess.” Harod nodded to Renault, who averted his eyes bashfully. “Now, let’s get started with your requests. First we’ll head back to the monastery to bury your friend, then it’s off to Catarlina. Varek, hop on behind me. Renault, any of my men will take you. Let’s go!”

Renault did as he was ordered—and thus began the next leg of his long, strange journey.

_::Linear Notes::_

There you have it, friends! This is what finally draws Renault to the Church itself (though he’ll make it “official” next chapter). I wanted to bring the story back to Par Massino, as there was no way Renault’s redemption would be convincing unless he somehow addressed his greatest atrocity. Anyways, as always, remember to check me out at gunlrod500.wordpress.com and gunlord500.tumblr.com! :D


	69. The Blessings of Bern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Varek search for Juge, and in the process learn more than a bit about Bern and its people.

**Chapter 69: The Blessings of Bern**

_-X-Joining the Church-X-_

Catarlina was almost as quiet as Harod had said it would be. Renault liked that very much.

It was early morning on the 10th Sage when the Wyvern Lord and his retinue alighted on the place. Renault wasn’t very pleased with that—he had personally hoped he and Varek would’ve been set down a small distance from the village rather than right inside it: a band of soldiers would attract a lot of attention from the townspeople, especially when led by one of the top three Generals in the nation. Still, the knights needed to rest as well as purchase supplies, so Renault let out not a word of complaint when they landed in the middle of what passed for Catarlina’s town square. They were promptly surrounded by a crowd of gawking onlookers that apparently consisted of the entirety of the settlement’s 25-odd people.

It wasn’t the first time they’d seen Bernese soldiers, but they didn’t see them often, either. Fortunately, Harod and his men were wearing plain armor, with only gilded pauldrons to give away their high ranks, and those were covered by their cloaks. Thus, the townspeople didn’t get _too_ excited, which would have been very irritating for Renault—they were already giddy enough as it was.

“Yes, yes, hello, everyone,” said Harod. This place was far enough out of the way that they didn’t recognize his voice as the Wyvern General’s. “Don’t worry, we bring no tidings of anything out of the ordinary. We’ve been on an errand for the king and just need to stop and rest briefly. Is there an inn for us to sleep and Wyvern stables for our mounts?”

“Sure is!” called a voice from the back of the crowd. “My tavern’s the best—and only—place here, and I’ve got enough room in the roosts for your little dragons. The King’s men stay free!”

This was punctuated with a hearty cheer from the rest of the villagers, reciprocated with smiles from Harod and his men. Though Renault had no love for the Bernese, he had to admit they knew how to show hospitality, no matter how meager their means.

As several of the townspeople volunteered to help guide the Wyverns to the stables, Harod asked another question. “Oy! By the way, who’s in charge here?”

An older man, about Varek’s age, came forwards. “I’m the magistrate, sir. What may I do for you?”

Harod gestured to Renault and Varek. “I gave these two travelers a lift here. They’re searching for someone, and they believe he might have passed through your village. Do you think you could give them any assistance?”

The magistrate’s face clouded for a moment. “Who are they searching for, and why?”

“Ah…f’rgive our intrusion, sir. We’re not here on any bad business. I myself am a member of the Church.” Varek bowed and offered the magistrate the sign of Elimine, which he reciprocated gratefully. Renault hesitated a moment, and then did the same. Varek noticed and the expression on his face indicated surprise, but he didn’t say anything about it. The more important thing was that the magistrate seemed to be less suspicious of them, now.

“We’re lookin’ for someone’s wayward son,” continued Varek. “About thirty years ago, the son of...well, one of my brothers ran away from home. We’ve been trying to track him down, ‘cause my father wanted to reconcile with him before he died. It’s too late for that now, but at least he can reconcile with his brother…if that’s possible.”

“Ah, I understand. Thirty years ago, eh? Well, as noble as yer quest may be, I wouldn’t hold my breath for its success…”

“We aren’t—we know that all too well. Even so, if there’s the slightest chance my brother’s still alive…”

“Yep, I understand that, too.” By this point, the crowd around them was dispersing, with most heading to the inn, hoping to hear stories from the strong-looking Wyvern Knights—a pair of travelers just wasn’t very interesting to them. “Well, we’ll do the best we can with you here. Do you remember the fellow’s name?”

“Does ‘Juge’ ring any bells?”

“Can’t say that it does, sorry.”

“Hmm…in that case, do you remember ever receiving any…strange travelers?”

“Strange? How do you mean?”

“Not dangerous, but…talked about funny things. Like, ghosts or anything like that?”

Recognition sparked within the magistrate’s eyes, which meant that hope flared in Renault’s heart. “As a matter of fact, I do! Not too well…it was a long time ago, and my memory was never the best, even when I was young. But I remember when I was around twenty-five, there was this damned queer fellow who showed up at Uncle Mosley’s inn one day. He seemed half-mad with fear, and we thought we’d cast him out at first, but ol’ Mosley thought we ought to show him mercy, as Blessed Elimine would want.

“So he gave him a room to stay for a few nights, and that calmed him down a little. He still didn’t seem quite right in the head, but at least he wasn’t rantin’ and ravin’ anymore. But he said he didn’t want to harm anybody; in fact, he said he wanted to give us all a warning, so nobody would get hurt!

“We had a big meeting with him, me and all the other villagers, and he told us the most hair-raising ghost story we’d ever heard. He stayed at night at the old cursed monastery, and ended up getting chased away by ghosts or…something. Can’t remember quite so clearly. Anyways, he said the whole reason he came to Catarlina was to tell everyone what was lurking in old Par Massino, and to ensure we all stayed away.” A blush crept across Renault’s face, his guilt returning, but the man didn’t notice. Instead, he shook his head and chuckled. “Well, he was a mite disappointed to learn he wasn’t tellin’ us anything we didn’t know. People’ve stayed away from Par Massino for years, and he wasn’t the first to have a ghost story from there. Still, at least he did manage to scare a few youngsters who thought of headin’ out there for some adventure straight. Grateful to him for that, if nothin’ else.

“Bah…but I’m ramblin’, though. Bet none of this is the least bit useful to you?”

“No, just the opposite! This is the first good lead we’ve had in months.” Varek smiled at Renault, and Renault’s unhappy expression lightened a bit, the progress they were making on their quest washing away, slightly, his feelings of guilt. “Did this traveler mention where he was going afterwards?”

The magistrate scrunched his face. “Hmm…agh! My head’s not worth a wyvern’s shit! Er, um, sorry, your holiness. But I honestly can’t remember! We didn’t talk that much, though, so maybe that’s why. What I’d do, though, is head over to the tavern and ask Mosley. He’s gettin’ on in years, but he’s still got a sharper mind than I. He kept that traveler fed and housed for a few days, too, so maybe he’d remember where the lad set off to. And at the very least, you’d like to rest here a few days, wouldn’t you?”

“That we would. Come, Renault. Let’s head to the inn!”

-x-

Mosley’s inn was quite active today, though it wasn’t hard to figure out that this was unusual. Harod and his soldiers were sitting at a table in the center of the room, surrounded by the rest of the townspeople, laughing and joking and telling stories—they had many exciting ones, given their careers. Renault and Varek were thus ignored when they entered, but they did manage to see a very old, white-haired man behind the bar at the far end of the room. While keeping an eye on the party, he was also first and foremost dedicated to his duties as a host, filling mug after mug of ale and handing off orders to the servers and scullery maids. He was so busy he almost didn’t notice Renault and Varek walking up to him…almost.

“Hm? I haven’t seen ye around before,” he said, eying them warily. “Travelers, eh?”

“Indeed. We’re a pair of travelers—pilgrims, really—and those Wyvern Knights were kind enough to bring us here. They’ll vouch for us.”

“That so?” Much like the magistrate had, Mosley relaxed visibly. “Well, any friend o’ the King’s men is a friend o’ mine. Need to stay a few nights? Th’ soldiers are rooming together, so I’ve got one room free. And since they’re payin’ mighty well, I figure I can afford to give you two a discount!”

“We’d appreciate that. Bless you!”

“And blessings to you, Your Holiness. But…forgive an old fool fer askin’, what brings you to Catarlina? It’s lovely—and I’ve lived here all my 70 years, I’d know—but not the sort to get many visitors. Nothin’ that special about this place; we do some minin’ and we’ve a damn good blacksmith, if I say so myself, but there aren’t any shrines or reliquaries around here. Nothin’ to interest a man o’ the cloth, as ye seem to be.”

Varek smiled. “I’m actually here on a mission from my father.” He proceeded to tell Mosley the same thing he’d told the magistrate.

“Par Massino?” The old man’s eyes verily lit up when Varek reached that part of the tale. “Aye, that’s a name I’ve heard before. A lad some thirty years ago…said his name was “Jack” or something…came in here with all these ghost stories and…oh, the magistrate already told you, eh?”

“Yep. We were wondering if you knew where he went.”

“Hmm…well, he was still insistent on telling everyone about the horrors lurking in Par Massino, and asked if there were any other villages nearby. The only one around is Getelt, a little mountain quarry town about the same size as this one. If I told him to go anywhere, it’d be there.”

“I s’pose that’ll be our next destination. You’re truly a blessing, Mosley.”

“My memory’s the only good thing about me, these days,” he chuckled. “The only thing I’ve got, when y’ get right down to it. Tomov may be gone, but at least I’ll always remember ‘im…”

“Hm? Tomov?”

Mosley looked startled, then collected himself and shook his head. “Bah, forgive me…Varek, was it? Just an old man ramblin’. Don’t pay me no mind.”

“If that’s what you wish, but I _am_ a holy man. ‘Tis no burden at all to take those of Elimine’s flock.”

“Well…Tomov was m’ best friend, and the village priest. He was even older than I was, though, and passed away just a week ago. I’m not too sad…he had a good life, but it’s still damn lonely without him around.”

“I see. My condolences for y’r friend’s passing. But, wait…this town doesn’t have a priest, then?”

“No. Tomov wasn’t married and had no kids, or successor. Bit of a problem, for us, I have to tell ye. Some o’ the people are worried about missin’ Mass, and Tomov knew how to give a good sermon. But, well, what can we do? We’ve already petitioned the Church to send us a new priest, but it’ll take a while for the message to get to someone, and even longer for a replacement to be sent.”

“Hmm…” Varek looked at Renault meaningfully, and his disciple shrugged—he already knew what the hermit was going to do. “Well, Mosley, I’ve been trained and ordained as a priest. Used to be a missionary in my younger years, before I took up the eremitic life. My quest’s not so pressin’…been thirty years since anyone’s heard o’ Juge, I figure a few more months won’t make much of a difference.

“I’d be happy to stay here a while and minister to the people, if you’d have me. My assistant can help too, of course.”

Mosley’s eyes widened, and a great smile spread across his face. “Well, sir, methinks you’re the one blessin’ us, and not the other way around! That’s the downright best news I’ve heard in a while! I’ll talk to the mayor an’ get everything straightened out. Tomov’s house is empty and you should be able to set yourselves up there quick as a flash!”

And, after a night at the inn, and after the Wyvern Knights left in the morning (after saying goodbye to everyone), Renault and Varek indeed settled in to the priest Tomov’s empty house. And there they would stay for the better part of a year.

The people of Catarlina seemed to accept Varek as if he’d lived there his whole life. He wove himself into the fabric of their community seamlessly, administering the sacraments and attending to the hamlet’s spiritual needs as well as Tomov had, by all accounts. Renault, for his part, made himself useful without complaint. He assisted the magistrate with minor clerical matters, such as transcribing letters or keeping account books. After a month at the hamlet, he also began teaching several of the younger children how to read. Though he might not have admitted it publically, he found the job to be quite rewarding. It brought back good memories of the times he’d spent mentoring other young people—his students in Nerinheit, then Kasha, and then, later on, Wallace. Now he was teaching them skills of peace rather than war, though, and that made him quite glad.

There was only two particularly striking events Renault would remember from his time here.

The first was his conversion. The second was a funeral.

-x-

About a week after they’d began living in Tomov’s old house, one night before they went to bed, Renault asked Varek a very unexpected favor.

“Could you give me the Rite of Ascension?”

The hermit looked at Renault in surprise.

“I’m not lying to you or trying to have a joke at your expense. I sincerely wish to join the Church.”

“Well, I can believe you don’t hate my religion as much as you did when we first met.” Varek laughed gently. “I’m glad I was such a good influence! But to actually convert…well, I won’t lie, most of the time an Eliminean’s always happy to save another soul. But you…I’d never imagine you would try to do so.

“I don’t mean to discourage you, Renault, but it’s important for me to ensure you’re conversions _genuine_. I know you’re not lyin’ or trying to pull one over me, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re converting for the right reasons. I want ensure you actually believe, that you’re not just doing this to impress me, or because you think I expect it of you. I told you I’m not in the business of evangelism, and I meant it.”

“I understand, Varek. And…to tell you the truth…I’m not entirely certain I believe myself.”

Varek didn’t judge or condemn his disciple for those words. He just nodded, motioning Renault to continue.

“I’ve…I have…seen too much for me to believe every word of the _Journey_. Magic, monsters, and other beings which are not even mentioned in that text. And I’m still not certain I can reconcile a loving God with so much evil in the world…

“But…despite that, I know now there’s something more to your religion. Something true. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The ghosts of Par Massino…they retreated when I prayed to the Saint. They would have torn me apart if I hadn’t. And then I saw…Braddock. He told me to…to continue.”

Renault allowed himself a small smile. “It’s…it is…ironic. Braddock hated religion when we first met. But by the time he…died…he’d gained a bit of respect for it. And after what happened to me at the monastery, I’m confident he would approve this path. He always enjoyed irony…that I remember well.

“He truly wanted me to live a life without violence, though…even more than that, I think he wanted me to live a more thoughtful life. He wouldn’t want to see me become a mindless worshipper of battle, he wouldn’t want to see me become mindlessly angry and get into foolish, needless fights like I used to. He certainly wouldn’t want me to become mindlessly obsessed with him after he died. Mindless, mindless, mindless…he didn’t want me to be mindless. And I’ve been disappointing him for long enough…far too long. I think…I believe your faith might help me be more than mindless. It might help me become more thoughtful, more…understanding, I suppose. More cognizant of the world around me and my place in it. More able to think about what I do and why I do it. That’s the sort of man Braddock wanted me to be.

“As I said, I’m not sure that the God described by Elimine exists, and I’m even less sure He would offer me any sort of salvation or redemption. But when those ghosts forgave me after I spoke Elimine’s words…I became convinced that there was truth in what she believed. And for that reason alone, I want to dedicate my life to her Church.

 “If that’s not good enough for you, I understand. I will trouble you no more. But either way, I thank you for listening to my request. Though I suppose it’s small recompense for all the trouble I’ve caused you…”

Renault allowed himself a small grin at this, and Varek responded with an outright chuckle. The mirth on his face lasted for but a few moments, though, replaced by a more contemplative expression as he digested Renault’s words.

“It’s not belief, Renault. You’re not a true believer,” said Varek at last. “But you’re not far off, either. Not far enough away that I can’t give you the rite. I’ll do as you wish, Renault. After tomorrow’s sermon, I’ll make you a confirmed member of the Church of Elimine.”

Renault was elated, but at this point he’d finally learned how to control his emotions. He simply smiled and thanked Varek, then went to sleep. The next morning, on the 19th Sage, Varek fulfilled his promise.

At Renault’s request, it was a very simple, private ceremony. Most of the time, new converts would be initiated in a celebration (grand or humble) attended by everyone in their new parish or community. That sort of thing would greatly discomfort Renault, however, so Varek waited until everyone had left the church after his evening sermon to give the Rite to his disciple.

The church itself was a small affair, similar in size to the one at Diotica Abbey, but lacked the nice stained glass windows. It still sufficed for their purposes, though. Varek stood behind the altar while Renault kneeled in front of it, and from the decanter next to it scooped up some water in a fine golden chalice, one of Tomov’s most valuable possessions. Varek held it in the air and chanted,

“O God, bless this water as I will bless your new servant.”

He then looked at Renault and asked,

“Do you believe that one God created the heavens and the earth, and brought humanity salvation through the blessed Saint Elimine?”

The proper answer to this question was supposed to be “Yes.” Renault, however, was unwilling to be anything less than honest to Varek. He thus replied with, “I’m not sure.”

Anywhere else, this would have been a scandal. Varek, however, expected it and nodded. “Do you at least believe that Elimine spoke the truth, as she saw it, and that the holy book of her Church contains truth?”

That, Renault could answer with a clear “Yes.”

Varek smiled, and the ritual proceeded as it normally would. “Then may you find the truth you seek in the Church.” He poured a third of the water in the cup over Renault’s head, and then asked, “Do you seek to live as Elimine lived, embracing good and rejecting evil, and pleasing God with both word and action?”

“Yes.”

“Then may the Church aid and comfort you in your quest.” He poured another third of the cup over Renault’s head. Finally, he asked, “Do you wish to join your hands with those who believe, and lend what strength you have to the shared pursuit of righteousness, justice, and wisdom?”

“Yes.”

Varek poured the remaining water over Renault’s head. “Then rise and be glad, for you are now a member of Elimine’s flock. May her God bless you and keep you, amen.”

He placed the chalice back onto the altar and moved to stand beside Renault, who got to his feet. They then shook hands.

“You’re one of us now, lad.” Varek was smiling, but his words were stern. “Don’t think this is just a ticket to salvation. What I expect of y’ hasn’t changed. If anything, you’ve even greater responsibilities now. Carrying the Faith—at least if you really believe in it—isn’t an easy charge. I’ll be watching you, Renault, and you’d better be a little wiser, a little gentler, and a little kinder every day we’re together, as long as you want to call yourself a member of the Church.”

“I understand, Varek. I’ll do my best.”

And with that, the two of them exited the church.

Renault felt a little closer to Varek, but little else after his baptism. He felt no more holy or enlightened than he did before—though he supposed it was because he would now be working towards becoming so rather than just being made so by some water. And over the next few months, he didn’t notice any change in the cadence of his life, either. He still assisted Varek with his church and clerical duties and taught reading to the children, as always. Now he simply attended Mass and prayed with Varek every day. That, at least, was one thing he liked. While everyday prayers didn’t have the power they did at Par Massino, Renault did feel a little more calm and peaceful every time he sat down and chanted with Varek. Praying may have taken a pretty decent chunk of time every day, but it wasn’t time wasted.

Yet, despite that, Renault had to be honest with himself: After a month’s worth of praying, he felt no closer to God. And he made this known to Varek one night—though by this point, he’d stopped worrying about what the former hermit’s reaction would be. As he’d expected, his friend had only words of comfort and wisdom, not condemnation.

“Like I’ve always said, faith’s different for everyone, lad. Praying may be important for me, but not so much so for you. You’d like to stop doin’ it?”

“N, no. I do get something out of it…at least I think I do. It calms my nerves and…keeps me grounded…I suppose. That’s the best way I can put it.”

“In that case, it’s not a waste, and it’s not an insult to faith, either. The words may not have as much power as they did at Par Massino, but that doesn’t mean they’re worthless. If you’re gainin’ _anything_ at all from those prayers, I’m happy for you, Renault, even if you don’t think you’re speaking directly to God.”

What Renault had may not have been properly termed zealous faith, but if it was good enough for Varek, it was good enough for him. He therefore went to bed after thanking Varek, and worried about the subject no further—at least for a little while.

It would only really come up once more during their stay at Catarlina.

On the 19th Knight, 961 A.S, Mosley the innkeeper passed away at last. It was not at all unexpected. He had been old when Renault and Varek first arrived, and over the last few weeks he had been spending less and less time at the bar of his establishment and more and more time in bed—thankfully, one of his barmaids was more than up to the task of running things. Thus, when he simply failed to wake up one morning, it caused little stir in the town. The moment Varek got the news, he and Renault set out to work.

While Varek went to the church to give a eulogy for Mosley, Renault’s responsibility was to wash and anoint the body. With a clean rag and a large bucket of water he cleaned up Mosley’s corpse, and then he took the golden chalice Varek had left for him, filled with special holy water, and poured its contents over the man’s feet, chest, and head. As he did so he repeated several prayers and recited several passages from the _Lamentations_ and _Testament of Athos_. He then wrapped the body in a black shroud so that only Mosley’s face was visible. This ritual was supposed to bless the body and help the soul of the newly deceased reach God’s country faster.  Renault felt nothing special here, but carried out the ceremony anyways, out of loyalty to Varek, if nothing else.

After that he waited for the next part of the funeral ritual to begin. When he heard a knock and the front door of his house open, he picked up the shrouded body and went outside, where ten young men and a big wooden box were waiting for him. He laid Mosley’s body within the open coffin, and six of the young men picked it up, with Renault and another two carrying its lid. The last two men were holding torches, even though it was the beginning of the evening and not very dark. Solemnly, all of them marched away from the house towards the small graveyard at the edge of town, where Varek, along with the rest of the townspeople, were gathered. The procession was similar to the one he had seen after his mother’s death, Renault recalled, and he was struck by a pang of guilt as he remembered what a poor son he had been to her.

The men carrying the coffin—pallbearers, they were called—set it down in front of Varek, while Renault and the others holding the coffin’s lid waited patiently by its side.

Varek opened up his copy of _Elimine’s Journey_ and began to recite from it—specifically, the familiar passage from the _Lamentations_. “There is a time for war and a time for peace, a time to kill and a time to die, and all things enter into their seasons. If the days of friendship are short, enjoy them while they last. If love dries up tomorrow, drink richly of it today. The sun rises and sets, yet never sees anything new. For it is the eye of God, who knows all things—then serve Him humbly and live by His wisdom. Amen.”

“Amen,” the gathered mourners repeated, and Varek closed his book and stepped aside. “If there’s anything you’d like to say to Mosley, say it now before we lay him to his final rest.”

One by one, the villagers walked up single-file towards the coffin and knelt over it, whispering words to the corpse. Renault couldn’t hear most of what they said, but his ears were sharp and he could pick up a little bit here and there—most were thanks for what Mosley did for them, a few were recollections of amusing stories they’d remembered about him (which often elicited a few laughs—Renault was somewhat surprised at how no-one seemed to be terribly sad, though the ceremony obviously wasn’t “upbeat,” either). After they’d done so, they bowed and thanked Varek, and then made their ways back to their homes. When they were all gone, Renault helped the remaining pallbearers put the lid over the coffin and close it, and then all of them helped lay it down carefully into the newly-dug grave. Varek offered one last prayer for Mosley, sprinkling a last bit of holy water into the open grave, before Renault and the other pallbearers took shovels and filled it in.

With that, the funeral rite was over, and after shaking hands with the pallbearers, Renault and Varek began to walk back to their home.

There was one question Renault had about the whole affair—and of course, it would be a respectful one. “Why doesn’t anyone seem sad?” he pondered. “Mosley was loved by everyone in town, wasn’t…was he not? There should be more…sorrow, one would think.”

Varek smiled. “In most funerals, there are. But Mosley died a good, peaceful, painless death, and more importantly, lived a good, happy life—one that wasn’t cut short.

We all die, Renault—well, most of us, I suppose. And it’s something the human race, Eliminean or not, has gotten used to over the years. We’ll still mourn if someone’s been taken too soon or painfully. But for a man like Mosley…well, everyone knew he’d be leaving us, including him. When something’s inevitable, and it’s coming less painfully than it could be, there’s not much point getting too miserable over it.”

“…I see.” Renault said nothing after that, but they both knew he was thinking of Braddock.

And Renault would still be thinking of Braddock, even after he went to sleep. He dreamed of his friend, again, as he often did.

But as was the case these days, the dream was not frightening, and Renault recalled, when he woke up, that Braddock didn’t seem so far away.

-x-

It was on the 9th Wyvern, 961 A.S that their time at Catarlina ended at last— or, at least, started to end. Varek and Renault were awoken by a knock on their door in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun had even risen. They opened it to find a fresh-faced young man in Priest’s garb standing in front of them.

“Is this Father Tomov’s house? The Church told me he needed an assistant, so here I am!”

Renault and Varek looked at each other. “Took you long enough to get here, but…”

They took him inside and explained everything to him—that Father Tomov didn’t need an assistant, but a _replacement_ , and that Varek and Renault had been taking up for him over the year since he’d passed. The young priest, whose name was Lowe, took everything in stride, to his credit. Messages often took a very long time to reach ecclesiastical authorities, given the volume of petitions, complaints, and other matters they had to deal with. Thus, Lowe was expecting and prepared for something like this to happen. The three of them then paid the magistrate a visit, to inform him that the Church had finally granted his request. He recommended Lowe live with them in Tomov’s house for a brief time, until he settled in, and both of them found that reasonable.

Renault and Varek stayed in Catarlina for about a week after that. It wouldn’t have been proper to have just up and left, because they’d been in the village so long that many had forgotten they weren’t Tomov’s _actual_ replacement. Renault finished up the last of his transcriptions and teaching classes, and Varek gave several more sermons, making sure Lowe watched so he knew what sort of homilies and speeches the people were used to. Lowe, for his part, spent most of his time canvassing the hamlet, introducing himself to everyone there and learning more about the community to which he’d been assigned. He was bright, affable, and enthusiastic, and while the people loved Varek, it was clear they’d grow to love Lowe just as much.

That was when they knew it was time to leave. In the last sermon he gave, on the Sunday of the 17th Wyvern, Varek thanked the people of Catarlina for the hospitality they’d showed him during his time here. And though it made him somewhat uncomfortable to do so, Renault got up in front of the altar and did the same, thanking pretty much everyone in the whole town. It wasn’t insincere or done out of obligation, either. He had grown to like the place. While he hadn’t gotten close to anyone here, they’d accepted him and his friend as one of their own virtually without reservation. It was the same type of hospitality he’d been shown at Diotica Abbey, and as someone trying to escape the violence of his past, he found himself very grateful for it.

The next morning, when they woke up and gathered their things in preparation for their departure, they were somewhat surprised to see that Lowe wasn’t there. Not thinking much of it at first, they ended up seeing him the moment they stepped out of the door.

Lowe was standing there, smiling. The magistrate was beside him, and behind them were the entirety of the people of Catarlina.

Some of them were smiling, along with Lowe, but others seemed quite sad—in fact, Renault noticed that some of the children he’d taught were on the verge of crying. It wasn’t hard to tell why—just as it wasn’t hard to tell why the people had gathered there.

“You really shouldn’t have—“ Varek began, but Lowe cut him off.

“You’ve done so much for this village it would be a sin to just let you go without giving you anything in return.” He gestured to the magistrate, who held out to Varek a pouch filled with various useful things for their journey—rations, a few books from the archives, vulneraries, and a bit of gold for them to use on their travels. Varek felt uncomfortable about accepting the gifts, but he had no choice.

After that, both he and Renault shook hands or hugged with everyone in the village, sharing a few last conversations and reminisces for a few hours. The crowd inched closer and closer to the gate of the town, though, and soon—sooner than anyone there would have liked—Renault and Varek were outside of it.

The two of them waved a final farewell to the small village which had treated them so well—and then continued on their journey.

-X-

Almost as soon as they’d arrived at Getelt, Renault and Varek found something to keep them busy.

The mountain roads in this area were thankfully a bit more well-maintained and patrolled than those closer to Par Massino, so it only took Renault and Varek two weeks of leisurely travel to reach Getelt early in the month of the Moon. It was slightly larger than Catarlina, and apparently a bit better defended too; there was a wooden palisade marking the end of the trail leading up to it along with a tower holding an archer.

“Hold,” he’d said, “What brings you to Getelt?”

Varek quickly retold his story to the guard, who accepted it. “Aye, welcome to our village, Your Holiness. I wish I could help you find who you seek, but I’d be of no assistance. Grandmother Nell might know. She’s our Cleric, and should be in the church right now.”

That was where Renault and Varek headed next—and as it so happened, it was also where they’d find their next duties.

Grandmother Nell, a matronly woman about a decade older than Meris had been, was indeed at the church—though she was very, _very_ busy. The house of God had been converted into a makeshift hospice, with injured men lying prone on pews used as beds. Varek didn’t waste a moment upon seeing this—leaving his quest for Juge by the wayside, he immediately asked her if there was anything he could do to help.

Nell lived up to her name—she was a gentle and sweet woman, and was nothing short of profoundly grateful for a bit of assistance from a fellow believer. As it turned out, there had been a rockslide at the quarry just the day before yesterday. Virtually all of the men of the village worked there, but miraculously, there had been no deaths. There had been some very serious injuries, however, and Nell had used up all the charges on her Mend staves trying to heal them. It would be some time before the next trader or supply caravan reached Getelt with new ones, so she’d been nearly overwhelmed trying to heal the remaining injuries through non-magical methods. Varek promptly set out to work taking care of them with his own magical equipment, and fortunately, his still had enough power to repair the last broken arms and legs of the less-fortunate miners. Renault, for his part, didn’t just sit around either. Staves could heal injuries, but they weren’t effective against infection, so he spent most of his time cleaning wounds and crafting the antibiotic poultices Varek had taught him to make.

It wasn’t easy work, but Renault and Varek were skilled and efficient, and after about three days, all the miners had been healed and were ready to return to their jobs. They were as grateful as Grandmother Nell, praising the newcomers effusively. One man in particular took a shine to Renault.

“Oh, in Elimine’s name, all o’ our thanks!” He flexed the leg Renault had washed and cleaned, smiling widely when it moved as well as if it had never been injured. “Lord only knows what woulda happened to us if you’d not come along just in time. You’re a true angel of salvation!”

“…That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” said Renault, smiling slightly. “Most of the credit belongs to Varek and his staff. Though I’m glad my training as an apothecary’s been put to good use.” _I bet Braddock would be glad as well,_ he thought to himself. Of course, his conversation partner wasn’t aware of that.

“Well, our thanks n’ blessin’s be to both of ye, sir. ‘Tis not just a few miners you’re helpin’ out here, you know! The sooner we get back to work, the sooner all o’ Elibe’ll benefit. There’s no buildin’ in all the world that can be built with anythin’ better than what we mine!”

“O…of course…”

The miner detected the…not-quite-sarcasm in Renault’s voice. “Oy! That’s no idle boast, sir! The Holy Royal Palace in Etruria was built with stone mined from these quarries,” he said, his pride evident in his voice. “’Tis no mean work we do here, not at all!”

“…Truly?”

“Aye, of course!” The man seemed slightly offended. “You mean t’ tell me yer not familiar with Bernese stone?”

“Truthfully, no. My apologies if I’ve offended you…I…I am still new to…matters both secular and religious.”

“Aye, well, I can understand that, I s’pose,” he said, somewhat sympathetically, “seems as if Father Varek’s taken you under his wing, f’r that reason at least. Well, that’s nary a problem! Let me tell you ev’rything y’ need to know about stone!”

There was no-one else in the little hospice who needed immediate attention, so Renault allowed the man to fulfill his promise. According to the miner, Bern’s mountains had both the best variety and quality of stone anywhere on Elibe. Marble, granite, limestone, and pretty much anything else could be extracted in great quantities from its ranges. As a result, Bern’s quarries were also the most advanced in Elibe, and its quarrymen knew tricks and techniques for cutting rock virtually no-one else could replicate. Renault had thought much of that was just exaggeration or nationalistic boasting, and while a bit of it was, most of it was entirely true. As he’d learn after talking to Varek upon returning to the inn, stone was one of Bern’s top exports, along with its traveling architects and masons, who commanded very high prices and sent much of what they earned back to their homelands. Much of the Holy Royal Palace along with many other buildings in Etruria had been built with the highest-quality rock taken from Bernese mountains, and the builders of Ilian castles and Ostian fortresses had been taught by Bernese architects.

Renault had never thought of Bern as anything but a home for wyverns and riders who were just as vicious. But after hearing all this, it was hard for him not to give the people some credit.

That was, of course, exactly the sort of maturation Varek hoped their little pilgrimage would give Renault. But he didn’t voice his approval openly. He did, however, help Renault out with a somewhat more serious request.

“Varek,” Renault asked him on the last night of their stay at Getelt, “can I ask you a favor?”

“Don’t often deny you that, lad. What is it?”

“Can you teach me how to use a staff?”

The hermit blinked in surprise. “A staff?”

“I-I understand if you don’t want to,” said Renault hastily. “I don’t imagine it would be an…easy task, or that I would be an…apt student. But after watching you work…it was obvious to me that you were the real savior of this village, not I. Those staves can truly work miracles…I see that now. And…” His voice grew lower. “Braddock…Braddock might have lived if I’d known how to use a staff. He died of a poison, which I know some magics can purify. I…understand I can’t bring him back, but if I learn the skills that might have saved his life, I believe he would be pleased.”

“That’s a worthy reason, Renault. But remember that not everyone has a talent for magic. It’s hereditary, to an extent, but there are other factors that come into play as well. And with that body of yours, I’m not even sure it’d be possible.”

“I understand. If I can’t, I won’t blame you. Even so, I’d like to try…”

“Alright. We’ll begin your lessons on the road. For now, let’s get some sleep.”

The next morning, they met with Nell, who was eager to pay them back after all their help with the wounded. She told them Juge had indeed come to their town many years ago, and he had mentioned something about Par Massino, though she couldn’t recall what. She did remember him heading off north, however, and that was where Renault and Varek would travel next. Granted, they would have liked something more concrete than just “north,” but it was all Nell could give them, so they couldn’t complain. They just asked where the nearest settlement to the north was, assuming Juge would have stopped there, and went on their way.

The mountain roads were not easy, but thanks to the constant oversight from the Bernese Wyvern Knights, they were safe, allowing Renault plenty of time to learn as he traveled.

“Alright, Renault,” Varek said, munching on a hardtack ration as they made camp on the first night after leaving Getelt. “I know you’ve seen magic before, but do you have any idea of how it actually _works_?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding just a bit defensive.  “I’m not… _so_ foolish that I’ve learned nothing in my time of studying with you…or…before.” He blushed as he remembered that he’d also studied under Nergal.

Varek, for his part, wasn’t fazed a bit. “Then demonstrate what you’ve learned. Don’t need to explain the intricacies of whatever enchantment was placed on you, but basic things, like the battle tomes and healing magic we’re all familiar with. How does it work?”

Renault thought back, drawing on all his memories, and found he didn’t know quite as much as he thought he did—he’d mostly just transcribed and translated works on magic without truly understanding them. He knew a bit, though, so he gave it his best shot.

“The one thing every branch of magic has in common is that they each draw out the inherent power of the magician. Anima users call this the power he holds over elemental spirits, dark magicians claim it’s power over the natural world itself, and you…we…claim it’s faith in God. But in each case, the spellcaster himself is the well of power from which his spells draw. The staves or tomes he uses, along with his chanting or incantations in Draconic or Shadetongue, are the channels which allow that power to be focused and used. It’s…” Renault struggled to find a good analogy, then found an example he’d heard of in Lycia. “It’s the same method employed by those telescopes the Lycians invented…sort of. Those glass lenses they made focus light so you can see farther, in observatories and whatnot. So, too, do tomes and staves focus one’s inherent magical power, and the more powerful the magic artifact, the more effectively it can focus.”

“Very good, Renault. That’s essentially correct. That makes the magician’s responsibility twfold. First, he has to learn the chants and incantations for each staff or tome he wants to use. The actual words of a spell are an important part of the way they focus his power, so he has to speak them perfectly, right down to accent and cadence, if he wants the magic to work. Second, he also needs to speak them quickly, so he doesn’t end up gettin’ killed before he can cast the spell. The simplest, weakest spells have simple, easy incantations, but the more powerful ones have longer, harder chants.”

“That makes sense.”

“So, Renault, if you’re serious about learnin’, we’ll start with the easy ones first.” Varek took out one of his books from his traveling pack. As he did so, Renault noticed the title— _Spells for Beginners_. Quite self-explanatory. Varek opened it up, and on the very first page Renault saw, in Draconic, the word for “Heal,” followed by approximately a paragraph of text which Renault knew was the associated incantation.

“I want you to read this, memorize it, and then say it out loud—so I can hear you—‘till you’ve got it down _perfectly_. After that, I’ll let you practice with my staves, but not until then.”

That was more than reasonable to Renault, and that was what he did for the next several months. Their wanderings would take them across much of eastern Bern. The residents of the nearest town had, unfortunately, no recollection of anyone matching Juge’s description, but did offer suggestions for other villages nearby travelers often stopped at. And as he and Varek canvassed those villages for information, every time Renault got a chance while they were traveling—which was usually in the mornings and afternoons, when they rested for lunch, or late at night by candlelight, if they happened across a decent inn—he’d look at _Spells for Beginners_ and recite the Draconic words for Varek. As he learned, pronunciation wasn’t the only important thing. It was the most important, but he also had to be wary of volume (too soft or too loud and the spell wouldn’t work), rhythm (emphasizing some words and failing to do the same for others would result in the spell failing), tone (spells wouldn’t work if Renault sounded like he was asking a question while chanting them), and many other things.

It took him a long time to get all that down perfectly, but when he did…he was, unfortunately, met only with disappointment.

“Alright, Renault,” said Varek one day after Renault had finished his recitation. “I think you’ve finally mastered the chant. I think you’re ready to try casting the spell, now.”

He took out his Heal staff from his pack and handed it to his eager student. “Hold the staff with both hands in front of you, and recite those words, exactly as you just did. While you do so, though, you’ve got to _concentrate_. It’s hard to describe, but there should be a well of magical energy inside you. It’s inside all of those with the talent. Concentrate on your body, within your body, as you say the words. For now, just thinking of it should be enough. That will draw out the energy, and the staff should…well, glow, at least, even a little bit. That’s what happens for those with barely any inherent power at all. So try it, and see what happens.”

Renault did so. Holding the staff exactly as Varek told him to, he chanted the words exactly as he had been, and concentrated on his internal being with all of his considerable discipline.

And when he finished the chant, absolutely nothing had happened.

“Strange,” said Varek, furrowing his brow. “It’s not your chantin,’ Renault, that was perfect. Try to concentrate a little better tomorrow.”

He did try, on his next attempt. But still, nothing came of it. The same with his third attempt, and the fourth, and the day after that, the fifth, and the successive days, the sixth, seventh, and eighth. After that last one, Varek sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Renault, but…maybe you just don’t have any talent for it at all. It’s inborn, you know. To an extent, at least.”

“My mother was a Bishop,” he replied, somewhat dejectedly.

“Well, perhaps it was whatever happened to your body. Either way, it doesn’t seem like this’ll be much use.” He noticed the crestfallen expression on Renault’s face. “But I could be wrong. I’ve certainly been so before! Magical strength is something you can increase, like strengthening your muscles. Maybe if you keep workin’, you’ll get something eventually. I’m not gonna lie to you, I wouldn’t bet on it. But if you really want to keep trying, I won’t stop you. Not as if it’s harming anyone, and it’s not as if I have much else to teach you, anyways.”

“T-that’s not true! I still have many things to learn from you. Many things…but I’ll keep trying with the staves, Varek. I…truly want to learn them, because…”

“Because of your friend,” said Varek sympathetically. “Well, alright. You have my permission to do so. Just…don’t get disappointed or despair if it doesn’t work out, Renault.”

“I won’t.”

He didn’t, but it would take some time before everything really did work out. Renault’s life for the next few years consisted of wandering from place to place, all across Bern, helping those in need, sharpening his (paltry) skills with a staff, and occasionally picking up entirely new skills—all while hunting for any trace of Juge, of course. The first new skill he picked up was the ability to actually generate even a tiny trace of magic from a Heal staff.

It was on the 4th Horse, 962 A.S. that this watershed in Renault’s life finally came. He and Varek were staying at a little roadside inn not far from one of Bern’s central mountain ranges, where they’d heard a man matching Juge’s had passed some time ago. They’d said their nightly prayers and Varek had gone to bed himself, but Renault wanted to stay up a little bit longer and practice magic just a little bit more. He expected no success, of course, but it had grown to be such a habit for him that he didn’t want to break it.

Renault, at this point in his life, dearly loved his habits. They provided him the stability he had grown to crave.

This time, however, he broke his habit—somewhat. For the entire year since he’d began teaching Renault, Varek had emphasized that a magician should try to draw out his power from within. Renault had always taken that advice, but no matter how hard he concentrated, he’d never felt anything at all when he concentrated on his own body. Tonight, however, for some reason he concentrated on his _phylactery_ rather than his physical body.

Years later, he wasn’t entirely sure why. Inspiration from God, perhaps? That was the answer he would give if he were as faithful as he should have been. Since he was not, however, he had to be honest: Perhaps it was just a stroke of luck, or perhaps he’d been particularly concerned about that container of his soul—he’d come close to dropping the necklace accidentally earlier in the day, and had been preoccupied with it all through the night.

He almost didn’t notice he had, at first. He kept his eyes tightly shut, clearing his head of all distractions, as Varek had ordered him to. Holding the Heal staff in front of him, he intoned the Draconic words of its spell quickly and quietly, but this time focusing on his internal essence contained within the phylactery rather than his own body.

And this time, he felt something different. It was so small so as to be almost imperceptible, but it was something. Renault couldn’t describe it, and he was never really able to, not even later. It was sort of a very faint tingling, but at the same time, a kind of wholesome fullness, and strangest at all he _felt_ it—within the phylactery, not his body. The sensation was so faint Renault took no heed of it at first—not until he finished the incantation.

When he did, he opened his eyes with a sigh, expecting to see absolutely nothing—as there’d been the first thousand times he’d attempted this. But his eyes widened when he noticed a very faint glow lingering around the small sapphire orb at the tip of the staff.

The noise of his cry of joy was enough to slam Varek out of his peaceful sleep _immediately_.

“By the Saint, lad, what’s all this racket?! Are we under attack?!”

“I did it, Varek! I did it!” Renault was so happy he’d completely forgotten Urbain’s lessons on etiquette and emotional restraint. “It worked! The staff worked!!”

“Truly?” Varek couldn’t hide the slight bit of annoyance he still felt—he loved his sleep and hated it intensely when it was disturbed—but that had been mostly washed away by happiness at his student’s progress. “Well then, let me see!”

Renault tried to activate the Heal staff again, but unfortunately failed. Varek sighed, thinking it had been a false alarm, but Renault furrowed his brow. “Wait, wait, I saw something, I _know_ I did! I did something different that time…yes, the phylactery! Please, wait, Varek! Let me have one more try!”

He again chanted the words of power, this time concentrating again on the phylactery. And to the delight of both student and master, the staff began to glow once again. It was a very dull, weak glow, but it was enough to tell Varek that Renault indeed possessed at least a tiny spark of magical power.

“Praise be to God!” he smiled. “You’ve done it, Renault, well and truly. I’ll have to say twice my regular prayers tomorrow. I honestly hadn’t thought you’d be up to this! I should have had more faith in both you and the Lord.”

“Ah, er…sorry,” said Renault bashfully, his etiquette lessons returning. “I-it’s not you. I was a…poor student.”

“Maybe, but no-one could fault your diligence and effort,” said Varek, “so don’t blame yourself, lad. Let me ask you something. You mentioned your phylactery, didn’t you?”

“Y…yes. I concentrated on that instead of my body. I don’t know why…”

Varek slapped his head. “D—I mean…we should have thought of that when you first started! We both knew yours body isn’t much more than an empty shell. That’s why you don’t age, or need to eat, or any of that. Your mind and spirit—and therefore, his font of magical power—are in that little green stone! So you’d have to concentrate on _that_ to draw out the magic power a staff or tome needs to focus.” He sighed, then chuckled. “Well, it’s a good thing God has a soft spot for fools, eh? We should just be happy to have found an answer later rather than never.

“Still…not to deride your accomplishment, Renault, but that was a fairly weak spell. You managed to generate a bit of light, but you couldn’t even heal a scratch with that. That’s even weaker than most adepts start off with.”

“I see.” Renault lowered his gaze.

“Again, I don’t think it’s your fault, but your phylactery’s. You’re drawing your power from that, aren’t you? I suspect it wasn’t meant for magical use, or that it could absorb magic energy, but not release it. So it’s blocking the flow of your power and hampering your spellcasting.”

“Is there any way to…repair that?”

“I don’t know, Renault. I doubt it.”

“…I see.”

“Oy, don’t forget what I said! Don’t despair. You actually managed to activate the staff, which is more than what most people in your condition would’ve managed. And though your phylactery hampers you, it apparently won’t stop you entirely. If you keep training, you may figure out a way to overcome that hurdle, or at least bypass it.”

“…I’ll keep working, then.”

“Just what I like to hear.”

And Renault certainly kept that promise. He had plenty of time to do so, if not all the time in the world, because their quest to find Juge did not seem like it would be ending anytime soon. Finding one man after all these years was a difficult task even under the very best of circumstances. Most of the villages they inquired at had no-one who recalled seeing a purple-haired mage wander by, and among those who did, there were many false leads and cases of mistaken identity to sift through. Villagers in one town claimed a “Juge” was living in another settlement across a river—after fording the treacherous crossing and nearly drowning, Renault and Varek found it was an Illian immigrant of that name. Soon after, the duo heard tell of a strange purple-haired hermit living in western Bern who had compiled a huge stash of Draconic texts. Thinking it might be Juge, they trekked as quickly as they could across the nation only to find the man they were looking for was an eccentric named Jubal who couldn’t even read Draconic but just liked to hoard things.

Adding to the time they were taking was Varek’s habit of insisting upon settling down to help virtually anyone they found in need over the course of their travels. Granted, there was a bit of practicality to this as well, since they were often paid or otherwise recompensed for their efforts, but it did mean they weren’t progressing as quickly as they could have been. Sometimes they spent just a few days at one place, healing the injured who had no-one else to rely on or performing other small tasks. Other times, they’d spend up to a few months aiding with larger projects.

Renault didn’t remember many of these very well. Sometimes it was translation work, as was the case for the Bishop of a middling-sized town near the western coast. Other times it was physical labor for Renault, such as when he helped build a few houses in a mountain village or replaced an absent farmhand in a central hamlet a few miles away from Bern city. Juge had zig-zagged all across the country, it seemed, and in pursuit of him Renault and Varek had trod over nearly every inch of it as well. And while Renault wasn’t overly fond of travel for its own sake, he found he didn’t much mind the experience.

He was, after all, gaining plenty of experience with the staff—though it didn’t do him much good. By the time a year had passed since his first triumph with casting a spell, Renault had mastered the use of the Heal staff and was now working on the marginally more complicated incantations of Mend. Even with a Mend staff, he could only heal the slightest of wounds—though the staff could focus magical energy more efficiently than its weaker brother, Varek’s explanation was still true: It was far more difficult for any artifact to focus magical energy which was drawn out of a phylactery like Renault’s rather than a human body.

Renault recalled fighting Morph mages over twenty years ago, in Lycia. But those, he surmised, had been built with modified phylacteries which allowed (or perhaps even enhanced) staves and tomes to focus whatever inherent magical power Nergal endowed his Morphs. As the dark sorcerer’s very first “experiment,” on the other hand, Renault had been given an inefficient phylactery which did little more than imprison his spirit and hamper his attempts at spellcraft.

 

Renault could take a bit of comfort in his incompetency, amusingly enough. The irony of a former mercenary becoming an Eliminean disciple who had no talent whatsoever for a disciple’s most important job provided a bit of humor to what would otherwise have been a very unremarkable journey. Almost nothing he encountered during the rest of his time in Bern would leave any significant imprint on his mind. _Almost_ nothing, though. Before he finally left Bern, there were a handful of events which would stay with him for a long time.

After his time in Getelt, Renault might have thought stone, along with techniques for building with it, to be the only gifts Bern gave to the world. As it turned out, however, the land and its people provided Elibe with much more.

This was demonstrated to Renault many, many times over the course of his travels. He saw it in the fishing villages of the southern coast, whose donations of smoked and preserved cod saved many Ilians from starvation, distributed through the Church’s missions, He saw it within the many blacksmiths he and Varek visited, who turned out not only fine weapons but shoes for horses, tools for workers, and all manner of useful things which were exported to those in need. But it was really brought home to him when he alighted upon the village of Grumheim, on the 4th Wyvern, 764 A.S.

There was nothing in particular that brought Varek here; they’d simply heard Juge had passed through this area some time back and needed a place to rest. No-one in town had seen him, unfortunately, but before they could move on to the next settlement, they’d heard a request from the local goat-herder, and, of course, Varek couldn’t turn it down.

From the outset, Renault was somewhat suspicious. Grumheim was located in one of Bern’s mountain ranges, and he’d never heard of mountains being an ideal place to raise sheep. Even odder was the nature of the request—the old shepherd had asked for an extra hand in “the stables,” and Renault had no idea what that could mean.

He’d soon learn.

“F’rgive an old man fer the imposition,” the shepherd had said, leading the two men to his home on the outskirts of the village. “My grandson’s got the fool idea that bein’ a mercenary’s more fun than herdin’ goats, like his daddy, granddaddy, and daddy afore that! Nothin’ but a passin’ fancy, I’m sure. Kid always had more ambition than sense! Till he comes back, though, could ya help me with the goats and the wyverns? For the latter, it’s not so far different from takin’ care of horses. If you can be a stablehand—and anyone can—you’ll do well enough here!”

When the old man opened the door to the stables, sitting (what Renault thought) to be precariously close to the edge of one of the rock outcroppings making up this section of the mountain trail, he saw what he meant.

There were only two pens there, and inside of each was a Wyvern. It was apparent they were very, very tame. They both looked up as Renault entered, and both of them bared their fangs suspiciously at him. However, when the shepherd said, “there now, there now. He’s new, but he’s a friend,” their expressions promptly relaxed as they both let out contented yawns. On closer inspection, in fact, they were a little different than the Wyverns Renault had usually seen. They traded a bit of length for girth; they had shorter tails and legs but seemed to be a bit more muscular. The most striking thing about them was that their wings seemed to be only half the size of a Wyvern Knight’s mount.

“I’ll be takin’ them out so they can do their job,” said Renault’s host. “In the meantime, can ye take that pitchfork by the wall and clean out their litter?”

It was hard, dirty, and miserable work (Wyvern dung was even more pungent than a horse’s), but Renault preferred it to fighting in battle again. Though he did the job without complaint (Varek helped too), the shepherd had a few other tasks around his house he wanted done, so they didn’t get a chance to see what the wyverns were actually doing on this day. They’d have to wait until tomorrow, because after finishing their duties, Varek, at least, was so tired that all he could do was sleep. Renault followed him.

He then woke up early in the morning, as the shepherd was offering him and Varek a place to stay in exchange for their help. The old man was still sleeping—one of the reasons he needed the extra help was because he wasn’t as energetic and alert as he used to be. He’d left Renault instructions, though, and they were easy enough to follow. The would-be Wyvernkeeper sauntered up to the stable doors, opened them, and then opened the gates to the two pens holding the stout Wyverns with atrophied wings. The beasts, which had been sleeping peacefully before, immediately woke up, and then promptly hurdled out of their enclosure, almost trampling Renault—only a quick dash to press himself up against the far wall of the stables (he fortunately still had his mercenary’s reflexes) kept him from being overrun. He promptly followed the big lizards outside, where, at last, he could watch them earning their keep.

The two beasts were clinging to an almost-sheer cliffside, along which were clambering (with incredibly sure-footedness) a band of cute white mountain goats. The goats were busy munching on the moss and tough rock grass growing on the cliff. They didn’t seem at all afraid of the scaly beasts which loomed over them—because they knew the pair would protect them from the other residents of these mountains.

The old shepherd’s wyverns had been bred as guardians, Renault realized—the Draconic equivalent of certain breeds of sheepdogs, which protected sheep and lambs from wolves in other regions of Elibe. He could see wild, feral wyverns flying about overhead, but none descended to snatch up one of the goats, because the two tame ones would raise their necks and hiss threateningly if one came too near. On several occasions, Renault also noticed them spitting Wyverns who refused to get the hint. It was a noxious green substance Renault could smell even at his distance, and he suspected that the gargantuan Barbarossa, the giant mutant Wyvern he had fought with centuries ago, had been produced from experiments involving these rather more benign guardian wyverns.

Once, a roving feral wyvern came too close for the guardian’s comfort. Renault’s scaly friend flexed its powerful legs and launched itself at the interloper, faster than it could fly away. They slammed into a nearby outcropping in a tangle of scales and claws, and though Renault was afraid they’d both plunge right off the mountainside to their deaths, the guardian had calculated its jump impeccably, taking both it and its enemy into a rock ledge far enough from the happily grazing goats to ensure their safety. The beasts tussled for a few more moments, before the feral wyvern finally managed to extricate itself from the guardian’s grasp. It was much worse for the wear, with several nasty lacerations and bite marks running across its hide, and quickly flew away as quick as it could, its howls of pain encouraging its fellows to flee along with it. The guardian wyvern, for its part, flexed its legs once again for another mighty jump and bounded back to its mate, who was still sitting peacefully among the goats, who themselves were still grazing peacefully on rock moss.

“Quite a show, eh?”

Renault turned to see the shepherd walking up to him, smiling happily. “Those two wyverns really earn their keep. You can find ‘em at any mountain village in the west side o’ the country, really. Bred for generations to be strong rather than quick. The former’s more important when it comes to clingin’ to walls and guardin’ a herd from the untamed Wyverns around here. But they’re as loyal to us humans as Theomus was loyal to the Saint!”

“I see. But…forgive me for asking, why do you even herd goats here, anyways?”

The shepherd chuckled and blew a whistle, attracting the attention of both the goats and the wyverns. All of them made their way towards the man, with the wyverns making sure the goats didn’t wander off by nipping at them carefully. The goats hopped off the cliff, onto the trail, and towards the shepherd, who held out a block of salt for them as a reward.

“They ain’t quite domesticated, but they like humans fine too, least if you’re kind to them. And the lady goats—the nannies, they’re called,” he gestured to one of the goats with smaller horns, who had a little baby kid frolicking around her, “well, they give us the best presents of all. You ever had Bernese goat cheese, lad?”

“I…can’t say that I have.”

“You’ve missed out on o’ life’s greatest pleasures! Just a block o’ the stuff can go for two thousand gold in Etruria. That’s how much they demand it! Yer friend should still be inside th’ house. I’ll whip both of you up a treat!”

They retired to the shepherd’s cabin for lunch, where Varek had been resting, reading the _Journey_. From one of his cupboards the shepherd produced the source of his livelihood: A small square of inauspicious-looking white cheese with a cover of red wax to preserve it. He cut it open very carefully and handed a piece to Renault and Varek. The former had no need or desire to eat and could make no use of food anyways, but knew it would be rude to refuse, so he bit into it. As he expected, he felt or tasted nothing; that sense having been one of the many things Nergal had taken from him. Varek, however, was pleased beyond words.

“This is amazing!” He declared. “If I didn’t believe in God already, I sure would after tastin’ this. Truly a blessing!”

“Y-yes, truly.” Renault told a small lie, but believed God (if He existed) would understand and approve of his efforts not to cause offense. Less admirably, however, Renault felt a twinge of jealousy at how much pleasure his friend could take from something as simple as eating, but reminded himself that such pleasures were gone from him, now, thanks to his own decisions. More happily, their host was more than pleased to see their reactions.

The shepherd veritably beamed. “That’s a real blessin’ of Bern for ya! They say we never gave anything to Elibe but Wyverns and the people who fly ‘em. Well, anybody from anywhere on this whole world won’t be sayin’ that after they taste some o’ mine cheese!”

It seemed to Renault that after everything he’d seen, few people with any sense could say that about Bern. It wasn’t just because of the old shepherd—he and Varek only spent a few more days at Grumheim; the man’s grandson came crawling back, just as he’d predicted, allowing the two of them to continue on their way. It was, rather, all the places he’d visited—the mining towns of Getelt and Catarlina, the peaceful abbey of Diotica, and the great capital of Bern itself. For all their diversity, there was one thing all these places had in common, though: the hard work their people put into their crafts and the joy the found in that work, however little it benefited them immediately or even personally. Renault had always associated Bern with mindless militarism before. Now, though, he found himself admiring, to an extent, the people for their other virtues.

All the same, though, there was another part of the Bernese psyche every bit as ubiquitous—and much less laudable.

It reared its ugly head not long before Renault left the country entirely. His journey was taking him north, again—past Bern City, to some of the smaller villages in its hinterland. Perhaps they should have visited some of those, first, rather than heading straight to Diotica Abbey, but there was no point lamenting the decision now. These hamlets weren’t centers of industry like the capital was, but they did eke out their living in various ways—raising cattle or growing wheat and barley, mainly. Most often they also brewed another of Bern’s most famous exports—beer.

When Renault and Varek came across one of those villages one day, Varek’s services as an apothecary were requested; a local boy had come down with a mysterious illness and the (somewhat ill-educated) local priest wasn’t sure what it was. It turned out to be a case of rickets; the boy, an aspiring mage, spent far too much time in his room studying magic and not getting enough sun or healthy food; Varek quickly prescribed a regimen of time outdoors in the day along with emergency rations of fresh fruit and the lad recovered quickly. Renault, in the meantime, found a bit of work in the local brewery, which was looking for an extra hand.

He’d never drank beer, even before his body had been changed, and so had no idea of what it actually was or where it came from. Now, after centuries, he would finally learn. The basic process was actually somewhat similar to the way Varek had created his “Wyvernleaves”—fermentation. The particulars, of course, were different. First, the barley grains would be soaked with water, then dried in a hot kiln, turning into “malts.” The malts would then be mixed with water again in a great vessel called a ‘tun’ and heating it again, turning into a “mash.” The water was drained from that mash into a kettle (equally huge) this time, where the brewery workers added several types of spices and herbs that both preserved the drink and gave it its distinctive taste. Finally, the mixture was cooled and filtered through a strange funnel-like device Renault could scarcely describe, and put into yet another vessel that looked somewhat like the cauldron in Varek’s old home, where it would be mixed with yeast, sealed up, and allowed to “ferment” for several weeks.

It was always a difficult task, and though there was no shortage of strong, healthy men in the village, an extra hand was always appreciated, and the brewer master promised Renault and Varek free beds and a bit of extra spending money if the (apparently) younger man could help a little bit. The physical strength which served him well as a mercenary served him well here too, as he and his coworkers would have to carry big, heavy bags of grain to be soaked, then move the mixture to the kiln to the tun to the kettle to the funnel to the cauldron, all of which neededto be done both quickly (since there was a lot of grain) and carefully (so as to spill as little of it as possible). But with Renault’s strong arms, all of this was done efficiently enough, and by the end of the day, the workers were ready to retire with their new friend to the town’s tavern, where they’d fill the bellies which had been so thoroughly exhausted after so much work.

This was where the trouble started.

Renault, naturally, demurred any food or drink, and preferred to sit as quietly as he could at one corner of the large table in the center of the room. Fortunately, Varek was with him (needing something to eat himself) and assured the gathered brewery workers that his protégé was just “quiet—a man of God who liked to save his words for prayer more than anything else.” That wasn’t quite true, but it did allay the suspicions of the hungry beer-makers, who didn’t even notice that their new visitor wasn’t eating anything at all, despite the fact that he should have been famished after so much hard labor. But when one of the men—a large but dimwitted fellow who’d been loudly complaining about the work all day and who Renault had quickly came to dislike—began to talk politics over the dinner table, Renault found it increasingly difficult to keep himself silent.

“Why’re we even’ botherin’ t’ make so much of this stuff?” the big oaf blared. “We’re the only ones who’ll be drinkin’ it!”

“We need t’ sell some of it,” came the reasonable quip from one of his friends.

“T’ who? The Illians? The Etrurians? Don’t tell me we’re givin’ it to the Lycians! Not like those yellow-bellies could even stomach a drop of our good stuff!” He let out a belch and a chuckle, then looked at Varek. “Ain’t that right, Priesty? Y’ look like one o’ them…Osterans or somethin’ to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re spreadin’ the good word, but ye sure don’t look as hale an’ hearty as most of us here!”

That was true, at least on the surface. Varek had an Assassin’s slimmer physique, and though he likely could have killed everyone in the room several times over in his youth, he didn’t look like much compared to most of the farmers and beermakers here, whose bodies had been hardened by years of labor in the brewery and the fields.

Renault’s expression darkened, but fortunately, a sharp look from Varek was enough to keep him from saying something untoward and getting them all in trouble.

The former hermit, instead, nodded and offered a small smile. “It’s certainly true I’m not as strong as you boys, but I don’t think it has to do with being Lycian, Bernese, or anything at all. I’d say the territory comes with bein’ a man of God. Reading the _Journey_ all day might give you wisdom and virtue, but not muscle!”

This produced many peals of raucous laughter from the revelers, with even the big oaf saying “Haw! Now that’s right! Not too many Bernese priests than can keep up with me, either!” The previous tensions were forgotten—by all except Renault, of course. He and Varek managed to make a stealthy escape without notice, heading back to the room of their inn to retire for the night.

Renault didn’t even wait until they’d reached their room to apologize. “Forgive me, Varek. I forgot your lessons.”

“Don’t worry about it, lad. You didn’t actually say anything, so no harm done.”

“Still…” Renault grimaced. “The…their words angered me. Not just because of what they said about you, but because they were so damn—so…hypocritical and short-sighted. I worked alongside many of those men, and they seemed like good people. How could they believe such foolish things?”

“You have to take the good with the bad, Renault,” said Varek. “Those men—and the Bernese people in general--are open-hearted and hard working, that’s true. But they c’n also be provincial and chauvinistic at times, too.”

“I…suppose they’re not entirely unjustified in feeling that way,” said Renault, conceding that the country did indeed produce much of value. “But not so much so that I could just listen to it without saying anything.” A bit of his old venom crawled into his voice. “If they really were so mighty, they’d have conquered this whole land ages ago. But they keep talking about it without never actually doing it. And I doubt any people whose actions can never match their words have such a great deal to teach others.”

“Well, remember what Elimine said about criticizing others for faults you have,” said Varek sternly. “You’d have said much the same about Etruria when we first met, as I recall. It’d be just as wrong-headed too—your country never achieved dominion either, despite its power. Don’t be so quick to condemn others f’r their nationalism if you felt something similar as well.”

“O-of course. I still have…much to learn, it seems.”

“Well, you’re makin’ progress on that, at least,” Varek smiled. “What I really want you t’ learn is _patience_ , Renault. If you see people who believe in something foolish, don’t be so quick to lose faith in them entirely. Of all the men and women who ever lived, only the Saint was perfect—and she’d likely be the first to disagree! But as we’re only human, if the only thing you focus on is what holds us back—for the Bernese, it’d be nationalism, and each country of Elibe has somethin’ of its own—then you’ll end up hatin’ all of mankind. And that’s the same sort of thinking that first led you down the path away from Braddock.”

“He…he would tell me the same.”

“Then I’d wager he’d tell you something similar to this: Don’t overlook the bad in people, but don’t let it color your judgment too much, either. Focus on their good aspects, their strengths, and figure out how to encourage those while lessening their weaknesses. After all, gettin’ angry back there wouldn’t’ve convinced those men of anything, right? Maybe a more gentle approach would’ve showed ‘em the light. Always a wiser course of action than giving vent to your own frustrations, ‘least in my view.”

“I…believe you’re correct.”

Those were the last words that needed to be passed between those two men as they continued along their path.

-X-

Alas, as would often be the case for the next decades of Renault’s life, a journey that proved fruitful to him personally would yield little of use for his greater quest.

On the 14th Horse, 965 A.S, he and Varek came upon an unremarkable church in an equally unremarkable town in the most northeastern parts of Bern. They had come to this place following the most tenuous of leads—aspiring magician in the last village they’d visited mentioned that his grandfather had once spoke of a friendly purple-haired man having a conversation about Dragons at the local bar before saying he was heading north. It was the only lead they had, but they pursued it anyways. They thus visited this northerly hamlet’s church just to rest and pray a little bit, not expecting to find anyone who knew anything about Juge. On a whim, however, Renault asked the old priest there if he’d heard anything about the wandering scholar, and it turned out he had quite a story to tell.

“Oh, Lord, I did meet someone like that!” exclaimed the priest that night. “His name was Juge, and he was looking for a place to stay. He told me he’d almost been assassinated on the road the night before, and barely managed to escape with his life. His pursuers avoided churches, though, and he thought to seek refuge here. He spent a few days here—I noticed some black-clad men skulking around the village, but they departed soon after—then, one morning, left me a note thanking me for my assistance and saying he’d be going north, to Sacae. It’s a wild land, there, and the plains are deep. If he truly was being pursued, I can think of nowhere better to lose his hunters, except maybe Illia.”

That was that—it certainly made sense. Renault was, understandably, somewhat discouraged to learn that they’d spent all this time wandering around Bern when they should have been searching in Sacae. Still, he knew very well there was no point complaining about it, now. They remained in the hamlet a couple of days after this revelation, mainly to prepare for the next leg of their journey and to buy as many supplies as they could…and then they headed north.

It was, thankfully, still easy going. The roads leading to the plains were reasonably well-maintained and monitored, though they did peter out somewhat as the influence of the Sacaean tribes grew stronger. But despite all that, not until he and Varek had almost passed by the old wooden sign that said “TO SACAE” did it occur to Renault that he would be stepping outside the borders of Bern for the first time in over five years. The weight of this realization was enough to stop him in his tracks, at least for a moment.

“Eh? Something the matter, Renault?” Varek asked.

“N…no, excuse me. I just…” he sighed. “It’s hard for me to believe I’m leaving Bern after all this time.”

“Are you sorry to?”

“I…” Renault thought a bit, knowing he had to be honest with both his friend and himself. “I…am, truly. So much has happened to me, here. Some of it was painful…like learning the truth behind how I’d lived for so long. But I was able to set myself back on the right path because of it…I was able to get closer to Braddock. It’s because I met you…and Abbess Meris, and Harod, and the others. I met all of you here, and grew as much as I did here. Because of that, I feel…”

“A connection to this country, an affection for it. I understand that, Renault. But it’s also where your friend died, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“And you hated Bern and its people because of that, didn’t you?”

The blush that appeared on Renault’s face was one of the few functions his morph-body was still capable of. “I…did. I was foolish, then. Foolish and short-sighted. I blamed everyone here on the actions of a few. But after meeting Meris, Harod, and the people of Grumheim and Catarlina, I understand just how foolish I was to do so.” His brow furrowed as he remembered the argument he’d had with the nationalists. “I can’t agree with everything in Bernese culture, but…I can’t say they’re all evil, either. I…know better now.”

Varek smiled. “And that’s just the sort of thing I’d hoped you’d learn.”

“E…excuse me? What do you mean?”

 “This pilgrimage isn’t just to find Juge, Renault. We’ve only a faint chance of that, anyways. It was for benefit as much as anything else. To teach you more about the world, and to teach you how to live in it.”

“So…this was all part of your plan, was it?” There was no sarcasm or accusation in Renault’s voice. Only the slight upwards turn of his mouth demonstrated what he really felt, and what was very rare for him to display: Good humor.

“I suppose it was,” chuckled Varek. “And since you don’t seem to have taken it too badly…how about we continue with it?”

On the 14th Horse, 965 A.S, over five years after they had first met, Renault and Varek headed to Sacae.

_::Linear Notes::_

Quick notes today. First, the aside about phylacteries in casting magic is an explanation for why Renault’s magic is so low in-game. The stuff about wyvern breeding and Bernese goat cheese, beer, and stonework, however, is my own invention. I think I may recall other people having pondered wyvern breeding and the differences between wild and tamed wyverns, but this particular interpretation is my own.

Secondly, as you can tell, this is very much worldbuilding/slice of life stuff; fleshing out my own vision of Elibe, its people, and its cultures, far beyond what we got in the game. I also hope to draw out and thus ease Renault’s slow transition into a Bishop. Keep reading for next chapter, where he ends up in Sacae!

 

 

 


	70. The Songs of Sacae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quest for Juge continues--in Sacae, this time.

**Chapter 70: The Songs of Sacae**

_-X-Renault’s Confirmation-X-_

Renault raised not a word of protest when Varek told him their first stop in Sacae would be the free city Bulgar.

It made the most sense, in every respect. As the largest settlement anywhere in the country, Juge would almost have certainly passed through it at some point. And even in the unlikely prospect he hadn’t, the city served as a meeting hub for virtually everyone in the country, so they’d probably meet someone who’d met him, or someone who knew someone who’d seen him. There was no better place to start their search.

Even so, Renault wasn’t looking forward to seeing that place again. Certainly not as much as he dreaded coming back to Par Massino, and not because it held any particularly bad memories for him—indeed, he’d been able to spend a lot of time with Braddock in Sacae, gaining his legs as a mercenary. It was, rather, the fact that the city was dirty, crowded, and dangerous. That, and the fact his opinion of Sacaeans, at the moment, wasn’t much higher than his opinion of Bernites had been.

Still, his feelings towards the people of Bern had changed, and he was willing to accept they might do the same for Sacaeans as well. So Renault, to his credit, didn’t complain at all over the course of his trip to the city. That, at least, was uneventful, thankfully. Just after they’d crossed into Sacae’s borders, they were spotted by a band of Wyvern Riders, who also happened to be ferrying an important merchant to Bulgar to trade. Though the merchant was displeased at his travel’s diversion, the friendly Bernese soldiers offered the two pilgrims a ride, which they happily accepted. Aside from the ease of air travel, traversing Sacae by land was simply too dangerous. There were many bandits and highwaymen lurking in the mountains which formed its border with eastern Lycia and jutted into its central portion, and the nomadic Sacaean tribes themselves were often just as eager to prey upon unwary travelers.

Alas, their good fortune wouldn’t hold when they debarked at the city. It seemed as if it might—Renault was pleasantly surprised at how it had changed. It was still noisy and crowded, which he didn’t like, but it at least seemed cleaner and more civilized, now. There were stone buildings, the roads were cleaner and better maintained, and soldiers patrolled the streets, keeping them clear of the thieves, thugs, and pickpockets which had been so common the last time Renault was here. It could have passed for a respectable burg in Lycia or even the poorer parts of Etruria.

Despite its size and advancement, though, they’d find little trace of Juge there. Big cities also lent themselves well to anonymity. Juge wasn’t a terribly uncommon name, and his appearance was not terribly distinct, either. His interests, however, were—at least to an extent.

“Varek,” Renault asked a few days after they’d first arrived, “does this city have any magician’s guilds, or anything similar?”

“I believe it has several. Why?”

“We…forgive me for saying so, but we haven’t made much progress so far. Twelve inns and no-one’s had any recollection of him.”

Varek wasn’t offended at all, but he did nod for Renault to continue.

“…I may be wrong, but…it seems likely Juge would have come to at least one of those organizations, given his interests. They might recall someone as well-versed as he was in Draconic languages or Dark magic.”

“That…true, Renault. Very true.” Varek grinned. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of that m’self! Alright, let’s go.”

Over the next two weeks, they canvassed the local magic shops and wizarding societies. A few shopkeepers and librarians did remember seeing someone matching Juge’s physical description and intellectual disposition many years ago, but none recalled where he might have went. Just as the two were about to despair, however, they happened upon a bookseller specializing in old Draconic texts who had something slightly more useful for them.

“Saw an odd fella come by years ago, when me dad was still running the place. Knew a _lot_ about the Draconic tongue, even though he warn’t much older than me at the time! He bought a book or two on dark magic, and then after talkin’ to Pop, said he’d be headin’ off to parts unknown.”

“Parts unknown?” Renault and Varek’s spirits fell yet again, fearing they’d come to another dead end.

“Well, not literally. ‘Parts Unknown’ is just how us city folk call the plains. They’re so big n’ deep that none but the tribes can do anything but get lost in ‘em.”

“So, wait…you’re saying Juge went into the plains?”

“Aye. He was int’rested in Dark magic, and the Djute and Kutolah clans are known for their powerful Druids—Seers, as they call ‘em. Guess your man wanted to learn from ‘em. If you’re lookin’ for him, that’s where I’d head next.”

Varek smiled gratefully. “God bless you, sir. Y’ don’t know how much we appreciate this.”

“Well, don’t be too quick to thank me, friend. Life on the plains is a harsh thing. The tribes don’t accept outlanders easily. Go up to a man of Kutolah or Djute asking about some ‘Juge’ and you’ll like as not be shanked for the trouble.”

That would have been enough to send Renault back to their inn, but he knew well what Varek’s answer would be. “It’s a risk we’re willing to take. Thanks again.”

As the exited the bookshop, Renault sighed. “So, how do you propose we find either of those two tribes? The plains are as large as that man said, and…I would be of no use. It isn’t as if I could tell any of the clans apart, anyways…”

Varek frowned as he heard echoes of Renault’s previous racism edge through his words. “Well then, lad, you ought to learn how. And you may yet have a chance, anyways. I was a missionary here for some years, and I’m not entirely unfamiliar with the country.”

“…Of course.” Renault bowed his head in apology. “Then…”

“There’s a trade fair in Bulgar every year. Makes sense, obviously, since this is a trade city! And as our luck would have it, it’s just a week away. We’re sure to encounter people of those tribes, maybe even their chieftain, somewhere around here. That would be the perfect time to ask if any of ‘em had ever heard tell of Juge!”

It made sense, and Renault accepted his friend’s decision. What surprised him, however, was Varek’s next suggestion.

“Renault,” he asked, “F’rgive me if this sounds strange, but…since we’ve got a week before things really start…”

“…yes? What of it?”

“Well…would you like to get confirmed?”

“What the he--I mean…I…beg your pardon?”

Varek smiled. “Like I said, I know it sounds strange. However, you’ve progressed quite a lot since we’ve begun this pilgrimage. Your behavior’s improved and you’re more knowledgable about many things than you were before. Your magic ability is…still poor, but at least it exists. And that’s good enough for a Priest.”

“You want me to undergo the Rite of Ordination?”

“It might make our lives easier. The ceremony itself will boost your magical power, slightly. And more importantly, being an official member of the church may give you a bit of status in this land. The Sacaeans themselves aren’t Eliminean and distrust our religion, but many missionaries’ve interceded on behalf of the people against Bern and Etruria before. Some of the tribes remember, and a lingering respect for that remains. Takin’ up the cloth may help you get along here.

“Now, there’s usually a long period of…well, Discernment before one becomes a Priest. You also have to go through seminary. But we’ve spent years together, and after everything you’ve learned—church history, Draconic and High Imperial, the basics of magic—you’d easily pass the Examinations.”

“I…I’m flattered and honored, Varek. Truly. But…is it appropriate for someone like me? Not just because I was such a great sinner, but because I still don’t…truly believe.”

The smile did not disappear from the hermit’s face, but to Renault, it seemed there was a touch of humor in it, now. “The priesthood is certainly a vocation, Renault, but it’s not the end of the path. In fact, in some ways, it’s a beginning. There are stories in our Church of men who were called to the orders without knowing why, without even being sure of whether or not God existed. But as they walked with the sigil of the Church at their breast, they found the answers they sought.

“Maybe you’ll be one of ‘em.”

Renault remained silent, and Varek shrugged. “Or maybe not. It’s your decision to make, Renault, and I won’t force you, one way or the other. Even if you choose not to be confirmed, you’ll still be followin’ me on this journey of ours. I’ve never forced you into anything yet, and I’ll not start now.”

After another moment of thought, Renault shook his head. “No…no, I think you’re right.” He allowed himself a small chuckle. “Yet again, Braddock would be surprised at what I’m doing, but…I think he’d be happy as well. Becoming a priest would be another way of rejecting the mercenary’s way of life, and as you said, maybe I’ll find answers. And that’s just what Braddock wanted me to do. Live a thoughtful life rather than a mindless one.”

Varek offered his hand for Renault to shake, and Renault took it. The two of them then set out towards their own inn to get some sleep before setting out for their next quest in the morning.

When that morning came, they headed towards the Cathedral of Elder Salatian, which was the seat of the diocese of Bulgar. The city’s Eliminean population was at least large enough to earn itself a diocese, but only barely—the religion still hadn’t appealed to much of the Sacaean populace, and in a city like Bulgar had too much competition from a myriad of competing faiths to take a strong hold. Thus, the Bishop of this area, a monocled fellow named Alios, was not so overwhelmed with work that he couldn’t meet with a visitor, especially when that visitor was as well-known (through letters, at least) for his virtue as Varek.

“ _You_ are the honorable Varek of Bern?” Alios said in pleased surprise when they had been lead to his study in the side wing of the cathedral. “It is an honor, your holiness! I’d heard from Abbess Meris some years ago that you’d traded the eremitic life for the mendicant’s, but I’d never thought to meet you in person!”

“I’m honored to meet you as well, Bishop. The flock of Sacae’s grown well under your watch,” Varek smiled. “I’d hope you’d be able to help it grow a bit more, though. I have a friend who wishes to take the Calling.”

Alios adjusted his monocle and peered suspiciously at Renault, who bowed his head. “So this man has heard the Calling, truly? Which seminary did he attend?”

“None, sir. He’s been learning everything from me.” Varek saw the expression on the Bishop’s face, and hastily said, “Give him the examination if you don’t believe me. I’m confident in his abilities.”

“But not necessarily his faith.” Alios noted the omission. “Well, I’ll trust you, Varek. What is your name, friend?”

“Renault.”

“As fortune has it, I’ve no pressing duties for the day, and can examine you now. Do you wish to take it?”

Renault nodded, and the Bishop nodded for Varek to leave the room and give the two of them some privacy. After he did so, Alios opened a drawer in his desk and took out some books, one written in Draconic and the other in High Imperial. “Translate the first five paragraphs of each, please.”

Renault did so easily, and Alios was clearly impressed. He then began asking Renault a series of questions relating to the Church itself. The first several were basic things designed to test his knowledge of the text (identify Theomus, list the reasons Caladine was destroyed, and so on), which Renault also dealt with easily, having read the _Journey_ many times. The next few were a little harder for him, as they concerned points of “orthodox” Eliminean theology and dogma, but he still remembered what he’d read from _950 Years of Light_ , and was able to answer questions about “what a parishioner must do to ensure his salvation” and “what was the nature of Elimine’s relationship to God” to Alios’ satisfaction. Then the Bishop asked him a series of secular questions relating to recent Elibean history as well as economic and political matters, such as how one ought to levy taxes or what the effects of tariffs were on trade. Though such things may have seemed strange, Renault understood their rationale. Ever since the Fourth Synod, a well-trained clergy which was not only literate (obviously) but familiar with both religious and worldly affairs had been deemed a necessity for the church, so examinations like the one he was taking now ensured only the competent could take Elimine’s cloth.

The last section of the exam was a test of Renault’s magical abilities, and obviously, he had the most trouble with this one. Still, he was able to activate the Heal staff Alios gave him. “A rather poor showing there,” said the Bishop, “but your performance on the rest of my examination was good enough that I’ll overlook it. Well, I see no reason not to ordain you, in this case. But before I do, I must ask, when did you hear the Calling, and why do you wish to follow this path?”

Renault sighed—there was no point in lying. He told Alios everything he’d told Varek about how he wasn’t sure God existed, but that he did want to find a new path in life. Of course, he didn’t mention his evil past or unliving body, but he didn’t really need to. The Bishop, as it was, proved to be as understanding as Varek.

“I see,” he said, readjusting his monocle and nodding. “Well, what Varek told you is true: The path of the priest is a step along a journey, not the end in and of itself. You may not be certain of our God, but you obviously believe in our Church. And by securing the members of our flock in their faith, you may yet find your own. Very well, Renault, I’ll give you the Rite of Ordination.”

Renault followed Alios outside, where Varek was standing with a proud smile on his face. The three of them went to the altar, where the Bishop performed the ceremony. It was rather similar to the baptism—Alios sprinkled water on Renault’s head, reading relevant verses from the _Journey_ , while the soon-to-be-Priest pledged his devotion to the Church and its cause of Virtue. At the end of it, Alios presented him with the symbols of his new status: White priest’s robe, a blue sash (the color indicated he would be a traveling missionary rather than a parish priest at one location), and a Sun Tower sigil for him to carry around, proof of his status as an official churchman.

And with that, it was over. Alios shook his hand and Varek’s and congratulated him on his new calling. He and his friend then promptly left the cathedral, ready to resume their journey. Just as it had been when he’d been baptized, Renault felt nothing had greatly changed in his life. The ceremony had indeed increased his magical strength somewhat—he could feel it within the phylactery, although he knew he’d never be able to draw it out fully. He also had to admit he liked his new clothes—the white robes along with the teal sash of an Eliminean missionary were both more comfortable and better-looking than his former black hermit’s habit. But aside from that, he felt no more holy than he had before, and no closer to God, either—or even any more certain of that Being’s existence.

This time, he didn’t even need to say the words—the expression on his face told Varek everything. And once again, the hermit’s words were kind.

“I don’t expect you to have an answer now, Renault, and I’m not worrying about when you find ‘em, or even if you ever do. The most important thing is to help you on that path.”

And with that, they continued on that path.

_-X-The Trade Fair-X-_

Renault had thought Bulgar was a loud, noisy city when he first arrived. To his utter dismay, as the trade festival rolled around he realized he hadn’t the faintest idea of how loud and noisy it could get.

It was the 14th Horse, 965 A.S., and the city seemed to be exploding. The streets were packed both with vendors (Sacaean and not) hocking every bit of ware they could along with massive crowds buying from them. Wyvern Riders and Pegasus Knights alike soared through the skies, ferrying merchants back and forth from their respective homelands. Renault saw colorful rugs and textiles, exotic weapons, and precious jewelry trade hands over and over again, while the distinctive tinkle of gold leaving and entering pockets along with the endless clamor of thousands of merchants haggling incessantly with each other created a background din as loud as that of any battle he’d ever participated in.

He had no idea how they’d find even the slightest trace of Juge in all this chaos, but as usual, Varek had a plan. “Juge was traveling across the plains, so plainsmen might know where he went. Sacaean merchants should be the first we ask.”

And that was what they did. Ignoring the foreign vendors who looked (by their clothing) to be Bernese, Etrurian, Ilian, or Lycian, Varek focused on the ones who seemed like they were born in this land. Though Renault had been here before, he hadn’t paid much attention to the dress or customs of the people—something he regretted now. Fortunately, Varek was much more knowledgeable.

“Every tribe here’s different, Renault. They have their own beliefs, their own cultures, even their own methods of warfare. They have a few things in common, though. They all believe in two main gods: Father Sky and Mother Earth. They also prefer to dress simply—they’re not much fond of the flashy clothes you’ve seen some of the Etrurian and Lycian merchants wearing. Their men often wear bandanas and their women headbands. There’s also a type of robe— _Kefeh_ to the Djute, ­ _Kafah_ to the Kutolah, the word’s different but similar in each of the tongues—their horsemen wear. It’s as light as a Sword Master’s robe, but offers a bit more protection. You think you understand, Renault?”

“I do.” His centuries-old memories of the last time he’d wandered among the tribes had been unearthed, and he was now confident he’d be able to at least discern them from their visitors. “Lead the way, Varek.”

Even with the former hermit’s expertise, though, it seemed as if they’d have no luck. They found several traders from the tribes mingling amongst the crowd, but they were either unable or unwilling to help. Several just ignored the two men, displaying well-known Sacaean xenophobia towards outsiders. Others at least acknowledged them, but admitted never having heard of anyone like Juge before. The only interesting thing they gathered across all of these conversations was a bit of news from a merchant of the Lorca tribe. While friendly, he’d also never heard anything of Juge, but he seemed to like Varek, and the two men struck up a small conversation. The merchant mentioned that his chief had married a Lycian woman, much to the consternation of the rest of the tribe.

Lorca…Renault remembered the name. “…Forgive my interruption,” he said, surprising both Varek and the trader, “but your chief’s name…would it be Hassar? And his wife…Madelyn?”

“Right on both counts,” came the very surprised reply. “You, you’re not a man of the Lorca, are you?”

“I’m not. It was a…lucky guess. Forgive me.”

That wasn’t true, of course, though the plainsman couldn’t know that. He took Renault at his word, complimented him on his luck, and then wrapped up his little discussion with Varek, moving on to his next customers. Once they’d left, Varek looked at Renault, requesting an explanation.

“Hassar…I fought beside Hassar, once. When I was a mercenary, and when he was much younger. He rescued a Lycian noble’s daughter from a horrible fate. It seems they married…I shouldn’t have been surprised, though I didn’t think it would happen at the time.”

“Ah. Well, f’rgive me for pryin’. But does it seem those two had a happier ending than you thought they would?”

“Hassar was a good man when I knew him. If anyone would have been a good husband for Madelyn, it’d be him.”

“Then let’s be thankful to God they got their just deserts.”

That was the only interesting conversation they had in just about a week of canvassing the greatest bazaar in Sacae. They knew they were running out of time, as the trade festival itself wouldn’t last more than two weeks. But it seemed God (or good fortune) would smile upon them eventually. On the 21st Horse, they finally had their break.

It couldn’t have been anything but divine intervention or a stroke of the finest luck, really. On the verge of despair, the two men encountered a merchant from the Djute tribe near a tome-seller’s stall at the east end of Bulgar. He looked to be about Varek’s age, his dark green hair tinged with grey, and his name was Tor. One could only tell he was Sacaean from the way he dressed, not how he acted. Jumpy, nebbish, and loquacious, he seemed the opposite of what a Sacaean man should be, though this was perhaps due to the time he’d spent as a traveling trader as opposed to a warrior on the plains. He jumped almost a foot in the air when Renault and Varek accosted him.

“Ah! Eep! W-what do you want?! Bandits, are you? Blast it, what do they pay the guards here for?”

“Easy, easy, friend,” said Varek. “We’re sorry for startlin’ you. We mean no harm.”

“Really? Ah, Father Sky smiles upon me today! You’re customers, yes? I have all kinds of great stuff for you. Sacaeans are no slouches when it comes to magic, you know! Just look at my collection of Flux and Nosferatu tomes! Inspected personally by the mightiest druids of the Djute, and all at a special low, low price!”

“Er…our apologies, but neither of us has much use for Dark tomes. We were looking for information, actually.”

“Oh,” came his reply, which now sounded irritated and disdainful rather than eager. “Well, I’m not a charity. If you want information, find a thief!”

Varek reached for his coin pouch, jangling it so the merchant could hear the tell-tale clink of coins. “As much as Elimine preached charity, I can’t force anyone to give it. If you want me to make it worth your while, I’d be happy to do so.”

“Oh, really?” Tor’s voice was eager again. “Alright, then, what do you want to know?”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Juge?”

“Juge?” Tor scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I…might have. 10…no, 20 years ago. Purple hair, nice guy, loved talking about Dragons and all that?”

Renault and Varek looked at each other with excitement. “Yes, exactly! That’s him!”

Tor clapped his hands in delight. “Sure I knew Juge! One of my only friends in all this blasted land! You gotta understand, most Sacaeans just aren’t as smart as I am. More interested in singing songs and peppering each other with arrows than turning a profit! I keep saying that out textiles would take the whole world by storm if we only made it an _industry!_ But no, no-one’s interested, hell, it’s a challenge getting some of those oafs to even learn how to read! But Juge, he _loved_ knowledge! He wanted to know everything! And boy, could he read! Not just the common language, but Draconic, and High Imperial, and even a bit of Shadetongue, too! The closest thing we have to brainy guys out here are the Druids, and they don’t talk much. But with Juge, it’s like I finally found a long-lost brother!”

“Glad to hear that.” Varek couldn’t keep the cheer out of his voice. “We’re lookin’ for him on behalf of his father. Do you know where he is?”

“Sorry, bud, I don’t.” Tor seemed a little sad. “The last time I saw him, Juge was traveling across Sacae, lookin’ for knowledge. He spent some time with us in the Djute, but then we had to part ways when it seemed the tribe was headin’ somewhere he wasn’t. Broke my heart, but I understand why he did it.

“I see. Do you remember where he was going?”

“Well, that’s the odd thing. Juge wanted to learn about magic, and he’d heard that there were powerful magic weapons scattered all across Sacae. The Mani Katti, Vol Katti, Gran Katti, Lune Katti, and the strongest of all, the Sol Katti. They’re said to be on par with the Divine Weapons! I dunno about that, but I do know they’re holy to my tribe and all the others of Sacae, for that matter. We take a pilgrimage to one every year. He accompanied us to our pilgrimage to the shrine of the Mani Katti, just outside Bulgar, but he wanted to see the others, too, and when we told him we wouldn’t be visiting another shrine for another year, he took his leave of us.”

“Hmm…so if we were looking for Juge, someone at one of those shrines might know his whereabouts?”

“Possibly. They’re maintained by priests…well, you’d call ‘em priests, us Sacaeans call ‘em Seers. But some of those guys are old, and they’ve all got good memories. If anybody in this barren land would remember Juge, one of them would.”

“I think we know our next destination, now. Where are these shrines located?”

“All across Sacae. Like I said, one’s near this city, but the others are all over the place. It’ll take a lot of travel to find them all.”

“That…would be a difficult task,” said Renault, discouragement evident in his voice. “The plains are…deep, and not exactly safe, either.”

“Well, they’re a lot easier if you’re traveling with people who know ‘em,” said Tor. “Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t you guys accompany me for a bit? You seem to be friends of Juge’s, and any friend of his is a friend of mine. I’ll put in a good word for you with the chief of my tribe, Mogan. He’ll probably let you travel with us for a while, if you can prove you can make yourselves useful. That’ll give you all the protection you could want. Nobody messes with the Djute out here, we’re the second biggest tribe on the plains!”

“A mighty kind offer of you. Should we accept, Renault?”

The former mercenary wasn’t so sure, but he couldn’t think of any rational reasons to refuse. “…Yes.”

“Then it’s settled! Just follow me, Mogan and some of our tribal leaders’re payin’ homage to the Mani Katti right now, actually. I’ll show you to ‘em!”

 _-X-_  
  


Renault had long since learned to control his anger, but the mockery he was currently enduring from these savages was enough to test even his new-found patience.

He was currently kneeling in front of the stone-faced chief of the Djute, Mogan, inside of the small shrine which housed the holy sword Mani Katti. It was an impressive weapon—even though it was lying in its sheath on top of the altar behind Mogan, Renault could feel the power radiating from it. This was, he supposed, why the Sacaeans venerated it, and why they chose this place to have meetings such as the one they were holding now.

“So these whelps wish to run with the Djute,” Mogan laughed, accompanied by the jeers of the Sacaean men arrayed in a circle around Renault, Varek, and Tor. “Why should we allow you the honor?”

“Come on, you can let ‘em stay, can’t you?” Tor pleaded. “They can actually read, and I can’t talk to _anybody_ else here about my books!”

“We are warriors, not merchants,” said Mogan simply. “We may tolerate our brother Tor, and he is useful to us on occasion, but we’ve no wish to share his way of life.”

Renault was about to say something sarcastic before Varek shot him a look.

“We’re nothing but travelers, yes, and we realize we ask much of you. But we’re not askin’ you something for nothing. We have skills you may find useful. We can’t help you in battle, but we can use staves to heal your wounded. We’re also skilled at making poultices and antidotes to cure your people of poison or disease. All we ask in return is the protection of the Djute as we travel to the shrines and holy places of this land, looking for our friend.”

“Hmm…” Mogan scratched his greying green beard thoughtfully. “We may have use of healers, yes. Our druid has responsibilities more important than soothing our pain. But both of you look to be worshippers of that Etrurian woman. We have no use for her, and will brook no disrespect to our Father Sky and Mother Earth.”

“None will be given,” replied Varek. “Neither Renault nor I have the desire or skill for conversion. We swear not to push our faith on you. We only ask the same courtesy.”

The Sacaeans were no longer laughing, and the murmured whispers seemed approving rather than scornful, now. At last, Mogan finally let his decision be known.

“Your offer is accepted, outlander. Serve our people with a Sacean’s honor, and we will give you a Sacaean’s protection.”

With that, much to Renault’s surprise, their initiation was finished. The chamber was filled with the sounds of sandals clomping on stone as the tribesmen picked themselves up and headed out, apparently as unconcerned with the pair they’d been jeering at just moments before as if the two had never existed.

“Well, what’re you waiting for, Renault?” Varek had already gotten to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Wait…it’s finished? We’re in?” Renault momentarily forgot his manners, so surprised was he.

“Yep. They’ve agreed to take us on. No special ceremony or anything. Their chief has made a decision, so they’ll accept it, and nothing more needs to be said. Sacaeans, in general, aren’t a people who say more or make more of a fuss than they need to. It’s a trait you’d best get used to sooner rather than later.”

Renault had already regained his composure, and so he followed his mentor outside, to the tribe they’d be riding with for the next several years, without another word.

If he had to get used to stoicism while he lived among these nomads, he’d show Varek how quickly he could take to it.

_-X-The Shrine of the Vol Katti-X-_

Much to Renault’s surprise, he found he had little difficulty fitting in with the tribe of the Djute. This did not even occur to him until he’d spent almost a year among them—just after he left the shrine of the Vol Katti in the 9th Knight, 966 A.S.

They found a tantalizing glimpse of Juge there, but not the man himself. While Mogan and the other tribesman prayed in front of the blade (a strange thing that looked like a sword with a scythe’s blade at the very end), Varek and Renault talked to the old priest in charge of the shrine. As luck would have it, he had indeed spoken to a man who called himself “Juge” and who spoke the ancient languages. The fellow had, however, set off for the shrine of the Gran Katti, located near the southern border with Bern, after spending a bit of time examining the Vol Katti.

Rather than setting off immediately to the south, Renault and Varek headed back to the rest of the Djute tribe, which was preparing to move once again. Accompanying these people on their travels afforded them the safety they desperately needed, even if the nomads visited a shrine only once a year. They’d already fended off dozens of bandit attacks and a handful of raids from other tribes, and while Renault and Varek had made themselves very busy with their staves, there had thankfully been no fatalities yet.

As they passed the busy women, only one of them bothered to look up and smile at them—Sameen, the sister of one of the warriors Renault and Varek had come to consider a friend--Uhai. She had taken as readily to Renault as her brother had, though she didn’t have a crush on him either. She just looked at him the way her brother did—as a friend. And this was not common among the Sacaeans.

Their men and women had little contact with each other, compared to the other cultures Renault had seen. While the men hunted, fought, and occupied themselves with religious rituals (in the case of the Druids), the women silently and often thanklessly prepared food and clothing and performed other menial tasks for the tribe. They were offered little respect, though were treated with affection to some extent, and their male relatives were often fiercely protective of them. None of them, however, exercised anywhere near the social power of women like Renault’s own mother, much less the Pegasus Knights of Ilia. The only reason Renault had grown close to Sameen was that he and Varek, as outlanders, were often delegated “women’s work”—that is to say, they helped clean clothes and set up/take down the gers every night with the rest of the women. Sameen and some of the others were very grateful for their help, and Sameen in particular often found herself confiding in Renault whenever she could, as she rarely saw even her own brother.

When he asked Varek about this a few nights ago, the old ex-hermit had shrugged. “It’s part of their culture, Renault. You’d think they’d regard women highly, given how Hanon was a woman, but the fragmented nature of their society means they don’t hold the Heroes in as high a regard as the rest of Elibe does. In some tribes, like the Kutolah, they take her example to mean women should be allowed to fight and work alongside the men. Other tribes like the Djute, on the other hand, think she was a “man in a woman’s body” and act as if her accomplishments aren’t representative at all of her gender.”

Varek furrowed his brow as he said this; Renault knew he didn’t agree. “…But it’s not something you’re willing to argue about, is it?”

“No,” Varek had said, “though I obviously don’t agree with it. Fightin’ for a good cause you believe in is a good thing, but only if you can actually make a difference, and if you won’t do more harm than good. I’m not going to win any converts among these people, and if I try I’ll just get both of us kicked out. So I hold my tongue and accept they live different than I do.”

“Isn’t it…difficult?” Renault thought of some of the women he’d known in his own life—Keith and Kelitha, mainly. The mere thought of them being relegated to the cooking pits of these gers was enough to anger him somewhat, though he wasn’t infuriated as he would have been earlier in life.

“It is, Renault, but it’s not impossible.” He smiled wryly. “The same way I recommended you to think about the Bernites is how, in fact.”

“Focus on the good and not the bad,” Renault murmured.

“Aye. And it’s not impossible, is it? Strange as their culture seems to us, it does have its good points.”

Once again, Renault had to admit his mentor had a point.

The nomadic life seemed to suit Renault. That might not have seemed so strange, considering how he had been wandering the continent for centuries, but even Renault himself wouldn’t have thought he’d have fit in so well with people he’d once called “savages.” After all, they didn’t share some of his most important personality traits—a love of learning, an appreciation for culture (well, at least architecture, to be honest) or anything like that. But they had many other traits he had to admire.

Uhai exemplified most of them.

He’d been the first friend Varek and Renault made after they’d started to run with the Djute. He was one of the tribe’s mounted warriors, and since Varek and Renault’s responsibilities were mainly healing the wounded, they saw a lot of him. Uhai was always eager to hear stories of the world outside of Sacae, and he also liked receiving pointers on swordsmanship, as men of his tribe were expected to wield blade as well as bow. Renault and Varek were happy to give him the former, though Renault was more reticent about the latter (consenting only when he figured such training might help his friend better survive in the future). In both cases, Uhai took the instruction without protest or question, and incorporated his lessons in both culture and war quite deftly into his daily life. His peers complimented him on his prowess in battle, and his understanding of the outside world helped him avert a few nasty situations on several occasions when his scouting bands encountered travelers from Etruria or Lycia.

And though he didn’t know Uhai’s friends as well, Renault saw that they shared his respect for knowledge—they didn’t begrudge him a bit for his success, but rather sought to emulate him. And even if they had little use for the more academic interests of the unhappy Tor, they could respect honor, and if they could be convinced that Lycians and Etrurians had a concept of honor as well—different from theirs as it may have been—they’d be less inclined to prey on those outlanders they encountered.

There was something laudable there, Renault realized. The humility, and the genuine eagerness to learn, were traits he’d always prized in those he’d mentored. That it could be expressed among an entire people (and the Djute were not exceptional in this respect, at least if Hassar represented the Lorca) was not something to dismiss out of hand.

And they were as eager to give knowledge as they were to receive it.

As repayment for teaching him so much, Uhai offered Renault and Varek to learn a bit more about the Sacaeans themselves. A few months after their arrival, the two were extended an invitation to partake of the nightly feasts Sacaeans enjoyed along their travels. Previously, they had spent almost all of their time alone in the ger their hosts had provided them, which would be dismantled and then set up again as the tribe moved. Now, though, they’d attained a measure of acceptance among these people, and participated more in its quotidian life.

Every night, the whole tribe—nearly two thousand people, as it was Sacae’s largest—would settle down from their travels and set up a gigantic bonfire. This great fire would be used for cooking food, as the tribe’s men used it to light smaller fires to set up cooking pits or roasts for the game they’d caught earlier in the day, which the women, who situated themselves on the gathering’s outer periphery, would also use for making their stews or distinctive salty porridges (called _Yoshoz_ ) after the men had finished. Meanwhile, the men would all sit around the fire, with the more important ones, such as the chief, sitting close to it (a major benefit during the bitter winters). For the most part, the men would discuss the events of the day, but they’d also sing songs and tell stories. And, perhaps as repayment for what Renault had done for the tribe, they were pleased to share that with him and Varek.

Tor had already told them the bare bones of many Sacaean epics soon after they’d began to follow his tribe, just to make it easier for them to acclimate them to the culture. It was quite different from actually hearing them, though, and Uhai had a taste for storytelling. As well as an incredible memory—from what he told Renault, the stories were written down on scrolls only the Seers had the right to see, and anyone else who wished to tell them would have to memorize them entirely as the Seer recited them. They were mainly exciting tales about heroes and monsters. Many involved Hanon, of course—one night Uhai spoke, in rhyming meters, of how she had singlehandedly slain a thousand dragons (as Elimine was supposed to have, Renault remembered), and another night sang of her mighty bow, the Miurgre, “guarded by the men of Djute, the strongest and wisest of Sacae, and whose string makes noise like thunder when pulled and whose arrows fly like the wind.”

These translations were provided after the fact, for they were sung not in the common tongue but in the Sacaean language itself. One Sacaean language, that is—according to Uhai, there were many. The Djute had one, and the Kutolah had another, and there were a dozen others, most of which were spoken amongst many of the smaller tribes.

“Do they…ah, excuse me for asking, but…do they all have different scripts as well?” Renault asked one night.

“Scripts?” Uhai was happy to answer, but he wasn’t sure what Renault was asking.

“Written words.”

Uhai had shrugged. “That is a matter only for our seers to know.”

It was not a satisfying answer, but it seemed to be the only one Uhai seemed willing to give, so Renault let the matter drop.

And he’d find out later, anyways.

Until then, he and Varek would continue to simply learn of the music of their hosts. And while Renault liked listening to the songs, he had to admit Varek had made more progress with the music that accompanied them—Renault was reminded of this as his eye drifted to the far side of the yurt where he and Varek were preparing to sleep tonight. A baliset was laying there—a long, nine-stringed instrument somewhat similar to a Bernese guitar, played by plucking. Renault had never been very fond of music, but he had to admit he’d taken a liking to that played by the Djute. Uhai would often strum along the instrument as he sang of Hanon, his fingers flying across its strings almost too quickly for Renault to see. The sounds were hauntingly beautiful, staying with him long after Uhai had stopped playing, and Renault had to admit they had a similar sort of power as contained within the hymns he’d heard at Diotica Abbey, though different in their own way.

Upon seeing his reaction, Uhai had offered to teach Renault the basics of the baliset, and, albeit hesitantly, Renault had accepted. One of the tribe’s craftsmen had spent a week making Renault a simple one, and presented it to him with no cost or expectation of reward, simply an acknowledgement of his friendship with Uhai. And Uhai, for his part, had asked nothing more for teaching Renault fingering and tuning than the man’s patience and respect, which he’d been more than happy to give.

Before turning over to sleep for tonight, Renault sighed as he looked at his baliset.

There was indeed more to these people than he’d ever given them credit for.

 

_-X-The Shrine of the Gran Katti-X-_

It had been two years since Renault had first encountered Tor and joined up with his tribe. In all that time, he and Varek had found little trace of Juge. But that did not mean he and his friend had accomplished nothing in all their time here—quite the opposite. Renault was reminded of this as he left the shrine of the first blessed weapon he’d encountered since the Mani Katti at Bulgar.

It was called the Gran Katti, and was housed in an old stone building in the southern region of the country. After Varek and Renault had waited so long, Chief Mogan had finally decreed it time for another pilgrimage, and the shrine of the Gran Katti was their next stop. They didn’t get their hopes up for finding Juge, and it was just as well, for as they’d expected, the priest there told them he’d gone on to the shrine of the Lune Katti. So now they had to wait until Mogan called for another pilgrimage, and neither knew when that would be.

They hadn’t even gotten to see the weapon itself, as it happened. According to Sacaean tradition, those weapons chose their owners, and could not even be withdrawn from their sheathes until they found a worthy user. So all Renault had a chance to look at was the sword in its scabbard as it lay upon its altar, and from the shape of that scabbard, the blade would have been thin and curved along its entire length, not just its end as had most other Sacaean swords he’d seen. And even if he’d wanted to see it in action, he probably wouldn’t have gotten the opportunity; Mogan and the other tribesmen were there to pray and nothing else. And that was good enough for Renault—because even if he wasn’t praying along with them, he could finally understand what they were praying about, at least.

Despite their different religions and backgrounds, he and Varek had managed to become accepted—to a degree—by the Seer of the Djute.

It had been about a year since they’d joined the tribe. One night, after he and Varek had helped heal a series of particularly gruesome injuries delivered by a group of mountain bandits the tribe had encountered (all dead now), Uhai had come to them, stony-faced, and told them they had to meet with someone. Renault was afraid they’d be meeting with Chief Mogan, and get themselves kicked out for some reason or another, but their friend led them not to the chief’s large ger but a different one—one they’d never been to or even near before.

After ushering them in, Uhai had bowed and promptly left, indicating the great deal of respect and reverence he had for the inhabitant…

An older, grey-haired man, about Varek’s age, clad not in a _Kefeh_ but in loose black robes.

Renault had seen a man like this many years ago, during the course of his wandering across Elibe, when he was still searching for a way to revive Braddock. He remembered a ger like this, as well as the similar scent of incense suffusing it.

The meeting he’d held there had not been the least friendly he’d ever met, though he did feel a slight jolt of shame as he realized the dishonorable means through which he’d affected it—the tribe had asked him to slay a wolf, and he had, but he doubted they’d intended him to use poison.

The old man had noticed the slight blush creeping across his face. “Not comfortable here, young one?”

“N-no, not at all.” Renault bowed and remembered the words he’d spoken so long ago—except now he truly meant them. “Forgive this youngster for his impertinence. Politeness is one of the many things I would like to learn.”

Varek had not been expecting this response, but he was quite impressed. It seemed their host was as well.

“I would be pleased to teach you…though it seems you don’t have much to learn.”

“We’re honored, sir,” Varek bowed. “But…it’s my turn to ‘pologize now…why’ve you called us here?”

“I have heard our braves speak well of your skills with the staves…yours, at least, Varek…that is your name, is it not? Your companion, Renault…is not as…adept, but his efforts are appreciated as well.”

Renault’s blush did not disappear, but he accepted the somewhat back-handed compliment quietly.

“Again, we’re honored.”

“But…those are not your only skills. I have also heard you know much of herbs, and of medicine. One of your devices…concoctions…helped one of our sick daughters last winter.”

“That is true. We’re only glad we could have assisted.”

The old man had shifted in his seat. “If you would, outlander…would you share such secrets with us? A Seer such as myself is master of dark magic and divination, and I know well the uses of any root or leaf you can find in this land. But the potions you two have created come from many plants, some of which I know not, and some of which come from lands far from the plains. A Seer must seek knowledge wherever he may find it, and if you may share yours with me, the Djute will repay your generosity a thousandfold.”

Varek had smiled. “We’d be happy to, but the opportunity is all we ask. We’ll need no repayment.”

“Ah…I can think of one way you could repay us,” Renault had cautiously said.

“A-ha? What would that be, youngster?”

“I am sorry if this is a…poor request. But could you teach us your language? I would like to understand Uhai’s songs in their own words, if nothing else…”

The old Seer raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Renault feared he’d offended the man. But, fortunately, it was just the opposite, for he had smiled and said yes.

And that was what Renault had spent the past couple of years doing—learning the language of the Djute, along with Varek. Given their experience with Draconic, High Imperial, and even Shadetongue, it was not as difficult a task as might have been imagined, though it did pose its own challenges. The Seer was not used to teaching foreigners, and Renault and Varek had to figure out several aspects of the language, such as its somewhat convoluted case system, on their own with little help from the man. Still, they both knew they were given an honor rarely afforded to those like them. Renault had initially worried that the Sacaean languages were closely-guarded secrets, but when asked why so few from outside Sacae learned them, he was told it was because they simply weren’t interested. Aside from the songs, the only people who used it were the Seers, who would be called Druids in other cultures. Some form of written language was necessary for them to pass down the knowledge required to cast the Draconic incantations of their staves and Dark magic books, and other than that, the rest of the tribe had little use for wisdom that couldn’t be passed down orally. For the purposes of trading or mercenary work, virtually all of them understood the Common tongue, if not always its writing. Thus, even Eliminean missionaries saw little reason to translate each individual tribe’s language.

Renault and Varek sought to change that. After a few months of their training, they asked the seer if they could make a lexicon and grammar of the Djute language. The old man wasn’t sure why they’d want to, but he assented. And, after two years of work, it was that lexicon they’d provided to the priest of the Gran Katti’s shrine. The fellow was not an Eliminean himself, but he had many Eliminean friends and had heard (and held great respect for Varek) from them, as that shrine was also a refuge for foreigners passing through these lands—Sacaens were forbidden from shedding blood in the houses of those weapons, so outlanders could rest there with a bit less concern for their safety. When the next caravan heading to Bulgar passed through, the priest promised, he would give their lexicon to them and ask them to send it to Bishop Alios, who would then send it to one of Bulgar’s printers for mass production. Although they didn’t expect it to be a best seller, Renault and Varek did expect it to break down the cultural barriers between the people of Sacae and the rest of Elibe, to at least a small extent. And Renault couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of pride for this. Only a slight twinge, as they hadn’t accomplished that much; there were many other languages in Sacae and they’d translated but one. Still, perhaps their efforts would help convince others to do the same for the other languages, and he was legitimately proud for that. Braddock had always condemned Renault’s racism, and now he would be helping other people overcome it as he did, in some small way.

That would help his friend’s sprit rest, at least so Renault hoped.

He had been thinking a lot about Braddock’s spirit, lately. Not just because of the dreams—he’d been having those rarely, these days. But rather due to the other information he and Varek had packed into the Djute lexicon. It was not only vocabulary and grammar contained there—at the end of it, they’d also included a small appendix of Sacaean religion.

Since the intent of the lexicon was to help foreigners understand the people of Sacae, Renault and Varek also thought it wise to describe the land’s culture and religion as well as its languages. The Seer they learned from was initially suspicious, but after hearing repeated assurances from the two that they sought no converts, he finally relented and told them more of his faith, though insisted that they not share it.

As with most aspects of Sacaean life, there were many differences in the religions of the various tribes. They almost all shared the same characteristics, though: They believed in two Gods: Mother Earth, who provided and sustained all life, and Father Sky, who bestowed upon every living thing (and even some inanimate objects, like rivers or stones) a soul. These two Gods  were not separate from their creation but a part of it; Mother Earth was present in every foot of ground her children walked and Father Sky in every breath they took. They had always existed and always would exist, though whether or not the same could be said of their children was a different question. The account of man’s creation changed slightly between each tribe; the Kutolah claimed they were all descendants of a great Father Wolf who pleaded to Mother Earth for opponents to challenge him, while the Djute believed men were born from feathers which had fallen to earth from the continent-sized wings of a gigantic hawk. All these stories, again, had a few elements in common. In all of them, the spirits of dead men were never said to disappear entirely, but rather persist in the world long after their deaths, influencing events and the people they had loved from within a sort of spirit world, where the souls of the righteous dead would harry those of the evil for eternity.

Renault thought of the dreams he’d always had of Braddock, and wondered if there wasn’t something to that belief. Still, if his own experience was any indication, it wasn’t entirely true—Sacaens said nothing of the living being able to influence the dead, yet Braddock had seemed less troubled in every dream Renault had had since joining up with Varek.

Those weren’t the only similarities between all the Sacaean religions, according to the Seer. They all claimed Dragons were said to have been born in the same fashion as men were, but “cursed” by Father Sky, who called forth a hero (Hanon) to banish them (the other Heroes, Renault noted, were either absent from the narratives or relegated to a few lines in some of the songs Uhai sang). Second, they also mentioned the creation of all sorts of mythical beasts, such as phoenixes or giant men of stone. Having seen several of those supernatural creatures himself, Renault was tempted to think there might have been more truth to the Sacaean faith than his own, and though he didn’t say so to Varek at the time, the issue would come up later. Finally, something the Seer mentioned offhand reminded them both of what they’d read in their own Scriptures.

“Father Sky and Mother Earth gave their children many elements to protect them,” he’d said. “The light of the sun warms us and the dark of the night cools us, we breath the wind and cook with fire, thunder brings rain and ice marks the seasons…thus, each man who lives is protected by one those seven elements.”

Varek had been taken aback, a bit surprised by what he’d heard. “Strange…we Elimineans believe the same thing, sort of.”

“Truly?”

“In the first book of Elimine’s _Journey_ …the _Beginning_ ,” Renault had recalled. “Tagar, the father of mankind, had many, many children with his wife. At least…that’s what the book said. And one of the other verses said, ‘Of Tagar’s issue, they were separated into seven parts, all of a greater whole, and given an element each to guard their lives. Sun and Shadow, Fire and Ice, Wind and Thunder, as well as the spirit of magic itself, Anima. Each would be given to man according to his birth, and each would protect him till his death.’”

“Interesting,” had been the Seer’s reply. “We believe these elements draw their full power from the connections between people. Man and wife, brothers of blood, warriors of a tribe…did your Elimine say the same?”

“She did tell us to cherish our relationships. ‘Love others, as I have loved you,’ she told Theomus. I s’pose that’s not too far different, if not exactly the same?”

“Perhaps not,” the Seer had said, and it seemed like he had newfound respect for the religion of these two strange foreigners.

Renault had to admit he shared that respect, which is why he could hand in that lexicon to the Gran Katti’s priest without any reservations. Even so, as he and Varek left the shrine behind them, moving with the rest of the tribe to their next destination, there was something he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Varek,” he asked, “has this…weakened your faith? Everything you’ve learned about their religion, I mean.”

“Not really,” came his slightly mirthful reply. “I can respect their faith, surely, but I still don’t share it. I suppose they’d like it that way—they don’t place as much emphasis on conversion as we Elimineans do. But as interestin’ as their stories may be, and I hope they’ll tell them for a long time to come, I still find the narrative in the _Journey_ to be the most compellin’ of all.”

“But…then, they’re wrong, aren’t they? Wrong about the nature of salvation, and the origins of man…shouldn’t you be condemning them, then?”

“Some Elimineans might. Not me, though. I’ve lived a Godless life m’self, after all. You should know that well. Not my place to condemn others for their beliefs. Certainly not these people. Any breath I waste tellin’ them they’re wrong would be better spent asking how to better myself.”

“That…is true.” _And it’s advice I would do well to follow myself_ , Renault thought.

And so their journey continued.

_-X-The Shrine of the Lune Katti-X-_

The shrines of the “blessed weapons” as Sacaeans called them, were holy places where no blood was allowed to be spilled. This did not apply to the ground just outside of them, however, and Renault learned this first hand on the 13th Sage, 969 A.S.

Not even a few hours after they had left the shrine of the Lune Katti (a curious weapon that seemed like an even longer, thicker version of the Gran Katti, and where, once again, they’d found Juge had traveled to another shrine, that of the Sol Katti), the tribe had been ambushed by a raiding party from the Kutolah. They had known peace for some years—or, many moons, as Sacaeans marked time by the phases of the moon rather than the position of the sun—but, Renault supposed, all good things had to come to an end at some point.

He could only thank God—or good fortune, given how his faith was still so weak—that there had been few casualties. It had been a fight between a small band of braves, not a full-scale war between tribes. Uhai had been leading a hunting party, chasing down a herd of deer, but as it so happened that same herd was also being pursued by a band from another tribe—the Kutolah. They came to blows, and this time there were wounds Renault and Varek couldn’t heal. One of Uhai’s friends had to be buried—in the Sacaean way, his body left naked on the plains for Mother Earth to reclaim. Uhai had fought well, however, and several of the Kutolah had been left the same way. More troubling was the fate of those who had not been killed. Another of Uhai’s friends had not died, according to the report, but had rather disappeared, taken by the Kutolah. As it so happened, Uhai’s band had taken some prisoners of their own. And Renault was left to witness the fate of those prisoners.

For one of them, that fate didn’t seem so bad. The prisoners were not treated unkindly, and were given food and shelter for a week; aside from not being permitted to partake of the tribe’s nightly feast and celebration around the bonfire, they had little to complain about. After about a month, however, Renault witnessed a strange ceremony the likes of which he’d never seen before. One night, rather than the typical feasting and celebration, the entire tribe was dead-silent as the flames of the bonfire burned high. The Seer stood in front of that flame, waiting as quietly as the rest of his kin as one of the prisoners walked up to him, stark naked. His name was Thoril, according to what Uhai had mentioned when they’d first brought him in.

Thoril knelt before the Seer, who began to bark out questions in the language of the Djute. Thanks to the training Renault had received, he could understand most of it:

_Do you renounce the Kutolah, and accept the Djute? Do you renounce your old home, and accept your new one? Have you died, and been reborn as one of us?_

He didn’t know if Thoril understood the exact words, but the meaning would have been clear even if he didn’t. “Yes,” came the prisoner’s reply in the Common tongue.

After that came one of the more painful things Renault had seen—though, of course, being a former mercenary, not the most painful. He felt a bit unnerved, though he didn’t wince, as Thoril turned his naked back to the Seer, who had been handed a sword by one of the men watching the ceremony. He held the sword into the burning bonfire, until it was almost as hot as it would have been right off the forge.

Then, in what seemed to be a parody of the knighting ceremonies practiced in Lycia, Bern, and Etruria, he took the flat of the heated blade and laid it on Thoril’s shoulders. Renault could see smoke rising from the scorched flesh, but Thoril, to his credit, did not so much as budge, looking resolutely forward with almost no expression of pain on his face until both his shoulders had been touched, leaving behind the smoking marks of the flat of a Djute sword.

He rose, then, and there was a relieved smile on his face, even though he should have been in crippling pain. It was matched by the cheers and laughter of the men around him, as they rushed forwards to support him, both to keep him from keeling over and to congratulate him on being accepted into their ranks.

“He’s taken the vows,” said Varek, as he and his disciple watched the display. “He’s a man of the Djute, now—and forever, too. He’ll not break this bond for as long as he lives, unless he’s captured by another tribe, of course.

“But that doesn’t happen too often. When they see the brand of a captive who earned his life by swearing such an oath…well, a man can’t have two such brands on his body. They just kill him.” Varek sighed, and Renault knew that that was what had happened to the other men Uhai had imprisoned. There had been five prisoners living in the ger set aside for them—Renault and Varek had sometimes been assigned to give them their meals. Now, though, only Thoril was left, and it was like the other men had never even existed. Renault knew that their corpses, bleeding from their slit throats, were rotting on the plains someplace. The same fate likely awaited the Djute men who’d disappeared rather than died, though if they were lucky they’d undergo the same ritual among the Kutolah that Thoril had endured now.

“Shouldn’t we have done anything to help them?”

“I can only hope God will forgive us for not bein’ able to. But His forgiveness is all we can ask. As abhorrent as we may find it—and it’s wrong, no doubt about that—it’s not the sort of thing you can change in a night. If we’d have spoken up, we’d only have ended up like those prisoners.”

“So then…what can we do? It’s so…”

“Savage?”

“That…was what I wanted to say.”

“Well, it’s not as if either of us have any room to talk.”

Memories of the many people he’d killed—in many cases far less mercifully than with slit throats—flitted through Renault’s head. “Y-yes. The other peoples of Elibe, myself included, aren’t necessarily more ‘civilized’ than these people?”

“That’s what I’d like you to understand. An’ beyond that, I think the same ways of dealing with the barbarism in our own cultures teaches us how we can deal with the barbarism in this one. We wouldn’t be able to stop every war in Lycia or Bern by ourselves. But we can do what we can to ease the suffering of those caught up in them, and we can show people, through our actions, that there’s a better way than violence. I don’t think our religion will catch on here for a long, long time. But things like the lexicon we made…that’ll show people from outside Sacae how people here live. And it’ll help the reverse happen too, I think. We might see more Sacaeans like Tor, ones who understand how others live. And if they can grasp that, they can grasp why, in the long run, showin’ mercy to people like Thoril’s old friends may be wiser than not.”

“But that day won’t come for a long time.”

“That it won’t. So we just have to keep doin’ what we can, for as long as we can.”

_-X-The Shrine of the Sol Katti-X-_

There were two memorable things about the 6th Sage, 970 A.S. First, it was when Renault actually got to see one of the “blessed weapons” of Sacae outside its scabbard. Second, it was where he’d finally figure out where to go next. And third, it was where he got to experience the largest Sacaean wedding he’d ever seen.

There was nothing significant about the first part—it just so happened that the Sol Katti was too large to fit into any conventional sheath or scabbard. Renault caught sight of it when he and Varek entered the shrine, located within the western region of Bern, not far from the lands the Djute most often roamed. It was a bizarre weapon, one that he’d never thought would fit in at the plains. The Sol Katti was, in essence, an oversized rapier. It was similar in shape to the gracile weapons favored by Lycian lords—Renault recalled seeing Lundgren and Hausen sparring with each other with those rapiers when he was serving them as a mercenary. It had a long, thin blade which seemed more suited for thrusting than slashing along with a large basket hilt that protected the user’s hand. The difference was that it was as large as a full-grown man and its proportionally-thin blade was still thick enough on its own that it could perform devastating slashing attacks.

Renault wondered what kept it from being stolen, but the priest there said the Sol Kati couldn’t even be moved from the altar until the sword itself was willing. He invited Renault to try it, and when Renault attempted to pluck the sword from its place, he found it wouldn’t even budge, as if it was attached to the stone altar.

“Amazing magic, isn’t it?” laughed the priest. “Almost as mighty as the Divine Weapons themselves! If only we knew how it worked. I remember we had a visitor some years back who tried to figure it out, but even he didn’t have any luck. And he seemed like a bright young fellow, too.”

“A bright young fellow?” Varek asked. “His name mightn’t have been Juge?”

“Why yes, it was, actually. Did you know him?”

“We did. He’s a friend of ours and we’re looking for him.”

“Hmm…well, it was a very long time ago…close to, well, thirty years, I’d say. It’s a miracle you remembered his name…I wouldn’t have by myself!”

“Even so, we’d be grateful for any information you can give us.”

“Well, he was always talking about magic—any kind of magic, Light, Dark, Anima, whatever. I remember telling him there were some terrifying druids in Ilia, every bit the equal of the Sacaean Seers. My Eliminean friends don’t have any use for dark magic, but one learns to tolerate it in these lands. Juge wanted to learn more, so I told him if he was done here, he should head to Ilia next. At least if he could handle the snow up there!”

“Illia?” Varek and Renault exchanged meaningful glances. “I suppose that’s where we’ll be headed next, then.”

They wouldn’t leave immediately, of course. They had to say their goodbyes to Uhai and Tor, both of whom were sorry to see them go (the latter, teary-eyed, lent Varek some of his books, and the former asked Renault to keep his baliset, as a reminder of him), and give their thanks to the chief and the seer for looking after them for so long. But there was also one more ceremony they wanted to attend—one it wouldn’t have done at all to skip.

A wedding.

That was the reason the tribe was at this shrine today.

Several years ago, when Uhai’s band had been ambushed by the men of the Kutolah and had some of their number taken prisoner, one of those prisoners had been incorporated into the Kutolah tribe, as Thoril had become a Djute. He had told his new tribesmen some stories of his old life, despite the fact that he was supposed to “forget” everything about that as part of the ritual. One of those stories involved the beautiful sister of his friend Uhai. Over time, they had caught the ear of the Kutolah chief’s son, Dayan, a brave and mighty warrior already renowned, at a young age, as the Silver Wolf. He’d sent a messenger asking for Mogan’s permission (as well as Uhai’s) to take Sameen’s hand in marriage. The chieftain offered his consent, thinking that a great warrior would be an excellent suitor for the girl, and Uhai agreed. So they had set up the wedding, and today it would be held.

It was nothing short of a grand affair, rivaling the most opulent feasts Renault had ever seen even in Etruria—which was to be expected of the two largest tribes of Sacae, after all. The celebration grounds consisted of a circle a mile in circumference surrounding the shrine of the Sol Kati, where children of both tribes would play with each other, men engaged in games of skill, contests of strength, and feats of mounted marksmanship, and the women competed with each other to see whose husbands decorated them with the most elaborate shawls or beautiful jewelry. There was food there, as well—giant cauldrons full of _Yoshoz_ porridge, piles of savory meat dumplings twice as tall as Renault, roasted venison, mutton, and beef, as well as selections of Lycian and Etrurian desserts—Tor had managed to pull some of his merchant connections to gain access to an incredibly diverse array of plates for this auspicious occasion.

Compared to all of that, the wedding itself was a surprisingly low-key affair, held in the traditional Sacaean manner. After the sun had set, in front of a giant bonfire twice as large as the communal ones usually lit each night, Sameen and Dayan stood facing each other, with the Seers of both the Kutolah and Djute standing between them. Dayan cut a dashing figure in a brightly-colored red and white _Kefeh_ topped off with bright blue bandana studded with red gemstones along its surface. Sameen, for her part, looked positively radiant, clad head-to-toe in a purple velvet robe and two gilded blue sashes around her waist along with a veil composed of gold chainwork covering her face so thoroughly that even her husband could not see her. They would only actually meet face to face the day after the wedding, Varek had told him, where they would consummate their marriage as the sun rose.

“As Father Earth and Mother Sky were eternally bonded,” said both Seers in unison, “may this man and woman be bound to each other for as long as they live.” The Kutolah man held out a thin bracelet lined with silver thread to Sameen, who held out her arm and allowed it to be strapped to her. “This bracelet is a gift from the men of the Kutolah. It represents the protection Lord Dayan will give you as long as you are loyal.”

The Djute man then held out his gift to Dayan—a very thick, rich sort of fur baldric which looked like it would keep one warm during the winter. “This emblem was created by the women of the Djute. It represents the comfort Lady Sameen will give you as long as you are brave.”

Once again, both men spoke in unison: “Do you accept these gifts?”

Both the man and woman said “Yes.”

“Then those who were two are now one. May the blessings of Mother Earth and Father Sky fall upon you both.”

A wild cheer broke out among both the Djute and Kutolah, and though Varek and Renault couldn’t join in, they couldn’t keep themselves from smiling.

They thought that would be the end of it—after one last night in their ger, they’d head out on their own for Ilia, finally saying goodbye to the people—and the land—they had come to love, to some extent, after so long. Not completely alone, as one of Tor’s merchant friends, the one he’d bought the Etrurian pasties from, was heading for Ilia and offered Renault and Varek a ride. But they didn’t think they’d have much more to do with the goings-on among the Djute. As it happened, however, there was one last thing for Renault to take care of.

“Psst! Renault!” He heard the voice at the door to his ger just as he was about to lay himself to sleep on his blankets, and saw Tor standing over him, trying to be as quiet as he could.

“Eh?”

“Sameen! Sameen wants to see you!”

“…What? Isn’t she with Dayan?”

“No, that’s not how these weddings work! Both the man and the woman stay secluded in their own tents for a whole night after the wedding, and only in the morning do they come together! So Sameen wants to tell you something before the sun rises!”

“…Me? Why?”

“I don’t know why! Just follow me!”

Renault did so, knowing full well how much of a scandal it would appear to be if they were caught. Still, both the Djute and the Kutolah were fast asleep at this time of night, and the two of them were able to make their way to Sameen’s bridal ger with no trouble. “I’ll be on the lookout,” hissed Tor, who then pushed Renault into the ger, where Sameen was waiting.

“…Sir Renault?”

Sameen was still wearing her bridal clothing, which made discerning her expression beneath the gold veil quite difficult. Still, Renault did the best he could. “Y…yes, I’m here. You…asked for me, my lady?”

“Um…you are an Eliminean, aren’t you?”

Renault was taken aback by this line of questioning. Religion had barely come up outside of his conversations with the Seers, and he had no idea why Sameen would ask this of him now. Still, he had to answer honestly. “I am…I suppose. Though if you’re looking for a man of great faith, you’ll have to look elsewhere…”

“That’s fine.” Beneath her bridal veil, Renault got the impression she was blushing. “Do you…can you do that thing? That…takes away sin?”

“The thing that takes away sin?”

“That thing you priests do. Uhai told me you did it. C…contraction?”

Now Renault understood what she was talking about, and he had to stifle a laugh. “You mean the Rite of Contrition?”

“Yes!”

“I can, but…” He grew uneasy. “Varek and I aren’t here to proselytize, and we both gave Mogan our word we wouldn’t. Why would you even ask such a thing of me, Sameen?”

“It is…what I want…is not a Sacaean thing! It is something no woman of Sacae should feel! And so I cannot talk to my father or my brother or my Seer. I thought you, as an outlander, would be the only one…”

Renault still had no idea of what to say, but he knew he could do only his best. “I…am not sure I could give you the Rite of Contrition. But if you only need someone to talk to, I suppose I can listen.”

“Oh…alright. That is…better than nothing. It will do.”

“So what is it? What would you like to confess?”

“Sir Renault, I…I do not love Dayan.”

“Ah, so that’s it.” Renault felt a bit of relief course through him as he heard this—nothing more scandalous than marital jitters. Even so, it still wasn’t something he was really qualified to speak of. “I apologize, Sa…my lady. Love is…not something I have much experience with.” He had loved before, he thought bitterly—but everyone he had, Kelitha, Keith, and Braddock, had died before their time.

“Oh…I see. Yes, that was silly of me. I am sorry, I should have known…”

“It is quite alright. But…” Renault sighed, knowing he was taking a risk. “I think…Sameen, I can assure you that you’re doing nothing wrong.”

“T…truly?”

“Yes. You are not alone in how you’re feeling. In Lycia, Etruria, and Bern…many places…marriage doesn’t have much to do with love.” He thought of Abbess Meris, whose loveless marriage had dissolved due to her infertility. “Children, lineage, inheritance…people marry for those things as well. I would wager your chief and your brother, since your parents are no longer with us…made the decision for you because they thought an alliance with the Kutolah would prevent more strife between your peoples.”

Sameen said nothing. She understood his reasoning, though it was apparent it didn’t make her feel better.

“But…that doesn’t necessarily exclude love, either. It’s only natural for you to feel as you do. Do not be ashamed of yourself for that. After all, you had never even seen Dayan before today—and all he knew of you were the stories of Uhai’s friend. Just remember that love is something that can grow over time. Just as…goodness, I suppose.”

“Goodness?”

Renault smiled, slightly. “Yes, goodness. I…haven’t always lived the life I do now. But I have tried to live peacefully and kindly, ever since I met Varek…to honor the memory of the friend I had before him.” He could tell she was curious, and he realized he’d been rambling. “But…I apologize. I spoke of myself rather than you. I am saying that goodness, kindness, charity…these traits can be cultivated, even in one who knew nothing of them. Even in someone like me. If I can do that…perhaps you and Dayan can do the same with love. He seems like a good man, after all. The blessed Saint would certainly say your hearts make better ground for love to grow than mine ever could.”

Sameen offered a small giggle, and Renault could tell his words had gotten through. “Truly? You are not just…joking?”

“I swear by my faith…no, I swear by my respect for Varek that what I’ve told you is true.”

“I…see. I…then, I thank you, Sir Renault.” She bowed to him. “You are truly wise. I am grateful to have met you…and sorry to see you go. May Mother Earth and Father Sky protect you in Ilia.”

“You honor me, my lady, but I would say I am not nearly wise enough. I can only thank God…I suppose…that my meager skills have done someone else some good.”

With that, he stood up and quietly left the ger. Tor, for his part, had made a very poor watchman; he was snoozing peacefully by the ger’s entrance when Renault left. It didn’t matter, though, as no-one had interrupted his conversation with Sameen, and so no-one would be the wiser, at least unless anyone figured out why Sameen no longer seemed to be as hesitant about her new life with Dayan as she used to be.

Renault didn’t really think much of what he’d done at the time, not seeing its significance. He was just happy to have handled the matter discreetly, and thought no more of it as he left Sameen’s ger to return to his and Varek’s for their last night here.

Later on, as he and Varek began their travels to Ilia, he would realize that it was the first bit of wisdom he’d dispensed since finding his new path.

But what he didn’t know was that such wisdom would not be the last he’d give.

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say. Quick notes:

Thoril is a Djute boss in Fire Emblem 6. His fate—being captured in battle and then being made part of the Djute—is inspired by certain Native American ways of war, in which young captives taken in battle were sometimes incorporated into the victor’s tribe. Though, of course, IRL, some were just killed.

The status of women in Sacaean culture is extrapolated from what Lyn said about her Lorca tribe being “old fashioned” and unwilling to follow a woman.

A lot of Sacaean culture is inspired by Mongolian culture, though the words, like _Kefeh_ for the costumes worn by Dayan and Sue, are made up by me. However, the Baliset instrument is from Frank Herbert’s _Dune_.

The stuff about the affinities is from Dayan and Yodel’s A support in Fire Emblem 6, which they mention is a commonality between the Sacaean and Eliminean religions.

Yes, that is Uhai from the first Valor level in FE7. We’ll see him again ;) I had him as Dayan’s brother in law here because he apparently knows Dayan in FE7 and has some respect for the man, judging by his dialogue with Rath.

 


	71. The Ice of Ilia-Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Varek continue the quest for Juge in Ilia.

**Chapter 71**

**The Ice of Ilia**

_-X-The Village Without a Church-X-_

Renault hadn’t thought much about the generosity and consideration of his Sacaean hosts when he’d left them. Looking at Varek now, however, he found himself thanking God (even though he wasn’t certain of His existence) that the tribe of the Djute had been so thoughtful.

It was not yet even winter—it was, in fact, Renault’s birthday on the 27th Archer, 970 A.S. Neither he nor Varek took much note of the date, though, for they were just too cold! The grass around their caravan was covered in frost, and while the chill didn’t affect Renault’s unnatural body so much, he was sure Varek would have frozen solid without the extremely warm Sacaean furs he was currently wrapped in. Their former hosts knew well how terrible the weather was in this region, and so they had given their two guests the thickest, warmest furs from the bears Uhai had once hunted before parting ways. It was very good that they did, for while a caravan they encountered passing through Sacae on the way to Ilia was willing to give them a ride, the merchants had no warm clothing to spare.

Even with such protection, however, Varek was still shivering, and that made Renault worry—the weather would grow only colder as autumn passed into winter and they pushed northwards. Varek also wasn’t as young as he used to be, making Renault even more concerned for him. Over the last few days he’d began to evince a slight limp, and it had taken him longer than usual to recover from a slight cold (the first he’d had since the one he’d come down with after Renault’s arrival, in fact) than Renault had expected.

Still, he seemed in good spirits, and wouldn’t allow their quest to delay on account of his own health. They were headed to a region in the east called Carrhae, where they had heard a woman called “The Mistress of the Dark” lived alone on a mountain with her four sons. Given Juge’s interest in dragons and other antiquaria, it seemed almost certain he would have paid this woman and her family a visit at some point.

They were just in view of the gates of a village, in fact, and that was enough to warm up both of them, despite the chill. It sat a short jaunt west of Castle Carrhae, and just at the foot of Almspark Mountain, where this “Mistress of the Dark” was said to reside. It seemed an odd home for a reputedly terrifying Druidess. It was not at all large, rich, or seemingly well-traveled, though it wasn’t apparently poor, small, and isolated (for an Ilian settlement) either. It seemed, rather, to be downright average. It consisted of about a hundred people living in about 30 buildings, all of which were built in the typical architectural style of Ilia Renault had seen when he passed through here last (hundreds of years ago) and which seemed to have changed little since. They were all built of stone, since every one of them had a hearth near the center fed with wood from the country’s rich forests and fire posed too much of a risk, and were generally squat, square-shaped structures colored gray or blue and no more than one or two stories in height. Their Spartan, functional nature made them similar in some ways to Bernese homes, but there were a few differences. They did afford some concessions to aesthetics, as the houses and town hall at least had nicely elaborate eaves (edges of roofs overhanging the walls) supported by corbels (small buttresses jutting out from the walls of a building to support its railings), which were often sculpted in the shapes of birds or Pegasi. They also had fairly spacious basements, in most cases, and on the first floor of every building there was usually a peculiar sort of cabinet built so that it extended outside of the structure’s walls themselves—this actually served as a sort of icebox once the winter rolled in; the residents would store meat or other perishable foods there and let the natural cold of Ilia itself freeze the tidbits solid, allowing for a sort of natural preservation other countries could only emulate with expensive Fimbulvetr spells.

Ordinary as the town may have been for Ilia, though, there was one very strange thing about it: a complete lack of any temples or churches. There was an Eliminean church here, oddly enough—or rather, what had once been a church. It had been repurposed into the local tavern, which (while disheartening to Varek) wasn’t entirely surprising; Eliminism had never taken firm root here, and it wasn’t unexpected for a priest to be reassigned and not be replaced, or for a parish to simply wither away as its congregants drifted away from the religion. Stranger, however, was the lack of a temple as well. Few towns they’d come across had a church, but most had a small temple dedicated to the local gods, usually sparse affairs containing nothing more than an altar for sacrifices. The hermit’s village, however, had nothing at all.

They would find the reason for this soon enough.

He and Varek said their goodbyes to the occupants of the caravan; the merchants would be heading to the town market and their passengers had another place in mind: The church-tavern. It wasn’t particularly busy today, and Renault got the feeling it rarely was, though as he and Varek entered, they saw it was still well-maintained and offered a solid selection of traditional Illian fare. Most of the customers were drinking hearty Ilian potato beer (the hardy potato being one of the few crops which could grow in this land) as dining on smoked fish, deer, boar, or a distinctive kind of Ilian pastry made out of rye dough, stuffed with rice, potatos, or occasionally meat and fish, and baked. Renault wouldn’t need any of it, but some refreshment would be good for Varek after such a long journey, so the two of them took seats at the bar (located where the altar of the church once was)

The barkeep raised an eyebrow when he saw them. “Welcome, travelers. What can I do for you?”

Varek chuckled. “Travelers? Guess it’s obvious.”

“Ayuh. Though it may not look it, we get our fair share, thanks to the Hermit. ‘Course, bein’ a hermit, she turns most o’ her visitors away, and those who overstay their welcomes…well, they learn why it’s never wise to trifle with a Druid.”

There was a warning there, and Varek acknowledged it. “Well, don’t worry, neither me nor my friend’s ever been known to overstay a welcome.”

“Good to hear. So what can I get you?”

“Ah…a mug o’ mead might do me well, and one of those pastries’d fill my belly.”

“Not a problem. And your friend?”

Renault shook his head. “I’m not hungry…at the moment. I don’t intend to waste your time, though…” He offered a few gold pieces. “My friend and I would like some information.”

As with most tavern-keepers, this one didn’t consider it an unreasonable request. “Let me get y’ food and drink, first.” After a few minutes, when he brought out a mug and the pasty (which Varek promptly and happily began munching on), he asked, “so what d’y’ wanta know?”

“Has a man named Juge ever been to Carrhae?”

“Juge?” The barkeep smiled. “Bernese, purple hair, loved books?”

Varek started, and almost choked on a bite of his pasty before a hasty slap on the back from Renault dislodged it from his throat. “Y-yes, that’s him!”

“Hah! ‘Tis a tale we’d be hard-fought to forget! That nipper was one’a Lady Niime’s louder victims!”

“…Victims?!”

“Ay—wait, nope, not in th’ way you’re thinking, mind! Dunno how black mages are in y’r countries, but the Lady is a damned good sort. Wouldn’t hurt a fly if it didn’t deserve it—though if it did, she’d blow a hole straight through a mountain ta get at it! But Juge, he wasn’t a bad sort, not at all; ‘s why he left here better than he arrived. He gained a lotta wisdom from Niime…at th’ cost of a pretty penny!”

“I…see. If y’ wouldn’t mind—“

“’Course I wouldn’t, ‘tis a damn funny story! Now, y’ have to understand that Niime used t’ be the lovliest maiden in this whole village. I think she’s still easy on th’ eyes even afta birthin’ four lads, but that’s neither here nor there. Y’ also have to know tha’ she’s the latest in a loooong line o’ dark magicians. Mighty warlocks to a man an’ woman they were—so powerful they kept to themselves off on that mountain over there, though they’d always come down to protect us if we needed it. And even when she was 16, Niime’d definitely inherited that power; so much of it that she’d already gotten famous ‘cross all the country!”

“So anyways, back when she was still young—methinks ‘twas herebouts twenty-two years ago, an’ she was jes in the blush’a womanhood, some buck tramped in here fancyin’ himself a sage. He’d heard o’ her and wanted to study with her family, and he impressed ‘em enough that they let him stay. So he did, for a while, and wouldn’t ye know it but he fell head over heels in love with her. He spent a king’s ransom on rare books an expensive gifts for her, but when he finally asked f’r her hand in marriage, she said she already had a man!” He chuckled. “Well, Juge left not long afterwards, with a pocket lighter wi’ gold an’ heavier in embarrassment. Least he learned one thing, though: Can’t always buy a woman’s love!”

Varek chuckled as well, and even Renault couldn’t stop a slight smile from spreading across his face. “That certainly sounds like Juge. He was a smart one, but didn’t have all that much experience with the fairer sex…s’pose I’m glad all he paid for that lesson was some money. Though I’m not one to talk, either!”

Varek and the barman shared another laugh before Varek asked, “so I take it the other fellow was th’ father of the four kids you mentioned?”

At this, their host’s expression darkened. “Nope, not at all. He doesn’t live here anymore either, and we don’t much like to talk about it. And, just a word o’ advice, traveler—the Lady doesn’t much care for Elimineans, or any other kind of faith either, even for Ilia’s own gods. I’d ne spend much time preachin’ were I you.”

Renault got the impression that whatever happened between Niime and the man she’d rejected Juge for had something to do with why this town had no temple and its church had been converted to a bar, but both he and Varek were smart enough to let the subject lie. “That’s no problem. We’re only here lookin’ for Juge, he’s an old friend of mine. You wouldn’t happen to remember where he went, would you?”

“Ach, I’ll hev t’ beg your forgiveness, traveler. He wasn’t in a mood to tell any of us where he leavin’ for. If I had te bet, I’d ne say he left Ilia entirely…this is old, old country, and Niime’s far from te only one with much knowledge of old magic here. And…things live here, too. Old things. He’d a tried te find one o’ them, I’d wager, but if he survived the attempt te do so…I can’t say.”

“I see…well, that’s better than nothing.”

“You could talk a’ Lady Niime herself, but there’s a reason she’s called the Hermit. And she _really_ den’t like Elimineans. Ye might talk te one o’ her sons, younger ones come down sometimes but I haven’t seen the older ones in…well, speak o’ te’ devil!”

Renault and Varek turned to see a young purple-haired man carrying a leather sack full of potatoes, spices, and other supplies entering the tavern and heading to the bar. He didn’t look suspicious, and was fairly handsome, in fact, but his black robes and the black book attached to a sash around his waist told them he was a dark magic user…and likely one of Niime’s sons.

“Been a while, Cristof,” said the barkeep. “Come down f’r some shoppin’?”

“Yeah. Mother’s on a trip with my little brother, and she told me to get some stuff before she returned. Been a long day of haggling and my throat’s parched! Get me the usual.”

“Ayuh.”

The newcomer took a seat next to Varek and Renault, and the tavernkeeper brought him a mug of potato beer, which he quaffed with a satisfied sigh. When Cristof was done, he was told, “Ach, ye may want te know ye’ve callers.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Ah, that would be us. My name’s Varek, and this is my friend and disciple, Renault.” Both of them shook Cristof’s hand, though Renault thought the man seemed to recognize Varek’s name. “We just heard the story about how y’r honored mother gave Juge a good scalping. Truth be told, though, we’re looking for Juge ourselves. While I don’t think you’d know where he went, if you could, er, put in a good word to your mother and ask if she knows, it’d be mightily appreciated. We know she doesn’t like Elimineans, but believe us, we’re not here to preach. Even the smallest hint of where Juge could have gone and we’ll be on our way.”

Cristof sighed apologetically. “Well, like I said, Mother’s not around at the moment, and Juge came by before I was born.”

“Ah, I see. F’rgive me for troublin’ you, sir. Guess me and Renault’ll be on our way…”

“Well, hold on. I didn’t say I wouldn’t be able to help you.”

“Oh?”

“Why don’t you follow me back to my place? It’s a ways away, but the weather’s not too bad. I may be able to find something that’d help you over there.”

“Eh…” Varek and Renault both stole glances at the barkeep, who shrugged. “Niime’s lot ‘re a lil’ strange, sure, but they’re good boys. Christof nain’t pulled a bad turn on anyone that I know of. I doubt he’s any evil waitin’ for ye up on his mama’s mountain.

The two of them looked at each other for another moment, with Renault silently promising to protect Varek if things did take a dark turn. At last, they assented. “Well, I guess we’ll trust you, Christof. Take us to your home.”

Gratefully, their new friend led them out of the church-tavern, through the village, and out onto the road the led to the mountain. It was in good condition, and the weather was indeed nice (for Ilia); the sky was clear and the temperature, though low, wasn’t outrightly bone-chilling. There was little threat of avalanches or rockslides and it was unlikely the mountain trail would break apart and send them plummeting to their deaths, and for a moment Renault wondered how much of a hermit Niime truly was. Of course, her son would soon reveal to precisely how far she would go to protect her privacy.

“Uh…just so you know,” he said, after about an hour’s worth of trekking from the village, “Once you get past those two trees near the trail there, _don’t take your eyes off me._ Mother did…funny things to this area, and it’s…easy to get lost.”

“The space around here’s distorted,” said Varek matter-of-factly. “The spells won’t let anyone in unless they know the way—and it’s not the normal way—or Niime lets ‘em.” He whistled. “That’s an impressive bit of magic. No wonder your mother has her reputation.”

Renault silently concurred. He knew quite well that Dark magic, in particular, could warp space and time, but only true masters of the shadow were able to do so. Nergal and Bramimond had made extensive use of that sort of magic, and while Niime’s sorcery wasn’t quite as extensive as either of theirs had been, it indicated a level of skill not too far away, either. More curious, however, was what Cristof said next:

“Well….yeah, that’s exactly right. But I guess you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

 _Why would he think Varek would know?_ Renault wondered, and he took one hand away from the Heal staff he’d begun carrying, ready to ball it up into a fist, if necessary.

But as it turned out, it wouldn’t come to that.

It was a good thing Cristof had given them that piece of advice—after they’d passed those two trees (leaves of which were still bright green even at this time of year—Renault remembered Ilia was full of such “evergreen” trees), the trail seemed to twist and turn in ways that were impossible; they’d be heading west when all of the sudden the sun would change position as if they were traveling east. Still, they never let Cristof out of sight, and after what seemed to be another hour of travel they finally arrived at the Mountain Hermit’s residence.

At the end of the trail leading up to the mountain there was what seemed to be a wooden door stuck incongruently into the bluish-grey stone of the mountain face. Cristof knocked on it a few times, and satisfied there was no-one home, opened it and invited his guests in.

They were quite surprised at what they found. The mountain “hermitage” could have passed for a respectable one-family home anywhere in Elibe. The floors were clean, lacquered wood, a fire was burning merrily in the hearth at the center of the living room (contained within a large fire-pit surrounded by a stone barrier, ensuring it could burn without the risk of setting anything else ablaze, even unsupervised) past the entryway, providing more than enough light to see open doors leading to a privy, an empty bedroom, as well as a very large library further away, as well as a couple of closed doors leading to what Renault assumed were another closet and bedroom. All this would have obviously been impossible to build with natural means, but the same forces which had crafted Nergal’s hideout in Bern had made Niime’s in Ilia. Renault found himself again impressed by the hermit’s power.

“Ahh!” Cristof breathed a sigh of relief as they basked in the warmth of the hearth. “Home, sweet home. Say, do either of you want anything? Tea, or—“

“That’s fine,” Varek smiled. “If y’ wouldn’t mind, and pardon me for bein’ so direct, let’s just get on with what you brought us here to do.”

Renault’s muscles tensed as the smile on Cristof’s face seemed to dim a little. “Damn. Figured me out already, huh?”

“Don’t be fooled by these bad eyes, lad. I didn’t live nearly 70 years by bein’ slow on the uptake.”

“Alright, alright, you win. I guess I underestimated you—“

Renault’s patience, though not as short as it had once been, was overwhelmed by his concern for Varek. “Then why _did_ you bring us here? What are you planning?”

Varek shot him a sharp look, and he immediately bowed his head and prepared to apologize, but Cristof preempted him. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll tell you everything. You deserve to know, and I’m sorry for deceiving you—sort of—anyways.

“The truth is, I’d heard of you before. Anybody who knows as much about dark magic as my mother does would, really. As much as she hates Eliminism, she’s at least aware of who watches over Bramimond’s resting place.”

“Really?”

“She keeps in touch with one of the Wyvern Generals in Bern—the magic-using one, I forgot his name but he really likes Wind spells. One of his letters mentioned someone named Varek had left the hermitage near the Shrine of Seals a few years ago. So I thought you might have been…”

“Well, you were right, lad. Though it was a pretty lucky guess…not as if Varek’s all that uncommon a name. But what would you want with me? Do you want me to teach you Dark magic or something? I’m flattered, but I wouldn’t be able to help you…it’s disappointing, but I never had much direct contact with Bramimond, and I certainly wasn’t his apprentice or anything like that.”

“That is a little disappointing but…it’s not exactly why I brought you here. I was…hoping you could help me with something. Actually, that you could help two people.”

He stood up and opened one of the closed doors. As Renault thought, it led to a bedroom—but it wasn’t empty.

Cristof lit a candle on the stand next to the large bed in the center of the room, and as Renault and Varek approached they could see two men lying side by side on it, deathly still—though neither was dead; though their bodies were cold their chests still rose and fell with breath, and their eyes opened and closed. They both looked a little older than Cristof, and they had his purple hair as well. It was easy to tell they didn’t share his sharp mind and wits, however—though they’d likely once possessed such things, now they seemed to have nothing at all. They didn’t so much as twitch when Cristof, Varek, and Renault entered their room, and even when Varek passed a hand over their faces they evinced not the slightest reaction.

“These…are my older brothers,” said Cristof. “Cain and Cyas.”

“What happened to them?”

“They…they succumbed to the darkness.” Cristof’s voice was trembling. “It was…ten years ago. Not long after Canas died, and a little before our father did. My brothers…they were becoming great shamans, just like our mother. But they pushed themselves too far and too fast. Mother warned them what would happen, but they went ahead anyways. They tried to cast their own version of the space-warping spell here. It was too much for them, and the spell failed…taking their minds with it. Ever since then, they’ve been…what you see here.”

He looked up at Varek, directly into his eyes, with as pleading a visage as Renault had seen in many years. “Please, Varek, I beg of you…can you do nothing to help them? You studied a bit with Bramimond, and that’s better than nothing. Even my mother is nothing compared to his might. And…what of your religion? Your Light magic? My mother hates those things and wouldn’t ever sully her pride by asking a churchman for help. But me…I don’t care. I’d do anything to get my brothers back. I’ll even pray and believe in your God if He can help me. Please, I beg you, bring my brothers back to me!”

Varek shook his head. “I’m sorry, Christof, I really am. But I don’t think there’s a thing I can do.”

“Come on, can’t you try?”

“Well…”

Varek walked over to the comatose men, again waving his fingers in front of their eyes, and receiving no response as expected. He checked their pulses and body temperatures (they both had a pulse, but their bodies were cold). He then placed a hand over each their foreheads, murmuring a chant as he did so. He then asked for Renault’s Heal staff, which his apprentice gave. Closing his eyes, he chanted more words of power and bathed both in a soft blue glow from the staff’s tip. When that produced no reaction whatsoever, at last he sighed and shook his head.

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do, lad.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?!” Cristof raised his voice, and Renault was afraid there’s be a fight. “Then what the hell were you doing with the Dark Master all these years? Aren’t you good for anything?”

“I’m not sure even Bramimond could be of much help. I understand how you feel, Cristof, but I can’t lie to you. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. Let me tell you why. Have you ever heard of Morphs?”

“Y…yes, I have. I’ve never made one, and neither has my mother…she says it’s barbaric magic. But I know what they are. Creatures crafted with artificial bodies and artificial minds.”

“Indeed. So you know that one’s mind and body don’t necessarily share an unbroken connection, right?”

Renault’s hands drifted to the phylactery around his neck, Varek’s words reminding him of his existence.

“Yes, I understand that…”

“Well, what we have here is a case of a mind being torn from its natural body. Cain and Cyas may exist _somewhere_ —I don’t know, perhaps everywhere, in the shadows and darkness all over this world. But their minds have been severed entirely from their bodies. I couldn’t detect the slightest hint of magic power from them with this staff, even though they must have been skilled magicians. To restore them would require one to search through the endless expanse of darkness surrounding not just this world but all of them, even those beyond the Dragon’s Gates. That is a task that would take millennia, even for Bramimond.

“Neither the darkness nor the light can save your brothers. Maybe God can—and if you want, I’ll pray for them. But that’s all I can do. I’m sorry.”

A grimace spread across Cristof’s face, and he clenched his fists…before letting a deep sigh and relaxing again. His smile returned, though there was more than a bit of pain in it, now.

“Yeah…I figured you’d say something like that. I knew from the start it was a foolish hope, but…” he laughed bitterly. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.”

Varek smiled back, letting Renault know all was well, or at least as well as could be expected. “Hope is always a good thing. Don’t hope for too much, but don’t give it up entirely, either. Now, ah…could you lead us back to town? We need to continue our journey.”

“Huh? Oh, sure, but I said I’d give you some help, didn’t I?”

“Really? But your mother’s not in…”

“Yeah, but there’s something else I can do for you. Wait by the hearth for a moment.”

They did so, while Cristof closed the door behind them and then went off to the main bedroom. After a few minutes, where they heard the shuffling of parchment and the scratching of a pen, their host returned with what seemed to be a letter sealed with wax.

“What’s this?”

“A letter of recommendation from my mother. See, Ilia is a damn harsh land to traverse on foot, and even merchant caravans have a hard time making it through when the winter comes. The Pegasus Knights, though, can just fly anywhere they like. But since they’re mercenaries, they’re obviously not a passenger service, and won’t agree to carry random people. With this, though, you won’t be just a couple of random pilgrims. You’ll be personal friends of Niime herself, one of the very legends of Ilia! They’ll be sure to let you tag along, which means it’ll be a lot easier for you to go wherever you need to. If Juge went anywhere else in this country, they’ll be able to track him down for you. Every month a Falcoknight—captain in the Ilian wings—comes over here to collect taxes for the Union and hunt for recruits. Show this to her and she’ll take you along wherever she goes, for free.”

“Ah…we’re, er, very grateful, but your mother…”

Cristof grinned. “It’s no problem. I learned a long time ago how to forge my mother’s signature and handwriting. And she won’t mind…until she finds out, that is. But my dad used to do stuff like this all the time, so I don’t think she’ll get too mad!”

Varek chuckled. “I’d rather not be a party to forgery under normal circumstances, but if your intentions are good…I think the Lord will forgive a transgression like this, just once. Thank you, Cristof, for blessing us even though we couldn’t do the same for your family.”

“Nah, I owe _you_ for making you come up all the way here just for a foolish hope. It’s the least I could do. But…if I could ask for one more favor…”

“What is it?”

“Varek, Renault…pray for me too.” He looked back to the locked bedroom where his brothers lay. “As sad as I am over what happened to them, I also know that they died…no, were consumed, doing what they love. Dark magic runs in our blood…it’s what we live for. To go ever further, to keep on pressing…that’s how our mother is, that’s how my older brothers are, and that’s how Canas is too. What happened to my brothers might happen to me, and while I’ve accepted the risk…I don’t want to pay it so soon. And even though I don’t believe in your God…well, I figure I could use all the help I could get.”

“Alright, friend. We can give you our prayers, at least. May we meet again!”

With that, Christof led them out of his mother’s home. The trek back wasn’t nearly as hard as it was coming—in fact, it seemed like just a few steps away from the door, they’d ended up at the foot of the mountain near the village. Niime’s power was apparently directed more towards ensuring people couldn’t come than making sure they didn’t leave. And then, with a last hearty goodbye from Christof, Renault and Varek returned to the local inn and rented a room for a few nights. Not long after, just as Christof had said, the village was visited by a representative of the Knight’s Union and her two attendants.

Her name was Cathyn, and she was a tall, muscular woman with teal hair several shades lighter than Renault’s own. She arrived at the hermit’s village on the 4th Sword, armed with both a Falcoknight’s raiment

“Oh? And what have we here, hmm? A pair of recruits for the Men’s Auxilliary?”

“Ah, you flatter us, m’lady, but that’s not what we’re here for. We’re petitioners, actually. My name is Varek, and this is my disciple, Renault.”

“Well, what do you wish to ask of us?” She offered them a wry smile. “’Tis better to give than receive, but my knights and I are best at giving death and receiving gold. Unless you’re willing to pay for the privilege, I doubt we’ll have much to offer you.”

“Well, perhaps you’ll change your mind after reading this.” Varek held out Cristof’s forged note, which Cathyn took.

“My my, a friend of the Hermit, are we?” She whistled. “That changes things. I’d be in a mess of trouble with the Union if I offended her. Alright then, you two, you can come along. But remember, all this note says is that you can accompany a knight of Ilia on her travels. It doesn’t mean I’ll be changing directions on your behalf.”

“That’s fine. The only thing we know is that Juge was last seen in this village over twenty years ago. He could’ve gone anywhere in Ilia since then. If we hang on to you wherever you go, I’m sure we’ll find some trace of them.”

“All right then, as long as we understand each other. I’ll let you ride on the back of my Pegasus, sir. Myria, you take Renault.”

“No one for me, Commander?” asked Cathyn’s other aide.

“Sorry, Mamo, there are only two. Maybe we’ll find another at our next stop—until then, just try to deal with the loneliness!”

They all laughed, and Renault and Varek got aboard Cathyn and Myria’s steeds, respectively. After collecting the requisite taxes from the village magistrate, the three knights took off, taking the two foreigners with them.

And so, as it had been in Bern and Sacae, thus went Renault’s life for the next three years. Just as had been the case in Sacae, Renault and Varek more than earned their free passage across the country—people who knew how to use healing magic and concoct different kinds of vulneraries were always a help, after all. But there were a few incidents in the subsequent years where the two men proved themselves useful in different ways—and learned quite a bit about the world as well.

_::To be continued::_

 


	72. The Ice of Ilia-Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juge and Varek's stay in Ilia proves quite productive--in more ways than one.

**Chapter 72**

**The Ice of Ilia-Part 2**

_-X- The Gods of the Snow –X-_

It wasn’t a long time before they arrived at Edessa, the capital of the Knight’s Union.

Cathyn’s first stop after she’d met Renault and Varek had been Carrhae Castle itself, where she’d collected some more money from the lord there as well as written recommendations for a couple of young girls who looked like they’d make good Pegasus Knights. While she did so, the two pilgrims busied themselves with asking around about Juge, and the proprietor of the local magic shop mentioned seeing a man fitting Juge’s description heading towards the capital itself. Cathyn only had a few other stops to make before heading back to Edessa to deliver the tax revenues and reports, so they tagged along with her (occasionally performing work as healers if the people needed them) until they arrived at Edessa a couple of weeks later, on the 9th Valkyrie.

“You’ll have to stay here ‘till the end of the month,” said Cathyn apologetically when they arrived, “I have a _lot_ of paperwork to do. Making sure these tax ledgers are organized, gathering reports from the other knights, filtering through the new recruits, and mediating a few disputes over mercenary contracts. But, hey, it might be good to spend some time here. It’s a big city, and it might be a while before you run into someone who met this Juge person. And while the weather’s not nice, but it’s a holiday season here. We’re celebrating the Festival of the Ice Dragon on the 25 th. You might have some fun!”

Renault and Varek weren’t able to get in as much relaxation as Cathyn said they might, but they did enjoy themselves in the city to at least an extent. It certainly was respectable, the largest in all Ilia, though nowhere near as large as Bern City or Aquleia, and much less cosmopolitan as well; though its skies were filled with the flapping of Pegasus wings, foreigners were few and far between. There was at least a large Eliminean cathedral, at which they sought refuge. The Bishop there (named Liodisus) had heard of Varek’s piety and wisdom, and allowed him and Renault to stay in one of the cathedral’s suites (like Diotica Abbey, jutting from its nave were several rooms reserved for travelers or those seeking sanctuary) free of charge. Using that as their home base, they spent the month canvassing the city searching for traces of Juge—while also getting a crash course in Ilian religion, just from talking to people who were in the midst of a celebration.

Many parishioners—Pegasus Knights, soldiers from the men’s corpss, merchants, workers, and just about anyone—drifted in and out of the city’s many temples during this time. And there were many, many temples. From talking to several friendly shopkeepers and soldiers (Ilians were not particularly shy about sharing their religion), they learned that what passed for religion in the country was fairly disorganized. Ilians didn’t have a creation story as Elimineans or even Sacaeans did—most believed that the world, such as it was, had always existed and would always exist in some form or another. They also believed, however, in a whole constellation of celestial beings which occupied the earth alongside humans, and which had to be constantly propitiated to ensure good fortune. According to Ilian belief, both Dragons and humans had grown haughty and proud and had forgotten their duties to the “Lords and Ladies of Nature,” so those beings had sown discord between the two species and caused the Scouring, which humans only won after the Lords took pity on them and bestowed on them the Holy Weapons. Most of these Lords—nature gods, more like than not—were tied intimately to particular regions, though some were worshipped all over Ilia. Renault remembered a friend of his from long ago—Kelitha—telling him about a few of them. Pyrene of the winter winds, who he had met once and who watched over Pegasus Knights, Byelsert of the ice, whose shields of ice and snow protected the country, and the laughing Carlsbrant who swung a pendulum of fate for all mercenaries, bringing them glory or death as he pleased. All three had large temples in Edessa, and there were several more for regional gods, such as a northern goddess named Ceyul, who brought bountiful catches of fish for sailors, or Dathgar, a god of the central regions who protected lumberjacks.

There was no codified form of worship for any of these beings. Rather, their worshippers—that would be every Ilian in the case of Pyrene, Byelsert, and Carlsbrant, or those from the regions of Ceyul, Dathgar, and the others—were simply expected to bring small offerings of gold and food to the proper temples every month. These temples were shaped rather differently from Eliminean cathedrals, and were generally much more subdued affairs (even the large ones in this city); the Ilian gods apparently eschewed the grandeur of Elimine’s. If they stood alone, they would be squat, dome-shaped structures capped by an icon of whichever god they were dedicated to, but some were even located in the basements of Ilian castles or homes; a practical concession to people who often had to be mobile rather than sedentary. They consisted of a brazier set in the center of a large, open room surrounded by pews. At the middle of each month, the parishioners would toss their offerings of food and gold into the brazier, which would then be lit by the closest things the Ilians had to priests—the village elder or (in the case of larger cities like Edessa) older and respected members of the community, often retired Pegasus Knights. As the offerings burned, the entire congregation would sit in the pews and mumble prayers, in the Common tongue, begging for good health, good fortune, and the continued success of the Pegasus Knights on whom they depended.

These proceedings were usually dour affairs; an ironic contrast to the Festival of the Ice Dragon, which was secular. The story went that there once lived a friendly dragon on the tallest mountain near Edessa (and all Ilia, for that matter) who gave the people food and warm clothing to allow them to survive the harsh winters before the Scouring. Unfortunately, when that great war came, the Ice Dragons retreated away, not wanting to fight their human friends, and eventually retired from Elibe entirely, along with the rest of the Dragons. To commemorate that beast’s friendship, every year, on the 25th Valkyrie, the people would hold a great celebration in honor of the Ice Dragon, and also the faint hope it would return.

There were many special foods and pastries prepared at this time, such as the rice pastries Varek liked, as well as hearty sorts of dumplings filled with boar meat and topped with sour cream. The streets of Edessa were flanked by lanterns with special blue-tinted glass hanging from the windowsills of each house on their first floors, and on the second people laid out banners with the image of a white dragon. Everything was capped off with a big party on the 25th, where the people would spend all day drinking, and then, as the sun set, enter a procession out of the city towards the mountain. The procession would be led by a group of citizens standing huddled together in an elaborately made costume that resembled an Ice Dragon (with one man serving as the head, several as the body, etc), and all the people would be carrying small offerings of food. They would leave their offerings at the foot of the mountain and then return to their homes, where they’d enjoy a restful sleep, hoping their dragon friend would see what they’d brought and somehow return.

Renault and Varek, for their part, didn’t participate; the weather was colder than even Varek was used to and they just watched the celebration pass by from the window of their room. This pleased their host, who dropped by to check up on them.

“Pagan superstitons,” said Bishop Liodesus scornfully, who had made sure all of his flock in Edessa were celebrating the Eliminean rituals of this time (preparing for the commemoration of Elimine’s _Ascension_ over the course of the Month of the Sun). “Bad enough they worship all those Gods—and who can keep track of them, anyways!—but a festival for a _Dragon!_ Beyond contempt!”

Neither Varek nor Renault agreed, but they knew better than to anger their host, so they tactfully kept their mouths shut until the Bishop had gotten his grievances out of his system, at which point he asked them if there was anything they needed (Varek requested a couple of extra furs for warmth) and then took his leave.

“Varek,” said Renault after Liodesus had left, “I…may I make another confession to you?”

“Of course.”

“I…it may be improper for me to say this, but…I believe Bishop Liodesus was wrong.”

“Well, so do I, lad. There’s nothing in the _Journey_ that says we have to buy into everything a churchman says, even if he is a Bishop. Elimine permitted her flock to disagree, you know.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s…I wonder if the Ilian religion is truer than our own.”

This had not been what Varek was expecting, and he motioned for Renault to continue.

“One of the gods…the Ilian gods…is real. I can understand if you don’t believe me, but…I have seen Pyrene.” He told Varek the story of how he had summoned the giant woman at the Spring of Pyrene near Edessa, many decades ago.

“And, more than that,” he continued, “The _Journey_ commands that Dragons must never return to this world. But…the Ilians love their Ice Dragon. And I think they…may be right to do so. The Dragons aren’t all evil. I know…I believe it’s possible for both of us to live together in peace. And that would mean…the _Journey_ is wrong.”

“Have you seen something like that yourself?”

Renault paused, remembering his time in Arcadia, but decided not to say too much about that, as he still remembered how much those people valued their privacy. He simply allowed the silence to go on, and Varek took the hint.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push you—I know you have your reasons. But to answer your questions, Renault…well, you’ve seen a lot in your time. More than me, more than perhaps any man, except Bramimond. I could never blame you for not sharing my faith whole-heartedly, and after these stories, I can blame you even less now. But as much as I respect the gods of the Ilians, I still feel comfortable worshipping my own.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s not as if the _Journey_ ever claimed beings like Pyrene never existed. Elimine even interacted with them—remember the story of the serpent? But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re gods, though. When you spoke to Pyrene, did she demand worship or tribute?”

“…No.”

“Then perhaps she’s not a god as we would understand it. Perhaps she was created by the God I worship…though I don’t think she mentioned that, either.”

Renault shook his head, a small smile on his face.

“Now, about the Dragons…that’s a tougher question.” Varek sighed. “The text is explicit on that point: Dragons must never return to Elibe. I’ve never seen what you saw, so it’s never given me much pause. But if that’s keeping you from believing in the Saint…well, remember what the Church teaches about her. She was blessed by God, and lived as close to a perfect life as any human could hope. But she was still human, not a divine being herself, and had human frailties as well. She cried, she mourned, and not every word she spoke was a direct command from the Lord Himself. When she said that Dragons must never return to the world, she said it just after they’d nearly exterminated humanity. At that time, it’s easy to understand why she’d say that, but if she lived centuries later, and maybe if she saw how much some people—like these Ilians—still loved the Dragons, she might have changed her mind. And even if she wasn’t right about one thing, she was right about so much else that I still give her faith credence.”

“I…see.” Renault wasn’t entirely convinced, but Varek’s words had assuaged his doubts, somewhat.

“In any case, we’d better get ready to leave, soon…Cathyn’s almost done here, and we ought to continue our search.”

He was certainly correct about that. Several people in Edessa had indeed seen Juge—a couple of older men and women running the local spellbook and trinket stores—but either their memories were poor or Juge was unclear about where he was going, because some had said he’d been seen heading west while others said he was going south. It would be greatly troublesome for them in the freezing cold weather if they went the wrong way, so it would be for the best if they continued to tag along with Cathyn’s troop and hope they came across a more specific lead.

And so that was what they did. A few days later, Cathyn dropped by and told them she was done in the city, and could continue traveling with her, which they elected to do. And thus did their journey continue.

_-X- The Men’s Corps –X-_

It had been over ten years since Renault had last wielded a blade, and it felt like a lifetime ago. Even so, it seemed his skills had not dulled in the slightest.

It was the 7th Sage, 972 A.S, and Renault was standing in front of five young would-be knights in front of the home of a Druid on the outskirts of a small hamlet in central Ilia—a farming village, at least as much of one that could exist in this country; there were several terraced fields in the nearby mountains where the men did their best at fostering potatoes and beets in the frozen ground. Cathyn and her retinue had come here a few months ago, levying taxes and taking recruits as usual, while Varek had asked around to see if anyone had heard of Juge. As it happened, this town was the home of a Druid of some repute (though not nearly as much as Niime’s), and the man (rather friendly for a Druid, curiously enough) had indeed met the fellow some years ago. He was more than happy to talk about his old friend with a pair of his new ones, but unfortunately, couldn’t tell them much. He and Juge had traded books, but he’d neglected to ask where the Sage had went after that. And before Renault and Varek could beat a hasty retreat from the village, their Druid friend had managed to bring up a reason for them to stay:

“So you’re not an Ilian, eh?” he chuckled, looking at Renault. “That’s a shame. You’re quite the strapping lad…you’d make an excellent recruit for the men’s corps.”

“Men’s corps?”

“Oh, yes. Ilia has many male mercenaries as well. They’re not as well-known as our Pegasus Knights, and I have to admit…that’s somewhat justified. They’re not nearly as well-trained. Captain Cathyn’s here to take some recruits for them, in fact. But unlike the girls, who are only chosen if they display the highest potential, pretty much any boy who looks like he can swing a sword is eligible for recruiting. That means most of them don’t meet noble ends, but…” he sighed. “That’s just the way it is.”

Varek looked at Renault meaningfully. “Is that so? Well…f’rgive me if this seems presumptuous, but my friend here has some experience with the sword. We might be able to give the lads a bit of training before they set off…if you’d permit, that is.”

“Really?” The Druid seemed quite excited at the prospect. “That’d be a great deal of help—I don’t imagine you have much time before they leave, but any skills you can give them would surely help them live a little longer. The people of this town—and I—would be immensely grateful to you.”

With that, the two travelers bid him farewell and made their way back to the village—though Renault, for his part, was still a little uncertain of their new task.

“Varek…”

“Hm?” The old hermit looked sheepishly at his companion. “What, y’ don’t want to do it, Renault? Ah, I’m sorry for volunteerin’ you, then. It seemed like a good idea, and if it could save even one of those young kids I thought it’d be worth it, but I can’t force you to do anything y’ don’t want—“

“It’s not that. I’m willing, though I am unsure if I’d still be a good teacher after all this time. But…did you not tell me to seek another way to live? To find a life beyond violence? If I teach the youths here how to fight…am I not reneging on the promise I made to you…and Braddock?”

“Ah, now that’s a good question,” said Varek thoughtfully. “But remember, Renault, intention matters as well. As much as we’d both like to live in a world without violence and strife, such things will remain with us until God sees fit to take us all to paradise.”

Renault remember Braddock saying something like this to him, long ago, and nodded.

“So we have to learn to live in such a world, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, as long as we remember it’s not somethin’ we should aspire to. When you train these young boys, you won’t hope to turn them into killers, aye? You just want to give them the skills they need to survive, instead of just dyin’ pointlessly, like the Druid said many of ‘em do. If you can do that…they may just be able to find a better path.” He grinned. “Much like you, eh?”

“…I suppose.”

Renault’s doubts assuaged, they paid a visit to Cathyn and told her of their plans, and to their surprise, she heartily agreed. In fact, she even offered to leave them there for a few months to give as much training as possible to the youths rather than leaving in just a week as she’d initially planned. They took her offer, of course, and they all informed the village’s elder of the services Renault could offer as an instructor. Within a few days the man had informed the eligible teenagers that their conscription had been delayed, and set up a schedule for Renault to train them.

Renault’s initial doubts about his ability were unfounded, for the moment he’d picked up a wooden training blade it felt as if his hands hadn’t once ceased to hold a weapon for all this time. He recalled perfectly every step, slice, and thrust a Mercenary Lord could unleash with a longsword, and his body could still pull off each one of them perfectly. This, naturally, impressed his five scions beyond words (most of whom had only heard stories of battle), and soon enough, they had become extremely devoted to him, imagining he couldn’t be beat by anyone in battle. That was, of course, untrue, but not a misapprehension he worked to disprove—though he made very certain his wards understood that _they_ could die at any moment, and that a single mistake in battle could cost them their lives.

Fortunately, they were all quick studies, and they took that lesson—and all the others he taught—very much to heart. Within two months after he and Varek (who busied himself helping the elder as an apothecary) arrived, the boys had become competent swordsmen. They were far from knights, of course, but they’d definitely have an advantage over their fellows, and would probably live a little longer than they otherwise would have.

That was enough for Renault. And as he led his five proteges through another series of exercises, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud of what he’d been able to accomplish here.

Alas, he wouldn’t have time for much more. Cathyn couldn’t hold off on taking them away forever, and after another week had passed, she and her retinue alighted upon the sleepy village, eager to see how much Renault had accomplished. Upon her arrival, Renault had ordered his students to start a series of sparring matches for the whole day to showcase what they had learned, and their success impressed their recruiter indeed.

“Wow! I hadn’t thought you’d’ve made this much progress so quickly,” she laughed, after the students had retired for the day and their instructors retired to the local tavern for a bit of drink. “They’ll be the greatest recruits the men’s corps has seen in years. You oughta be proud, Renault!”

“…Thank you, but I’m sure you’re exaggerating…”

Cathyn shrugged as she ordered another mug of beer. “Not by much. Only the best of the best can become Pegasus Knights, but just about anyone can become a regular Ilian knight. I keep telling the Fleet Commanders that our male mercenaries would win as much renown as their sisters if they were given more resources and better training, but…well, Ilia’s not the richest country in the world, and we only have so much money to go around. And we need most of our men to stay at home, doing what they can with the vegetable fields in the mountains. So it makes sense to focus on the Pegasus Knights above all, since they’re the one thing Ilia can provide that no other country can.”

“…I see. I certainly can’t argue with the logic of your…Fleet Commanders, you said?”

“Yep. They’re the ones who run everything in this country. You don’t know how it works here, do you?”

Renault looked at Varek, and he shook his head. “Er, forgive us…”

“Well, no problem. It’s not something folks from kingdoms like Etruria and Bern can understand readily. Essentially, Ilia’s a Knight’s Union, not a kingdom or alliance like Lycia. It’s run by the highest ranking members of our Pegasus Knight fleet. Any Captain who’s served her country for more than twenty years has the opportunity to be nominated by her soldiers for a seat in the Union Senate. There can be a maximum of two-hundred women serving there at once, each supposedly representing the mercenaries from each region of our country. Out of that senate, the twelve most illustrious members—or those best at getting votes—are chosen to become Fleet Commanders, the supreme leaders of our military, and that council shares power with the Senate.”

“Wait…all of these are women?”

“No, not quite…members of the men’s corps who’ve served as long can be nominated for the senate as well. There aren’t as many, since the men’s corps isn’t as large as the Knight Fleet, and in all our history there’ve been only two men elected to the Fleet Commander’s council.”

“It seems that half the population is left without a voice in their country’s government,” mused Renault.

Cathyn shrugged. “Compared to monarchies, where only the king and his court count? It doesn’t seem that bad to me.”

Renault remembered well how incompetent Galahad had been during his first campaign as a mercenary, and he couldn’t argue with the captain’s assessment. “I suppose I have to concede your point…”

“That’s reasonable of you,” she chuckled again. “So…if I’ve answered your questions, might you be willing to answer one of mine?”

“Eh? I…don’t see why not…”

“Are you and Varek an item?”

“…excuse me?”

“You know. Are you…together? As bedmates, I mean?”

Renault’s body did not age and knew neither hunger nor thirst. There were still a few functions it was capable of, however, and blushing was one of them. He felt heat rise to his face as it turned beet red, and Varek coughed and sputtered, spitting out the contents of the mug of beer he’d been enjoying. Renault promptly clapped his friend on the back to help him get the booze out of his throat.

“Oh my,” said Cathyn, looking somewhat surprised. “Is that the sort of thing they don’t like to talk about in your countries? I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“Er, ah, that’s alright, m’lady. No offense taken,” and Varek looked at Renault to make sure his disciple got the message, “but…yes, it’s not the sort of question we expect to hear so…ah…bluntly.”

“Oh, I see. So, what’s the answer?”

Renault and Varek looked at each other again. “N-no, we’re not an… ‘item’…as you would say.”

“Really? Odd,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

“Why would it be odd?”

“Well, it’s just been the two of you traveling alone together for so long, right? I know you men have needs, same as women. So you haven’t sated them with each other? That’s how it is in Ilia. With the Pegasus Knights, a lot of men and women spend most of their lives away from each other, so we usually have to learn to enjoy our bodies with the same gender. At least until we get married, but it’s a lucky girl or boy who lives long enough to find a spouse in this country.” Her expression grew sad for a moment, and then she looked at them a bit quizzically. “Is it against your religion, or something like that? I’m not Eliminean, but I’ve spoken to Bishop Liodesus once or twice. I remember him warning some of my girls not to get too ‘friendly’ with each other. He said it was unnatural.”

“Well, that’s a good question,” said Varek thoughtfully. “The scriptures do regulate…carnal behavior…extensively. Marital infidelity is one of our gravest sins, and contact between family members is _strictly_ forbidden. But between men and men, and women and women…it’s not really said. One of the reasons God destroyed Caladine was because of “perversions,” but the nature of such acts was never really mentioned, and there’s no record of Elimine speaking against it either.

“Even so, many of our theologians believe that men and women were made for one another, and any sort of activity that doesn’t lead to a man and wife producing marriage violates God’s will for us. On th’ other hand, I’ve heard other Bishops say that anything not explicitly forbidden is allowed, and as long as one doesn’t break another person’s marital bonds or commit another sort of sin, there’s nothin’ inherently wrong with a few dalliances between the same genders.”

Varek shrugged. “As for m’self, I don’t care about it much one way or another. I never found comfort in the arms of another man, but I used to be a hermit…I never found much comfort in anybody else’s arms. And I’m a bit too old for that sort of thing, now. But I’ll not condemn anyone else for it, either. If Elimine didn’t speak against it, I doubt it’s such a terrible thing.”

“I feel the same,” said Renault. “And even if it were…I have no room to condemn anyone else.”

He was referring to his own status as a sinner who’d nowhere near repented for his crimes, but Cathyn thought he was referring to his place in the hierarchy. “So I guess that kind of thing’s beyond just a wandering priest, huh? Well, whatever.” She shrugged, and then laughed. “I have to say, you two haven’t made a convert, but you do make excellent conversation. I feel like I’ve learned a lot from this little talk, boys.”

Varek smiled. “We feel the same way.”

“In any case, my girls and I will be moving out tomorrow and escorting our newly minted knights to Edessa. Are you two still planning to tag along?”

“Of course!”

_-X- To Etruria –X-_

At long last, during one of Ilia’s short but pleasant summers, Renault and Varek saw their cause to leave the country.

It was the 17th Horse, 973 A.S, and Renault and Varek were staying at the castle of Remi near the western coast of Ilia. There, they happened upon a boatswain with an excellent memory who recalled a scholar like Juge taking a trip on one of his boats. He’d been a studious fellow, said the old seaman, and wanted to visit the great libraries of the most civilized country on Elibe. It had been more than ten years ago, but as it happened, several of the boatswain’s friends also remembered Juge, so it seemed as if they had a pretty solid lead, as well as a definite lock on their next destination.

But that also involved leaving Ilia—and thus, parting from one of their friends.

Cathyn took the news well when they told her they’d have to set off for Etruria—at least, that’s the impression she tried to give off. “Ah, finally!” she laughed, as all three of them sat at a table in one of Remi’s many bars. “I was getting tired of lugging the two of you all across Etruria. I guess you’re gonna be some sailor’s problems now, huh?”

Renault and Varek both chuckled, but they sensed a frisson of hurt beneath her words—they both knew she’d grown to consider them friends and companions, and they felt the same way about her. Still, it wasn’t a subject that needed belaboring. “I s’pose we are,” said Varek. “Listen, Lady Cathyn…truly, you’ve been mighty good to us over these past few years. If it weren’t f’r your generosity, we’d probably have frozen to death a long time ago.” That was no idle compliment—Renault had noticed Varek’s greying hair, the gradual tremble of his hands, and the worsening of the sight in his one good eye. “If there’s anything we can do to repay you…”

Cathyn waved a hand in the air. “Don’t even mention it. Boy, I’d be irritated if you even tried, frankly. Just one favor, though. When and where are you setting off for Etruria?”

“Ah…tomorrow morning, at the northernmost dock.”

“Well, don’t board too soon.” She winked at them. “I couldn’t live with myself if I wasn’t able to see you off!”

She kept that promise—and more.

The next morning, as Renault and Varek rose to meet their ship at the docks, they saw Cathyn as well as all of her soldiers standing there waiting for them.

“Quite a seeing-off party,” Varek smiled as he hobbled towards his well-wishers.

“Of course! And it wouldn’t be a party without presents, right?”

“Eh?”

One of her knights standing next to her handed a small pouch to her, which she handed to Varek. “This is a little Ilian specialty,” she smiled. “This little pouch is filled with some special herbs taken from the mountains and the farthest reaches of Ilia. They can’t heal wounds like your staves, but they’ll keep you safe from minor illnesses, and stay strong for years, even if they’re dry or wet, hot or cold. No offense, but…I figured someone like you could use ‘em.”

“You’d be right,” said Varek. “Y’r thoughtfulness honors me, m’lady.”

“And I have something for you too, Renault.” Cathyn nodded to one of her other knights, who held something out. It fit snugly in Renault’s hands, and he saw it was a strange white statue of some sort. It was a bust of a woman with a sort of crown, or perhaps halo, above her head.

“That’s for you, Renault. It’s an icon of an old goddess…Ashera, I think. She’s not worshipped in Ilia, though she might have been ages ago, before the Scouring. Anyways, it’s a bit of a relic, and I hear it brings you a bit of luck, too. I thought you might like it.”

“…I do. I’m…not sure what to say. Like Varek, I am honored.”

“In that case, you honor us as well,” said Cathyn. “You foreigners are right: Ilia is a poor land, a very poor land. We don’t have all that much to offer but our lives. But that just makes us treasure what we do have all the more, and we treasure our friends most of all. After all this time together, boys, I think I consider you my friends. So take these, without a bit of hesitation, because we’re friends, and for an Ilian, knowing she’s done a friend a good turn is worth even a week of an empty belly.” She laughed, and they could both tell that laugh was sincere, and meant for them as well. “So I want you to have these. If they’ll keep either of you alive a little longer when you’re away from my protection, they’re worth it.”

“Then we’ll accept your gifts with gratitude. Your people are truly generous, Cathyn.” Renault agreed with Varek’s words—he remembered how freely Cristof had given of himself as well, and found himself with respect for more than the country’s Pegasus Knights.

And as he and his friend boarded the ship, waving at their friends one last time, Renault found that he would forever remember Ilia for much more than its snow and ice.

_::Linear Notes::_

When first published on FFn, the previous chapter contained many, many errors and was put out too early because I was sick at the time.

I learned several lessons: First, keeping around multiple drafts of the same work is often a bad idea, unless they’re very clearly labeled. For my academic work, I label them draft 1, draft 2, etc., but in this case, I labeled the original bad draft “The Ice of Ilia” and the good one “The Ice of Ilia-Part 1.” Guess which one I uploaded? D: So yeah, I’m definitely going to be more thorough in labeling my drafts for this fic.

 Still, it’s my fault for procrastinating so much on the story and missing the deadline. This chapter was originally meant to be split into two parts—the first dealing with Cristof, the second dealing with the rest of Renault’s journey in Ilia, but alas, I failed to check which draft of the chapter I’d uploaded, and uploaded a version with the incomplete second half still attached. I have rectified the problems—the first part of “The Ice of Ilia” now consists of just Renault’s visit to Niime’s mountain hermitage, whereas this one contains the other half of the story arc, as intended. 

Anyways, notes for both parts:

Niime’s village is in Carrhae, which is chapter 19A of Binding Blade.

The pastries are a reference to Karelian pasties from Finland. The little dumpling things are a reference to the Russian Pelmeni.

Juge’s romantic failure is a reference to Niime’s A support with Hugh, when she says she used to be a “stunning beauty” and dated men before dumping them after they spent all their money on her. XD

The stuff about the men's corps is largely based off of Farina’s support conversations, where she calls them more or less useless. I took that to be an exaggeration, but based off a grain of truth, as Noah and Zealot in FE6 weren’t very good and Ilia seems to be known first and foremost for its Pegasus Knights, not anything else. The stuff about gender, same-sex relationships, and all that, however, is my own invention, taken from my studies of European history and extrapolated from what I think a very sex-segregated society would take as adaptations to its situation.

 

 


	73. The Elimineans of Etruria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After so many years, Renault returns to his homeland.

**Chapter 73: The Elimineans of Etruria**

(Quick Author’s Note: In the last section of this chapter, please listen to the 3rd ending song of Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Kansei no Uta: w ww . you tube dot com /watch?v=sJ0oKYZ9XQA#t=74 – remove all the spaces, of course)

It had been many, many years since Renault had last seen his homeland. If he had said he’d felt nothing at all, he would be lying—there were very many memories for him in Etruria. Far more than any other country on Elibe; not only was it where he’d been born and raised, but it was where he’d met Braddock, killed his first man, had his first kiss…to return again after so many years certainly did evoke many conflicting emotions. Nostalgia for his old friends, sorrow for their passing, embarrassment at how immature and foolish he’d been in those old days, and determination not to repeat his old mistakes.

He wasn’t as overwhelmed by those feelings as much as one might expect, though. Varek certainly noticed the troubled expression on his face as they stepped onto the dock in the Etrurian port town of Nessos on the 30th Horse, 973, and thought he might have been. When the question was raised, though, Renault shook his head.

“It’s not that I feel nothing, but…well, there’s no point lying to you, is there? I wonder if I don’t feel as much as I should.”

“Well, the heart isn’t something a man can easily control, and it’s not something he can be blamed for either—in and of itself, at least.”

“Th…thank you. It’s that…all the emotions I feel, looking at my homeland…none of them are as strong as they should be. I _know_ I was born here, and I _remember_ …everything else. The good and bad. But it’s as if…all those memories belong to someone else. They make me feel something…many things…but not as strongly as if I experienced them all myself. It’s more like I’m having…empathy for a friend, rather than myself. At least…that’s the best way I could put it.”

“Hmm.” Varek stroked his greying beard thoughtfully. “Certainly not somethin’ I hear every day, but…I don’t think it’s a bad thing. In fact, it may be a sign of progress.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the things that happened to you…Events like those always leave wounds on a man’s heart, Renault. And you’ve been given a lot of them—though not nearly as many as you’ve given the world, don’t ever forget that! But for the past few decades, you’ve been healing the wounds you caused…to the extent y’ can, at least. And in the process of doing so, I think you’ve healed the wounds you bear. If they were still fresh, like they were when we first met, you’d be so overwhelmed by emotion you’d barely be able to stand! But if they no longer seem as strong, as immediate…well, maybe the wounds in your heart’ve scarred over. They’ll remain with you always, no doubt about that, but at least they can’t cripple you.”

“I see. Varek…thank you.”

“Well, enough o’ my ramblin’,” the ex-hermit grumbled. “We’ve got…”

“A job to do,” Renault finished for him. “…Respectfully, I think we ought to go to Aquleia first. There is no way Juge would have overlooked the capital’s great libraries in his quest for knowledge. We’d surely find trace of him there.”

“Aye, lad, I was thinking the exact same thing. But, ah…”

“Eh? What is it?”

“Well…if we’re goin’ to Aquleia, would you mind if we took a little detour before continuing our quest for Juge?”

“…Of course not. Though, given that I’m _your_ disciple, I have no room to mind any of your decisions…”

A small grin. “Hmph, well, I certainly can’t fault your devotion, lad. In any case, it’s not as if we’ll be going far. The Tower of the Saint is just on the outskirts of the capital.”

“The Tower of the Saint?”

“Aye. I’m ashamed to say it, but I’ve never once made pilgrimage to our religion’s holiest site. It’s an omission I ought to correct, especially while I still can. I’m not growin’ any younger, after all.”

He was not, and that thought sent a shudder of sadness and dread rolling through Renault’s chest. He may not have aged, but he was not so oblivious as to fail to notice other people doing so, and he knew very well that Varek would very likely take his last breaths far before Renault. But to the disciple’s credit, he spent little time on this grim train of thought, and did not worry his master with any outward expression of discomfort. Instead, he simply nodded his assent. And thus did the two of them make their way through the port town—not so different from the one they’d arrived from in Ilia, or the many others Renault had encountered in his travels—to find a caravan heading southwest.

-x-

As had been the case with several other places he’d visited, Aquleia had changed little since Renault had been here—though that was because he’d last seen the city twenty years ago rather than two hundred. Its cathedrals and libraries were as grand as ever, the Holy Royal Palace as glorious as it had always been, though of course not all was well in the city. The slums on its outskirts still existed, and though they were out of sight when Renault’s caravan passed through the opaline city gates, he still felt a rush of shame when he remembered that the last (and most grievous) crime in his life, the murder of his old friend Lucian, had been committed in those slums.

Yet it was as Varek said-he still felt the shame, and deeply, but memories alone were not enough to overwhelm him with the emotion; though if he were ever to encounter the victims he had left behind to deal with Lucian’s death, he doubted he could maintain such a calm demeanor. But as Varek wasn’t dwelling on it, he wouldn’t either. Once they were inside, they thanked the friendly travelers who had taken them along, and then made their way to the other side of the grand city through its winding streets, where, even before they had reached the other gates, they could see their destination standing tall in the sky, towering over the rest of Aquleia, and pretty much everything else, to boot.

The Tower of the Saint was, without a doubt, the largest edifice Renault had ever seen in his more than two hundred years of life. He’d caught a glimpse of it on his previous visits to this city, but had never come very close to it, much less for pilgrimage, and when he and Varek exited the city walls (on the northwestern side, this time) and neared the Tower just a half a mile outside, he found himself far more impressed with it than he ever thought he would be.

Even calling it “large” or “tall” would have been an understatement. In front of the tower sat a huge, circular hall—the Grand Narthex, as it was called—which could easily seat over a thousand people, but even that was nothing compared to the Tower itself. It was a perfect cylinder made of what was apparently pure gold that seemed to glimmer in the sun, and it stood _three miles_ into the air, so tall that its tip could not be seen over the clouds. There was no way humans or even Dragons could build something that big, much less keep it upright, but somehow it stood, as it had for nearly a thousand years.

Despite everything that had happened to him, Renault was still not entirely certain if his faith was true. But looking at that mighty tower, he found his doubts were no longer as solid as they had once been.

Varek seemed to be as impressed as Renault was; in fact, perhaps even more overwhelmed. “Ah, blessed Saint Elimine…the God we worship is great indeed.” He got down to his knees on the grass beside the road, and Renault did the same. Together, they began to pray, their hands threading through the beads of their rosaries as they mouthed the chants. It was early in the morning, and they were actually the only two pilgrims in the immediate area. It was not long, however, before they found themselves with a companion.

They heard his approach before they saw him. The opaline gates to Aquleia opened, and out came a group of extremely important-looking men. A column of twenty Paladins, all in opulent golden armor and equipped with Silver weaponry, sat astride strong white destriers surrounding an equally opulent carriage, also rimmed with gold and with golden spokes on its wheels, topped off by a grand icon of Elimine.

“An Archbishop!” Vare gasped. “Renault, keep your head down and pay your respects. Whenever they leave their cathedrals, Archbishops often visit the Tower of the Saint to make pilgrimage, like they do. But they’re the only ones allowed to see its interior!”

Renault full well knew the respect that ought to be accorded to one of the leaders of his church, so as Varek requested, he remained in his kneeling position, head bowed along the side of the road. But, curiously enough, this display caught the attention of the man they thought was too far above them to notice.

The procession ground to a halt as it neared the two pilgrims. Renault’s curiosity overcame his self-control, and he opened his eyes a crack to see that the Archbishop’s carriage had stopped right in front of him—and the Archbishop himself had stepped out!

“Raise your eyes, my brothers,” smiled the Archbishop, an elderly man with a bushy gray beard and jovial green eyes. “Be he high or low in our church, an Eliminean is always gladdened to see one of his own. I am Deasus, and it does my heart good to see the work of God inspires others as it does me. What are your names, friends?”

“You do us honor beyond words, most holy Deasus,” said the kneeling ex-hermit. “My name is Varek, and this is my disciple, Renault.”

“Varek?” asked the Archbishop. “You mean you’re Varek? Bramimond’s Hermit?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Eh, well, yes, that would be me…”

“It is an honor, your holiness!” To Renault’s astonishment, and the obvious astonishment of Deasus’ retinue, he performed the sign of the Church, tracing a circle over his chest and then slashing down with his right index finger, before genuflecting before Varek. “My fellow Archbishops have spoken of your piety and virtue. Would you like to enter the tower? I am on a pilgrimage there myself, and would be grateful beyond words if you would accompany me. If you are journeying here, God and His Saint would most certainly want you to experience what lies inside this most holy of sanctums. It is only fitting, for you are one of the holiest men of our faith!”

Varek turned almost sheet white. “Your Excellency, I…I can’t! Only the Bishops and great nobles of the land are even allowed into the Narthex, much less the Tower itself! I can’t possibly ask you to do something like that just on my behalf!”

“Nonsense! I am a servant of the servants of God, and you are one of His most devoted servants. From all across the land—Bern, Etruria, even Sacae and Ilia—I have received missives from my bishops praising your wisdom and faith. To briefly bask in the radiance of our Saint’s relics is an honor you have more than earned!” Deasus nodded to Renault. “And you as well, sir Renault. I know not from whence you came, but I have also heard that you have been a devoted friend and servant to Varek and a quiet, solid worker for our faith in your own right. As Varek shares this glory, so may you as well.”

“I…” Renault didn’t quite know what to say, and ordinarily he would have declined the honor as fervently as he could, but he did not want to be separated from Varek under any circumstances. “I…I am Varek’s disciple. Where he goes, I will go.”

“…if you’d do me the honor, Your Excellency,” Varek said, “I accept. I wanted to see the Tower itself while I was still able, but to see its interior before I die…God has truly blessed me this day.”

“And I as well, friend,” said the great Archbishop. He gestured to his retinue, impressive Generals and Paladins all clad in the finest gold armor. “Open the door to the Narthex, brothers, so that we may show our respect to the might of our Lord.”

The great double doors swung open, and Renault, Varek, Deasus, and the Paladins entered.

The interior of the place was as grand as the exterior. Every inch of it, from the humongous columns to the thousand beautiful thrones for visitors, seemed to be made of solid gold, including the ceiling, which had every word of the _Journey_ inscribed painstakingly into each golden block. Yet, despite all this ostentatious beauty, it was really nothing more than a meeting room, a place to hold events such as the Grand Synods described in _950 Years of Light_. The true purpose of the great tower lay behind the small single door behind the 8 thrones of the Archbishops at the far end of the chamber.

The dismounted Paladins who guarded them were all pious men, and got on their knees and bowed as Varek, Renault, and Deasus entered that door. This was, after all, the holiest sanctum in all of Elibe, and it was very well guarded-though not by human hands, as Renault and Varek would soon see.

Inside the door, the Tower of the Saint itself seemed to be…a regular tower, albeit a very, very large one. Everything was still gold, but around the circumference of the building there was wrapped a spiral staircase leading upwards. It would be a three mile march upstairs, and there mere thought of it was enough to make Renault feel exhausted, but fortunately, they wouldn’t have to make the journey by foot. In the center of the room was a magic circle, similar to that present the Shrine of Seals, though the runic designs looked more similar to those found within Light magic tomes than the Dark runes of Bramimond’s abode. The three of them stood in its center, and a few words from Deasus sent them soaring upwards in a funnel of bright white light.

In a moment they had arrived at the Tower’s pinnacle, and Renault found himself glad he no longer really had a human stomach. He and his companions were standing directly in front of the end of the massive spiral staircase, which opened into the large room which comprised the tower’s top.

Everything was still bright gold, and glowing very softly, too. In front of them was a large staircase leading upwards to the sixth-last floor, flanked by a quartet of huge columns. All across the walls there were windows with bright aquamarine-colored glass, and from those windows Renault could see the clouds below him. It would have given him vertigo if he was still capable of it.

“Be very careful,” said Deasus sternly, after Renault and Varek had composed themselves. “While we are in the pinnacle, trace my steps _exactly_. The walls here produce magical arrows meant to pierce through any thieves or blasphemers who trespass into this tower. If you don’t want to be hurt by these Heavenly Arrows, do not take a step from the path I will lead!”

They obviously had little trouble believing him, and did as he commanded. Up the first staircase they went, pausing when he did (and watching bright flashes of light pass by them when he did so—the Arrows, they surmised) before coming to the next, which were a pair of narrower ones now. They made their way through a winding hallway to the next set of stairs, which were flanked by columns which had streaks of beautiful turquoise running through their vertical lengths. Upon two more of those staircases with the columns, up another larger staircase, when at last, they came to the object of their quest—the incomparable Throne of Elimine.

It did not seem like much, especially when compared to the rest of the Tower. It was gold and had a bright red back and seat, but beyond that it was little different than the thrones Renault had seen all over Elibe. What really made it magnificent was lay upon it…or rather, over it.

Floating in the air, ensconced in white light, was the holy tome Aureola. It was the first time Renault had ever seen one of the Divine Weapons, and it did not disappoint. The tome itself was about the same size as all the other magic tomes he had encountered, and was colored the same as well; primarily gold and white. But the designs weaving across the Aureola tome were truly unique. The tome glowed, brighter than anything else, including the tower itself, and the white and gold symbols on its face (a great star framed by white light) pulsed, indicating they weren’t mundane gilding but actual representations of the radiant power contained within the tome.

“This is the fifth time I have been here, but I never fail to be amazed,” said Deasus reverently. “It is on this throne that Elimine sat when God returned her to His side. She never died—there is no trace of her there except for her tome, an everlasting symbol of the power of faith.” Deasus genuflected again before the book, and then knelt, his head touching the ground. “Oh, blessed Saint, I may be an Archbishop, but I am nothing in the face of your virtue and our God’s beneficence. I pray only that you give me the wisdom to lead your flock to prosperity and virtue, and show them a proper example so we may all better serve our Lord.”

Varek had done the same, and there were tears in his eyes—it was, in fact, the very first time Renault had seen him cry. And it was not at all something he could fault the former hermit for; considering how important religion was to him, to have been given the opportunity to see the greatest emblem of his faith _in person_ would have been emotionally overwhelming for him, and he said as much in his own prayer.

“Oh, Lord,” he said in a trembling voice, “I’ve lived a thoughtless life. I killed, I stole, and I committed many sins without knowing what I was doing, in the name of greed and spite, following orders mindlessly. But here I am now, with the honor of having seen the very tome with which Your servant Elimine saved the human race. I’m unworthy of your mercy and grace, but you’ve given it to me anyways. And I swear I’ll do everything I can t’ repay it, with however much time I have left.”

Renault, for his part, wasn’t as moved personally as either of those two men. But there was a part of his soul—and he believed he had such a thing now, truly—that was touched by the soothing holiness of the tome in front of him. And more than that, he was convinced, upon watching it, that it was more than coincidence or the whims fate that brought him here. For the first time in his life, he felt as if something was driving him forward, that all that had happened to him, at least since he’d met Bramimond, had happened for a reason, and that however strange his life may have been at this point, he yet had a part to play, and would see it through, wherever it took him. In short, something called destiny.

And with that knowledge, he said a prayer of his own-too quietly for his companions to hear, though they were too engrossed in their own thoughts to hear him, anyways.

“I…I am still not sure if you exist, God of Elimine. There is no mention of Morphs, of men with souls in phylacteries, in your _Journey_. But I know what did exist…my friend Braddock, and his love for me. I know I stained that love with the thoughtless life I once led, and I will do anything… _anything…_ to remove those stains, and to at last honor his memory instead of tarnishing it. For that reason I joined Your church…

“And I think it has allowed me to…find myself. I may not know the truth of Your teachings, but I know I am on the right path, as strange as it may be. And so I pray for one thing: That I am allowed to continue this path for as long as it takes for me to finally repay Braddock for everything…to make up for all the crimes I committed against his memory…and to repay him for everything he did for me when he was alive.”

With those words, the Tower of the Saint fell silent again, utterly silent. The three of them sat kneeling there for several more minutes, each of them quietly contemplating what their faith meant to them personally. And astonishingly—for Renault, who had no idea a tome could do such a thing, it was the tome itself that determined when they should leave.

He was almost broken out of his reverie when the glow surrounding Aureola began to intensify. But before he could say or do anything, it had brightened into a strong white light that enveloped the three of them, returning them back to the very first floor of the tower.

“H-huh?” he stammered, forgetting his composure. “What…”

This was not the first time this had happened to Deasus, and it seemed Varek had been expecting it. “That is the power of Aureola,” said the Archbishop. “Of all the Divine Weapons, really. They have wills of their own, and can sometimes act through those who wield them, or even those who respect them, like the three of us. When the Tome feels it has received the proper genuflection, it knows it is time to return its parishioners back to the world.”

“I…see.”

“Thank you, both of you, for coming,” smiled Deasus. As corrupt as some of the other Archbishops Renault had seen in the past had been, he very much got the impression that Deasus, at least, was a worthy leader. “I’m glad I was able to share this with you. The office of the Hermit of the Shrine is holy and important, and Varek deserved a chance to have some repayment after all he has done for us over the years.”

“It was…it was too much,” replied Varek, wiping his eyes and still visibly affected by that religious experience. “I was…am not…worthy.”

“Then the wisdom you’ve gained from your prayers will make you so,” said Deasus kindly. “And…ah! That reminds me. I know you have learned something from your prayer as well, Renault. But I have something I wish to give you personally, as well.”

“…Your Excellency?” Renault bowed his head, and felt a blush creeping across his cheeks. This was definitely not something he was expecting, especially since he assumed he’d been let into the Tower itself as nothing more than a favor to the very well-respected Varek.

“Varek is not the only one I have heard good things about. Abbess Meris has written to me of the help you gave them in Diotica Abbey. Liodesus, in Ilia, has complimented your discernment and stoicism, and even passed on to me a letter from Captain Cathyn—not a member of the faith, but an honest witness and respected member of her community—that you taught the people of Ilia much during the course of your sojourn there, and brought much aid to those in need. In acknowledgement of your good deeds, I bestow this upon you.”

Deasus reached into a fold of his robes and pulled out a very small object—that was very powerful despite its size. Renault gasped audibly when he recognized it.

“A…Ring of Guidance? D…Your Excellency, why would you give this to me? It would mean being elevated to the rank of Bishop, and I…”

“Well, not a Bishop exactly,” Deasus smiled. “Your _technical_ rank would be a Master Mendicant, as you travel around too much to properly oversee a diocese. But this ring would symbolize, to all the world, the services you have rendered to the Church, and you’d be given the appropriate respect in return. You will also be authorized to cast spells from tomes as well as the staves you are already familiar with. If you are planning to continue your travels, it would be useful indeed for you.”

“But I…I am not…”

“It’s a wise decision, lad,” said Varek kindly. “I know…we both know your feelings and your doubts. But consider this another step on your path.” The smile hadn’t disappeared from Varek’s face, but his voice did change, indicating that they were now speaking of possibilities less than pleasant. “Listen, we both know this…I’m not gonna be around forever. And I don’t want you to be lost without me. The extra power you’ll gain from your ordination will help keep you safe when I can’t watch over you.”

Renault had never disobeyed a request from Varek before, and he would not start now. He got down to one knee and extended a hand to Deasus, who slipped the ring onto his index finger.

“Blessed Elimine, I beseech you, grant your humble servant a measure of your faith and wisdom. O Lord, I beg of you, watch over Renault, so he may continue in the way Your Saint has shown us.”

With that, Renault’s entire world turned white. It was the same sensation he’d felt so long ago, when Henken had bestowed upon him the power of a Mercenary Lord. He felt his mind and body disassociate, his entire form being destroyed and rebuilt over and over…and then, nothing. He knelt on the floor, gasping for breath, but feeling new knowledge inside his head, and new strength in his body.

Deasus was still smiling. “You yet have much to learn, my young friend, but with this new power you will find, I believe, your education to be a little easier.”

“I…do not doubt that. Thank you, Your Excellency. A-and you as well, Varek. As always…”

“Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Renault,” came Varek’s wry reply. “You’ll make me start cryin’ again.”

Deasus couldn’t help but chuckle at this. Then he asked, “So whence are you two heading now? I scarcely imagine your journey will stop here!”

“No, not at all.” Varek briefly told Deasus the details of their quest and who they were searching for.

“Alas, I wish I could help you, but I’ve never met this Juge, nor a man of his description. I’m almost certain someone at the Royal Archives would have seen him if he passed through this country at any point.”

“Indeed, we thought so too. That was our next destination.”

“Then I wish you the best of luck, and may God watch over you in your quest. I actually wouldn’t mind joining you—the Archives are a miracle unto themselves; it seems as if they have miles worth of bookshelves of every kind there! Such a font of knowledge…but alas, I am no longer a monastery librarian, and my duties call for me in the Western Isles. This is where we part, then. Farewell, brothers!”

And with that, they exited the tower; the guards had waited for them with seemingly preternatural patience and escorted them out of the Narthex without so much as a word. They did, though, wave back at Renault and Varek as the two of them waved at their procession to say goodbye. Both of them heaved a bit of a wistful sigh as they saw their new (and powerful) friends disappear into the distance—and then they resumed their quest, as they always did.

They first visited the Royal Archives, as Deasus had recommended, and then combed through every other library, magic shop, academy, and magician’s in the city over the course of approximately six months. Juge’s trail was growing even colder by this point, but had not entirely disappeared. An elderly librarian at the Archives had indeed seen Juge about twenty years ago, around 953 to be exact, but recalled only that he’d visited several others in Aquleia. So those were where they searched next.

In the process of doing so, Renault found that despite everything--praying before the divine Aureola tome, becoming a Bishop, and gaining even more power in the process—his life had not changed all that much at all.

He wore nicer clothes, now. His Bishop’s robes were warmer (and afforded slightly more protection) than his former Priest’s habit, though they were still nothing particularly special, and indeed, far less showy than a usual Bishop’s attire would be, which suited his still-peripatetic lifestyle: A dark purple tunic under a white surplice (with dark trim), with a dark blue sash around his waist which bespoke his status as a wandering “Master Missionary” as opposed to a stationary Bishop who ran a diocese. He still wore the sturdy traveler’s boots and warm cloak the women of Diotica Abbey had given him.

Beyond that, however, the basic tenor of his life remained the same—following Varek as the two of them attempted to find Juge’s trail, doing odd jobs as they traveled. Of course, Varek also had to teach him the finer points of using tomes, but he caught on to that quickly enough—it wasn’t so different from using staves, though the act of “aiming” light magic, as opposed to a staff’s spells, was somewhat more difficult. Still, he caught on very quickly, and within a year had mastered the use of nearly every sort of Light tome. He couldn’t do much damage with any of them, of course—even with the benefit of Deasus’ Ring of Guidance, Renault could only draw a minimum of magical power from his being, trapped as it was in a primitive phylactery. He was somewhat grateful for that, however.

He had, after all, abjured violence, and while both he and Varek knew it was occasionally necessary, he could be quite happy if he’d be able to live out the rest of his supernaturally-extended existence without ever raising arms against another human being every again.

Unfortunately, even that wish would be denied to him. But that would come later; quite a few years later, in fact. For now, violence remained thankfully absent from Renault’s life. And it would remain so, even after they left Aquleia, when a teacher at one of the larger academies (the same one at which Renault had met that Tillinghast loon, many years ago) mentioned Juge heading north, for personal reasons—he simply wanted to enjoy the scenery of this beautiful country.

And in that direction did Renault and Varek then set forth.

_-X-Mother-X-_

Renault’s return to Thagaste did not in and of itself elicit very many emotions for him either, despite it being his very own birthplace.

Perhaps it was because the city itself had changed so much. While it had always been a busy place, during Renault’s youth it was also beset by poverty and deprivation; the slums in which Lisse’s old tavern had been found took up much of the city. Now, however, Thagaste seemed to be doing much better, at least as far as he could see. There were still slums, still spots of squalor and crime, but those seemed to have been contained to the outskirts of the place. Now it seemed to be filled more with plasant-looking white stone houses (most two and some even three stories high) with shingled roofs not entirely dissimilar from those common in Aquleia. While it was nowhere close to the grandeur of the capital, Thagaste had clearly grown into a mature, prosperous trading hub at the intersection of two rivers.

Some of this, certainly, had to do with the fact it had also become something of a tourist destination following the Civil War.

Renault and Varek had heard of this from the many people they’d interacted with in the year since they’d left Aquleia. As Juge had went on a sightseeing tour of northern Etruria, they’d visited many towns in the area. Austros and Nerinheit, both of which were doing well (the Lurkmire Forest had been cleared some years ago, and Nerinheit seemed to have completely recovered from the Civil War—understandably), as well as Solgrenne itself, which remained a ghost town even after hundreds of years, though Renault was very, very happy to see that there were no ghosts remaining there. Many of the people they talked to discussed many of the more notable landmarks in the region, such as Castle Jerid (which used to be Castle Nerinheit, later the infamous Fortress of Spears, which was given to Great General Jerid following the war and refurbished, with a large and bustling town growing around it, replacing Scirocco). One of the most popular, however, was the tomb of a famous Eliminean bishop interred in Thagaste.

The sepulcher of Monica the Martyr.

Renault knew the story very, very well, because he lived it: She was the Bishop of Zodian’s Rest when the Civil War began, and died rather than allow some anti-religious stormtroopers to desecrate her cathedral. Her death brought the Eliminean church firmly onto the side of the Royalists and truly spelled the death knell of the rebellion.

She was also Renault’s mother, but very few histories mention that she had a mercenary for a son. That would, after all, tarnish her image—though it was not something Renault could blame the chroniclers for, now. Were he in his mother’s place, or writing about his mother, he would do the same.

But even though he had never loved his own flesh and blood as much as he had loved Braddock, he realized now that he had been as unkind to her as he had been to Braddock. And now, two hundred years after the fact—but better late than never—he wished to make amends, and said as much to Varek.

“You were kind enough to let me make a little detour to the Tower of the Saint a few years back, so it’d be ill of me indeed to deny you the same courtesy, lad. Besides, Juge probably came by here at some point anyways. Back in Nerinheit, they told us he went back south before heading east. It couldn’t hurt to give Thagaste a look.”

So on the 9th Sage, 754 A.S, they arrived, and promptly asked around for the location of Monica’s resting place. Right by her former cathedral, they were told, in a special tomb that had been built just inside the sanctuary of Zodian’s Rest. After the war, the Head Church of Etruria, or the Supreme Church, had recognized Monica’s supreme holiness, so her remains and those of her husband had been exhumed from the catacombs and placed in their new tomb, so the faithful could easier reach it and pay their respects.

Not wishing to make a scene, Renault and Varek waited until nightfall, and then made their way to Zodian’s Rest.

“Ho, who’s there?” called one of the guards as they approached. “It’s quite late for honest travelers, aye? And even if it wasn’t, you’d have no luck. The Bishop’s not in the city at the moment, but he’ll be back tomorrow.”

“That’s fine,” replied Varek. He looked at Renault, who couldn’t bring himself to say anything—he was staring at the cathedral intently, the memories of his past and childhood rushing back to him, _now_ filling him with the emotions which had previously lain dormant. “My friend wishes to make pilgrimage to Monica’s tomb.”

“I can understand that, but… _now?_ We apologize for the suspicions, but…”

“That’s fine.” Varek gestured for Renault to step a little closer, allowing the guards to get a better look at him, and also to undo his cloak to show off what he was wearing.

“That sash and surplice…oh! You’re also a Bishop?”

Technically a Master Missionary, but in terms of privileges the ranks were essentially the same. “Yes.”

“Forgive our impertinence, Your Excellency! We didn’t know…”

“I do not mind.”

“Well, of course you can visit our honored Martyr, in that case. Sir,” the guard nodded to Varek, “would you like to come as well?”

“Eh…” Varek looked at Renault. “I think my friend would rather complete his pilgrimage alone. It’s…personal to him. If it wouldn’t be much trouble, though, could one you lead me to the nearest inn? My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.”

“It would be an honor.” One of the soldiers gently took Varek’s arm, while the other led Renault into the cathedral itself.

The guard seemed to want to chat amiably with his strange guest, but the expression on Renault’s face told him it was pointless.

Memories were crashing around in his head, almost as frantically as they’d been when Bramimond had shown him the folly of his previous ways.

He remembered fighting Tassar within the burning tower…

Evening meals with Lisse…

Working with Henken to repair the vandalism committed on the cathedral’s face…

And most of all, his mother’s tearstained face as she stared at him after he’d broken her nose-for nothing more than asking him to perform the Rite of Contrition.

“…Your Excellency?” They had paused inside the cathedral, just by the altar, which was lit at night by a single candle on top of it. “Is something the matter?”

Renault shook his head. “Forgive me. Let us continue.”

They passed through the large doors behind the altar and exited out into the sanctuary. It was late at night, but a full moon was out and there were many stars in the sky, so Renault had no trouble seeing everything.

The area looked mostly the same as it had in the 700s, but there was one crucial difference. Directly in front of the great tree at its center were two large stone caskets, each almost as tall as Renault. They were beautifully sculpted, with designs evoking trees and leaves carved around their lids and bases, and on top of both was etched the Sun Tower sigil of the Eliminean church.

This was what Renault had came to see.

“Do you wish to pray, Your Excellency?”

“I…I do. If you could…could you leave me? I wish to be alone for…for a little while.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.” The guard bowed, then slipped back into the door to the cathedral’s main body, leaving Renault to his thoughts.

The new Bishop took a faltering step forward…then another, and another, until he stood in front of the coffins.

“Mo…Mother…Father…” Renault said, reaching out to touch the cold stone of Monica’s tomb. He let out a sob, and then collapsed to his knees in front of it. He brought a hand to his chest and gripped the phylactery hanging from his neck, then brought it to a fold in his robes, withdrawing the small golden rosary Bishops always carried with them. He began threading its beads through his fingers, chanting the words of the prayers for forgiveness Varek had taught him, and when he had gone through all the stations, he began to mutter the words of the Rite of Contrition:

“God, my Lord, I have sinned, and now I repent…

“Mother…Father…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please, forgive me…

“I was a terrible man, and an even worse son. Father, I spit on the faith you gave your life for. And Mother…oh, Mother…you showed me nothing but kindness, but I rejected you and offered nothing but pain in return. I failed you…failed in so many ways…

“But…” Renault smiled bitterly, “I’ve…done what you wanted. I accepted the faith and joined your Church…

“Two centuries after it would have done your heart any good. And even now, I am unsure if what we believe is true. But…one thing is true. I can be sincere about one thing…

“I wanted to find another path…another way to live. That’s what my friend Braddock wanted…and that is what you wanted too…isn’t it?

“This, then, is my repentance. With Varek at my side, I will do what I can…what little I can…to bring honor to your Church, and to give back to the world I have taken so much from. And as I do so, I can only ask…

“Forgive me…forgive me…Mother, Father, please…forgive me…”

He sobbed again, but then—

He blinked. “What…” He brought his head closer to his mother’s coffin, touching his forehead to the cold stone. And then he closed his eyes.

“Tired…why?”

He couldn’t help himself. He tried to raise his head, open his eyes, but to no avail. His hands slipped away as he collapsed to the ground, in a deep sleep.

_Where…Mother? Is that you? Father?_

There was nothing he could see anywhere around him but a dim bluish-white light. In the distance were a pair of shapes, wearing the Bishop’s garb of a man and woman, respectively. He could make out his father’s strong frame and his mother’s teal hair.

_Father! Mother! M-mom!_

He called out to them, and he wasn’t sure they could hear him, but they turned their faces to him. They were far away, no matter how much he tried to run towards them, but he could make out their expressions, and it seemed like they were smiling. Slightly—only slightly—but still smiling.

Their forms disappeared, fading away into the blue light that seemed to permeate everything. In their place, Renault could see one more shape. Larger than both of the previous ones, it was a silhouette he could have recognized anywhere.

It was Braddock, standing with his back to him. And he began to turn towards Renault—but before he did, he was swallowed up by the blue light, leaving only two words ringing in Renault’s ears—

_Keep going…_

And then the light dimmed—and returned, but this time as dim sunlight.

“Hm?” Renault blinked and shook his head, then stood up. “Did I fall asleep? Was that another dream?” He looked at the sky—the sun wasn’t hanging far over the horizon, but it was there. “I must have, and it must have been…” He felt his face redden as he realized how strange he must have appeared, especially if anyone had come by. He thus strode purposefully-nearly ran-to the door leading back to the cathedral altar, and threw it open.

A guard was waiting for him.

“Ah! Y-you!” The poor man was clearly taken by surprise, and it was fortunate he was the only one here at this hour. “You, you’re Bishop Renault?”

Renault blinked. “…I am.”

“Ah, I’m glad you’re alright! You spent the whole night in the sanctuary. Someone got worried earlier and went in to check on you, but it turned out you were just sleeping like a baby. Sort of strange, if you ask me, but, uh, my momma told me to never wake up a Bishop—or anyone important, for that matter—so I guess we just left you there. That’s, um, okay, right?”

Renault stood there for a moment, staring down at the guard. Despite the religion he had been practicing for the past ten years, his body had not changed all that much, and he still possessed a tall mercenary’s physique. The guard noticed this, and grew visibly nervous as he said nothing.

Then, at last, he grinned slightly.

“…That’s fine. In fact, I appreciate it. Now, can you tell me where my companion went?”

“O, oh, yes, of course!” he said, visibly relieved. “We showed him the way to that inn just down the street.”

There Renault went, and promptly found Varek’s room after asking for it from the proprietor, who’d been told to expect him.

“Well, how’d it go, Renault?” asked Varek, rising from his bed—and wincing as he bumped into a nearby dresser, which he couldn’t really see.

“Very well,” said Renault, reaching out a hand to steady his friend.

“Did you dream?”

“I did.”

“Was it a good dream?”

“…I suppose.”

“That’s all we can ask for,” Varek smiled. “So, you want to continue with our journey?”

“Of course. Where do we go next?”

“Caerleon. From what I’ve heard, the Count of Thagaste is actually Count Caerleon’s brother in law, and he mentioned that his relative had a friend named Juge. It’s not much, but it’s something to go on, eh?”

“…Indeed.”

And so they resumed their travels.

 

_-X-Friends-X-_

Renault couldn’t help smiling when the walls of Castle Caerleon came into view, standing tall over the surrounding township.

Varek’s eyes (well, eye) didn’t seem as sharp as they used to be, but he still caught the expression on his disciple’s face, and smiled back. “Good memories this time, Renault?”

“Yes…very good memories.”

Caerleon was not his birthplace, but for Renault, it might as well have been his home. He had struggled much here, and there was more than a bit of tragedy that had attached itself to his life here. He still felt bitter at the destruction of Solgrenne and the way he and the Autonomous Company were framed for it by his arch-nemesis, the Black Knight Trunicht. But it was also the site of some of his—their—great triumphs, like defeating Garl Vinland and rescuing the city from what should have been an unstoppable siege.

Varek was familiar with some of these events from the history he’d read, and understood where he was coming from. They said no more until they’d reached the city proper. It had changed in many of the same ways Thagaste had. While it had always been somewhat pleasant, situated as it was in a very beautiful spot of the Etrurian countryside, it also suffered from poverty and economic marginalization, Renault recalled. That it now seemed to have so many fine houses and prospering shops did Renault’s heart a bit of good.

It also did both of them more than a bit of good to hear that Juge truly had passed this way. A pair of Cavaliers, Count Caerleon’s men, passed them by as they walked on the road to the city and offered them a ride to their destination, which they happily accepted. During the course of their subsequent conversation, they found that Juge had spent a great deal of time here. Count Ryhan Caerleon was a Sage of no mean power, and he and his wife, Lady Dimara (who was also the city’s Bishop) had allowed the traveling scholar to visit the castle libraries, at which point he struck up a friendship with them. They had been exchanging letters for the past few years, so the Count would almost certainly know Juge’s current whereabouts. The Cavaliers noticed that both Renault and Varek had the rank of Bishop (for a master missionary and a venerated hermit), and offered to ask Count Caerleon if he and his wife would be willing to dine with them. Renault and Varek, nearly ecstatic, accepted the offer without hesitation.

It went through without a hitch. The two knights took their companions into the castle town and then to the castle grounds, where they stabled their horses and entered the castle itself to both give their report to Ryhan and give their request. A few minutes later, they came back outside where Renault and Varek were waiting, and told them that Ryhan had heard their story and would be more than willing to speak personally to them. The two travelers were led into the castle, up several flights of stairs (and Renault still remembered the layout of this place quite well) and to the third floor, where they were left at the door to the castle solar—a sort of personal space for the lord and lady if they wished for some privacy, and which always had large, elaborate clear-glass windows to provide both warmth and light.

The Cavaliers bowed after they’d led Renault and Varek to the room, and then beat a hasty exit to allow the guests to converse on their own with their hosts.

The Count and Countess were sitting at the small table on the eastern side of the solar (on the western side, away from the windows, was a double bed and dresser). Renault, for his part, could easily tell Count Ryhan was a descendant of Caerleon—they both had the same black hair and even the same taste for gilded tunics and purple capes, through Ryhan’s face was a bit thinner than Khyron’s. His wife, on the other hand, reminded Renault of his own mother, Monica. She was dressed in a Bishop’s surplice very similar to the sort Monica had favored, though she was a bit chubbier and her hair was light pink. She wore a very warm expression, and it seemed she was the sort of woman who always smiled—quite unlike Monica, in that respect.

“Welcome, welcome, honored guests,” said Ryhan magnanimously. “Come, sit down. My Cavaliers have told me you’ve traveled far. I presume you’d like a hearty meal to help regain your strength?”

“Thank you, m’lord. I would,” said Varek, “but the master missionary-Bishop-has taken a vow of fasting,” Varek interjected. “No food for him, if you please. Just water.”

“Of course, not a problem at all.” Ryhan clapped his hands, and several servants arrived with three plates of delicious, steaming hot food (roasted pheasant, twisted pasta, and several sweet fruit pastries), along with two glasses of water for Renault.

“So, friends,” said Dimara, smiling as magnanimously as her husband, “what brings you to Caerleon? We’ve heard you’re friends with Juge as well?”

“Yes…” answered Varek, and began to speak of their quest. When he did, it was as if he, Ryhan, and Dimara had been friends for the longest time—they got along magnificently. While he didn’t mention anything about his past as an Assassin, obviously, he told them that Juge had been a very scholarly lad back in Bern and had embarked on a quest across Elibe for knowledge. This delighted Ryhan and Dimara, for they’d both taken a liking to the man for that reason. He was one of the few people Ryhan had met who could match his knowledge and enthusiasm for old texts and Draconic history (pastimes that seemed to run in his family, from what Renault remembered of his ancient relative Exedol), and Dimara recalled he had been a fairly charming, chivalrous young man with a strong sense of justice, which made him popular with both Caerleon’s knights and the maidens of the realm—perhaps a bit too popular, as Ryhan had to warn him on several occasions not to get too familiar with any of the girls here unless he was planning on settling down, which he wasn’t quite yet. Renault, for the most part, kept quiet, though he answered Ryhan and Dimara’s questions about his relationship with Varek—

“Tell me a bit about yourself, Renault. Are you Varek’s son?”

He blushed slightly. “No…though I am…flattered you think so. I am merely his disciple.”

“Disciple? But you’ve already taken a Bishop’s rank!”

“Even so, my piety and wisdom are nothing compared to his…”

“Ah, your humility is a testament to your faith, though. Varek has taught you well.” Dimara grinned. “Tell me, have you taken vows of chastity? My brother, the Count of Thagaste, has a daughter who you might find an excellent companion.”

Renault’s blush deepened. “Ah…forgive me. I am not…er…well-suited for the sacrament of marriage.” Quickly changing the subject, he asked, “Is it common for clergy and nobility to intermarry? My own mother was a nobleman’s daughter who married a Bishop’s son, and took his position after he died, but…”

“Oh, yes, very common,” replied Dimara, taking a bite out of her pheasant. “It’s been this way in Etruria for centuries, and it’s very practical, if you think about it. It strengthens the ties between Church and Crown, and offers some security to both. If a count and a bishop marry, the bishop can take over the noble’s governing duties should he leave on a campaign or fall in battle, and the noble can at least administrate his spouse’s diocese should she be called to a Synod or otherwise away from the city. It also keeps our bloodlines strong—in Bern, marrying clergy wasn’t as common until recently, so the nobles married each other for the most part—this meant that pretty much everyone was everyone else’s first cousin! And, of course, as we all know, magical ability is inherited, to an extent. Unions between Sages and Bishops tend to give children who are strong with spells, and even Paladins and Generals who marry into the clergy find their offspring better able to resist magical attacks-a valuable thing on the battlefield! But, of course, those are all secondary considerations. The most important thing in any marriage, for the nobility or the commoners, is love.” She smiled warmly at her husband, who grinned back-and blushed slightly.

“Certainly true,” smiled Varek. “On the subject of offspring, though, Lord Ryhan and Lady Dimara, may I ask if you’ve any children?”

“Yes, we’re expecting,” Ryhan beamed. “Little Priscilla should be with us very soon.”

“…Next month?” Renault blinked, as Dimara did not look at all pregnant.

This caused both her and Ryhan to burst out in laughter. “Oh, Bishop Renault, she’s our _adopted_ daughter. We’ll be going down to Cornwell in Lycia to pick her up the day after tomorrow, in fact.”

“Ah, congratulations,” said Renault hastily, trying to make up for his faux pas. “Children are a blessing from God, be they your own or a friend’s.”

“But the loss of a friend is always sad,” said Dimara. “Little Priscilla is the daughter of the Marquess of Cornwell, another one of our dearest friends. Family friends to Caerleon since the Civil War, in fact! But the Marquess and his wife…” Dimara sniffled. “Well…I won’t say too much, but they’re no longer with us. So we’ll be taking care of Priscilla for a while.”

“…I see,” said Varek contemplatively. “Well, whatever happened, Lord Cornwell and his wife were blessed to have friends like you. I am sure you’ll give their daughter as much love as they did.”

“Thank you, your holiness,” nodded Ryhan. Their plates, by this point, were mostly empty. “It’s a pain to lose a friend, but a joy to find a new one. I’m grateful your quest has brought you here, and I’m grateful to have made your acquaintance. You shall return someday, I hope?”

“If I can,” Varek smiled. “Renault certainly will. And perhaps he’ll bring Juge with him…”

“Oh, yes! I can’t believe I forgot the whole reason you’re here!” Ryhan chuckled. “As it happens, I do know where Juge lives. We exchanged letters for some time, though…” His expression darkened. “I haven’t heard from him in over ten years. But the last I did, he was living in a village just near Ilia. He married into a very notable Lycian family, I believe. I introduced them, actually. Wrote Juge a letter of introduction when he left to continue his journey. They know more about Dragons than anyone else on Elibe! I suppose that’s what drew him to their young daughter, Iris.”

“Wonderful!” That was the loudest Renault had ever heard Varek raise his voice, and also the happiest he’d ever heard him. “Oh, this is a blessed day! Lord Ryhan, Lady Dimara, I can’t begin to thank you for all you’ve done for us. We’ve been searching for Juge for so long, and to at last learn his location…”

“Well, like I said, I haven’t heard from him in a very long time, so don’t get your hopes up too far, friend.”

“Even so, this is the strongest lead we’ve ever gotten so far. We are truly indebted to you, lord.”

“Then let us thank God for showing us such beneficence,” smiled Dimara. “I take it you’ll be leaving soon?”

“Ah, yes. We’d love to stay a little longer, but we have t’ find Juge as soon as possible.” Varek chuckled, sounding a bit sad. “I won’t be in much of a condition to travel forever, after all. It’s an ill idea to spend too much time away from our quest.”

“I see, and I understand. Well, best of luck to you…Ah, wait!” Ryhan snapped his thumbs. “Bishop Renault! Before you leave, there’s something I’d like to show you!”

“…Excuse me?”

“I don’t know if you’re much of a student of history, but even if you’re not, you’ll love it!” Ryhan stood up and clapped Renault on the back. “Come, I’ll show you! Varek, you come too!”

“Oh, you’re going to the library, aren’t you, dear?” Dimara hadn’t finished her desert, so she continued to dig in to her pastries. “You boys have fun, I want to finish the rest of these. They’re my favorite!”

Not knowing what Ryhan wanted to show them so badly, Renault and Varek got up and followed their host out of the dining room. They were curious as to why he’d been so excited to make sure Renault in particular saw this—but when they entered the library, it was obvious.

The library didn’t look different from the last time Renault had visited, no. Except for one thing. At the far end of the room there was a large painting that hadn’t been there before.

And it was the most beautiful painting Renault had ever seen.

Not for its skill—though it was certainly a very good job. But rather, for what it portrayed.

For the first time in two hundred years, Renault saw his friends again.

It was a picture of the Autonomous Company, all surrounding a tall apple tree. It was the very image of the last happy memory Renault had in his life.

Apolli and Lisse were sitting on the left side of the tree, smiling happily as they each chowed down upon a succulent, delicious-looking red apple, and Harvery was standing right next to them, grinning as he watched a taller Roberto pluck another apple from the tree. On the other side, there was Braddock, looking as tall and handsome as he had in life, laughing as Keith sat upon his shoulders, grabbing at one of the apples. Next to them sat Rosamia, looking up at Braddock and putting a hand to her mouth as she giggled, and then Renault himself, sitting on the grass beside Kelitha, who was leaning into him as he kept an arm around her. Next to them, finally, stood Khyron, crossing his arms over his chest and looking like he was trying to maintain a distant, respectable expression, but failing entirely to contain his smile.

“Look at that fellow sitting on the ground, right next to the two green-haired women. Doesn’t he look just like you?” grinned Ryhan. “I’d wanted to ask you this since we first met. I’m _quite_ sure his name was Renault as well, though I’d have to re-read my books on the Civil War. Are you his descendant?”

No response came. He looked at Renault curiously. “…Your Holiness?”

Looking back at this moment, Renault was glad his body could no longer shed tears. It was strange enough that he seemed to be entirely overcome by emotion. But he would not have been able to keep himself from weeping openly, which would have been an even stranger sight.

“F…forgive me,” croaked Renault, his throat constricted. “It’s…it’s a wonderful painting. I am…overcome by its beauty. Tell me, please…who made it?”

“You’re truly an aficionado of the arts? I’d not expected that of you, but I certainly understand,” said Ryhan, apparently satisfied by Renault’s explanation. “It was commissioned by my ancestor Khyron, just after he successfully defended Caerleon against an assault from Garl Vinland during the Etrurian Civil War. The artist was named Landez. He was Khyron’s castellan, but he was also a very accomplished artist in his own right. This piece, _The Autonomous Company’s Just Reward_ , is widely considered to be one of his masterworks. From what I’ve read, Khyron was truly devoted to the small band of men and women he lead during the war, and would always consider them the best soldiers on Elibe. I think he considered them family, by the end of it. He ordered Landez to make this painting so he’d never forget them.”

“Family…family…” Renault took a step forward and reached out towards the painting, and he was about to touch it before Varek stopped him.

“Careful, Renault. You might damage it.”

“A…ah. Of course.” Renault bowed his head and stepped back. “I apologize again, Lord Ryhan.”

“No harm done, friend. Though I’ve never seen anyone as affected by this as you. Are you truly descended from the Renault in this picture?”

“Y…yes.”

“I see. Well, your ancestor was a brave and capable warrior, or at least that’s how he appears in the texts. I wouldn’t think one of his descendants would take the cloth, but…” He chuckled “As my wife would say, God works in mysterious ways.”

“…Indeed.”

“Anyways, we should be on our way.” Varek looked at Renault meaningfully. “Thank you again, Lord Ryhan, for your hospitality.”

“No, it’s I who was honored. Safe journey to you, friends. I would see you off, but…” he pointed to a stack of papers on one of the desks nearby. “I’ve many other reports to attend to.”

“Of course.” Renault and Varek bowed as another servant showed up—just on time—to show them the way out of the castle. After they’d left its gates, they sought out a merchant’s guild to see if there were any caravans heading to Lycia. Renault lead the way, as Varek could no longer see the signs very well, and once again they were in luck—a wagon would be heading out to Ostia tomorrow morning, and would be happy to take them along if they could pay a small fee for passage, which they could easily do. They then found a nearby inn to spend their last night in Caerleon-and before they went to bed, they had one more conversation.

“…Varek.”

“Hm? What is it, Renault?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Gratefully accepted, though I’m not quite sure what brought this on.”

“I…I found a new way to live because of you. I learned so much from you. And because we went on this journey together, I was able to see that picture…I was able to see my friends again. It’s not much, but it’s more than I ever thought I would receive. Thank you.”

Varek nodded. “There’s no need to thank _me,_ lad. You’ve repaid everything I’ve done for you personally. But what you haven’t repaid is the debt to those friends of yours. I don’t think any of them would have wanted you to live the way you did, any more than Braddock. So, while I’m glad you were able to see them again—even if in just a picture—I want you to remember that your work’s not done yet. You still have a lot left to do if you wanna make things up to all of them, and to the world they lived in.”

“I understand, Varek. I’ll never forget that.”

“Then that’s all that needs to be said.”

They settled down into their beds, and Renault drifted off into sleep.

There were no dreams, this time. But no nightmares either.

_::Linear Notes::_

Whooof! Finished this just in time, friends :D Quick notes:

The immense height of the Saint’s Tower is inspired by the background of the stage in Fire Emblem 6’s chapter, “The Pinnacle of Light” 16x. That’s where you enter the Tower of the Saint to get Elimine’s tome, Aureola, and behind the stage itself you can see clouds. Looking at the heights at which clouds form (5000 feet in the air for some of the lower ones), I figured Elimine’s Tower had to be at least that tall. Also, the stuff about the “Master Missionary” is my attempt at making Fire Emblem classes work in a religious context. IRL. “Bishop” is a specific rank that means you have pastoral oversight of a diocese. In FE games, however, most Bishops are promoted from Priests, Clerics, or Monks who don’t seem to watch over any dioceses. So I made the rank of bishop coterminous with several other positions that seemed more fitting with the kinds of holy people who would travel with an army, such as a “Master Missionary/Mendicant.”

“I am a servant of the servants of God” was originally said IRL by the saint and Pope Gregory I, who was considered one of the greatest popes in history. He was known for refocusing the papacy on service to Christendom as a whole and extending religious tolerance towards the Jewish faith; he put forth a papal bull (that is to say, an order from the pope) forbidding forced conversions of Jews and commanding Christians to protect the Jewish people. Look him up “Gregory and the Jews” on Wiki :o

“Ryhan” is a reference to “Ryhan Sea” from Ogre Battle. XD The stuff about marrying between the nobility and clergy is my own invention; it seems like it would make sense in a Fire Emblem world. And yes, Ryhan is the Count Caerleon who adopted Priscilla <3 Now that my lil notes are out of the way…

Also, guys, as always, PLEASE check out gunlord500 dot word press dot com, for all kinds of cool art! Check out the wayward son tag there for sketches of characters like Gosterro, Monica, the Autonomous Company, and more! Also see gunlord500 dot tum blr dot com for random stuff that I like XD

Finally…I gotta admit, friends, it’s been a hell of a ride, and a hell of an accomplishment. With this chapter, **Wayward Son has broken 1 million words!** I dunno if I’m the first author in the FE fandom (as I’ve said before, guys like the Subspace Emissary World Conquest author have written **3 million word** fics!) to have done that—maybe someone outside of FFn, or in the Japanese fandom, has done it already. Still, on purely its own merits, I think it’s pretty impressive…

And I absolutely could not have done it without all of you.

Given the scene with Renault looking at the picture of all of his friends, it’s fitting I say this: To Cormag, to Hammershlag, to Fimbulvetr, to everyone, EVERYONE, all the people who’ve reviewed this fic, all my supporters, everyone…I wouldn’t have made it this far without your encouragement. Thank you all so much! I am grateful and blessed to have met each and every one of you.

It’s been a long, long time—almost 10 years—but the journey is coming to an end. There are about 10 to 12 chapters remaining in this fic. It’ll be a while before I finish it for good, given my pace, but it IS working towards its conclusion. So just stay with me for a little while longer, my friends, and don’t leave my side yet. I swear I’ll make it worth your while!

 


	74. A Lycian's Love (and a Fond Farewell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault and Varek search for Juge in Lycia, Varek's homeland. Their quest ends there, as does Varek's life. But Renault is then left with another quest...

**Chapter 74: A Lycian’s Love (and a Fond Farewell)**

From the very outset of their journey, Renault had a feeling they wouldn’t find what they sought. And given how much time had passed, it was hardly an unreasonable worry, either. Even so, it made the pain no less sharp when they discovered they’d failed.

It was certainly an ill-fitting ending to an auspicious trip. The journey from Caerleon to Ostia had been easy, even pleasurable. They’d found a caravan willing to take them to Lycia for free (as travelers so often did, at least for representatives of the Church), and Varek had spent most of the time regaling Renault with funny stories from his and Juge’s youth. Despite the fact the old ex-hermit was nearly blind now, the prospect of meeting his friend again apparently reinvigorated him, and he joked and laughed with the enthusiasm of a man a third his age. His good cheer was shared by his friend as well, as not only was Renault glad to see his quest come to a close, but he was also glad to see Varek happy.

They arrived in Ostia on the 3rd Lancer, 976 A.S. It was a beautiful summer day, the sort Lycia was justly proud of and Renault had come to treasure in his travels. The city itself was also a treat. It was not the first time Renault had been here, as he’d visited for mercenary work on a few occasions during his wandering. He had not, however, paid the city much attention or given it much credit. That had changed, now.

Ostia was the largest city in Lycia, and while that may not have been saying much when compared to the massive metropoles of Etruria, it had its own charm. The militaristic, practical bent of Ostians was evident in the architecture of the place, as well as its skyline, which was dominated by the huge Castle Ostia. A squat structure that seemed more like a fortress than a castle, it had none of the soaring spires one would see in an Etrurian castle, but its huge, thick walls were nearly as tall, and it looked as if it would be as difficult to besiege. It was surrounded by smaller buildings, all of which reflected a similar aesthetic. Nearly everything was made of good stone, and the houses were generally small, square structures no more than two stories tall, all arranged in orderly blocks alongside clean, well-maintained but also well-trodden cobbled roads. They were similar architecturally to Bernese residences, though they did have arched, shingled roofs one would see in Etruria, perhaps reflecting Lycia’s status as a client state of both countries.

One wouldn’t get that impression from the people themselves, who seemed to be as independent as anyone could hope. They were busy and industrious, jostling past each other through the roads between the city’s many, many armories (Renault didn’t think he’d seen as much smoke pouring from forges at any point in his life previously). They seemed to be a diverse lot as well, with Etrurians and Bernese rubbing shoulders with Ilians, Sacaens, and even the occasional Nabatan—once again, Ostia’s status as the capital of Lycia meant it attracted a rather cosmopolitan crowd. Despite how busy all of them seemed, though, Renault noticed most of the faces he saw were smiling. An air of good cheer seemed immanent over the city, for the people knew that as hard as they worked, they were contributing to the glory of their canton and country.

It wasn’t as if Renault and Varek had too much time to stand around enjoying all this, though. They wanted to find their goal as soon as possible! After being dropped off by their traveling merchant benefactor, they headed to a nearby inn and asked for directions to the town of Dragon’s Heaven, where Juge and his wife were supposed to have been living. About two miles to the north, they were told, not far away at all.

The odd name of the town was enough to tell them Juge would almost certainly be there, so they thanked the innkeep, spent a night, and then resumed their journey in the morning.

Well, not quite. They made a little detour, first.

“Renault, eh…sorry to impose…”

“You’ve never imposed on me once, Varek. What do you need?”

Even within their clouded depths, the old man’s eyes seemed wistful. “I was born here…well, I don’t know f’r sure. But I did spend my childhood here. Do you think…we could try to find my orphanage?”

It was a charge Renault was more than happy to carry out, though not the easiest one he could imagine. Varek’s memory was still quite sharp, and he yet recalled the approximate location of his little orphanage. It had been a very long time, however, and things had changed in the city. In the places Varek said the orphanage might have been there were now only armories and magic shops. Finally, Renault thought it might be a good idea to inquire at the mason’s guild, and the old master there said he did recall an orphanage once standing near Castle Ostia, but it had run out of money nearly thirty years ago; he had helped with the demolition and erecting a weapons shop in its place.

“I thought as much,” said Varek as they left the guild. “I guess sellin’ me to Varlago didn’t give ‘em as much money as they’d hoped, eh?”

“I suppose. In any case, I am sorry we weren’t able to find your old home. Do…would you like to look for the orphanage’s proprietors? Perhaps they set up somewhere else.”

“No, that’s fine. Just seeing…well, you know…Ostia again was good enough for me. Maybe my memories of this place weren’t as strong as your memories of Etruria, but it was still my home country. I’m glad I was able to stand on its soil again.”

“Indeed.” _This was Braddock’s home too,_ thought Renault to himself. And though he didn’t say it, he might have been as happy as Varek to have visited.

Despite the general good feelings their little detour provoked, however, it did not bode well for the success of their larger quest-as they’d find out the next day.

The roads of Lycia, especially those around Ostia, were clean, safe, and well-maintained, so Renault and Varek saw no reason to inconvenience another traveling caravan—they walked there on foot. In the late afternoon of the 4th Lancer (it took them a bit longer than they expected, as Varek could no longer walk so well—Renault ended up carrying him part of the way), they arrived at the gates of the town.

There was one fellow manning the guard tower outside of the walls (stone, not wood, Renault noticed—fairly impressive). He was a muscular man (though a little shorter than Renault) with dark skin and poofy head of black hair, along with a thick black beard. Renault hadn’t seen many with his appearance before, and surmised he might have had a Sacaean and a Nabatan parent. He was clad in light armor, as spear-wielding Soldiers (common hired troops less intimidating than Knights but also less expensive; common across Elibe) often wore, but unlike those he had _two_ spears limbered to his back rather than the more common spear and small shield. The spears were exotic weapons, with very long blades that seemed as if they could pass as swords as well, and Renault got the impression this was no common guardsman.

He seemed friendly enough, though, and smiled and waved when he saw his two new visitors. “Yo!” he called down.

Varek waved back. “ ‘Yo’ yourself, friend,” he laughed. “Might this be Dragon’s Heaven?”

“Sure is. You in the right place?”

“Indeed we are,” said Varek with relief.

“Woo-hoo!” The guard pumped a fist in the air. “So what brings you?”

“We’re looking for a man named Juge. We’d heard he was a great scholar of Draconic history and that he’d been living here with his family. We’re friends of his, seeking to pass on a message to him on behalf of House Varlago.” Varek took out the envelope he’d been carrying with him for over two decades, still emblazoned with the seal of Bern’s great house. “We have proof that our patrons are who we say they are. Might y’ be able to show us to Juge’s place? If he’s not in at the moment we’d be happy to stay for a few days. We’ve got money for accommodations…”

Varek trailed off when he saw the pained expression on the man’s face.

“I know who you’re talkin’ about, but…he’s not here anymore.”

“I…see” The tone of voice was enough to tell Varek that “not here” likely meant dead, and the expression on his own matched it. “God have mercy…” It seemed like he’d fall over, so Renault steadied him. “Can…can you tell us what happened?” Renault called up. “I…We…do not mean to pry, but we’d at least like to know the fate of our friend.”

The guard looked at them for a few moments, and then sighed. “Man, I hope I don’t end up regretting this, but for some reason I feel like I can trust you. Hope my instincts are better than Juge’s.”

The gate opened and the man came down from the tower to let them in. He held out a hand. “My name’s Shaf, by the way.” Renault and Varek took it and introduced themselves, and Varek showed Shaf the letter from Varlago.

“The House of Varlago?” Shaf whistled. “Sounded like it was important, but knowing Juge, I’m not surprised. He and Iris were pretty famous around these parts. Well…I’ll take you to where they are now.”

As expected, Renault and Varek were led to the town graveyard.

In the center were a pair of huge marble obelisks, along with a pair of smaller ones by the side. From left to right, the inscriptions of the monuments read:

JUGE OF BERN, 912-968: Loving father and husband

IRIS OF HOUSE DRAGUSTA, 940-968: Beloved mother, never forgotten

KAI, SON OF JUGE: 960-968: Taken from us too soon

KELL, SON OF JUGE: 960-968: A bright life ended too young

Renault read these out loud.

“Oh, Juge…oh, Juge…”

Varek collapsed to his knees, tears streaming from his clouded eyes. “Juge…”

“Uh,,,oh, man, I’m sorry.” Shaf shifted his feet around uncomfortably. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No…no,” sobbed Varek. “It…it’s alright. F’rgive an old man for such a shameful display, but…Juge was my friend. I want…I wanted to see him again, but…” He coughed, phlegm from his mouth mixing with tears from his eyes. Fortunately, Shaf had a handkerchief handy, which Varek put to good use. “Please. Tell me, what happened? Did he at least die peacefully?”

Shaf stared at Renault, which was enough to indicate the answer wouldn’t be what they liked. It didn’t matter to Varek, though. “Please…just tell me the truth. Believe me, lad, it’d hurt a hundred times more to not know what really happened.”

“Phew, okay. But it’s a damn sad story.

“It happened one night eight years ago. At least, we think. Nobody’s really sure what happened. I was just a kid back then…’bout 15 or so. I only heard this from one of the maids. Some tramp was passing through here with a child in tow. She knocked on several people’s doors, begging for charity, and Juge, nice guy that he was, let her spend the night in his manse.” Shaf spat on the ground. “That was what got him. We heard screams, loud noises, an explosion…woke the whole damn town up. And when we got there…it was too late.

“Juge, Iris, and their kids were all dead. I don’t wanna talk about it. Half their house was in ruins, but the library wasn’t touched—just ransacked. The books, the artifacts—all gone. That’s why they were targeted, I bet.” Shaf shook his head. “Juge and Iris were the nicest people you could ever meet. Kind, honest…there’s no way they would’ve had any enemies. But they knew more about magic than anyone else in Lycia…probably anyone on Elibe. They’re why this town’s called Dragon’s Heaven. Iris’s parents, and her grandparents, and great grand parents, goin’ back for a hundred generations, knew everything there was to know about Dragons. They had a lot of really expensive Draconic artifacts, too.” He pointed to the twin spears on his back. “Really powerful weapons and stuff. I bet somebody wanted some of those.”

“Yes…yes, maybe.” Despite hearing this terrible story, Varek seemed to have composed himself, actually. “Oh, Lord. Were the culprits ever found?”

“No, dammit. We searched high and low. Marquess Uther even got involved, but Ostia’s best spies couldn’t find anything. It’s like that murderous ‘beggar’ never existed. The only thing we know is that she was no ordinary hobo. Juge and Iris were damn strong mages. Anybody who could take both of them out…well, I’d want a small army watching my back before I’d confront somebody like that.”

“Indeed,” mumbled Varek. He turned back towards the obelisk and mouthed a small prayer for his friend.

“Juge, my friend, I beg forgiveness from you and your father for my failure. I can only pray that the Lord God, master of all heaven and earth, watches over you, and that He justly rewards you for the virtue you displayed in life. May you and your family find happiness in the afterlife, and may the wisdom of Elimine bring your murderers to justice.”

Renault and Shaf bowed their heads reverently as Varek made the sign of the Tower and said “Amen.”

“Good thing you two are churchmen,” Shaf said approvingly. “If you were just some random strangers I wouldn’t have let you in, not after what happened to Juge. But after that display, I’m inclined to trust you. It’s a helluva lot easier to impersonate a beggar than a Bishop, eh? Those robes and those sigils don’t come cheap.”

Renault blushed. “Eh…I suppose.”

“Er…F’rgive us for another intrusion,” said Varek, getting to his feet, “but could y’ tell us a little more about Juge’s life before…before he passed? How’d he end up here, raising a family?”

That definitely seemed to lighten the mood. “Sure, I’d be happy to. But hey, aren’t you guys gettin’ a little hungry? Let’s have some food first—my treat. Follow me!”

He took them on a 5-minute walk down the road from the cemetery to a large building from which emanated a wide variety of succulent smells Renault knew well—baked pastries, fresh stews, and roasted meat.

“This is technically a guildhouse, but we use it as a tavern, too. My friend Adam’s the master here. Come on in!”

They did so, and took seats at the bar, passing by laughing couples as well as various tradespeople—architects, craftsmen, and so on—discussing the details of their jobs over plates of good food and jugs of fine wine. The guildmaster/barkeep, Adam, was more than happy to serve both his old friend and a couple of friendly guests. Renault just asked for a glass of water while Varek and Shaf both requested plates of smoked fish.

“No wine?” asked Renault.

“I don’t drink,” replied Shaf.

“Ah. Me neith-“ He was interrupted by a strange sensation at his feet.

“Meow, meow~”

“Eh?” Renault looked down to see something rather curious: A fat, fluffy tabby tomcat (brown fur broken by black stripes) nibbling curiously on the tips of his thick traveling boots.

“Oh, for the love of—Jojo!” Shaf rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Cut that out!” He took one of the smoked fish from his plate and tossed it some distance away as Adam laughed jovially. With an excited “Mew!” Jojo forgot all about Renault’s boots and rushed off to capture his delicious fish.

“Sorry about that. Jojo’s just the guild cat. He really likes nibbling on people’s toes, for some reason. And, uh, sometimes other things, but don’t worry about it.”

“I…see.” Renault wisely chose not to question what those “other things” were.

“So, anyways, you two wanted to know how Juge came here? Well, it’s a funny story…”

It really was. As it so happened, Juge, being a traveling scholar, had naturally heard of the great House of Dragusta, whose scholarship on the dragons had for generations filled the bookshelves of libraries and academies across Elibe. In early 960 he’d arrived at Dragon’s Heaven, begging to study under that its great mages, and the patriarch of the house, impressed by his studiousness, accepted him as an apprentice.

He wasn’t the only one Juge impressed, however. As it happened, the master mage’s young daughter, Iris, took quite a shine to her strange new friend from Bern. She was both a mighty mage (having exceeded her father in raw power at the tender age of 18) and a remarkably beautiful woman; her green hair and blue eyes were the envy of every other maiden in the region. She had never traveled much, though, and found herself amazed by the worldly Juge’s stories of his travels all across Elibe—which he’d had much time to accrue, being nearly thirty years older than her! They had begun a tryst, under her elderly father’s nose—until she fell pregnant. Lord Dragusta, naturally, was furious, but Juge (motivated as much by terror of the mighty mage as a desire to live up to his responsibilities) hastily swore upon his life to make an honest woman of Iris. Well, he did, and married her. Lord Dragusta lived just long enough to see the birth of his twin grandsons, though not his granddaughter. Juge, for his part, became a respected citizen, much beloved by all the people of Dragon’s Heaven, and he doted on his wife and was immensely proud of his children.

“Ah, that certainly sounds like Juge, all right” laughed Varek after Shaf had finished the tale. “Well…as sad as I am to hear of how it ended, I’m glad his life was so happy. For at least a lil’ while, he was able to enjoy a loving wife, good kids, and if you’re any indication, fine friends.” It was clear that this news had softened, at least a little bit, the blow of learning Juge’s unhappy end, and by extension, the ultimate failure of their quest.

Or maybe not. Perhaps their quest wasn’t entirely hopeless.

“Ah…wait,” said Varek pensively. “You mentioned a daughter. But the only graves we saw were for two boys.”

“Well, yeah. Juge and Iris had three children. Twin boys, Kai and Kell, and a daughter, Nino. But we never found little Nino’s body…”

“So…could she still be alive?”

“No.”

“So then why wasn’t she given a grave?”

“Like I said, we never found a body. She’s almost certainly dead, but without any absolute proof, a lot of us, especially Iris’ maids, wanted to believe she might still be out there. The men didn’t want to break their hearts, so we didn’t make a grave for the baby.”

“But you haven’t seen any proof that she actually died?”

“Well…I mean, no, but come on. If they were willing to kill two boys and their parents, do you think they’d leave a little baby alive?”

“Y’ never know,” replied Varek, and the expression on his face was far cheerier than Renault could have ever imagined on a man who’d heard the news of his best friend’s death. “Can’t either of you see? My quest hasn’t failed, not yet! If I can’t give this letter to Juge, I can give it to his daughter! There’s still hope!”

“Look, old m—uh, sir, I don’t wanna be too depressing, but you _did_ tell me to be honest. And to be honest, I don’t think you’ve got even a sliver of hope! It’s been nearly 10 years since that happened. Even assuming they kept Nino alive instead of just disintegrating or incinerating her with magic, how in the world do you expect to find her? Even Etruria’s best spies couldn’t get a lead on the murderers. She could be anywhere on the continent by now! Hell, maybe even beyond. If they kept her alive, who knows what those freaks wanted with her or where they took her! She’s as good as dead, as far as anyone can tell. I sure wish that wasn’t the case, but…”

“I understand your thinking, Shaf. Believe me, I’m not deludin’ myself that it’d be an easy task to find her, or even that we’re likely to. But as long as she’s not confirmed to be dead, we’ve got hope. And even if it’s less than a sliver, it’s better than nothing. Elimine had less than that when the war with the Dragons broke out, after all!”

“Well, I dunno too much about that, but if you’re that set on it…” Shaf sighed. “Guess there’s nothin’ I can do but wish you luck.” Shaf shrugged. “So, anyways, how’d you two know Juge?”

“Juge was a friend of mine. We met in Bern, and we both worked for the House of Varlago.” The answer wasn’t entirely honest, but it wasn’t a lie either. “The scion of the house wanted me to pass on a message to him, but it had been several years since he had left the country, and nobody knew where he went. We started our search in Sacae, actually.” Varek sighed. “If we’d just headed straight to Lycia rather than Sacae…”

“We couldn’t have known he would come to this land, Varek,” replied Renault. “We did the best we could with what knowledge we had. It wasn’t irrational of us to follow the trail we did, given the leads we knew of.”

“Aye, that’s true. No point mourning for one’s blade after it’s broke, eh? I’m glad you’ve taken that wisdom to heart, lad.”

“Yeah,” said Shaf sympathetically. “So did you work with him? He always said he’d been doing a lot of research on Dragons even before he married Iris.”

“Mm…yes, you could say that. He was a gifted translator, and knew everything there was to know about their language and culture.”

“Sounds about right. Juge and Iris were working on this really big translation of something, too. I never cared much about history myself, but I sure wanted them to finish it. Damn shame.”

“A translation of something?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what it was exactly, but it’s what they were working on before they died. We still have the notes around, somewhere. Managed to save ‘em from the wreckage of the library. Me, I couldn’t make heads or tails out of them. That Dragon language is just a bunch of funny squiggles!”

“Hmm…” Varek looked at Renault meaningfully. “Has anything been done with them?”

“Not as far as I know. They’re locked up in Dragusta Manse, along with everything else the family owned—what wasn’t taken away by their murderers, at least. The manse’s been locked up ever since they died. Nobody…well, nobody really wanted to use it. Too many memories. We post guards to make sure nobody steals anything, and occasionally traveling scholars come by to buy some of the remaining books-it’s good money for the town-but no-one’s tried to pick up where they left off. Not even their friends had the qualifications they did. Maybe Carla, but…”

“Carla?”

“She was…is…Iris’ older sister. She had a falling out with their father when Iris was younger, and left for Ilia. We don’t know if she knows what happened, or even if she’s still alive.”

“Ah, so she wouldn’t be of any help, then.” Renault knew what Varek was going to say next. “Well, Renault and I know quite a bit of Draconic. We might be able to finish what Juge and Iris started.”

“Really? Damn, that’s awful nice of you. But it’ll be quite a challenge.”

“That’s fine. The only other responsibility we have is to search for Nino, and as you said, we don’t know the first place to look. If we can’t do that, we can at least finish what our friend started. Maybe it’ll help him and his family rest in peace.”

And that was what they spent the next few years doing.

Shaf took them to meet the elder of Dragon’s Heaven, who was impressed by both their sincerity and their obvious command of Draconic culture and history. He gave them permission to enter the old, abandoned manse, and a place to stay in the town. For the first month or so Shaf or another townsperson always accompanied them to their sojourns in Juge’s library, but soon enough they’d earned the trust of the people and the authorities—as they had in so many other places, they meshed themselves seamlessly with the settlement’s life. Despite his blindness and failing health, Varek could still speak, and delivered several powerful sermons at the local church which won him the loyalty of the town’s faithful. Renault made himself useful by performing any odd job around town which required a strong back, strong arms, or a patient demeanor. Though never growing particularly close to anyone but perhaps Shaf, the two men earned themselves a degree of respect.

Such respect helped them to complete their—and Juge’s—last work. And in this case, “their” was generous—since Varek’s eyesight was so poor, it was Renault who did most of the work, though his mentor was always willing to help with difficult passages; Renault would read them aloud and Varek would give his suggestions for translations. The books Juge and Iris had been working on were old, older than anything they had encountered before—truly treasures, and Renault was glad whoever had assaulted this house and murdered its occupants had left these tomes alone—with some exception, as Renault would find out.

They were books of Draconic legends-creation myths, heroes, villains, and tales of other worlds. As it happened, each tribe of Dragons had their own mythologies and pantheons. The Ice Dragons and Wind Dragons, who were oracles and soothsayers, worshipped a whimsical god named Forseti, known for his love of humans. The Fire Dragons, warriors and builders, worshiped the impulsive and hot-blooded Salamander. The Thunder Dragons, scholars and sages, obeyed the Draconic hero Thor, whose golden scales were said to repel all weaponry and whose breath could shatter mountains. The Divine Dragons, who ruled over their entire society, worshiped a beneficent goddess named Naga. Some humans, Renault read in the texts, worshipped Naga as well.

He found that very hard to believe, given how close to destruction Elibe had come in a war with them, but perhaps the situation was different on other worlds. Indeed, the fact that the texts mentioned the names of other continents, namely Archanea and Jugdral, made him think these stories might have been more than myths—he’d heard the names of those places before.

And what worried him was the fact that there was nothing on how to _get_ to those places. The tomes he was translating advertised themselves as “ _Ten Volumes of Draconic Legends_ ,” but there were only 8. Two were missing—and judging from the ending of Volume 7, those dealt more extensively with the worlds beyond what were called “The Gates.” When Renault asked Shaf, the man shrugged and said the thieves must have stolen those two tomes, along with others like it.

Renault remembered his last job as a mercenary, at the Bluemoon Tower—how Nergal’s morphs had wanted to open a Gate to foreign lands in order to harvest the quintessence of Dragons. There was no proof of it, not anything than a suspicion, but…could Nergal have been responsible for the murder of Juge and his family?

The suspicion burned at the back of Renault’s mind, but it was only a suspicion for which he had not the least bit of concrete proof. So he kept his mouth shut and said nothing of it to Varek.

In any case, such dour thoughts did not impede the progress of his translation, and he finally put the last touches on the eighth volume in the winter of the Eighth Sun, 980 A.S. It was hard work—as hard as any translation he had ever done—but he was quite proud of it. Even so, he put very little of himself, aside from his translator’s voice, into the work. He only added a brief afterword telling the reader that the last two volumes had been lost and thanking God for His beneficence, Juge and Iris for translating the first two volumes, and Varek for his assistance with translation. He had to be convinced by Shaf to sign it as well, and only wrote his name as “Renault of the Church of Elimine.”

And with that, the manuscripts were all finished. Sighing, Renault stood up, put on his cape, walked out into the snow, and headed to the elder’s house, where he was congratulated effusively. The elder would hold on to the final manuscript until one of Marquess Uther’s patrols visited the area, where he’d give it to them, and they would bring it back to Ostia to be printed.

Despite this accomplishment, and despite a promise to attend a big celebration at the guildhouse to commemorate all the work he’d done, Renault felt very little pleasure. And the reason for the cloud hanging over his head was lying in a bed on the second floor of the house Renault returned to after his meeting with the elder.

Varek’s health had steadily worsened over the past year. He spent almost all of his time indoors, sleeping. It was most comfortable for him, as they’d been given some excellent lodging by the kind people of Dragon’s Heaven. It also made more sense, since at this point Renault was essentially a master of the Draconic language, and no longer needed Varek’s help.

But this did not make Renault feel any better—it may have been one of the few times in history where a disciple was not joyed to surpass his master. Because Renault knew, even if he did not want to say it out loud, that while his journey was not yet over, Varek’s certainly was.

“Varek.”

His mentor, the dearest friend he’d had since Braddock, still lay sleeping in his soft, plush bed.

“Varek!”

Still no response, other than a slight snore, as Renault stood in the doorway. He went up to the bed and gently nudged the former hermit.

“Eh? Oh…ah, Renault.” Varek coughed, then smacked his lips as he attempted to sit up. “Eh…it’s been so long. What day is it?”

“The eight sun.”

“Oh, good. And that means…”

“Yes. I’ve completed the translation Juge and Iris started. I’m certain they had a great deal more they wanted to do, but…at least they can rest easy with this great work completed.”

“Ah! Renault…that’s…wonderful.” Varek reached out a hand, which Renault took. “Good. Very good. Juge…Juge is watching us from heaven, I think. Heh, didn’t think I’d say something like that, but you can f’rgive an old man for his fancies, eh?”

“I always have.”

“Ah…good. Then…Renault, can you forgive me for…”

Renault ran a hand through Varek’s long hair—almost entirely white, now, with just a few strands of greying blue here and there. His hand was trembling, and so was his voice. “Varek, don’t…don’t say it.”

“Come on, lad. I always told you never to shy away from the truth. And we both know the truth…is that my time’s up.”

 “Varek…Oh, Varek…”

“Don’t be so sad. We both knew this was coming. And I can’t say I’ve had that bad…bad of a life. I’ve been happy most of my years, and I did a lot of good…for the Church, and for the people. And not th’ least for you!”

Renault had to smile. “Certainly not.”

“I…I do wish I could’ve seen Juge again. But it’s not so bad…Juge lived a good life. A happy one. Varlago…his father…our father…would have been happy. And his grand-daughter…Nino…is still out there, God willing. Renault…” He gestured to the drawer next to the bed. Renault opened it and found the letter from Varlago, still in legible condition even after all these years.

“If we weren’t able to tell Juge his father loved him…maybe we can show his daughter how much love her grandfather would’ve been able to give her. That’s something…better than nothing.

“So I want you…please, I pray that you’ll continue my quest. Your pilgrimage isn’t over. As you walk the path God has set for you, please look for Nino, too. And when you find her, give her this letter.”

Renault nodded. “O…of course, Varek.”

“And…one more thing…Renault, the most important thing…” Varek strained upwards and his eyes widened—and seemed to clear for a moment. It was just a passing fancy, of course, but for a moment Renault couldn’t help but think Varek could see again. He again reached out, and this time found a firm grasp of Renault’s arm.

“Listen to me, Renault,” Varek gasped. “I’m not afraid of death, and I’m not unhappy to die. I know Elimine will greet me as I enter God’s country. I’ve lived a good life, at least by the end of it, and I leave it with no regrets. I have no worries for myself…”

“I…I understand that, Varek.”

“It…it’s you I’m worried about Renault. Please…please don’t make the same mistake with me that you did with Braddock. I know you’ll mourn for me. Death is harder for those it doesn’t take than those it does. I can’t expect you to greet my passing with the same smile I have. But even so…don’t lose yourself to that grief, Renault. Let it strengthen you instead of controlling you, like it once did. Remember my teachings, and let go of my body—the former’s more important. Don’t…don’t dishonor yourself and try to bring me back. I won’t be happy with you, and neither’ll Braddock…”

“No! No!” Renault took Varek’s hand from his arm and gripped it tightly with both his own. “I’m no longer the foolish, thoughtless man I was. You’ve taught me too much, Varek. Both you and Braddock. I…no matter how much it hurts, I’ll accept your death and honor your life. I’ll never disgrace your memory with foul magic. Not yours, not Braddock’s, not anyone else’s ever again!”

“Renault…” Varek smiled. “You’ve grown…so much. I’m glad to have shared my journey with you. I…I’m glad I met you.”

Renault felt his throat constrict. For a moment, he saw Varek’s white hair turn sleek and blue. For a moment, he thought he saw and heard Braddock.

And then, for the last time, Varek’s voice was as clear as it had been when they’d first met, reminding Renault that he wasn’t Braddock—but that he would be the second dear friend who had left him in this way.

“May God bless you and may Elimine watch over you.”

His muscles slackened and his grip relaxed in Renault’s, though his disciple was holding on to him as tightly as he could. His breathing slowed, though it didn’t stop. He had fallen asleep again. Though Renault knew it didn’t matter. Either at the end of this night, or sometime very soon, he would simply not wake up.

So Renault knelt by his bedside, and for the second time in his life, mourned for a fallen friend.

But for the very first time, he also prayed for one.

_::Linear Notes::_

WHOOOOOO-EEEE! FINALLY! Sorry to have taken so long, my friends, but I am BACK! And I come with good news, too! I passed my oral exams! :D :D :D That’s right, I PASSED, so I am SET! Biggest challenge of my life—wrote about it on my blog, again, its gunlord500 dot wordpress dot com :D Still, I did miss the chapter deadline last month which I felt bad about, but thankfully it didn't happen again. Thanks to the folks who commented on my apology on FFn. Thanks to Shadow’s Nocturne, phoenix831, thebookguy23, and Fimbu1vetr! :D Your kindness really means a lot to me. And thank you as well, all readers who’ve been so patient with me! Your patience is paying off, trust me.

And on that note, thoughts on the chapter itself! Phew, oh man…;_; We all knew it was coming, and it didn’t hurt as much as when Braddock died, but still…I wish I hadn’t come back after hiatus with Varek’s death ;_; Still, let’s all try to take his last words to heart—he really did have a good life.

Now, brief notes:

“Dragon’s Heaven” is the name of an old anime I like :D

The characters of Dragon’s Heaven, except for Juge and Iris and their family of course, are based off of my friends in my Vindictus guild, Overrated! I’m Jojo, as you might be able to tell XD

All information on Nino comes from her supports with Canas and the script of “Night of Farewells.” All the stuff about Forseti, Salamander, and Naga is a reference to Fire Emblem 4. ;)

Also, last thing: Shoutout to the folks on /feg/! I noticed this fic was getting some hits from the Fire Emblem generals on /vg/ :D I don’t go to that board much, but maybe I should, haha. Thanks for your enthusiasm and support, guys! See you on the first of June :D Oh yeah, keep an eye on my Wayward Son forum, it’s high time I updated the character information. And as always, check me out at gunlord500.wordpress.com and gunlord500.tumblr.com :D

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	75. Valor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With nowhere to go, Renault is led towards a mysterious island. What will he find there?

**Chapter 75: Valor**

It was a strange end to Varek’s life. Neither he nor Renault thought his funeral would be attended by many people, but nearly all of Dragon’s Heaven had been there.

Not that it should have been all that surprising. Varek, as he seemed to always have, had won over the hearts of pretty much all the townspeople during his stay here. Renault had tried to give a eulogy worthy of the man’s memory, and judging by the reactions of his audience, he had pretty well succeeded. Still, he thought no eulogy, no matter how eloquent, could truly do justice to the man who had been the best friend he’d ever known since Braddock.

Prayer was the best he could do. Everyone was gone, Varek’s coffin had been lowered into the ground, and there was no-one in the graveyard except Renault. He had presided over the funeral, and already performed the rituals, sprinkling water over Varek’s body and reading from the _Journey_ , and he had already prayed at Varek’s bedside just when he’d passed, but it still didn’t feel like it was enough. So, alone, under a clear blue sky, he knelt down before the grave, promising his friend that he would never forget what he had been taught, and hoping the Saint would guide him towards his just reward in God’s country.

Not long after he started, however, his reverie was interrupted by another friend.

“Hey, Renault. Uh…Can I talk to you about something? If you’d rather not, I understand, and it can wait…”

Renault stood up and looked behind him. It was Shaf.

“…Thank you for your concern, but it is alright. What do you wish to discuss?”

“Varek left a will…”

Renault smiled, though it was not a large one—his never were. “I know. He didn’t have much, but he wanted what few belongings he owned donated to charity. I have no problems with that, of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but there are a few things he wanted to leave to you as well.” Shaf reached into his pocket and held something out to Renault. It was…not a necklace, but a rosary. The ostentatious jeweled one that was the only luxurious item Varek kept.

“It was his favorite, and he meant it as a memento for you, I think.”

“Varek…” Renault took the rosary, and grasped it to his chest. “…Thank you. If it is his will, then I’ll treasure this.”

Shaf then reached for his backpack and took out a book. “His Divine tome, as well. Now that he’s gone, he didn’t want to leave you without protection.”

“Of course.”

“So…” Shaf scratched his head. “Well…again, sorry if you’re still in mourning and I shouldn’t ask stuff like this, but…what are you going to do now?”

“Eh?” Renault blinked. He honestly hadn’t given any thought to that, so preoccupied had he been with Varek’s death.

“Well…you’ve finished your translation and everything, haven’t you? Now that Varek’s gone, do you think you might stay here?” Shaf smiled. “I always had you two pegged as wanderers, but if you want to settle down, I think most of the people here would appreciate it.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I’ll have to give it some thought, but don’t get your hopes up.”

Shaf understood, and Renault did as he promised. He remained in Dragon’s Heaven for another week, thinking about all he had seen, and all that had happened to him.

He had been traveling with Varek for all these years in order to repent for his crimes and honor Braddock’s name. Now that the hermit was gone, what could he do—or, more accurately, what should he do? Continue his wandering in order to help as many people as he could? That made sense, but where would he go? With Varek, his travels were guided by their larger quest, or at least the hermit’s good judgement. With Varek gone, Renault had no idea of where to go next. It occurred to him that despite his advanced rank in the Eliminean hierarchy, he still had a very great deal to learn indeed.

So he continued to pray—this time for guidance. He was unsure if anyone was listening to him, and received nothing for a week, but at the end of 7 days, he finally got an answer, though it was as vague and esoteric as he had come to expect.

It had come to him, as they usually did, in the form of a dream. Not even a dream, really—just a vague, half-heard intimation as he had fallen asleep. Before drifting off, he thought he heard a voice—Braddock’s voice. It said, “ _Valor…Valor…Go to Valor…_ ”

In the morning, he sought out Shaf. “Have you ever heard of a place called Valor?”

“Valor?” The man scratched his chin. “That’s just bravery—wait, you mean a _place?_ I’m not…wait. I think I heard someone talking about an island to the south with that name. Why?”

“That will be my next destination. Thank you, Shaf.”

“Your next destin—you’re leaving? Just like that?”

Renault nodded. “I’ve enjoyed my time here, but…” he thought of how best to put it. “I must go where Elimine guides me. And I believe the Lord has inspired me to go to Valor. It is a…pilgrimage, I suppose.”

Shaf sighed. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t wanna hear that, but I knew it was coming. Well, at least we got to know you and Varek. Thanks for everything, Renault. I mean that. I’m glad you two came here, and I’m honored to call you friends.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Just don’t leave without saying goodbye to everyone else, okay?”

“…Very well.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Follow me.”

Shaf took him to the former Dragusta manor. Taking an elaborate key from his belt, he opened the door to an undamaged annex in the east wing of the building. After disappearing inside for a few moments, he returned with a batch of treasures that almost made Renault’s eyes pop out of his head.

“I want you to have these.”

The Bishop held up his hands and refused. “No. No. There’s no way I could possibly…”

“Really, I insist. With Juge and Iris gone, there’s nobody here who could really use these anyways, and it’d be a waste to just keep them moldering in storage forever. If you can’t think of it as repayment for all you and Varek have done for us, think of it as an investment in God’s work, if you’re really wandering around Elibe for that purpose.”

The gifts Renault were attempting to refuse consisted of a Light Rune, a Fortify staff, and 10,000 gold pieces. The Fortify staff was by far the most valuable. He’d heard of the devices, and had enough experience with staves to know how to use them, but they were capable of healing a small army all at once, depending on their user’s magical power.

“I…” Renault sighed. “If you’ll truly brook no argument…I accept. I can only hope I use these for good…at least as much as I can.”

“If I had any doubt about that, I wouldn’t be giving ‘em to you. Now let’s head to the guild tavern so you can say your goodbyes!”

-x-

Badon had changed little since he’d been here last, though Renault wasn’t sure if that was due to the sort span of time it’d been since his last visit, or because port towns in general didn’t seem to change much.

It was still noisy, still smelly, and still filled with raucous crowds from all over Elibe. Such a place had its own charms, but certainly none for someone seeking a tranquil place to pray, contemplate, and meditate.

He thus set about finding someone to take him to Valor as quickly as possible. He didn’t think it would be easy, of course; Valor was not called “The Dread Isle” for nothing. Though it wasn’t particularly far from the southern coast of Lycia, its waters were among the most dangerous and chaotic in all of Elibe. They twisted and turned with seemingly no predictability; if they appeared calm one moment they could just as easily turn into a maelstrom the next. Making things worse were the multitude of sharp, jagged rocks jutting out of the sea all around the island like a small army waiting to defend it, topped off by a shroud of fog hanging over the whole area which made it nearly impossible to see. It was therefore a death sentence for all but the most experienced of sailors, and such men were even less inclined to keep anywhere near Valor because of the terrifying stories surrounding the place. Some said a dead army floated across that part of the ocean, waiting to draw sailors down to a watery grave with them, while others thought Valor was the home of a vicious tribe of demons just waiting for an opportunity to escape and wreak havoc across Elibe.

Renault doubted the veracity of those ghost stories, but he had no reason to doubt reports of the treacherous seaways leading to the island. Even so, if God had truly sent him that dream, he had no choice but to obey its command. As dangerous as the voyage might be, surely at least one sailor in Badon would be adventurous, greedy, desperate, or just plain crazy enough to take him south.

Fortunately—perhaps because God truly did want him to go there, or perhaps because he was just plain lucky—he found his benefactor scarcely a day after he’d arrived at the port. A very skilled sailor and his crew had found themselves in debt to some shady characters in Bern and were trying to get as much money as they could as quickly as possible. When Renault approached him, he was initially horrified at the prospect of heading to that nightmarish place. But the 10,000 gold Renault offered would easily clear his debt, and the collectors would kill him and his entire family if he couldn’t deliver, so he accepted Renault’s request, however reluctantly.

The actual trip to Valor was, surprisingly, relatively uneventful. The seas were as bad as everyone had said, and there certainly were some very close calls—the small schooner came within a hair’s breadth of impaling itself on a jagged outcropping of rock, and Renault had to rescue a crew member from being tossed overboard when the ship hit some particularly rough currents. Still, at the very least they didn’t see any ghosts or demons, and they passed through a fog bank just in time to avoid shipwrecking themselves on a cliff and instead cast anchor near a nice little beach.

The captain and his crew breathed a heavy sigh of relief as Renault debarked. “Damn terrible waters,” he spat. “Well, I guess Elimine must’ve been watching out for us after all, lest we wouldn’t have made it here in the first place!” He tossed the heavy pouch of money containing Renault’s payment in the air and caught it with satisfaction. “Suppose she’s looking out for me, too, now that I can get the debt collectors off my back. I’m thankful to you, Your Excellency, but you’ll understand if I don’t want to make a trip like this ever again, no matter how much money’s in it!”

“Of course. I thank you, and your men as well. I would never have been able to make it here were it not for your skills.”

“Aye. Well, how long do you plan on staying? The boys and I can wait for a few days, but no more. Even if we’ve not seen anything yet, I don’t plan on pushin’ my luck when it comes to the ghost stories I’ve heard about this place.”

“…I don’t know. Probably a long time.” Renault turned and began heading away. “You can leave me here. Thank you again for your help.”

“Leave you here? W-wait! I can’t just leave a Bishop…”

“It’s fine. I know what I’m doing here.”

And with those words, Renault disappeared into the mist.

-x-

Valor wasn’t especially beautiful, but it was quiet. More than quiet, really—nearly silent. That alone would have made it one of the most appealing spots Renault had ever encountered, at least after everything that had happened to him.

There weren’t even any birds on this silent isle. That made Renault a little sad—he may have spurned human company for the moment, but he still loved the animals as much as he ever did. But then again, even their absence may have been a blessing in its own way. Absolutely nothing to distract him from his contemplation and his prayers.

And he very much needed both. He had been here for a week and not yet received any answers or any indication that he was in the right place, whether or not it was God or the spirit of Braddock who wanted him here. He begged God for guidance every night before going to sleep, asking for some revelation a hundred times, counted by the jeweled beads of Varek’s rosary running through his fingers. But there were no dreams, and the voices were silent, now. All he did was wander aimlessly through the deserted island.

Deserted, but not empty. Indeed, the strange things he found were the only evidence he had to conclude he was in the right place.

There was little unusual about the terrain itself. While there were no animals, there were many trees and much green grass. Very many trees, in fact—Renault’s sense of direction was good enough to tell him he’d been heading steadily north, but at any time he easily could have gotten very lost amidst forests that seemed more like deep lakes of trees. They were gangly, twisted things, nowhere near as thick and hearty as the oaks, elms, and evergreens were on the mainland, but while Renault wasn’t sure what species they were, they at least seemed healthy—another piece of evidence against the proposition that Valor was infested by demons.

It was far more likely it had been inhabited by Dragons.

He came across the first temple about a day after he’d been dropped off. He would have noticed the massive thing much sooner, but the thick fog which never seemed to let up at any time on Valor hid it from view. He wasn’t as awestruck as other travelers might have been, since he’d seen something similar before. It was at the top of a mountain in the Western Isles, where the Phoenix nested. The temple here was in pretty much the same shape: A gigantic ziggurat (a tiered rather than triangular pyramid) with a humongous entrance capable of allowing Dragons entry.

There was no inscription on the huge edifice, so Renault poked his head in cautiously. He knew it was unlikely that anything still remained here, but he also knew caution never hurt. In this case, though, it proved unnecessary, for the temple was as still and quiet as a tomb. And a temple it was—though there were no inscriptions on the outside of the building, there was one on the titanic altar in the center of the ziggurat, and that inscription was, from what Renault read, a hymn to the glory of the Draconic goddess Naga.

Beyond that, however, there was nothing at all. No hidden treasures, no long-forgotten texts, no hidden chambers that Renault could find. There were clearly mysteries here, on this island humans had forgotten but the dragons had once owned, but Renault wasn’t sure if his purpose was to unravel those mysteries or do something else. So he decided to rest there for the night, setting up camp by reading from his trusty copy of _Elimine’s Journey_ before darkness fell and he lay down to sleep.

His sleep on the floor of the ancient Dragon temple went undisturbed, by either any outside force or his own dreams. But not long after he woke, he would find the purpose he sought.

-x-

The moment he set foot into these particular ruins, Renault knew there was something different about them.

The architecture was the most obvious thing. All the other temples he’d passed by were obviously made by Dragons; their towering ceilings and gigantic gateways designed to accommodate the massive girth of the great beasts. This one, however, was plainly made for human habitation.

He came across it just a couple of days after leaving the Draconic temple, and it was hidden within the depths of another deep forest he was passing aimlessly through. The structures of the small complex were made of grey stone that, even as weathered as it was by the centuries, seemed too perfectly cut and raised in such a remote location that Renault doubted it had been crafted by hand rather than magic. He knew magicians like Nergal were capable of erecting such structures, and his suspicions were confirmed when he took a better look at it.

The whole thing was a dwelling not dissimilar to the one he’d used when working with Nergal. It was composed of two buildings. The southern one was a rectangular storage unit, completely empty now. Above it was a larger living area attached to a library. Much of the stone had been eroded and much of it had been overtaken by weeds and greenery, but Renault could yet make out the remnants of an ancient, Scouring-era hearth, as well as bookshelves lining the walls…

Not all of which were empty.

If Renault had been a dark magician, this place would have been a treasure trove. In the room next to the living area with the hearth there were a few powerful, exotic Dark tomes, such as Fenrir and Eclipse. There were also several esoteric, academic texts on the functioning of Dark magic written by both human and Dragon scholars. Even though he’d never studied the subject professionally, Renault knew these books were completely unknown to the rest of Elibe, and would represent a significant contribution to the pursuit of knowledge if their contents were disseminated.

Even that, however, paled in comparison to what lay ahead.

Just beside the sorcerer’s main study (a small room in the northeast containing an elaborate though long-ruined thronelike chair; it also contained a stairwell leading to a basement full of empty barrels—another storage) was another long, rectangular room. It led to another library, and unlike the one upstairs, the bookshelves of this one were completely packed. Most were written in High Imperial, many in Draconic, and the remaining quarter in the fell language of Shadetongue. They encompassed all sorts of subjects, from Dark magic to Anima to cooking and botany and even child care. Whoever had once owned this place certainly had a wide variety of interests—and very esoteric ones, judging by the portrait hanging at the far wall.

It was a painting not unlike the sort he had seen in Castle Caerleon; Landez’s portrait of the Autonomous Company. The coloring was actually faded and indistinct; either time had not been kind to it or the civilization of the Scouring was actually less advanced than today’s in terms of painting, at least. But what it depicted was incredibly rare indeed.

It was a man and dragon. The man seemed familiar to Renault, somehow, but his features were too indistinct to make any firm connections. The dragon, on the other hand, while not a large one (only twice the man’s size) was clearly an Ice dragon. Curiously, the two were not fighting. Instead, the man was _caressing_ the Dragon’s scaly head, as if he were in love with it.        

This was not the strangest thing Renault had ever seen. He had spent time in Arcadia, where man and Dragon lived together in peace, and even cross-bred fairly regularly. But he also thought it was the only place on Elibe where that could happen. Here, however, if this painting showed something that had actually happened, a man (perhaps the dark sorcerer who lived here) and a Dragon had actually managed to find love amongst an island full of Dragons.

Perhaps the tolerance Arcadia had displayed was something not entirely impossible to replicate.

Alas, Renault would have little time to ponder this thought. He was able to spend a few days in the library poring through the many books, but one afternoon, he heard a commotion coming from the outside.

He could only thank God—or his good fortune, considering his continued lack of certainty in the veracity of his faith—that they’d not come upon him while he was sleeping. While he was reading one of the books—a Scouring-era atlas of what would eventually be Ilia, by the looks of it—he heard voices coming from outside the room. He immediately shut the book, returned it to where it had been on the shelf, and snuck up to the doorway, peering through where he had left it open a crack.

Standing in the grassy part of the ruins (what had once been the living area) were five men, all armed. From their rough language to the bandanas covering their faces, Renault surmised they were bandits, thieves, or assassins. The subject of their conversation further convinced him they were up to no good.

“Geez, what a creepy damn place,” moaned an ugly man with an Iron Sword strapped to his hip. “Why th’ hell did they send us over here? Nothin’ around but these weirdo ruins. No treasure, no plunder, not even no women! Just a bunch of old books. I didn’t join the Fang for this!”

His companions laughed. “Yeah, well, the Shrike says those books might come in handy. I’m just glad they magiced us over here instead of taking a ship—we’d probably be on the bottom of the ocean otherwise! If those books’ll help ‘em do more stuff like that, this trip ain’t so bad. Besides, you know what happens to people who disobey orders.”

The first man shuddered. “Don’t remind me!”

“Then shut yer trap and get back to work. We’re supposed to scout this area an’ tell the commanders what it’s good for. I smell dark magic around here…maybe the Shrike would like this place. Might also be a good spot fer an ambush. Let’s see what else we can find!”

Renault knew it would be a bad idea to let this “Fang,” whatever it was, know he was here. There was almost certainly nothing good he could take from them, and it could cause a lot of trouble if they found him. While he wagered he could defend himself if necessary—despite his weak magical abilities, he had a strong tome and these thieves did not look at all powerful themselves—he also had not lived for over three centuries by taking foolish risks. Who knew what sort of organization the Black Fang was and who else it might send here if these men failed to report back? Lastly, the whole reason he had come here was to find peace and tranquility. More senseless violence would have completely thwarted that purpose, and Varek wouldn’t have wanted him to start fighting again after he’d finally found a peaceful path.

Thus, Renault waited for his chance, and then took it. The men stood in the living area for a few minutes longer, talking and joking, before finally getting back to work. They split into two groups; one heading to the southern storage area and the other heading north. Renault feared they’d enter his little library first and prepared to hide, but fortunately they decided instead to raid the former study and basement storage. Renault, therefore, could quietly and easily slip away, out of the ruins and into the mists of Valor, with none of his new visitors—not even that “Shrike”—any wiser.

-x-

As good fortune would have it, whoever these masked interlopers were, they weren’t exactly hawk-eyed and they didn’t have much interest in examining the island all that heavily. They were apparently convinced it was completely deserted, and while Renault almost bumped into a couple of their patrols, the fog and thick trees allowed him to elude any detection. He made his way back to the temple of Naga he’d passed earlier, finding to his relief that it was still empty and ignored. There, he decided to wait, hoping that whoever these strange men were would leave soon enough.

Alas, he would be disappointed—and very much so.

Another week after he’d started hiding out at the abandoned temple, he heard the clamor of battle outside. Sighing, he raised himself from his makeshift bed on the floor and cautiously advanced towards the great entrance of the building, carefully hiding behind one of the pillars to ensure he wasn’t seen.

There were shouts, screams, and the distinctive clang of steel on steel, punctuated occasionally by the loud crack of thunder, despite the fact that it was a completely clear day—Bolting spells.

The actual combatants were a very motley lot. On one side was the Black Fang, who seemed to consist primarily of poorly armed and trained thugs, the sort Renault had slaughtered by the dozens as a mercenary. Their opponents, on the other hand, were cut of very different cloth. They were such a diverse group that Renault at first thought they were separate forces. He saw a pair of Pegasus Knights flitting through the sky, a Monk (at least Renault assumed so from the person’s garb—they had long blonde hair and seemed beautiful enough to be a woman) and a pink-haired Cleric belonging to his own faith, as well as a heavily armored Knight and several Cavaliers whose armors denoted them as Ostian and Lycian, respectively. The army seemed to move in formation to protect its leaders, and when the battle neared his location Renault could make them out. There were three: A handsome, red-haired man whose fine livery and distinctive Rapier marked him as a noble of Pherae, a tall blue-haired warrior who reminded Renault of Braddock—both because of his handsome face and the Ostian Wolf Beil he wielded, and lastly, a beautiful green-haired woman who, Renault was surprised to note, wielded her sword the same way Hassar had, all those years ago. 

Despite their diversity, this new force was much better trained than the Black Fang, and they were making short work of the Black Fang. Their skill meant they were likely professionals rather than hired thugs; this combined with the fact that they were led by actual, legitimate nobles made Renault think their intentions were less malevolent than those of their foes. 

Even so, he couldn’t be entirely sure, and in any case, there were many reasons not to get involved—his weak magical abilities would make him more a hindrance than help at this point, and he still had no wish to get involved in any sort of battle, even if on the right side. He thus retreated back into the depths of the temple, hoping it would all pass him by.

It didn’t—at least not entirely.

Renault sighed inwardly when he heard the sound of steps violating his sanctuary. He readied his grip on his Divine tome…but then relaxed it when he saw who his visitor was.

It wasn’t one of the Black Fang thugs. It was, rather, a young woman who didn’t seem at all threatening. She had red hair and blue eyes, leading Renault to think she was related to the rapier-wielding leader, or at least from Lycia as he was, and dressed in modest but comfortable green clothing which told him she was a traveling noble. The white feather in her hair and the Mend staff she held told him she was a Troubadour, like Yulia had been, so long ago.

She was tired and anxious, and was almost certainly looking for a place to rest from the raging battle. She looked like she both needed and deserved his help, so he decided to make himself known, stepping out from the shadows.

She gasped and took a step back when she saw him. “Who is it? What are you doing there?!”

Renault smiled as reassuringly as he could and raised his empty hands. “I’m Renault. I’m on a pilgrimage.” That was as good a word as any to describe his purpose here, he supposed.

She looked at his holy vestments, and a blush spread across her face as she realized how rude she had been. “Oh! A Bishop? I…please, forgive my rudeness.”

“What are you doing here? You don’t appear to be with the black-robed group I saw earlier.”

“No, we are here to fight them.” She paused, and there was concern in her eyes. “…This is a battleground. Please, Your Excellency, stay here, and stay safe. I’ll ensure that the enemy does not reach this place.”

 _You wouldn’t be able to do much_ , Renault thought to himself—Troubadours used only healing magic and could cast no offensive spells. He knew it would do no good to point that out, though, and also knew the girl would not likely shy away from battle simply on the advice of a strange bishop she’d only just met.

Again, he sighed. “I’m sure I cannot convince you to lay down your arms. That being the case, I give you this.”

He reached into his traveling pack and brought out the icon of Ashera that Cathyn had given him during his last trip to Ilia.

She looked at it curiously. “What is it?”

“This is an old relic. It depicts a different God than the one we worship, but it may bring you luck nonetheless. Please, take it. You need it more than I do.”

“Sir, I…are you sure?”

Renault nodded. “It may well help you live longer. Even if you face the misery of defeat in combat, you may find another road if you but live.”

She reached out for it, hesitantly, than grabbed it and cradled it to her chest. She could apparently sense the faint bit of magic on it, and appreciated what Renault had given her. “Th-Thank you.”

Renault nodded. “Is there anything else you need? I do know some healing magic. If you’re injured…”

She shook her head. “No, no. Please don’t worry about me, Your Excellency, I am fine. I needed only a brief respite, and now that I’ve received that, I must rejoin my friends.”

“Go, then. May you be watched over and protected in your venture.”

“Thank you. And you as well, Your Excellency.”

She waved goodbye to him, and he watched her follow her comrades into the mist. Then he returned to his hiding place in the temple, praying for her safety,

The battle did not last long after that. The sounds of swords and spells died away after an hour or so, and when Renault went outside to check, he saw the ground littered with the bodies of those black-robed villains. Thankfully, none of the woman’s comrades seemed to be among them. Her army itself was nowhere in sight, not having lingered around the site of their victory. From their footprints, Renault surmised they were heading north, toward the strange sorcerer’s study he had visited.

For a moment, he thought about following them, and perhaps warning them of what lay there. But then he thought better of it. Such a group would almost certainly be able to handle whatever this “Black Fang” could throw at them.

And in any case, he was quite certain they would meet again sooner rather than later, anyways.

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say for this chapter, my friends. Hmm…it’s kinda short and not much happens, but it’s a bit of a transition chapter. Much more will happen in the next one, I guarantee it! :D :D For now, tho, check this out. Remember the portrait of the Autonomous Company mentioned a couple of chapters ago? A friend of mine drew it for me!!! The pic is small cause tumblr, but I am SOOOO happy with it!

gunlord500.tumblr.com/image/119254094985

 

 


	76. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After two hundred years, Renault finally confronts Nergal once again.

**Chapter 76: Reckoning**

Renault had not really been keeping track of how long he’d been on Valor. He wasn’t even entirely sure of when he arrived. But he also knew it didn’t really matter. It was hard, after all, to waste time when he had an eternity of it. Either God or destiny had called him here, and when either saw fit to reveal their purpose to him, they would.

And they would indeed, in time. But that purpose would be like nothing he could ever imagine, even in his wildest dreams.

It had been anywhere from three weeks to a month since he’d encountered that red-haired girl in the temple ruins. That had been the only human contact he’d had all that time, up to now. And, technically, it still had been—for the beings he saw before him at the moment were not human.

They thankfully didn’t notice him as they marched and flew past his hiding place—yet another one of those ziggurat-like Draconic temples, though this one was located farther to the north than his previous one had been. Renault’s visitors were certainly a motely lot—he counted Pegasus Knights, Generals, Druids, Bishops, Heroes, and all manner of others in their ranks. Unlike the last motley crew he’d encountered, however—the red-headed girl’s army—this one seemed to be made up entirely of clones.

Every last one of them had grey skin, black hair, and golden eyes.

Renault watched them with nothing more than a dim sense of resignation. Were they Nergal’s? It was more than likely, though not certain; if someone else had encountered the secrets of quintessence during the past few years, they might have been able to make their own morphs as well. Still, it would take a massive amount of material to produce so many morphs, and only Nergal would have had the centuries needed to do so.

And, of course, it had been Renault who helped Nergal figure out the secret to making those morphs. So whatever evil they were up to—and it was undoubtedly evil, no-one would use morphs for good work—Renault was responsible for it.

But, alas, there was nothing he could do. He had been powerless before Nergal during their last confrontation. Now, when the dark sorcerer had an entire army at his back, he was even more powerless.

Perhaps God or destiny had some plan to foil Nergal in which Renault played a part. If so, it would be a very small part, and certainly not one he would carry out alone. Or perhaps either one had decreed Renault must bear witness to whatever terrible scheme Nergal was about to carry out, as penalty for helping set it in motion.

Whatever the case may have been, Renault had no choice but to simply wait and accept whatever befell him.

The wait would not be too long, as it happened. The Morphs seemed to be swarming around this region of Valor, for reasons Renault did not understand nor care to at the moment, but fortunately their programming had not included searching through the ruins thoroughly. There were too many of them to evade at this point, so Renault thought he had no choice but to hunker down in his little resting spot and wait for them to go away, praying and meditating in the meanwhile. The morphs wouldn’t go away, not of their own volition—but they would be driven out.

A few days after he’d begun to hide, Renault was once again woken by the sounds of battle. Cautiously, he poked his head out from the entrance to the ruins, and saw a curiously familiar sight.

The army from a few weeks ago was apparently back again, battling with the morphs as ferociously as it had fought those Black Fang bandits. The human army looked a little different than Renault remembered—it was bigger, now, and also seemed generally more experienced and better armed—but even from far away he recognized some of its members. The same pair of Pegasus Knights he’d seen before were here again, flying over the battlefield in armor that indicated they were Falcoknights, now.  He also saw the red-haired and blue-haired leaders of the army cutting their way through a force of morphs to the east. The former now rode a fine white courser, and the latter now wore armor somewhat reminiscent of Braddock’s Warlord attire, albeit without the shield or helmet.

Renault thought about joining them for a moment—if they were fighting against Morphs, they were almost certainly fighting against evil. But then another squadron of Pegasus Knights alighted near his position, and he reconsidered his bravery—these fliers were morphs, not humans. Indeed, the Morphs seemed to be growing more aggressive, and Renault got the sense they were actively searching for foes to destroy now that so many foes had come to them. They’d been happy to ignore him before, but he was unsure they would now—and if they found him, they would almost certainly kill him, given how much they outnumbered him. It would be too risky to make a break for the human army. Renault resolved to stay where he was, pray for human success, but slip away quietly in case they were defeated, or in case the Morphs found his sanctuary first.

As it happened, his prayers would be answered. After about an hour or so, he heard a woman yelling followed by the clashing of weapons. When he poked his head outside again, he saw a beautiful green-haired woman (the Sacaean lady lord from the other week, he figured) sheathing her fine blade, surrounded by clouds of dust which had once been Morphs.

She heard him step out from behind her and spun around, leveling her blade at him. “Who goes there?”

He held up his hands. “Peace, my lady. I mean you no harm.”

“Oh…” She resumed sheathing her weapon. “You’re human, aren’t you? And a holy man, judging by your dress. What are you doing here?”

“I came to Valor looking for a quiet place to contemplate and pray.” He grinned, slightly. “Now it’s so noisy…I thought I could escape battle here on the Dread Isle.”

“Forgive us, Your Excellency, but this is more than just a battle. The fate of the world is at stake, and we cannot— _will not_ —lose!”

“Is that so? Then perhaps you would allow me to join you.”

“Eh? Why?”

“You’re fighting Nergal, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we—how did you know?”

“Then that is enough for me.” A slight undercurrent of hostility entered his voice, enough to tell the Sacaean woman he meant business.

“Do you at least know why we’re here on this island?”

“No…I’m not interested in why you’re fighting. I am only looking for tranquility. If helping you will bring it to me, then I will lend you my power.” He looked helplessly down at his hands and grinned again, self-deprecatingly. “Not that I will be that much help…”

“Well…you seem to hate that blackheart as much as any man of goodwill should. I feel as if I can trust you.” She pointed over to the east, where a huge ruin loomed in the distance, larger than any Renault had so far seen and larger than the one he’d been staying in. “That’s our destination, and it seems we’ve secured it. Follow me.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“You needn’t call me—oh, yes, I haven’t introduced myself. My apologies, I was lost in the battle! My name is Lyn, of the Lorca.”

“I am called Renault. My thanks for allowing me to fight with you.” He paused for a moment, looking at the woman’s hair. “You mentioned you were of the Lorca…if I may ask, do you know of a man named Hassar?”

“Hassar of the Lorca?” She looked surprised. “How do you know of him?”

“I met him once, a long time ago.” _Longer than you’d expect_ , Renault thought.

“I see. I’m glad. Hassar was the chief of my tribe, and my father.”

There was both pride and sadness in her voice, and Renault didn’t need to be told what Hassar’s fate was. He sighed. While he certainly hoped his Sacaean disciple—Wallace’s friend—had lived longer, he knew how harsh life on the plains could be. “He sired a fine daughter, then. I’m certain he would be glad to see you here today.”

“I feel the same, Renault.” She smiled. “Though the battle is already over, I feel you’ve helped anyways!”

“But I’ve done nothing, really.”

“In any case, I’m still glad you’re here. Let us continue—I’d like you to meet Eliwood and Hector!”

_-X-The Value of Life-X-_

The army-Eliwood’s Elite, Renault had learned it was called-was currently spending the night camped outside the entrance to the huge structure looming over the landscape. Its sheer size intimidated even the experienced veterans (though Renault knew most of his comrades were also worried about the course of tomorrow’s battles). Nearly twice as tall as the other Draconic ziggurats common throughout the island, it was capped off with a sort of dome rather than the tiers of the other buildings. From the awesome magical power Renault could feel radiating from its depths even now, he got the distinct feeling that it was a true Dragon’s Gate—far grander than the small ones he’d encountered under Aquleia and at Bluemoon Tower.

He wouldn’t have much time to appreciate it, though—he was currently being grilled by his new commanders. Lyn had immediately taken him to meet them as they conferred in their leader’s tent after the successful battle. The red-haired Lycian and blue-haired Ostian were already there; Lyn said they were Eliwood and Hector, respectively. And a moment after Renault arrived, there entered a slim, quite fetching Bernese woman with long red hair and a pronounced limp, thanks to the peg attached to her left leg. She was, according to Lyn, their tactician Rosamia.

“So, this is our newest recruit?” Hector looked over him with a rather nonplussed expression. “Sure doesn’t look like much.”

Renault bore Hector’s jibes without complaint. They were true, after all.

“Don’t be so hasty to judge by appearances, Hector. He may be stronger than he seems.” Eliwood was quick to jump to the new recruit’s defense, and Renault got the impression this man tried his hardest to see the best in everyone he met.

“Even so, we’ve already got a very strong army as it is.” Rosamia’s voice was curt, her words intended to be neither cruel nor kind, but simply truthful. She was an eminently practical woman; well-suited for command of an army, in Renault’s view. “I don’t think he’s a spy or anything like that—it’s too late now for Nergal to try any of those schemes. But unless he’s stronger than Lucius, I don’t think we’ll have much use for him now.”

 _Lucius?_ The name seemed familiar to Renault, but he didn’t dwell on it. Hector nodded in agreement while Lyn and Eliwood seemed as if they felt somewhat bad for Renault, but the Bishop simply smiled and nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. I agree with your assessment. Even so…if there is anything I may do for you, in battle or out, you need only ask.”

“Perhaps I will. How familiar are you with this island? And with Nergal, for that matter?”

“I’ve explored much of Valor, but not this area extensively. And I have…an understanding of Nergal’s morphs. But I doubt you are very interested in how they work…”

Hector snorted. “You got that right! All I need to know is how to hack them to pieces!”

“Hm. Even so, we could use you as a scout, Renault. You’re…let’s be blunt, expendable, and we’re not entirely certain we’ve cleared the area of all Nergal’s morphs. Would you be willing to be sent ahead or away from the army to ensure we won’t have any unpleasant surprises waiting for us inside the complex?”

Hector was alright with this, but Lyn and Eliwood weren’t. “Rosamia, surely that’s too harsh? He just joined the army, to treat him like this…”

Renault shook his head. “That is fine. I accept your decision.” He turned to the tactician.

“You...your name is…Rosamia, isn't it? I'll wager you don't trust me. You think I look shady, don't you?”

Hector, Lyn, and Eliwood looked away, but Rosamia simply nodded. In response, Renault smiled.

“Don't let it bother you. It's the truth. More important is this, Rosamia… Nergal is powerful. But he is still human, and these morphs were made by that same human... Victory is not impossible...I know this to be true.”

This seemed to dissipate the tension in the tent. “I’m glad you feel that way, new recruit. Let’s all press forth to victory! And to do that, we’ll need to get some rest. Consider this your first order from your tactician.”

It was one Renault was happy to obey. Especially since, as he wagered, the coming days would not be restful at all.

-x-

The next day had not been restful, but so far it was at least quiet. Eliwood’s army, Renault included, had passed through the entrance to the humongous Dragon’s Gate. Nothing was there—in fact, there just seemed to be a gigantic runic design on the floor, somewhat similar to that in the Shrine of Seals. The actual Gate, which, according to Rosamia, Nergal was trying to use for his dark purposes, was deep below ground, set there by the Dragons as protection against human assault. There were several passageways leading down, and the army split up through them, wishing to explore the ruins as thoroughly as possible so no enemies could ambush them from behind.

The passageways were of widely varying sizes. Some were large enough to accommodate Dragons, while others were man-sized; Renault assumed they were for Manaketes, or the smaller human forms Dragons had taken after the Ending Winter. Renault, as promised, had gone alone through one of them ahead, putting himself in front of the main force, when he came across a closed steel door. It seemed unexceptional, but when he drew near it, a strange sensation overtook him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he figured it out when he withdrew his Divine tome to prepare for defense.

It was completely inert—no magic flowed through it. Something had hit him with the effect of a Silence staff, though he’d not seen the distinctive pyramidal field of magic it produced.

He quickly retraced his steps and sought out his army’s leaders. Rosamia was conversing with Hector, Lyn, and Eliwood, along with a young man who seemed to be a bard and whose hair reminded Renault, for some reason, of Ilian snow.

“Sounds like it could be a problem,” said Hector. “Eliwood, Lyn, come with me and we’ll deal with it. Nils, too, your songs might be useful. Renault, you come as well, since you’re the one that found it.”

“As you wish.”

The five of them advanced towards the door. “Stay here, Nils,” Hector cautioned. “I hear more of them!”

Lyn cursed. “There are still some left? This must be Nergal’s doing…”

“Lord Hector,” Nils said, “It’s that weird power again… Like in the ruins below the desert. That area where magic was nullified.”

“A magic seal? Here?”

 “Hector, what are you talking about?” Eliwood asked. “What’s a magic seal?”

 “I don’t know… I don’t know too much about it. Renault, do you know anything?”

He shook his head. “My apologies. This is the first I’ve encountered a phenomenon like this as well.”

Nils frowned. “What’s going on? It feels different than last time. In the desert, its energy felt so hostile… Now, it feels more like …sorrow?”

The noises behind the door intensified, and Lyn looked at it meaningfully. “Hector, they’re moving.”

 “I don’t know who they are, but it looks like they’re after a fight,” Hector snarled. “Show them no mercy! Let’s go!”

The team burst through the rusted steel door and entered a queer octagonal chamber with a passage that spiraled counterclockwise around it. It seemed the silencing energy, whatever it was, came from the center of the annex, and judging by the forms shifting in the shadows in front of them, they’d have to fight their way to it.

Hector, Lyn, Eliwood, and Nils wasted no time, and Renault was, bluntly, astonished by their fighting skills. His four companions tore through the very tough Morphs—Generals, Heroes, Snipers, and Swordmasters—as if they were just children. Nils didn’t fight, but his instrument, a small piccolo, apparently possessed great magical powers, for whenever he played, Lyn, Hector, and Eliwood moved twice as fast. They were barely injured, and they used their Vulneraries to help what few wounds they did sustain. Renault was very glad for that, because he wouldn’t have been able to do much. All but the corners of the octagonal hall were covered by the strange “magic seal,” and those corners were too far away for Renault to reach far with his paltry magic at all. He wouldn’t have been able to heal anyone with a Physic staff from that distance, much less his Fortify staff, though he might have been able to if he wasn’t so weak.

There was little point dwelling on that, though—he concentrated more on being glad his friends’ strength could make up for it, as well as making himself useful in other ways. The tactician had given him a set of Master Keys, which he put to good use—two chests in the room contained another Fortify staff and Runesword, respectively. Within a few minutes, they had reached the center of the chamber, and Renault opened the door inside.

They were not expecting what awaited them.

It was a Morph—but like none Renault had ever seen.

It was clad in only the thinnest, meanest black robes imaginable, and looked as if it had not been tended to, or even seen, for literally centuries. It said nothing, absolutely nothing. It was silent, as one might expect a bringer of magical silence to be. Much of the rest of it was mysterious too—Renault could only catch a glimpse of a man’s pale, wizened face beneath the cowls of that thin black robe, and he did not want to get any closer to it. Nils was right—there was no hostility coming from it, but there was sorrow. The purest, keenest sorrow Renault had ever felt, coming from that being’s frail form so strongly Renault would have cried, if he were still able.

“What…what is that thing?” Hector asked. “Renault, do you have any idea?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is it a threat?”

“It doesn’t seem to be, but…it’s definitely a servant of Nergal.”

The sadness on Hector’s face was replaced by anger. “Then it has to die.”

The big Ostian strode up to the pitiful creature, and in the same movement unlimbered his mighty Wolf Beil and sliced it in half in one stroke. It disappeared into dust, as all Morphs did, but it had enough time, barely, to break its eternal silence just once.

“ _NERGAL!”_

And with that, it was over. The field of silence dissipated, and Renault felt his magic return to him once again. Silence once again fell over the labyrinth beneath the ruins—there were no more morphs to fight.

Eliwood felt the same thing. “The barrier’s gone…”

His best friend nodded. “We beat it. But what was it? We saw it here once before, and then under the desert. Was that the same creature?”

“After that final blow, its body crumbled into dust.”

“Yeah. That’s the same thing that happened to those morphs,” Lyn agreed.

Hector looked at its now-empty robe quizzically. “So this thing… This magic seal was a morph, too? But it didn’t look anything like the rest of them.”

“But it was still a morph,” Nils said sadly. “When it died… I heard its voice call out… It called out a name… Nergal. Did you hear its voice? Sorrow… It was filled with a terrible sorrow.”

All of them looked at the ground for a moment, pondering what they’d just witnessed.

But only for a moment. Hector shook his head, determination returning to his eyes. “Enough! We don’t have time to spend on this. Are you ready, everybody? Once we get through here, it’s on to the Dragon’s Gate and the final battle! Here we go! Time to crush Nergal’s ambitions!”

“Right on, Hector!” his friends cheered, and followed him back out of the annex, back to their army.

All except Renault.

He stood there for several moments longer, staring down at those empty robes. He then bent down and picked them up, turning them over in his hands respectfully, almost reverently. Upon closer examination, he saw something sewn into the back of the top half of the robe. It was clumsily done, almost as if a child had done it. But words were still legible through the worn, centuries-old string.

_My name is Kishuna._

“Kishuna,” Renault murmured to himself. “Was that your name? Did…Nergal give it to you?” It seemed to be the case—he could think of no other explanation. “But you…obviously weren’t meant to fight. That seal of yours would cause Nergal more problems that it would solve. So why would he create you? And even give you a name, which he never gave for all his other creations, especially the failed ones?”

Renault touched those words, almost tenderly. “You loved Nergal, didn’t you? In your own way…and this was how he repaid you. Not so different from I…I never would have believed a Morph could possess emotions, volition of its own. But perhaps I knew even less of the world than I thought I did…”

His reverie was interrupted by soft steps from behind him. “Lord Renault?” Nils asked. “Are you alright?”

“Eh? Yes, I am…forgive me. I was lost in my own thoughts. I’ll be right there.”

Nils nodded and returned back the way he came. Renault followed him…

And left behind all those questions that would never be answered.

_-X-Light-X-_

As he expected, by the time he and Nils got back, the army leader was already giving a speech.

The army had gathered in the second-lowest level of the labyrinth, what seemed to be a mile below ground. It seemed to be a humongous staging area, as large as the main body of the Erdenkaiser fortress he’d once fought in. It was large enough to contain hundreds of dragons, and Renault wagered this was where the Draconic refugees had gathered before going downstairs to the Gate itself.

Hector stood in front of them, Rosamia, Nils, Lyn and Eliwood at his side, and behind them, a very familiar face, one Renault had never expected to see again. That great grey beard and aura of immense power could only be Athos, the Archsage. Renault had no idea why the man from Arcadia was here now, but at this point, nothing really surprised him anymore. He was just glad the Archsage hadn’t noticed him, though it would have been hard to (he was standing at the back of the gathered army, next to a big bald man in heavy armor, and not in plain sight).

“Uh…alright, everyone,” Hector said, his voice enhanced by Athos’ magic, “We don’t have much time, and I’m not great at giving speeches anyways, so I’m going to make this quick.

“As you all know, this is the final battle. We have to crush Nergal’s ambitions, _now_. If we don’t, there’s no future for any of us. Like our tactician says,” and at this Rosamia nodded, “we can’t leave _anything_ to chance. The slightest mistake could doom not only us, but all of Elibe. So…I can’t take all of you with me from here on out. There’s only enough room in the chamber of the Gate itself for a small team, and it has to be the absolute best out of everyone here. Lucius, Oswin, Dart, Erk, Canas, Guy, Rath…step forward.”

The named men did—a General, Berserker, Druid, Sword Master, Nomadic Lord, and Bishop last of all. Renault started slightly when he saw that last one. Lucius was almost the splitting image of Lucian, the friend he’d murdered so long ago. Yes, and Lucian’s son had also been named Lucius. But how could such a person be _here_? Facing Nergal?

Yet another unanswered question. But despite how badly Renault wanted to know, and how shaken his emotions had become, he also knew the coming battle was far too important to jeopardize with his past. So he said nothing at all, and continued to watch, as unnoticed as he’d ever been.

“The rest of you…I want you to stay here, and protect our backs so we can face Nergal without worry! I know a lot of you will be disappointed. I know you hate Nergal as much as I do, and that you have your own reasons for being here. But we can’t afford even the slightest risk. And Rosamia says it’s important anyways, and she’s led us true so far, hasn’t she?”

The other members of the army may have been slightly disappointed, but they were fanatically loyal to their tactician by this point, so they let out a rousing cheer to express their acceptance.

“So, everyone, stay here and don’t worry. We’ll take care of Nergal for you. And…well, this isn’t easy for me to say, but…each and every one of you, even if you won’t be coming with me…I want you to know that I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad to have fought by your side! There’s not a better army on the face of Elibe! Now, let’s give it our all and come home with _victory!_ ”

All of the army—even those Hector hadn’t chose—raised their voices in a loud cheer, the loudest Renault had heard in many years.  And though he didn’t join in, he couldn’t help but feel his own heart being lifted as well, at least somewhat.

And with that, the twelve men and women selected for the most important battle since the Scouring stepped forth into the darkness of the grand stairwell leading down to the Dragon’s Gate. The rest of the army, Renault included, promptly gathered themselves up into a line in front of the stairwell, ready to defend it against any possible interlopers.

For what seemed like an eternity, but was more likely their tense nerves, nothing happened. They all looked at each other uneasily, wondering if battle had already been joined below. Some started to make small talk, perhaps to calm their nerves.

“Hah! The most rousing speech I’ve heard in many years,” laughed the bald man in armor standing next to Renault. “Our victory is assured, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps, but we will have to work for it,” Renault replied thoughtfully.

“Wise words, which are ever true. As expected from a Bishop! Let us fight side by side, Your Excellency!”

Renault nodded. “As you will.”

“Ha! It is good indeed to have allies who are strong of spirit. Tell me, what is your name? I am the mighty Wallace, the most fearsome knight in all of Caelin!”

The name was familiar, but confirmation would come later. “…I am called Renault.”

At this, Wallace’s expression turned from enthusiastic to shocked, and the tone of his voice made him seem decades younger. “Mm? You? No, it couldn’t be…”

“What is it?”

“It is not possible. No…surely not… Forgive me, Bishop Renault… You just look so much like him… You could be the very image of a man I knew…”

Renault’s suspicions were confirmed. It was indeed Wallace, his squire friend from so many years ago. But he did not confirm his comrade’s suspicions. There was too much hanging on this battle for any distractions, even for an old friend.

“I thought you might be him, but that is certainly not possible,” Wallace continued. “There is no way he could be as you are now… And the last time I saw him was some thirty years ago…”

Before Renault could reply, he—and all the other members of the army in the chamber-- heard something.

It was Nergal. Even centuries after they’d last met, Renault could recognize that cruel voice.

The sorcerer’s wicked laughter echoed from the walls, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere, as the soldiers looked around themselves in vain for a target—and in growing panic. The came a flash of light, and as it subsided, they all saw their enemy standing in front of them, clad in the same black robes and concealing turban Renault had last seen him in centuries ago.

It was unwise, Renault knew, but he couldn’t help himself. Despite how many centuries had passed, and despite his religious training and all the self-discipline he’d gained, seeing Nergal right in front of him again was far more than his self-control could handle. He could feel nothing but guilt for the murders of Dougram, the monks of Par Massino, and so many others, for his own foolishness had allowed Nergal to manipulate him. But there was one thing he could not forgive Nergal for, one thing that made his hate against the villain burn brighter than the sun.

He remembered, as clearly as if it were yesterday, Nergal creating a morph in Braddock’s image, that morph responding completely to all of Renault’s commands, and the utter emotionlessness, _soullessness_ , with which that morph had done so. He could blame only himself for everything else that had happened to him, but for Nergal to reduce Braddock to a mere drone, to dishonor his memory, his personality, everything about him in such a way…

Renault stepped forwards as the rest of the army cowered. “Nergal,” he hissed, the hatred in his voice revived after lying dormant for years, “do you remember me?”

The Dark Druid grinned, his contempt evident in the depths of his one good eye. “Hah. You are…Renault. So you’re still eking out a wretched existence?”

Renault’s grip on his tome tightened. “I went astray. I listened to your honeyed words...I dreamt of the impossible, the return of a lost soul. But what you gave me was...a puppet. It was soulless! Nothing more than an _empty vessel!_ ”

Nergal laughed again, even louder this time. “Just an empty vessel? Isn't that what you wanted? You desired to bring back your dead friend. You were my experiment, and I completed my morph. I'm grateful, Renault. Thanks to you, I gained power.”

“You villain... You cursed him! Your crime can never be forgiven! I will end you with my hands, Nergal. In Braddock’s name!”

Without thinking (if he had, he would have realized he could have done absolutely nothing to harm Nergal), Renault opened his Divine tome and summoned up the most powerful blast of magic he could.

When the light and smoke cleared, there was nothing left.

“A…amazing!” Wallace said. “Was that it? Did you defeat him, Renault?”

“No. There’s no way it could have possibly been that easy.”

He was right, much to his dismay. Nergal’s mocking laughter once again echoed across the walls of the huge labyrinth.

“It would have been a pity for all of you to die without knowing who the new ruler of this world would be. Now I no longer have a use for you. Arise, my Morphs, and slaughter these interlopers!”

 “It was an apparition! The real Nergal is still downstairs!”

“So then why’d he come here?”

They got their answer as the ground began to rumble—and a huge clattering of noise came from above.

“Morphs,” someone yelled, “ _Morphs!_ ”

It took all Renault had not to swear. “Everyone, fall back and stay together! If we support each other, we may live through this!”

That would be a difficult task. Armored boots clomped towards him and his friends—Generals. Renault wasn’t sure if this was a reserve force Nergal had been saving for just this moment, or if he was putting everything he had left here. Renault certainly hoped it was the latter, but it didn’t matter either way.

“Wallace! Let us reform the line,” he said. “Make sure every section of it has a stronger member. If the least skilled members of the army are concentrated in one place, the enemy will break through immediately!”

It was good advice; Renault’s orders were conveyed to the rest of the troops and carried out just in time for the first wave of Generals to hit the line. The Morphs were most interested in getting downstairs to their master rather than fighting in and of itself. That was definitely most fortunate, because Renault doubted the less-elite members of Eliwood’s Elite could have withstood a concentrated assault. As it was, though, the line held, and the advancing troops were destroyed with a combination of magic and a few spare Armor-Killers the tactician had somehow acquired earlier and thoughtfully left behind.

No more came immediately, though they all heard noises from above indicating more were coming. They had a little break, though, and Wallace took that time to continue his conversation with Renault.

“I was only ten years old or so at the time,” Wallace said. “I was a squire in the service of a knight of Caelin… I was so puny and slight that some teased me, called me a girl.”

Renault looked over the big man, whose impressive musculature and total baldness was a complete contrast to the slight-framed, green-haired youth he’d once know. “…Sorry. That’s a little hard to imagine.

“The man I knew was a mercenary also in the service of Caelin. Yes, and his name was also Renault. Renault the Impervious, they called him. He had no fear of death, and his bravery was well known. Did you know him?”

 _I did, but that man is long gone, now. The man I am now knows my past isn’t something to interrupt this battle with._ “No” was Renault’s only reply.

“I learned much about fighting from him… I owed him a great debt as my teacher… I wanted to meet him once more time in my life.”

“Why do you want to see him?”

“I made a promise to him when I was young. I told him I would fight always for the sake of the people. I told him I would never use the skills he taught me for evil.” Wallace tightened his grip on his weapon. “I want to tell him that I have kept this promise… But…surely he is long dead.”

Renault still said nothing, but if Wallace had been less lost in his own thoughts, and more attentive, he might have noticed the expression on his friend’s face—a combination of sorrow and pride.

 _Wallace_ , Renault thought to himself, remembering with embarrassment his last words to the squirem, _Forgive me. I was a fool, back in those days. A cruel, cynical fool. I never would have thought you could have kept your promise to me, but only because I could have never kept it myself. You’ve grown into a fine man, truly. A finer man than your teacher ever was. I’m proud of you, Wallace._

It seemed Wallace did notice the change in his former teacher (even if he wasn’t sure it was his former teacher). “Lord Renault, are you all right?”

Renault blinked, and shook his head. “Yes. Forgive my distraction.”

Wallace smiled. “You know… It is somewhat strange, but… though we’ve only just met, I feel as though I’ve known you for quite some time. I feel we could be good friends.”

“It would be an honor.” _You don’t know how much of an honor, Wallace,_ Renault thought.

“Would that I had met you sooner! Soon our journey ends… And will we fight together no more?”

“Keep your guard up, Wallace. Victory is not ours yet.” The clomping noises from the next wave of Morphs was growing louder, and they both knew the enemy would arrive in moments.

“Aahahaha! He said the exact same thing to me once! How could I forget! His teachings are all engraved on my heart!”

After watching his friend pour his heart out to him, Renault found his determination to avoid any distraction wavering. “Wallace. Would you still like to see him again?”

“Of course! But…it feels less urgent now. Having fought alongside you like this, Bishop Renault… It has given me the feeling that perhaps… He has been watching me from heaven…”

Renault grinned, slightly. “Perhaps…”

Wallace bowed slightly. “I must thank you, Your Excellency.”

“But I have done nothing, really.” He looked at one of the nearby passageways, where enemy Generals were just becoming visible. “Let us return to battle.”

Wallace laughed and unlimbered his Iron Spear again. “Onward!”

Despite his enthusiasm, however, this wave of Morphs was far more difficult to deal with than the first. They were more coordinated, and reacted to attacks, though they still seemed more focused on getting downstairs. A hole opened up on the left flank of the line, allowing a few of the Generals to get through. There was nothing to be done about that—Renault called for that section to fall back and support another one, and could only hope that Hector, Eliwood, Lyn, Athos, and the rest could handle a trio of extra visitors.

They might be getting more than a few, though—a third wave of Morphs was coming down, and it was even bigger than the first. Though no-one had been killed yet, several had been wounded, and the line grew smaller and smaller as it was forced to fall back and give way.

Just when it seemed like they were about to be overwhelmed completely, however, the Morphs stopped. Entirely. It was as if each and every one of the Generals had suddenly become a statue.

“W…what happened?” gasped Wallace, the exhausted knight leaning on his spear for support. “They’ve stopped! Is no-one controlling them anymore? Was Nergal…defeated?”

“Maybe,” replied Renault. “But we don’t”—

He was interrupted by the ground beginning to shake, followed by the loudest, most terrifying roar coming from below that could only have been from a Dragon.

“They’ve returned? Dragons have returned?”

That didn’t bode well for the success of their mission, but all wasn’t lost yet. “Wait, everyone,” called Renault. “Don’t despair! Look at the Morphs!”

Nergal’s servants still hadn’t moved. Some of them, in fact, had dropped their weapons. The more adventurous members of the rear guard stood up to the motionless creatures, waving their hands in front of helmet-clad faces, but nothing happened. There was no reaction.

“I think they managed to kill Nergal, at least,” said Renault, feeling a wave of relief course through him. Braddock had finally been avenged—truly avenged. Even if he wasn’t the one to land the final blow, it was enough to know that Nergal was dead.

“Then what of that roar?” asked Wallace. “Does that mean the Dragons returned anyways?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Renault. “All we can do is wait.”

As if on cue, another roar echoed through the chamber—but this one seemed to be in great pain, and it was cut off, as if the creature producing it had died making it.

That seemed to bode well. What bode even better was when Hector, Lyn, Eliwood, and the rest of the team they’d brought along with them—except for Athos, oddly enough, who had been replaced by a beautiful girl with hair the same color as Nils’ (and Nils was gone too, now that Renault noticed)—burst through the shadows leading to the Dragon’s Gate.

“We did it, everyone!” Hector yelled at the top of his lungs. “We’ve saved the world!”

The army, as could be expected, forgot all about the morphs, still standing there as they were, and broke into a loud, earth-shaking cheer.

All except for Renault. As happy as he was that this leg of his long journey had come to an end, he still knew his journey as a whole wasn’t over yet.

“Renault, wait!” Wallace called. “Wait! Where are you going?!”

Though it pained him, Renault didn’t answer his old friend. Without another word, he disappeared into the darkness that his army’s leaders had just emerged from.

_-X-A Funeral for Legends-X-_

The Dragon’s Gate itself was a truly astonishing structure. Similar in basic shape to some of the arches he’d seen in Aquleia, it was several hundred times larger, suitable for admitting many Dragons. Renault had no idea how such a huge edifice could exist so far underground.

But he wasn’t interested in it, not at the moment. His attention was on the three figures in front of it—one standing, two lying on the ground.

“So you’ve come,” said Bramimond, as if he were expecting Renault—and, truth be told, Renault wasn’t surprised to see the Master of Darkness here. If Athos had come all this way, why wouldn’t Bramimond have done the same?

“Yes,” he replied. “My apologies for taking so long…”

“No matter. There’s something I want you to do. Come with me.”

Yet another non-surprise—a field of white light swallowed Renault whole, and he felt mind and body disassociate. When he came to, he was surrounded by total darkness—yet he could see Bramimond in front of him, as well as the bodies of Nergal and Athos. If he had to guess, he was under the Shrine of Seals.

“What happened? Why did you bring me here?”

Bramimond gestured to the two bodies. “The age of ‘Legends’ is coming to an end. Athos and Nergal…along with me, they were the last men to have seen the Scouring. Their time on this world has passed. Nergal was killed by Hector, and summoned a Dragon with his last breath. Athos expended the last of his power stopping that Dragon. I did, as well…the Dragon girl, Nils’ sister. I brought her back from death with the power of the holy weapons. That was too much for my body to bear…I will join these two, soon, after I fall asleep again.”

“The power of the holy weapons. That was why you couldn’t bring Braddock back, wasn’t it? You knew you’d need their power to restore that girl.” There was no anger or accusation in Renault’s voice. He understood and accepted the Legend’s reasoning, now, and Bramimond merely nodded.

 “But you did bring me here, back to the Shrine of Seals. What did you want me to do?”

Bramimond gestured again to the bodies. “Last rites…give us last rites…”

“Why? Even for Nergal?”

“He was Athos’ friend, once. He fell down the wrong path, in his search for dark power…but then again, so did you. If he isn’t worthy of redemption, what does that say about his servant?”

Renault blushed. “…You are correct. But Athos as well?”

“He and I were not Elimineans, but the woman we loved was. If it would make her happy, send us off with the blessings of the Church she created.”

The shadows shifted, revealing a small chalice filled with pure water. Renault didn’t even need to bring out his copy of the _Journey_ —he knew the words by heart.

“Blessed God, Lord of Heaven and Earth, on this day do I prepare three of your wayward sons for their return to You.

“One was a great hero, a fervent defender of humanity and author of one of Your book’s Testaments. Though he was not a member of Your church, I pray you take Athos, Master of Anima, into Your embrace, for he loved Your Saint as much as any man could.

“The second was also a hero, and a master of Darkness, far from Your light. But he loved Saint Elimine as well, in his own way. Bramimond’s acceptance of Your rite is the last symbol of his love for her. May his love, and his service to humanity alongside Athos and Elimine, earn his way into Your embrace.

“Finally, I pray for the soul of Nergal, an inveterate villain who had never tasted the light of redemption or salvation as far as I know. Yet, I do not know everything. He was Athos’ friend, once. If his friendship with the Archsage brought even the slightest bit of light into the world, I pray it may someday lead his soul away from the darkness, even if it takes him a million years of penance.”

Renault read from his memory of the _Book of Adorations, Lamentations,_ and the _Second Testament of Theomus_ , sprinkling holy water on the feet, chests, and foreheads of the three men (the still-living Bramimond accepted Renault’s ministrations without complaint). Renault then ended the ritual as it had always ended: He said “Amen” and made the sign of the Tower.

“Thank you,” said Bramimond as the bodies of Athos and Nergal disappeared into the shadows. “Now, I sleep.” His voice was different, now. It didn’t sound like Renault’s…or Athos’, or anyone else. It sounded like a young man’s voice, with a slight accent Renault couldn’t identify, but suspected was hundreds of years old. Had Bramimond recovered a bit of his true, original personality?

“Perhaps,” said the shadowlord, as if he could read Renault’s mind.

“If you know that, then you know I wish to ask you something before you fall asleep again.”

“I will answer…if I can.”

“Bramimond…you knew, didn’t you? All this time…you knew I’d meet Nergal again.”

“I saw the flow of time, yes. I did not call you to the Dread Isle, but fate, predestination…call it what you will, that did. No man can break himself from the current of time, not even someone unaffected by it.”

“And even before then…when I first met you. You knew…knew that I would…take up the cloth rather than the sword. That was why you let me live, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps. Even I’m not sure…maybe you just caught me in a good mood.”

Renault hadn’t expected the ancient shadow to tell a joke, and it was enough to make him break out into a laugh—something he hadn’t done in many years.

“But, in any case,” Renault continued, his laughter subsiding, “if you could see all that…Your Excellency…do you know why I still live?”

Bramimond said nothing. Perhaps he was confused, if such a thing were possible? Renault grasped the phylactery around his neck, to show the Legend what he meant. It was still active—his soul, or consciousness, was still there. Its power had not disappeared even with Nergal’s death. While Renault wondered what this meant for the Morphs which hadn’t been destroyed, he also knew it meant his journey wasn’t over yet. But he wanted to know why.

Now Bramimond understood. “Nergal…his magic was strong, but not without its limits. He could create and control Morphs, but not bind each and every one of them to his life. They are self-sufficient, in their own way…even if their master died, they will live on. Eternally, perhaps…standing wherever they were left, until time itself stops and all comes to an end.

“The same applies to you, Renault. The magic on your phylactery…it is self-contained, able to persist on its own. Nergal’s death means nothing to you. You will live as long as your phylactery remains undamaged, or your artificial body continues to draw breath.”

“Nergal was right in a way,” Renault mused. “He told me I would wander eternally. He thought I would witness him ascend to godhood…instead, I gave him rites he never believed in. An irony, certainly, but if I’m still here, perhaps he might take some comfort in knowing one of his legacies lives on.”

“Perhaps. But it won’t last forever.”

“Eh?”

“Athos gave a last gift to the children of Roland…for your service, allow me to do the same…”

“Ah!”

A sharp pain lanced through Renault’s head. As it did, he saw _visions._

A muscular, brown-haired man with a funny mustache and a large axe…a purple-haired man losing himself in a wave of snow…a beautiful woman—no, from his dress, he was a man—smiling beatifically as he ran a hand through his long blond hair…

Then screams, the smell of blood, the sound of steel on steel…a red star rising over the capitol of Bern…and then the city of Ostia, with a white star of hope above it…and finally, Renault saw himself.

Lying on the ground, his lifeblood streaming from many wounds.

“A…ah!” As quickly as they had come, both the pain and the visions left Renault kneeling on the black floor, gasping for breath. “What was that? The future? My future? Can it be changed? Or…”

“Perhaps it is the future, perhaps not. My power wanes…I can show you what might happen…but I am yet unsure if it will…or even yet. Who knows when you’ll meet those people? In a year, in a hundred years…and who knows when your journey will end? Ten years, a thousand years…I only know this…

“Your journey is not over yet. Before you can rest, you still have work to do…

“You must continue…”

And with that, the shadows turned into white light, and Renault was once again taken to the surface.

He would remember Bramimond’s last words, as well as those visions, for the rest of his life. How long that would be, however, was the open question.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

FINALLY! Nergal is dead, my friends, and we’re officially in the territory of the actual games :D Now, I know this chapter might seem anticlimactic for you guys. However, I wrote it this way because it wouldn’t be believable, from a gameplay perspective, for Renault to fight Nergal. Pretty much nobody brings him along for the final chapter because he’s so bad XD While it would have been dramatic for Renault to face down Nergal, it wouldn’t have been realistic, especially since one of the themes for this story is Renault’s own weakness and the way he admits it and acknowledges it. I think this way of handling it—having Renault fight in the “reserves” along with all the less-useful members of the army, and having his battle conversation with Nergal happen with an apparition generated by the sorcerer—carries on the plot while remaining true to the themes of the story, without making Renault seem like a melodramatic sort of “hero;” he’s supposed to be more of a wise, otherworldly watcher of humanity who recognizes he is no longer a part of it and no longer strong enough to assist in its struggles.

I also wanted Renault to interact with Kishuna, since they seem like related characters. However, I strongly believe Kishuna wasn’t Renault’s friend, like many people say. Kishuna had emotions, and Nergal explicitly said he deserved “more than a number.” The morph he made for Renault, though, was explicitly described as a “soulless puppet.” Even so, Renault and Kishuna are similar in some ways, so I wrote them together :D

Now for something more important.

As you can tell, the visions Renault received are a little taste of his future—and as you might be able to tell, his journey is coming to an end, slowly but surely. Yes, it’s almost over, my friends, the long struggle—my life’s work—is almost over. 83 will be the last chapter. As always, I’d like to thank all of you—readers, reviewers, well-wishers—but I will say that I’ll be writing out full credits for this fic as it nears its end, and replacing the Linear Notes with those credits. So the Linear Notes for the next couple chapters may be the last! :O In any case, it’s a been a hell of a ride. It’s not quite over yet, but it is almost over. Thanks again for stickin with me <3

 


	77. Seekers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Nergal's death, Renault is once again left purposeless--save for his charge to find Nino. Here are but a few excerpts from that journey.

**Chapter 77: Seekers**

_-X-The Seeker of Solitude-X-_

When he emerged from the shadowed entrance of the Shrine of Seals, the first thing Renault did was pay a visit to his old home.

The layout of the little plateau surrounding the place had not changed at all since Renault had left. Bramimond apparently had seen no need to do so. From where he was, he could still make out the little hermitage to the north, still surrounded by a small copse of trees and some mountains to protect it, providing all the privacy Varek wanted—and which his successor wanted as well, Renault assumed. Thus, there was nothing keeping memories, good and bad, from flooding back into Renault’s head as he soaked in the familiar scenery.

He remembered his furious argument with Bramimond that had led to his salvation…

The first few insults he had traded with Varek…

Listening to the old man praying as he woke up…

But he also remembered other things.

Varek listening patiently to his story…

Varek teaching him the arts of herbalism…

Caring for the doves in the columbarium…

And truly reading _Elimine’s Journey_ with Varek for the first time.

Renault was momentarily overwhelmed by all these memories, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. He then marched off to the small cluster of buildings in the north, curious to see if they were still inhabited.

As it was, they were. An elderly man, who seemed as old as Varek had been, greeted Renault at the door of his master’s former hermitage. He was shorter and skinner than Varek, and his entirely grey hair was set in a tonsure. However, he seemed to radiate the same holiness and benevolence Varek did.

“Not often I get a visitor these days,” the man smiled. “Are you my replacement?”

 _Am I?_ Renault thought. But he didn’t feel God had called him here, and the snippets of the future Bramimond had showed him didn’t involve this hermitage.

“No…no, I don’t believe so. I’m just passing through.”

The man coughed. “Ah, that’s a pity, then. I don’t have much time left. I’ve spent a good twenty years here, but they’re coming to an end. Bramimond needs someone else to keep him company.”

“Twenty years? You must be Varek’s replacement…”

“Varek? The name…not familiar, but it _feels_ familiar. Maybe I’m just gettin’ senile. He was here before me, eh?”

“Y…yes. He passed away…a few years ago, I believe. He was my mentor.”

“I see. My condolences for your loss, but it seems he taught you well, from the looks of it. A bona-fide…Master Mendicant, from that sash. That’s right up there with a Bishop! Hah, you outrank me, Your Excellency! Forgive my rudeness.”

“No, not at all. It’s an honor to be chosen for this hermitage, one I’m not worthy of…was never worthy of. I pray your successor arrives soon. “

“My thanks, Your Holiness.” The hermit nodded toward his dwelling’s interior. “Would you like to stay a while? If you’re beginning a new journey, it may do you well to rest beforehand.”

“Thank you for your hospitality…you are a credit to our Church.” Renault thought for a moment—from the position of the sun, it was late in the day, and he would need to sleep soon, probably—or his body would enter its rest state, which was close enough. “If you would have me, I accept.” The hermit beckoned him in, and he entered. “Tell me, what is your name? Mine is Renault.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Bishop Renault—or are you a Master Mendicant? Anyways, my name is Ivan. Are you hungry? There’s not much here, but…”

“No. I just need a place to sleep.” Renault looked around, and saw that a blanket was still on the floor in the very same place he had always slept when he was with Varek. He shook his head to prevent nostalgia from overwhelming him a second time. “That will do, if you’d allow it.”

“If you wish, though I was planning on offering you my spot…”

Renault grinned wryly. “Even if you had a bed, I wouldn’t accept it.”

Ivan laughed, and the two men continued to chat until the sun fell. Renault said little of himself, but Ivan made up for it—he was apparently a bit more talkative than Varek had been. His life story was a little different, and he shared it with Renault. He was the son of a middling scholar in Etruria. That scholar was mildly interested in Dark magic, but he didn’t have the money to pursue it in as much depth as he’d liked, which led him to an early grave when he fell further and further into debt with some unsavory characters, who’d ended up killing him when Ivan was a child. He was taken in by a monastery and spent most of his life there until twenty years ago, when he began having dreams directing him to Bern. The Abbot understood and let him go, and he made his way  to the Shrine of Seals, where he had been living quietly ever since, studying both Light and Dark magic under Bramimond’s (distant) supervision.

It was night by the time Ivan finished his story, and they both went to sleep soon after that. When they woke up, he offered Renault breakfast, but his guest declined—Renault may have needed sleep, but not food. As it happened, Renault only needed the answer to one question.

“Do you know the date, Ivan?”

He got a chuckle in response. “Barely anything happens out of the ordinary here, and barely anyone comes by. I don’t trade in letters much, either. I kept track early on, but after a while…not really. All I know is that if it’s been 80 seasons, that’s about 20 years, right? So maybe around…980 or so? Couldn’t tell you to be sure.”

It was close enough for Renault’s purposes. He thanked his host again, then resumed his journey, leaving the small hermitage behind him—for the last time.

_-X-The Seeker of Love-X-_

Renault’s first visit was to Etruria. He had made a promise to someone there—he had made a few promises in his life, in fact, but this was the first one he had the opportunity to keep since Varek died.

It was the 3rd Lancer of 981 when he arrived. Caerleon hadn’t changed all that much since he’d last been there, but it hadn’t been a very long time, either. The populace seemed a little happier than previously. He would figure out why when he met his hosts.

“Ho, do you need something, citizen?” asked the guard standing in front of Caerleon Castle’s gates.

“I am Renault, a…” He didn’t bother with his technical title. “A Bishop of the Church. I’m an old friend of Lord Ryhan and Lady Dimara. I was passing through here and wanted to visit, if that would be permitted.”

“Really? That’s unexpected, but if you are who you say you are, they should be happy to see you. Do forgive the rudeness, Your Excellency, but one can’t be too careful these days. Let me just send a messenger to inform them.”

“Of course.”

The messenger went, and then returned with Ryhan and Dimara’s response: They would be absolutely delighted to meet with Renault again. This time, he was taken to the throne room, where the lord and lady waited for him eagerly.

“Renault, it’s so good to see you again!” Ryhan looked him over happily. “By the saint, how long has it been? Ten years? You don’t look like you’ve aged a day!”

“Thank you, my lord. But I would say the same applies to you and your wife.” This wasn’t entirely untrue—aside from maybe a few grey hairs and worry lines, both Ryhan and Dimara didn’t look much different than they did when Renault had first met them.

Dimara giggled. “You’re too kind, Renault. Anyways, excuse me for asking, but where is Varek? Is he…”

Renault nodded. “Yes. My mentor has returned to the Lord. It was a peaceful passing, and his funeral was attended by many in the village in which we were staying.”

“I see. I’m saddened for his passing, but glad for his life. Thank you for coming all this way to tell us, Renault.”

“Of course. Varek would have wanted me to.”

“I do wish he could have been here, though,” Ryhan sighed. “I would have liked him to meet our daughter. But at least we can do you the honor. Priscilla!” he called, “Come here! There’s a guest we’d like you to meet.”

“Coming, Father!” a voice called from outside, and in a few moments entered someone very familiar.

“Renault,” Ryhan smiled, “this is my daughter, Priscilla…” His voice fell off when he noticed that the red-haired girl and the Bishop were looking at each other as if they knew each other. “Wait, have you met before?”

“I…think we have,” said Priscilla. “Forgive me, but you are…Bishop Renault, aren’t you?”

“I am indeed. We met when she was on campaign with…Eliwood’s army, I believe.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “We did not speak much, but he did offer me a blessing. I would like to think it helped keep me and my friends alive on our quest.”

“Truly?” Ryhan and Dimara looked at Renault with delight in their eyes. “What an occasion this is, in that case! We already thought of you as a friend, but if you helped our daughter return to us, you’re an even greater friend. The doors of Caerleon will be forever open to you, Your Excellency. If you ever need anything, anything at all…”

“Thank you, Lord and Lady of Caerleon. Though, as much as I appreciate your kindness, I did nothing, really.”

“Humble as always! Any assistance at all, even a kind word, would put us in your debt. But, please, tell us how you met, and what happened there. We know our Priscilla helped Lord Eliwood with some political problems in Lycia, but we aren’t sure of the specifics…”

Renault looked at Priscilla, wanting to make sure he didn’t divulge anything she’d prefer kept secret, but she merely nodded her assent. He told her parents a story vague enough that it wouldn’t reveal anything terribly important, but with enough information to answer their questions: He simply described wandering to an isolated island after Varek passed away, seeking solitude so he could properly grieve, when his pilgrimage was interrupted by the arrival of a band of criminals. While he was hiding from the bandits, Priscilla arrived with Eliwood’s army; it turned out the villains were in the employ of a mastermind Eliwood wanted to apprehend. He lent a small bit of assistance to that endeavor before he and the army parted ways, where he continued his wandering before returning to Caerleon, where he’d fortunately ran into Priscilla again.

Following that, the discussion turned to more mundane matters—where Renault had went and what he’d seen on his travels, how things seemed to be going across Lycia, and in Dimara’s case, a few interesting marriages of note along with a description of a theological debate a couple of Bishops were having in Reglay. After that had concluded, Dimara and Ryhan invited him to stay for dinner—or even to stay in their castle as a guest for some time, but Renault politely demurred, saying he had to return to his pilgrimage. That wasn’t entirely true, given the aimlessness of his journey, but Renault knew an extended stay would be inconvenient—they may have been willing to accept he merely “aged well,” but they’d ask questions about why he didn’t need to eat sooner or later. The only request he made was to see some of the castle’s artwork once more, particularly the portrait of the Anonymous Company, and that was something neither Dimara nor Ryhan saw any problem with.

As he had about twenty years ago, Renault made his way to Khyron’s old library to stand and watch his friends again, even if only for a short while. No servants were around at the moment, and Renault expected to have a bit of time by himself alone with his thoughts. Unexpectedly, however, he found he had a visitor.

“Bishop Renault?”

He turned to see the young princess of Caerleon, Priscilla, standing before him, and bowed respectfully.

“Lady Priscilla. I might not have mentioned this during our earlier conversation, but I am glad to see you well.”

“I could say the same for you, Bishop.” She smiled, and reached into her pocket for something familiar—the icon of Ashera Renault had first received in Ilia. “I still have the token you gave me, in fact.”

He allowed a small smile back at her. “Ah, that little bauble. I thank you for taking such good care of it.”

“On its own it would be a rare artifact, but combined with the kindness you showed me it is even more valuable.” She hesitated a moment, and then asked, “Ah…Your Excellency, might you…er, no, nevermind. Forgive me for interrupting.”

“Hm? Interrupt?” Renault shook his head. “No, not at all. I love this painting, but I’ve seen it before.” _And I’ve also seen all the people depicted in it personally_ , he thought. “What would you ask of me?”

“Well…I was about to ask you if you could show me a little more of that kindness.”

“Pardon? What do you mean?”

“I would like…” She fidgeted. “Not a confession, exactly…not the Rite of Contrition…but I would like your…well…advice on something.”

“I am honored, but…wouldn’t your mother or father hear you as well? Lady Dimara is a Bishop, and Lord Ryhan is a sage. Both are wiser than I, and more qualified to hand out advice on any matter, ecclesiastical or not. I…I am hardly the sort of role model anyone should look to.”

Priscilla let out a small chuckle. “I can’t tell if you truly believe that or are just being humble. But in any case, it’s precisely because they’re my parents I don’t feel I could speak to them, and I’ve been away from here so long I don’t really have any others to whom I could confide. You…you were on the Isle as well, weren’t you? And I could have sworn I heard of a Bishop Renault among our ranks when we penetrated Nergal’s domain. I don’t think anyone else could understand.”

“Hm… If that is the case, I will hear you.”

She sighed, and began her tale.

“A lady of a noble house has many responsibilities. I was..originally a princess of Cornwall, in Lycia, before my parents died and my house fell. I then became a scion of Caerleon, thanks to my kind parents, and I am every bit their daughter. But even as an Etrurian rather than a Lycian, my responsibilities are the same. I must honor the lords of the realm, respect God, behave with the dignity befitting my station, and, of course, fulfill my duty to my foremothers and forefathers, and to the state itself. I must marry a man and bear his legitimate children, so the honor of my house may be upheld, and the country in which I was raised, and which has given me so much kindness, will have future citizens which will serve it as loyally as I have, and as loyally as my parents did.”

“I see. And have your parents arranged a marriage for you?”

“No, but…they have encouraged me to start looking. I’ve already received recommendations for meetings with several cadets from the military academies or seminary students they think would make a good match for me.”

“Do you find all of them unsuitable, for some reason?”

“No, not quite, but…I already…already have someone.”

Renault nodded, not judging, not saying anything, either. He merely motioned for her to continue.

“We met in Eliwood’s army. He was a knight….a former knight. A Bernese wyvern rider who abandoned his nation because he could not bear being ordered to kill women and children. He was kind, and honest, and noble, but the difference in our social positions was so great…even so, I could not, cannot keep myself from loving him.”

“Where is he now?”

“I…I don’t know.” Priscilla did not cry, but from the trembling of her lips, Renault surmised she had done much of that earlier. He left me, saying that he would return someday, but it’s been over a year…”

“I see.” Renault paused to consider his next words. It was possible—indeed, likely—this wyvern rider was simply a scoundrel who had no intention of returning to his “love.” Priscilla, however, would likely not take kindly to that insinuation, judging by how emotional she was. And in any case, although an unlikely proposition, perhaps the Bernese deserter actually was as noble as Priscilla had said, and wanted to earn enough money and fame or otherwise improve his lot enough to make him an attractive marriage prospect. Thus, Renault advised a course of action that would not set Priscilla’s life in stone, but would not entirely demolish her hope that the man of Bern really would return someday.

 “I wish I could say something to comfort you, but…that is beyond my power. All I can give you is the truth…at least, as I see it.

“I don’t know if your love will ever return to you…even if he defected for the right reasons, a deserter’s life is always a risky one. Still, hope is as necessary for the human soul as food is for the body…if you wish to hope to see him again, I would not advise you to throw away that hope.

“But don’t waste your life in the meantime…I doubt he would have wanted that, either, at least not if he was worthy of you. Matrimony may be the most favored path for a woman in our society, but it isn’t the only path. Charitable works, tending to the sick and injured, study, education, and scholarship…these are all pursuits which demonstrate your loyalty to the state, and glorify your house, as much as matrimony and childbearing do. I believe your parents, especially Bishop Dimara, a woman of the same Church as I, would understand that.

“So…if you don’t want to abandon the love you have now, and if you do not wish to believe he has abandoned you…do not, at least, abandon the world you live in. Tell your parents you do not feel marriage suits you, but tell them as well you wish to fulfill your duty as their daughter in other ways. If your love returns someday, you will be able to tell him you were loyal. If you feel your paths have parted, your good works will make you all the more attractive to any potential suitor.”

“I…see. Yes, I see.” The expression on Priscilla’s face was bright, almost as bright as any Renault had seen in the past few weeks. “You’re exactly right! Thank you, Your Excellency. I feel as if you’ve truly guided me to the right path.”

Renault grinned. “I did little for you when we first met, and I say again, I’ve done nothing now. Your own virtue is what lights your path.” He looked back up to the painting, sighed, and then back to Priscilla. “Is there anything else you need from me, my lady?”

“No, that was all. Thank you again…”

“And thank you—and your parents—for having me. May the forces of goodness surround you always.”

It was the same blessing he’d left with Priscilla when they’d first met, and it was what he left her with now. Renault turned and left the library, then the castle walls themselves, and then Caerleon itself, continuing his wandering—west, now, for no reason in particular.

But there was a reason he did not stop smiling for quite a while.

_-X-The Seeker of Strength-X-_

Renault couldn’t decide if the Western Isles, at least of 983 A.S, had improved or degraded since he was here last.

On the one hand, the economy seemed a little more robust. There were stores and shops everywhere, and many blacksmiths and armorers. Etruria had commanded the Isles for many years, now (in fact, had gained control of them not long after Renault and his friends had defeated Paptimus), and had husbanded its natural resources quite well. The iron, tin, and gold (of course) had brought prosperity to the Isles’ inhabitants…some of them, at least.

For the rest, it seemed of little benefit. “Miner’s Cough” could be heard everywhere Renault went, and the towns were filled with young men who looked old and wizened thanks to overwork in the mines. The Etrurian authorities knew the people were unhappy, and so for every prematurely aged miner Renault also saw a hard-faced Etrurian soldier with the best killing tools available and the knowledge and willingness to use them. Renault’s homeland, it seemed, found it necessary to keep a very heavy hand on its “wards” indeed.

Renault wasn’t even certain of what he was doing here. Sightseeing? Maybe if he found people in need—and there seemed to be many here—he could justify his wandering, but that sounded like a hollow excuse, even for him.

Still, there was nowhere else in particular he really needed or wanted to go, so the islands were as good a destination as any. At the moment, he was trying to purchase a room in a small tavern in the town of Idina. There was a lot of bloody history there—apparently, some of Paptimus’ remnants had assisted a Bernese invasion force headquartered at the castle before killing some civilians (which turned the populace of the Isles against Bern and shifted their support to Etruria)—but now it was relatively peaceful. At least as peaceful as anywhere on the Isles got, with the perpetual pirate attacks and all.

But it wouldn’t be peaceful for Renault.

He was just about to pay for his lodgings when a loud man’s voice boomed out from behind him.

“Ho there!”

Renault turned to see a tall, muscular man standing behind him. The fellow was as hale and hefty as Braddock had been, perhaps even a bit more so, and had spiky brown hair along with a bristly moustache on a face with a strong jaw, sharp brows, a somewhat large round nose, and eyes that were very sharp and determined, but didn’t seem to be overly bright. The man wore simple clothes—brown trousers and a blue vest—along with a metal headband common among certain clans of the Isles. Renault wagered his caller was a native.

“Eh?” Renault blinked. “And you are?”

“I am Bartre! I strive to be the best!” He puffed his chest out. “I don’t know your name, but you look familiar. Were you ever on the Dread Isle?”

“Valor?” Renault thought for a moment. “Yes, I was. Were you a member of Eliwood’s Elite?” Renault felt a twinge of happiness in his heart—it was nice to meet a former comrade.

“Hah! I knew it! Our burning hearts are connected! What say you to a match?”

Renault was certain he had misheard. “…Excuse me?”

“A match! Come on, you must feel it! The fire in your blood, the heat in your chest! The only language men like us understand is our fists!”

Renault was not at all certain what that was exactly supposed to mean, but he made an educated guess. “Our…fists? Are you saying you want a…fistfight?”

“Raaah!” Bartre seemed to be getting very excited. “That’s it! Come, let’s go!”

Renault raised his hands and gestured to his clerical vestments. “…What a strange fellow. Well, first off, I think you’ve chosen the wrong opponent. What use is there in fighting a man of the cloth like myself?”

Bartre frowned. “Do not try to hide your skill from me, man! You may say mass on Sundays, but you brawl your week away! Do you read the rites to your fallen foes, Your Excellency?”

“You are wrong about me.”

“You don’t fool me! I can spot a true warrior! Why, of the last ten men I spotted, nearly half were strong warriors!”

“…So you’re only right half of the time?”

“…Nearly half! But I know I’m right this time! That glint in your eye, that’s the shine of your inner steel, man! Now, have at you!”

“…You must be joking.” Faster than Bartre could react, Renault slipped past him (disappointing the tavern owner, who had almost secured a customer) and disappeared into the crowds. The last thing he heard was his new “friend” calling desperately for him:

“W-Wait! And you call yourself the toughest priest alive!?”

It did not take Renault long to find another inn to spend the night, although it was slightly more expensive. He thought he’d lost Bartre in the crowd, and looked forward to having a restful sleep. As it turned out, however, he wouldn’t be getting much rest at all.

Renault did not dream that night, but he was still brought out of his slumber by a voice.

“Psst!” it said.

Renault stirred on his bed, brows furrowed. That voice was familiar, but it wasn’t Braddock.

“Psst! Muscle priest!”

That _definitely_ wasn’t Braddock. “Eh?” Renault opened his eyes and looked around, still groggy—his body had not fully ‘recharged,’ it seemed. It was still dark, but the sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon. That let him see the face in his window.

“G-gah!” Renault tossed the covers away and scuttled off the bed as Bartre crawled into the room. Now Renault _greatly_ regretted not renting one on the second or third floors. “By the Saint! What in the world are you doing here?”

“You thought you could escape from me?!” Bartre roared. “Graaah! Coward! The hearts of warriors call out to each other no matter where they are! I followed you through all those crowds and waited until you let your guard down! No running from me now!”

Renault tried to make a break for the door, but this time Bartre was ready for him, and blocked the exit with his huge body. “Wait!”

Renault sighed. He could try making for the window, but didn’t want to waste time—he knew Bartre would just chase him again, after all. Thus, he tried negotiation. “You again…look, do you know what time it is? What possible reason could you have for being awake at this hour?”

“Quiet! A warrior trains himself constantly!”

Renault sighed _again_. “It’s…Bartre, is it not?”

Bartre nodded eagerly. “Right!”

Perhaps encouraging him to think a little might curb his bloodlust, Renault thought. “Why do you seek strength, my son?”

Bartre looked as if Renault was speaking an entirely different language. “What?”

“…I have seen many warriors. Most sought power for their own reasons… to acquire something or to control someone…” Renault thought of Tassar, who wanted power to control the woman who had spurned him, and the many mercenaries and sellswords he had met who fought in order to gain gold or land or glory. “What is your reason?”

Bartre stared at Renault…then doubled over, clutching his head in pain. “Ruuoooggghhh!!” He let out a roar that undoubtedly woke up every resident of the inn. Renault, however, wasn’t concerned about that. He was worried that his new ‘friend’ was dying, and immediately rushed over to tend to Bartre.   
“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Difficult conversations make…head hurt!”

Renault was, to say the least, quite disappointed. He sighed—he’d been doing that a lot recently--and stepped back. “What an odd fellow.”

“Hey, are you calling me stupid?!”

“I…” Renault thought about confirming Bartre’s suspicions, and then thought better of it. He decided to continue trying to calm Bartre down. “I don’t believe so. What is your dream, son? What do you seek?

“I dunno! I don’t think about things like that! I want to be strong! That is what I seek!”

“How odd. Very well.” If negotiations couldn’t work, perhaps a bit of subterfuge would. “I cannot give you a good fight as I am, though. Let me get some sleep. Then I will spar with you until you are satisfied.”

Bartre’s eyes lit up. “Really?! Thanks! I mean it!”

Alas, as it so happened, a good rest would not be in the cards for Renault. Just as Bartre was about to crawl away through the window, the door to Renault’s room blasted open.

“What the hell’s going on here?” the innkeep hissed. “What’s all this rack—“ He took one look at Bartre, then back to Renault. “What the hell are you two doing?”

Despite Renault’s frantic attempts to explain, the proprietor of the establishment would hear none of it. A very displeased Renault and a much chastised Bartre were promptly kicked out.

The Bishop sighed. “Well, you’ll not get your duel now. I need to find someplace to rest.”

“Well, that’s no problem!” Bartre laughed. “I’ll let you spend a night at my house!”

“…Pardon?”

“Ha! My door’s always open to hearty warriors! Come with me, and you’ll have all the rest you need to put up a good fight tomorrow!”

Renault did so, and in a few hours—by this time, it was early morning—they’d arrived at Bartre’s home, a small, modest house on the outskirts of the city.

“Karla!” he blared, “I’m hooooooome!”

“Oh, really? I was wondering where you went.” A beautiful—and very pregnant—young woman padded out from the central hearth-room to meet her husband at the front door. Her black hair and clear grey eyes, along with her dress (a loose blouse, large enough to accommodate the swell of her baby without constricting her body, but which also had designs on the collars similar to the _Kefeh_ Renault had seen years before) told him she was a Sacaen. “Who’s your friend?”

Renault bowed and introduced himself, explaining the ‘unusual’ circumstances which had ejected him from his inn and Bartre’s offer to spend the night here. “Forgive me if this is too much trouble. It wouldn’t be difficult at all for me to find another—“

“No, no, it’s quite alright. Make yourself at home.” Karla looked sternly at Bartre. “My husband is a good man, but sometimes his love of a good fight can get the better of him. I’ll make you some tea.”

She began to pad back to the hearth, but then stopped and swayed for a moment, as if she were about to faint.

“Karla?! _Karla!_ ” Far faster than Renault would have thought possible for such a big man, Bartre leapt forward and caught her just before she could fall.

“Karla?! Oh, my darling wife! Who did this to you? Renault! Let’s find the evil that hurt my wife!”

“Don’t panic, Bartre,” said Renault calmly. “I presume Karla woke up early this morning, perhaps because of your absence. Pregnancy is trying under the best of circumstances, and things like this can happen without enough rest. Let’s get her to a bed.”

The two men carried her gently but quickly to the cot on the other side of the hearth, where Renault directed Bartre to lay her on her left side. They then wet a cloth with cool water and laid it on her forehead, and also drew some water from the nearby well for her to drink. Soon enough, her breathing steadied and she woke up.

“Ooh…oh, my, I must have fallen—“

“Yes, but don’t worry about it.” Renault nodded to Bartre—Karla had been right to call him a good man; what he lacked in intelligence he made up for with loyalty to his wife. “Your husband’s been taking good care of you.”

“With some pointers from you, I presume,” Karla grinned.

“Well, why wouldn’t he? We’re brothers in arms, and brothers help each other when they need it!”

“Brothers in arms?” Karla looked curiously at Renault’s vestments, and Renault sighed.

“It’s a long story. Anyways, you need rest and food. If there are any chores that need doing, Bartre and I will take care of them today.”

So they did, which very much pleased Karla. Bartre made her a hearty meat stew while Renault took care of their laundry. By the end of the day they were tired and satisfied, and Renault was more than happy to get a good night’s sleep (finally) on a small blanket near the hearth, while Bartre and Karla shared their cot.

Renault woke up the next morning after Bartre and Karla did. “Thank you so much for your help yesterday,” the Sacaean smiled (Bartre was outside cutting wood). “I’m better now, though.”

“Glad I am to hear that. And there’s no need to thank me, it was but small recompense for your hospitality. Just make sure to get as much rest as you can and eat well until the child is born. And afterwards, as well…caring for a baby is hard work indeed.” Renault grinned slightly. “May I ask if you’ve thought of names?”

“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Karel, after my brother. If a girl, we’ll call her Fir.”

“After the tree? A good, strong name indeed.” Renault stood up and bowed. “I thank you again for your kindness, but I must leave. I am on a pilgrimage, and must continue my journey.” _A pilgrimage to nowhere in particular, but she doesn’t need to know that._

“I see. I wish you luck, Your Excellency. Your presence here was a blessing, brief as it was.”

Renault slipped out the door, feeling reasonably good—and hoping he’d manage to evade Bartre. Alas, that second wish would be disappointed.

“Renault!”

Sighing inwardly, Renault turned and saw exactly who he thought he would. “Ah, yes, my son?”

Bartre seemed very displeased. “You’re no man of faith! You lied! You said we would fight!”

“So I did. But your wife’s health came first, and we had to attend to that before anything else. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to return to my pilgrimage.”

“Nggghhh! Don’t make excuses! Tell me, Bishop, why were you on the Dread Isle?! The time you spent there turned you evil! That’s why you broke your promise!”

Renault raised his hands, trying to placate the increasingly agitated Bartre. “Now, I don’t think that– Look, just calm down. You’ll never be the strongest if you die of a heart attack first. I can heal your pains, but you must relax.”

“I don’t need your prayers! Don’t heal me–just punch me!”

“You want me to…punch…you?”

“Yeah! Warriors speak with their fists!”

“I don’t really understand, but will my punching you really make you feel better?” At this point, Renault would have done anything to get away from the crazy warrior.

“As hard as you can!”

“Well, all right then. Like this?”

It was an automatic reflex for Renault—he had spent centuries as a warrior, and those instincts were not easily subsumed. In the span of a split second he calculated what sort of attack would incapacitate a man he now considered an opponent, twisted his body to ready a punch, and then sent his fist hurtling at Bartre’s right eye as fast and hard as he could make it go.

“Gwooh!” Bartre yelled loudly as the blow connected, “you hit me in the eye! Cra…zy…priest…”

With that, he collapsed to the ground, thoroughly out cold.

“Bartre? Get up. Can you hear me? Damn it…he passed out.” Renault gave a mental apology for swearing—the first time he had done so in many years—and then looked back down at Bartre. “So I have to punch him, and then I have to heal him? Elimine, grant me the grace to endure this man…”

Still, he did what he had to do. Renault unlimbered his Heal staff and the bruising and swelling around Bartre’s eyes disappeared within moments, though he was still unconscious. It wouldn’t do to just leave him there, so Renault postponed his pilgrimage and dragged him back to the door of his home.

“Back ag—Bartre, what happened?!” Karla cried when she opened their door.

“It was my fault,” said Renault. “Forgive me. He asked me to spar, and I thought it would be disrespectful to hold back. He’s only unconscious, nothing more, and should wake soon. But I was still responsible, so—“

“Ah, say no more. Don’t worry, my husband enjoys a strong foe. That’s how we first met, in fact.” She laughed. “I beat him in a duel when we first met on the Western Isles. That was enough to make him fall in love with me, and, well, he was just so earnest, I couldn’t help but return his feelings.” She smiled as she stroked her sleeping husband’s hair. “I’m not surprised you won, though.”

“Why would that be?”

“My husband’s eye for warriors isn’t perfect, but he’s right occasionally. This is one of those times. I could tell you weren’t a holy man for most of your life.” She nodded toward Renault. “It’s not just the cast of your eyes, your features, or even your muscles. It’s the way you move. I noticed while watching you do chores yesterday. You don’t often swing your arms freely when you walk. You have a habit of keeping your right hand near your side, where your sword would be if you still had a scabbard.” She seemed a little sympathetic. “You must have seen quite a lot of battle for such a habit to become so ingrained.”

“You are…amazing,” Renault had to admit. “I haven’t met anyone as perceptive as you in some time.”

“Well, I was trained in the way of the sword, and swordsmen-or swordswomen-can recognize each other. Yes, I can see what Bartre saw in you…if I weren’t with child, I would have liked to spar with you myself!”

“I’d almost certainly lose,” said Renault.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s been years since I ever picked up a weapon. I’ve left that way of life behind me. And besides…”

“Hm?”

“I fought with two weapons,” Renault admitted. “Even if you had a spare sword around, I’d be at a disadvantage without an arming dagger.”

They had no chance to continue that conversation, though, for Bartre had begun to wake up. “Eh? Hmm, nice dream, so many muscles…wait! Renault!” He leapt from his wife’s lap. “We’re not done yet.”

“Please, I gave you your duel. Can’t you let me go?”

“You won that one, but only because you’re sneaky! You still owe me a man’s match!”

Renault looked helplessly at Karla. “Um…dear,” she said, “how about an arm-wrestling match? It’s hard to sneak a victory there. Then you can let the Bishop go, yes?”

“Yeah! Perfect!”

Renault sighed as he and Bartre went over to the nearby table as Karla left them alone for their “manly struggle.” It was over in a short time, as Renault expected. He really did try his best, but Bartre was just too strong, and his hand was slammed into the table after about a minute of struggle.

“Come on, was that the best you could do?”

“Compare my muscles to yours,” said Renault helplessly. “Do you really believe your victory was anything other than earned?”

“Hmph! I guess you’re right. Still, I feel a little stronger now. Thanks, muscle priest!”

“So…may I return to my journey now?”

Bartre nodded. “Just promise to get stronger!”

“Very well, I will. But…give me one more moment.” He looked contemplatively at Bartre. “Have you given any thought to what I asked you, son?”

“Huh? Asked what?”

“About the reasons you seek strength.”

“What? I told you! I want to become the strongest!”

“Yes, but why? You said you don’t think about things like that, but…allow me to say this. You don’t have to listen to me. I’ve no right to tell anyone else how to live. But, Bartre…remember that you have a wife, and you’ll have a child soon. Whatever strength you have, whatever you may gain…don’t you think you should spend it on protecting them? Even if you become the strongest warrior in the world, if something happens to them, all your strength won’t bring them back. I learned that the hard way…”

“Eh? You’re babbling, muscle-priest!”

“Yes, maybe I am. I’ll stop now. But, if only for your family’s sake. Bartre, I beg that you remember what I’ve said. Strength, in and of itself, can’t give you what you desire. Use that strength to protect what’s important to you. If you do that, you’ll truly become a great warrior. Greater than I ever was.”

Bartre sat there and stared at Renault. The gears in his head were clearly working, though. Slowly, but working nonetheless. And that was enough for Renault.

“Thank you for everything, again,” he said. And then he stood up, said his last goodbyes to Karla, and exited the small house on the outskirts of Idina.

Bartre would end up forgetting his face in a week. But he would remember the words of the “muscle-priest” for a long time indeed.

_-X-The Seeker of Knowledge-X-_

Nothing in particular brought Renault to Illia during the harsh winter of 987, but nothing in particular had brought him to the Western Isles, either. Yet, in retrospect, he could only credit a blessing (even now he was unsure if it was from God or fate) for bringing him there.

He had returned to the foot of the Almspark Mountains, where the village of Carrhae lay, near the castle of the same name. Perhaps he wanted to see how Christof was doing, though given the apprehensions the young man had expressed about his coming, possibly-fatal test in Dark magic, Renault doubted he was doing well.

Those suspicions would be confirmed by the new friend Renault made not long after he arrived—Christof’s younger brother, in fact.

As Renault passed by a magic shop on his way to the local inn, he caught someone’s eye. It was a man in his mid-twenties, with purple hair, a monocle over his left eye, and a slightly scatterbrained demeanor. Somehow or another, he recognized Renault.

“Ah…Excuse me,” he called, forgetting his haggling with the proprietor of the shop. Renault didn’t respond at first; the area was crowded and the man could have been following someone else. Only when he called, “Excuse me, Bishop! Your Excellency!” did Renault stop and turn.

“Hm? Are you speaking to me, son?”

“Oh, yes, I am,” said the man. “Excuse me, but…you seem very familiar to me. I could have sworn I saw your face before. Did you ever spend any time on the isle of Valor?”

“I did indeed.” Renault smiled—he remembered this man, now. He had been one of the soldiers chosen for the final assault on Nergal’s lair. “I fought with Eliwood’s Elite. We never spoke, but I know you helped save this entire world from darkness. My name is Renault.”

“It is an honor. I am Canas. I have a question.”

Renault hadn’t quite expected that. He was certainly no expert in etiquette, but if one had just met an old comrade, was it not expected to make small talk and exchange pleasantries rather than just jump into a line of questioning? He couldn’t muster a response beyond a simple statement of fact: “You don’t waste much time…”

Canas bowed and adjusted his monocle. “Ah, yes, well, excuse my manners. But I always seek to gather knowledge, wherever I am and whomever I speak to.”

“A scholar, eh?” Renault made no secret of his skepticism—no mere ‘scholar’ would have been permitted to fight alongside Eliwood and Hector.

“Yes. Well… truly, I am a Druid, and I possess more than a modicum of skill in the ancient arts, if I say so myself! But I much prefer books to destruction. At heart, I am still just a scholar, as you say.”

“I see. I’m glad to hear that.

Canas continued on. “I heard, Bishop, that you spent more time on the Dread Isle than the rest of the army…that you were there even before we arrived. Could you perhaps tell me a little about it? About the creatures we found there? About the ones with eyes of gold?”

“You mean…morphs?”

“Ah! So you do know of them! Where did you learn that name?”

It wasn’t a subject he was comfortable with, but Renault thought a vague answer might satisfy his new friend. “Well. A long time ago, I…”

Canas wasn’t interested. “Bishop, I must ask you… Do you think these morphs have souls?”

“Souls?”

“Yes. I am dreadfully curious to know. You Elimineans say that all creatures possess souls… All those created by God, that is. I know the Sacaeans and Arcadians say the same of any creature created by one of their many gods. But what of those created by man? And these manufactured beings… do they dream? Do they think–and suffer–as we do? Or must their emotions be…crafted…by another?”

That was something Renault had never thought about before, and he had to admit it was a good question—one which, alas, he had no answer to. “Well… That I do not know.”

“Ah, I see. Oh, well. Thank you for answering my questions, Your Excellency. Ah, how I wish Carla were here. She’s an Anima user, but she’s quite interested in Dark magic as well.”

 “Carla?” That caught Renault’s interest.

“Yes. Is that familiar to you? There was a Karla in our army too, I remember.” Canas smiled. “But her name was spelled with a K, not a C.” Canas stopped when he noticed how intently Renault was staring at him.

“Canas, forgive my intrusion, but…what does your wife look like? Do you know the names of Iris or Juge, by any chance?”

Canas’ eyes veritably lit up. “Why, I certainly do! Iris is her sister, and Juge is Iris’ husband.” Then his expression darkened. “Was, I should say. They and their sons were killed by one of Nergal’s minions.”

“I see,” said Renault. _So it had been Nergal after all. I should have known. Who else would have wanted information on the Dragon’s Gates?_ “My condolences.”

“Thank you, Bishop.” Canas seemed to have cheered up a bit. “Nergal did not take everything, though. My niece, Nino, is still alive. Eliwood rescued her from her captors in Bern. I believe she’s living with her husband in Pherae, now.”

Once again, Canas had to stop and stare in confusion upon watching the expression of nearly unadulterated joy spread across Renault’s face.

Renault couldn’t believe it. After all this time, he finally had a lead on Juge’s daughter. “Ah…thank God,” he exclaimed, the happiest he had been in many, many years. “Canas, you’ve truly blessed me. I’ve been searching for Nino for so long.” He produced the sealed envelope he’d been carrying around for years. “I was supposed to give this letter to her father, Juge, but…as you told me, he and Iris are gone, now. I had heard his daughter still lived, though. Now that I know where she is, I can finally complete my charge. Thank you, Canas. You’ve no idea how much this means to me.”

“Really? My, this is unexpected, but certainly a joyful surprise. Give my regards to Nino when you see her. It’s been some time since I’ve heard from her. I believe she had twins recently!”

“Truly? Even more cause for joy.”

“Quite so! Tell me, Renault, will you be heading for Pherae now?”

“I think I’ll rest for tonight and start early next morning.’

“Oh, good. Before you go, then, might I treat you to some tea? Carrhae is known for it, and it would be repayment for our conversation.”

“As well as an opportunity to ask me more questions,” observed Renault.

“Ah, I suppose so. Does that mean you decline?”

“The opposite. I’ll accept your offer, Canas.” Renault didn’t really need to drink—tea, water, or anything else—but it was polite and he didn’t mind a bit more of an interview from the man who had given him such valuable information.

They sat down together at a small table in an establishment called the _Hag’s Hut_ , right across from a cheap inn which would suit Renault well. Despite its name, the _Hut_ was actually very pleasant (clean, well-maintained, and appealingly decorated with rugs, furniture, and curtains that seemed to be a combination of Sacaean and Ilian). Renault couldn’t speak for the tea (Green, with some leaves in it he couldn’t identify), as he hadn’t had a sense of taste since Nergal performed his experiments on him. Still, Canas seemed to enjoy the drinks, so Renault tried to reciprocate his enthusiasm.

They made some small talk for a few minutes, Canas describing the weather in the region as well as how his son, Hugh, would be turning 9 in a few weeks. Renault also tried to see what happened to Christof, asking about Canas’ siblings. The evasive answer he received told him the Druid did not want to talk about it, which told him Christof had likely met an unhappy end. But soon enough, the conversation turned back to what Canas favored most of all…

“Anyways, Renault…did you know that the word “morph” appears even in a few ancient texts? Brought to life by man, crafted to resemble him… I never thought any of us would actually have seen one.”

Renault said nothing and took another sip of his tea. His earlier happiness was now shifting rapidly into unease. Talking about Morphs was dredging up bad memories he did not want to dwell on, especially when he’d found a new lead for his quest.

“Renault, where did you first learn of these morphs? Are they mentioned in the Eliminean scripture?”

Renault shook his head. “A long time ago, I… eh, I apologize, Canas, but…this is a subject I don’t like discussing at all. I don’t wish to speak any more of these things.”

“Oh.” Canas adjusted his monocle, disappointment clearly evident on his face. “Well that is… truly unfortunate. You see, we knew so little of Nergal. We still know nearly nothing, and it’s likely we’ll never know more. Perhaps our battle would have been easier or more lives could have been saved if we had more knowledge of his plans and his minions…”

Renault still said nothing, but inwardly he had to admit Canas had a point.

The Druid continued to ponder. “Why, for example, did Nergal begin creating morphs? After his falling out with the Archsage Athos, did he feel alone in the world? Did he need the company of someone who could understand him? Was he forced to…create…such a being?”

Renault couldn’t let this line of questioning go unchallenged. “Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“Nergal never had any care for his creations. He merely brought them into this world to serve him. His only interest was himself. Those…things…he discarded… They lost their way… and wandered. They still wander even today, I believe. And Nergal never cared. Morphs…are the mere fact of existence…once meaning has been stripped away.”

Canas was clearly impressed by that answer. “Renault… How do you know so much?”

Now Renault’s silence was accompanied by a slight reddening of his face.

“Nergal began creating morphs centuries ago. Even Athos knows so little… So…how could you—“

Renault had as much as he could bear. “I don’t know,” he said. “My own past is a mystery.”

This was not the whole truth, of course, but was not entirely a lie, either. He remembered Nergal’s experiments, surely—but there was much about them he didn’t know. He’d been unconscious through most of them; what had Nergal really done? And why was Nergal even in Bern in the first place? He could have hidden away anywhere else in Elibe rather than right next door to a monastery. Those were just a few of the questions swirling around Renault’s past, questions he would never answer.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer any more from Canas, either. “Thank you for the tea,” he said, getting up. “I’ll need to get my accommodations in order before setting out for Lycia tomorrow. Farewell.”

Canas wouldn’t let him go so easily, however. The Druid left his table right after the Bishop (fortunately, he’d already paid for the tea.

“Ah, Renault! Wait for me! I have one more question! Please!”

Renault stopped, and it took a moment for him to turn around. “…Very well, Canas. One more question, I owe you that much, and I can tolerate that much. What is it?”

Canas seemed to understand why Renault might be more than a little reticent. “Now, I ask you this, only for the sake of knowledge. Knowledge…is why I joined Eliwood’s army in the first place. It is still my main purpose in life. But even so…I understand there are some things you would rather other people did not know…things you would keep to yourself. So, please do not answer if you do not wish to.”

“As you wish.”

“Please tell me… These morphs Nergal has created… How can you know so much about beings that are centuries old?”

The two of them stood facing each other amongst a small throng of passers-by, who were fortunately too occupied with their own lives to pay any attention to such an abstruse conversation. But even so, it seemed like the Druid and the Bishop were alone with each other—and the Bishop’s stony silence seemed more significant than all the noise around them.

“I will give you the answer I suspect may be true,” Canas ventured. “You know, because you were there. Nergal was alone after he and Athos separated. The only ones around him were his morphs… Perhaps then, you are…”

“…What? Canas, what are you implying?”

Canas’ monocle had shifted again, but this time he didn’t even bother to adjust it. “I have never thought one should back away from knowledge, but…I hesitate to ask…”

 _He’s quite brave,_ Renault thought. Both in hazarding to ask such a question to someone he barely knew, and in even entertaining the possibility. He deserved something in return, Renault decided. “Is that so? Then I will ask you a question.”

“Yes?”

“You asked me before… Whether or not morphs have souls… What do you think?”

Canas’ answer was hesitant, but it was not unclear. “Before…I would have said that I do not know… But now, perhaps I do… Morphs…do have souls… That is what I believe.”

Renault nodded. He wasn’t certain he agreed, but he remembered the way the Braddock-morph had smiled when he had destroyed it in Lycia, decades ago. Canas wasn’t entirely wrong, and that was enough for him. “That is not a bad answer. Your reply deserves another good answer…”

Renault’s gaze became unfocused, as if he was staring at something far away—far beyond Canas. But still he continued, answering the Druid’s question in more detail than Canas could have ever hoped.

“When Nergal first created his morphs, he was not alone. He had one assistant. A mercenary who wanted desperately to bring back a friend he had lost in battle. This mercenary volunteered freely for Nergal’s experiments, knowing they would make him less than human…”

Comprehension dawned on the Druid’s face. “Bishop Renault, are you saying–“

Renault nodded. “This was a long, long time ago…

“And that mercenary realized—realizes—the full weight of what he had sacrificed so foolishly, and the sin he committed in helping Nergal. He has tried to make up for it as best he can, but he is not finished yet. And for that purpose, he must continue.”

With that, Renault left Canas behind him, disappearing into the crowds as if he’d never existed. And indeed, anyone looking for testament for his existence from Canas would be disappointed. The unfortunate druid, along with his wife Carla, would die in a great snowstorm just two weeks later, before Hugh’s ninth birthday.

_-X-The Seeker of Faith-X-_

The fall of 984 was one of the loveliest in living memory—and this included Renault’s. Lycia had always been quite a sight—it had been when he first looked over it with Braddock as they stood atop the Orange Mountains, and it remained so when he’d tramped through its fields on his way to his last duel with Lucian, over twenty years ago. Now, though, the outskirts of Castle Pherae seemed nothing short of glorious. It was a little chilly but nothing overly unpleasant (especially compared to Ilia), and the land was covered by great, tall elm trees, cultivated painstakingly over the generations by the nature-loving lords of Pherae. Their leaves grew so thickly, and were so richly clad in the autumn colors of red and gold, that Renault thought the sky could have passed for a great king’s hoard of treasure as he passed under them. The incessant chirping from the sparrows and chickadees, punctuated by an occasional cry from a falcon, could have made a king’s chorus, at least to an animal-lover like Renault. They certainly did well to keep his mood up—and he was already in a good mood, thanks to the lead he’d received for his quest.

Of course, in the back of his mind he knew that this could lead to another dead end. It was well of him he remembered that.

As he neared the castle, he passed by a cemetary along the road. The fact that it was alongside a well-traveled road meant it likely saw many visitors—Renault wagered it was for knights or other nobles, to whom commoners and travelers would be expected to pay respects as they passed by. The old, large trees around it gave it at least a bit of a sense of privacy, which Renault thought was quite appropriate. In fact, Renault thought he might pay the place a visit. He had been walking for most of the day, and while he wasn’t very tired, he thought it might be good to rest for a bit and collect his thoughts before meeting with his former commander, Eliwood of Pherae.

As he entered the cemetery, however, he found he wouldn’t have as much privacy as he might have liked. There was someone there, kneeling before one of the headstones. It was a pretty woman with long blue hair and grey eyes, but apparently not an ordinary woman. She was dressed in the fine armor of a Paladin, though she wasn’t wearing her helmet. The fine Silver Sword in the scabbard on her right side was proof that she truly was a warrior and not just dressed like one. Renault was impressed—though female knights were common in Bern and to a lesser extent among the Mage Corps of Etruria, he had never seen one in Lycia.

It seemed she was mourning for one of her fellow knights—as Renault neared, he could make out the inscription on the headstone: _Harken, Loyal Servant of Marquess Elbert of Pherae. Died with and for his lord, and with his lord to be remembered._

Renault had not made much of an effort to be stealthy, and the woman was perceptive enough to notice him. She stood up and turned, and while she didn’t seem perturbed, Renault noticed (as Karla had noticed about him) the way her hand casually drifted to her weapon’s grip—even if she wasn’t expecting a fight, she was never unprepared for one.

She relaxed when she saw Renault was unarmed, and nodded towards him. “Greetings.”

“Greetings to you as well. I apologize for interrupting your prayers. I wasn’t expecting anyone here at this hour.” It was only late morning.

“Neither did I, which was why I came out so early.”

“I understand. Please for—“

“Oh, no, you don’t have to leave. I don’t own this cemetery. It’s open to all the people of Pherae, for them to pay honor to the knights who have died protecting them.” That last phrase was said with more than a bit of bitterness, and Renault could see a deep sadness in the woman’s eyes, though the years had dulled it somewhat. “In any case, I had just finished my prayers and was about to leave anyways.”

“Ah…thank you.” Renault planned to move to another part of the cemetery, wanting to sit under one of the large elm trees, but then gave it some thought. If the dame (the word for female knights in Lycia, he recalled—there was no separate word for them in Ilia or Bern, and in Etruria they were just referred to by all as “Lady”) was leaving anyways, perhaps she wouldn’t mind answering a few questions. “Oh, wait. Please…before you go. I apologize again if this seems forward, but…may I ask if you are a knight in Lord Eliwood’s retinue?”

“I am. My name is Isadora. What is yours?”

“Renault. I am a Master Mendicant of the Church…er, that is…about equivalent to a Bishop.”

“I see! I am honored to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency. How may I help you?”

“Eh…I just need some information. I was charged with delivering a letter to a man, but I heard he had died. I also heard that his daughter still lived, however, and thought the message should be delivered to her. The girl’s name is Nino, and I was told she was living here in Pherae with her family. Might you know where to find her?”

“Ah, little Nino?” Dame Isadora seemed to grow even sadder. “I didn’t know her very well, but we did talk on occasion. She was such a kind, earnest, studious young girl…young woman now, I should say. I remember Eliwood just about jumped for joy when she gave birth to her twins just a few months ago…”

Renault felt his spirits falling as he heard this. “…From the past tense, it seems that something happened to her…”

“Yes…perhaps. It’s very sad. Nino’s husband was a…suspicious…man named Jaffar. Eliwood was convinced he’d turned over a new leaf, and invited them both to stay in a small village just a day’s walk from the castle. At first, everything seemed fine…they lived peacefully, Jaffar found honest work as a wood carver, and they were very happy together. But it seems Jaffar’s past caught up to them. Just a month ago, their home was invaded by bounty hunters. The brutes were driven off and no-one was hurt, but more would be coming. To protect his family, I think Jaffar left. Unfortunately, Nino couldn’t bear it and then left herself in order to find them. We’ve heard from neither since then. No one knows if either is still alive…”

Renault sighed. “I see…please accept my condolences. But what of her children? What happened to them?”

Isadora’s expression brightened. “Ah, they’re doing fine. Nino and Jaffar were blessed with two boys: Lugh and Ray. Before she left to search for Jaffar, she entrusted them to an orphanage in Araphen. The man running it is a good friend of Marquess Eliwood. They are being excellently cared for.”

“I see. Thank you, Dame Isadora. It seems I’ll head to Araphen next. If Nino cannot receive her father’s letter, perhaps her sons can be given their grandfather’s letter…though I suppose I’ll have to entrust it to their caretaker until they come of age. Is he trustworthy?”

“From what I understand, yes. He’s an Eliminean like you—a monk of the Serapinian order, in fact.” She cocked her head at Renault. “You know, I was actually just on my way to Araphen myself. Eliwood charged me with delivering a letter to the lord there. Would you care to accompany me?”

Renault blushed slightly. “I greatly appreciate your offer, my lady, but I have little to repay you. Master Mendicants, being as…peripatetic…as we are, aren’t as…eh…well-compensated as Bishops. I have some magic artifacts, but I doubt you need those.”

“I need nothing at all, Your Excellency. If I’m heading there anyways, I see no reason not to do a good turn by a traveler. I noted you were walking here by yourself. While the roads are safe and easy to travel, you’d still be better off on horseback than not. It would take us only a day or so to reach Araphen with my steed.”

It was generous indeed, and Renault figured he would be foolish to decline. “I gratefully accept, Dame Isadora.”

And thus did the two of them set out for Araphen. Isadora went to her mount, a fine white courser, and Renault hitched a ride behind her. They did not speak much as the horse trotted leisurely along the road—but when they were about halfway to their destination and the sun had begun to fall, they decided to set up camp for the night, and that was when they had their first real conversation.

“Are you hungry, Your Excellency?” Isadora asked as she laid out her sleeping blanket. “You haven’t eaten anything all day.”

“Eh? No, thank you.”

“I see. Are you fasting?”

“Sort of…I guess.” There was no need to tell her he didn’t need to eat at all.

“Oh, I see. My, your faith is admirable, Bishop! I pray it is rewarded by Elimine.”

“Thank you. I pray your kindness is rewarded as well.”

“Of course. Anyways, I apologize, but I brought only one blanket with me. You may use it, if you wish. A knight such as myself is comfortable sleeping on the ground, if need be.”

“That’s not necessary either…Missionaries are accustomed to the rigors of travel ourselves, you know.”

“O-oh, of course! Pardon me, I did not mean to insinuate otherwise. It’s just that I want to make things as comfortable as possible for you. I am not the most pious of souls, but I am a believer in the teachings of Elimine. It is an honor to protect one of her clergymen, and I feel I must do as much as I can!”

Renault felt a bit disquieted. It seemed almost as if the dame was fawning on him, which was something he hadn’t experienced in a very, very long time. It was also something he didn’t feel was appropriate at all. He sighed—he didn’t want to have this conversation, but perhaps it would teach his friend something important.

“Dame Isadora, while I appreciate both your faith and your kindness…please do not lavish them so profligately on me. I am…not the sort of person on whom you ought to spend such things.”

“Excuse me? I’m not sure what you mean…”

“I am…not the sort of man truly worthy of being called a Bishop, or even a Mendicant. I never even asked for this position. It was given to me.”

“Why would that be so? You seem an admirable representative of the Church, at least in my eyes.”

“Now, perhaps. But…I was not always this way.” Renault looked sadly at his hands. “Long ago, I was a mercenary. I led a bloody, thoughtless life, entirely unconnected to the holy teachings.” _Much to the dismay of my mother,_ he thought, _who tried so hard to show them to me. I can only hope she may forgive her foolish son._

“If that is true,” Isadora said, “then how do you explain your present garb? What brought you to the light of Elimine?”

_Braddock…Braddock, it’s been so long…_

Even if he still could, Renault probably wouldn’t have started crying—he had too much self control for that, at least now. But he couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice, which was enough to tell Isadora he was being entirely sincere.

“I…lost a friend. A man I could have called brother. But when he died, I knew nothing of prayers, of forgiveness.” Again he felt a pang of guilt as he thought of his mother—she had tried her best to teach him such things, but he had forgotten them. “I only knew how to bash another man’s skull… So I cast aside my weapons and knelt for the first time… to mourn for my fallen friend. For Braddock.”

“I…see. Please accept my condolences, Your Excellency. I hope your friend knows peace in Elimine’s embrace.”

“Maybe. But all that matters to me…my most fervent prayer…is that the path of Elimine honors his memory more than all the blood I ever shed in his name.”

“The shedding of blood,” Isadora said quietly. “Ah…Renault…”

“Hm?”

“After everything you’ve said…I understand why you may think the robes of Elimine fit you poorly. But the path you’ve tread…it isn’t entirely different from mine. You were a warrior, as I am now. Even if you don’t believe you’re a paragon of the faith…I think you may be able to help me with something.”

“I can’t guarantee that. But I will try.”

“You are a Master Mendicant, but that rank is equivalent to a Bishop’s, yes? That being the case…would you be able to hear my sins? It has been a very long time since my last confession.”

“The Rite of Contrition, you mean? Eh…I am not so good at these priestly matters…”

“Please, Bishop, for me. I know of no-one else I can turn to.”

Renault sighed again. “…Very well. If all I must do is listen…I do not mind.”

With a deep breath, Isadora began.

“God, my Lord, today I have sinned, and tonight I repent. I have transgressed against my fellow man—no, against the vows I made to my Lord, and I now ask for Your forgiveness as well as his.”

Renault nodded. “I will hear you. In what way have you violated your oath to Marquess Eliwood?”

“Your Excellency… I was born as the youngest daughter of a country nobleman. I wanted to become a knight from my earliest childhood, so I spent many long, bitter hours in training…”

She seemed lost in these memories, even as she continued her confession. It was a feeling Renault knew and understood very well.

“I hoped to someday protect my country proudly… But… There was one thing for which I was not prepared… To protect, one must do battle with one’s enemies… And to do battle with one’s enemies, one must…strike…those enemies.”

Renault said nothing but nodded, beckoning for her to continue.

“I have taken many lives in battle before now… For justice, for peace, for my lord, and for my country… I have fought all this time as a brave knight.”

“And do you regret this choice?”

“No, I… I think we fight for the right reasons… However…at times, I grow uneasy. I grow sorrowful for the lives cut short on the end of my blade.”

Renault felt a blush creeping across his face as he heard this. Not because it was a particularly scandalous confession—precisely the opposite. It was one of the most thoughtful Renault had ever received—and it made him feel more incompetent than he had in ages. Not only was Isadora a brave warrior and a kindhearted soul, but she entertained questions of guilt and just killing that had vexed the most perspicacious theologians and virtuous saints. And here he was—someone with more innocent blood on his hands than she could possibly imagine, most of it taken not for justice or one’s lord, but the fanatical, selfish, greedy desire to bring back Braddock from the dead—in total opposition to what his friend wanted.

Isadora didn’t notice Renault’s inner turmoil at all. “Your Excellency… Am I wrong for feeling this way? What should I do?”

Still, Renault said nothing. Now he was as occupied in his own past as Isadora, and he felt every bit as lost as she was. What business could he _possibly_ have to lecture to her? He’d never felt less worthy of being a Bishop than he did that night. In a sane world, Isadora would be the one hearing his confession. But to see such a thoughtful, introspective soul seeking wisdom from someone who had spent his life as a blind, thoughtless fool? It was not something Renault felt prepared for.

“Bishop…” There was pleading, desperation in her eyes, and Renault understood how badly she wanted—needed—answers. But he could think of nothing proper to say to her.

At last, he shook his head. “Forgive me. I am a fraud. I can offer you no solace.

“Please, let us retire for the night. I…I am tired.”

“O…of course, Bishop.” Isadora withdrew, as if he had struck her physically, and while she didn’t seem betrayed, she seemed very sad. “I…I am so—“

“No, no need to apologize. The hour is late. Just rest.”

They laid themselves to sleep on their blankets, saying nothing more to each other. There was no anger between them, of course, but there was something unpleasant there yet. Not even tension, but a sense of loss, as if they had both seen an opportunity—and lost it terribly.

Perhaps that was why Renault dreamed again, as he had not in a long time. It wasn’t even the dream of Braddock that he usually had. He saw nothing, but he heard a voice, and it wasn’t Braddock’s. It sounded like _Varek_ ’s—but he couldn’t make out what it was saying.

He would find out the next day.

They said nothing at all to each other when they woke up. Isadora didn’t even offer him any pleasantries, and Renault couldn’t even bring himself to look at her as they rode. They both knew he had failed.

They neared the border to Araphen, where Renault knew they would part. His failure rankled at him, and it ate away from him more and more, even though he consciously knew there was nothing he could really do for someone like Isadora. How could a man who had taken so many lives so brutally and thoughtlessly comfort a woman who felt genuine sorrow for those lives lost in the course of her lawful duties? But she needed comfort—desperately—Renault saw that in her eyes. And when they parted, they would never see each other again—which meant she might never receive the comfort she needed. Renault knew he had to do something, no matter how ineffective he might be.

“I…Isadora,” he said, the very first words he’d spoken all day. “May we stop for a moment?”

“Er…ah! Yes, of course.”

She brought her horse to a stop. Renault got off, and invited her to do the same.

“Mas…er…Bishop?”

“Isadora…I must ask…are you alright? You don’t look well…I fear you didn’t get much sleep last night. It wouldn’t do to appear before Marquess Araphen in such a state. Try thinking of your village, your parents, to regain your cheer.”

“I…I shall.”

Renault closed his eyes, sighed, and prepared himself—as best he could—for the most important speech he had given in decades.

“Isadora?”

“Y-Yes? What is it?”

“About last night… I may be a poor preacher, but please listen to me now…”

“Of course. What have you to tell me?”

“You asked me what you should do. If I could give you one direction, one step along the path… It would be…to let yourself be lost.”

Isadora made no secret of her confusion. “Lost?”

“Forgiving your sins is a small task for a bishop, or even a priest. And if that were enough to save you, I would have simply recited the words. But you suffer… and you seek answers…”

The confusion didn’t seem to leave her face, but she still listened.

Renault didn’t know if his words were having an effect—or even if they were the right ones—but he took her continued silence as a request to continue. “That is the greatest pain of all… The pain of doubt. If I dispelled this doubt, I could free you from your pain. But then you should be nothing more than a puppet that kills. Use your doubt. Use it to become something more. I think it makes you…human.”

“Renault…”

He didn’t know if that was the proper resolution for a confession—in fact, he wasn’t sure if there had ever been a Rite of Contrition like this in all the Church’s history--but the desperation in her eyes seemed to have abated somewhat, replaced with something he thought might have been understanding. And there was something else, too. Renault could hear a familiar voice ringing in his head even as he said his next words:

“I don’t know whether you’ll ever find the answers you seek,” Renault added quickly. But you must live with your doubt until then. If you can, then all of the joy and sorrow you experience… will truly belong to you.”

“Your Excellency…

“I have lived this way since I found myself… Some are sustained by faith, but for me, there are no answers.”

Renault said this to Isadora, but in truth, he was speaking to himself as well. For he was no longer standing on the road to Araphen, but had been transported, in his own mind, to the plains of _Sacae_ —many years ago.

Varek smiling at him, agreeing to bring him into the Church, despite his doubts.

_It’s not belief, Renault. You’re not a true believer. But you’re not far off, either. Not far enough away that I can’t give you the rite…_

“...Renault?”

Isadora’s curious voice brought him back to reality. He blinked, looking at her again, and smiled. “Again, forgive me. This little sermon…much of my past is in it. But if you would like to hear its end, then if nothing else, please heed this…

“I do not know if God is guiding my steps. But I know that I take each one with my own will, under my own knowledge, because…because I _doubt_. When I found myself…when my mentor taught me to truly look at myself for the first time…he also taught me to doubt myself constantly. To always ask if I was really doing the right thing. To never act blindly, without thinking of the true ramifications of my behavior. This is what led me from the hateful path of a foolish mercenary to where you see me now.

“You…you don’t have as far to go as I did, because you have never fallen as far. You have given serious thought to your reasons for fighting, and the effects your blade has had on the world. That makes you far wiser than I ever was. You’ve no need to find yourself like I did…you’ve already found yourself. But perhaps that may be why you should now lose yourself. If doubt allowed me to find a better path, then…even if it may not lead you to the answers you seek…doubt will make you stronger, a better human being, than I could ever be.”

“Your Excellency, that…”

“No, it is no exaggeration.” He looked her squarely in her eyes. “Dame Isadora, you are beautiful. Not just as a woman or a lady of a noble’s court, but as a person, as a human being. And if your loyalty to your lord and your code of justice is the crown of that beauty, your doubt, your introspection, are the jewels of that crown. Do not lose them. Let them shine even brighter. They may yet lead you to salvation.”

Isadora stood there, speechless. She had no idea what to say in response to that.

And that was fine with Renault. He didn’t need anything in return. “I have rambled enough,” he smiled. “And wasted enough of your time. I suppose it may be a good thing I don’t do much preaching. Let us continue our journey, my lady.”

He got back on the horse, and after a moment, Isadora did the same.

They did not speak much else until they reached the Araphen orphanage. But they didn’t really need to.

Renault had said enough.

_::Linear Notes::_

The bit about pregnancy comes from the “dizziness and fainting during pregnancy” article at babycenter.com. Aside from that, I tried to incorporate everyone’s supports into this chapter. Also, a brief note on names—in this fic, some are pretty common. Nino’s aunt is named Carla, though our Karla is spelled with a K, and the tactician in last chapter was named Rosamia, not after the Rosamia from the first half, but because Rosamia is a common name in Etruria and Bern. :D

Now, for Isadora. _Wayward Son_ takes it as canon that Eliwood recruited Karel rather than Harken, which means that Harken died with the other members of Elbert’s retinue, thus the inscription on his gravestone. ;-;

Lucius’ supports with Renault, as you might be able to surmise, will show up in the next chapter. ;)

 


	78. The Seeker of Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault does not find Nino. But his quest does not end in failure--and he ends up one step closer to his salvation.

**Chapter 78: The Seeker of Salvation**  
  


For some reason he couldn’t understand, Renault felt terribly apprehensive as he stood before the wooden doors of the modest orphanage. There was nothing at all foreboding about it; in fact it looked very much like a more welcoming version of Par Massino. A square of grey stone wall (nowhere as tall as those of the Bernese monastery, only a little taller than Renault, in fact) surrounded a complex (from how Isadora described it) that consisted of a scullery, nursery, schoolhouse, dormitories, and of course a church, shaped like any other he had seen. It was all built from nice clean red brick with shingling on the roof of a similar color—architecture much redolent of Etruria, Renault noted, which might have been surprising in Lycia but not at all off-putting, either. The weather today should have been no more ominous--it was a sunny, cheery spring afternoon on the 9th Archer, 988 with nothing but a blue sky and white clouds extending as far as the eye could see.

Yet for some reason, even several minutes after Dame Isadora had left him (with a heartfelt goodbye, and a prayer for his continued safety) at its doors, he could not bring himself to knock on them.

Renault was quite glad there was nobody else around, not even other travelers (he supposed Lycia was just quiet in general this time of year)—it would have been hideously embarrassing for a Bishop to be seen standing dumbly in front of an orphanage belonging to his own Church.

The prospect of such humiliation was finally enough to get him to take action. With a deep breath, he raised a fist and rapped his knuckles loudly on the doors.

“Coming,” called a pleasant voice that Renault thought might have been either male or female, before the doors opened—and he saw with his own eyes the reason he’d been so fearful.

His old friend Lucian stood before him.

If Renault had been thinking more clearly, he would have realized immediately it really wasn’t, of course—and not just because Lucian had died at his own hands. Lucian had been a swordsman, while the man standing before him was a monk, a Serapinian one at that—he was dressed in a Bishop’s surplice, not at all different from the one Renault wore, but colored blue and white rather than all-white, indicating his Order. But his delicate, gracile features, the long blond hair, the sparkling blue eyes, and the beautiful face, as lovely as that of any woman Renault had ever met…those were all undoubtedly Lucian’s.

He had seen the face once before, at a distance when watching the team selected to confront Nergal personally depart. But up close like this…it was something he was not prepared for.

Renault would have continued to stand there indefinitely, struck dumb by a face from his past—and the living embodiment of his sinfulness and cruelty—standing before him, before the other Bishop’s voice again brought him back to reality.

“Er…excuse me,” he said, “May I help you?”

“I…I, uh…I…” Renault stuttered and stumbled and stammered for what seemed to be an eternity before finally blurting out, “I…uh…This is an orphanage, is it not?”

“It is my orphanage, and a church as well,” came the exquisitely patient reply. “I’m honored by your visit, Bishop, though I wasn’t expecting it. Ah…would you like to come inside? Please forgive my rudeness for letting you just stand there like that!”

He seemed like he knew Renault—had the former mercenary been thinking clearly, he might have wondered why the proprietor of an orphanage would allow a total stranger—one who hadn’t even introduced himself—right into the grounds without knowing anything about him. Still, it was also testament to the cleric’s kindness that he would do so; extending hospitality to someone who might have been dangerous was noble in its own way—if still naïve as well. Though, admittedly, most anyone would be able to recognize a Bishop’s robes, so this fellow had at least some reason to trust Renault.

The proprietor of the orphanage took Renault’s hand in his own and led him inside. They passed through its gates to the church, very similar to Par Massino’s, where Renault was allowed to sit down on one of the pews and collect his thoughts.

“Th…thank you,” he said, after taking a deep breath, managing to regain most (if not all) of his composure and self-control. “My behavior was…shameful. I apologize. I was…” Renault didn’t want to mention that he thought he knew who his host was. “It has been a long journey, and I…was out of sorts. May God bless you for your patience and kindness.”

“Oh, it was nothing at all…” The orphanage master’s voice trailed off, which made Renault look at him in concern. He seemed very pale now, and breathing heavily. Most troublingly, Renault noticed his hands were shaking terribly.

“My goodness,” Renault murmured, but not quietly enough that his host did not hear.

The other Bishop let out a slight gasp and brought a hand to his face, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from his eyes. “Y-Yes?”

“Your face…you don’t look so well. Are you hurt or sick? Let me take a look.”

He drew back. “No…please don’t. I have a…condition. This is just a…passing attack. It will soon…disappear…”

“What is this illness? Do you require medicine?” _It may be a good thing I came along,_ Renault thought to himself. But his new friend refuted that.

“No, no. My bishop—colleague now, though it’s hard to think of him that way--once told me that it was a sickness of the soul… But it’s gotten much better.”

“Of the…soul?” It was a common term among Elimineans. Physical diseases were easy enough to treat, but someone whose mind and body were devastated by some form of terror or pain could be as debilitated as someone suffering from a plague. That was the sort of thing the Church called a “sickness of the soul.”

“Yes… I offer relief to those who hurt inside, and yet, I, too, am…afflicted. I strive daily to overcome this curse…but still I am weak.”

Renault shook his head. “A sickness of the soul is the most difficult to heal…but please do not blame yourself for this. Doing so could even aggravate your condition…”

“Th-Thank you. Your words…have brought me some peace.” It seemed to be true, Renault noticed with a great deal of relief. The Bishop’s hands had stopped trembling and color had returned to his face.

Now that the worst was over, Renault finally saw a chance to cover the pleasantries—which he should have done initially, but had neglected because of his shock. “So…what is your name?”

“It is Lucius.”

 _Lucius…that was Lucian’s son_ , Renault thought to himself. He felt a blush creep over his face, and understood very well why he had first felt such dread upon first arriving. He still had no undeniable proof that this was indeed Lucian’s son, but the prospect seemed more and more likely with each passing minute.

But he also knew now that he could not run away. Just has he had done at Par Massino, he had to face up to his past. Neither Braddock nor Varek would expect any less of him.

Renault closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lucius? I am…”

“I know. You are…Bishop Renault, are you not?”

“E…excuse me?” Renault felt his composure slipping again, and could only hope the still-recovering Lucius didn’t see it. “You…you have heard of me?” Did Lucius remember him? The child had been so young, but he did witness Renault killing his father. Could he have remembered Renault’s face after all these years?

As it was, not entirely. “Yes,” Lucius smiled. “A friend of mine, Lady Priscilla, spoke of you when our army was on the Dread Isle. She said she had met a Bishop named Renault in one of the ruins, who gave her his blessings and a small charm for good luck. If such blessings kept her alive, I am in your debt, Your Excellency.”

“I…I see,” Renault said, calming down thanks to this. “I am glad.”

“Did you come here on her behalf, by any chance?”

“Eh?” Renault wasn’t expecting that, though Lucius’ soft, slightly amused smile told him it wasn’t entirely a serious question either.

“Well, you must have some reason for stopping by, don’t you?”

“Yes…yes, I do, though it is not at Lady Priscilla’s behest.” The mention of his mission was just enough to get Renault to gain control of his faculties once again. However troubling he might find this reminder of his horrible past, and however difficult it was to confront it, he could not let any of that interfere with the quest Varek had given him, what he had spent decades of his life trying to complete.

With the most serious yet humble expression he could muster, Renault looked right into Lucius’ eyes. “Bishop…I know you are charged with the protection of your wards as well as their growth. I swear before Elimine, and by everything that is most important to me, that I mean them no harm. But I must know…are there two boys here named Ray and Lugh?”

Lucius’ smile disappeared, and it seemed as if he was ready to get up, and perhaps even call for help, but Renault stopped him.

“Please! I am no bounty hunter or bandit. I’ve heard of the tragedy that befell Lady Nino and her husband, Jaffar. But I was also told her children were spirited to safety. I have something I must give to them. Are they here?”

Lucius stared at him for a moment that seemed an eternity—then sat down again. “…I have little reason to trust you,” he said, “but somehow I feel I can. A man who simply wore the robes of the Church as a disguise wouldn’t show me the sincerity you just did.”

Renault blushed again, though this time not from shame. “You…you are too kind, Your Excellency.”

“There’s no need for titles—a Master Mendicant is equal to me, is he not? You could call me Father as the children do, but…” He laughed. “That would be strange for someone obviously older than I. Just Lucius is fine.”

“Very well…thank you, Lucius.” Renault reached into a pocket and, at last, drew out the sealed letter handed to Varek so long ago.

“What is this?” Lucius asked.

“It is a letter from Ray and Lugh’s great grandfather, originally meant for their grandfather. I had intended to give it to their mother, Nino, their grandfather’s daughter, but…she is no longer here. So I thought, for them…”

“I am…not sure I understand.”

Renault thus explained—not everything, but enough. His mentor Varek (he didn’t mention where they’d met, though), how Varek had been raised by the prominent Varlago family of Bern, how he had run away, become a hermit, but eventually reconciled with his adoptive father, and how that adopted father—patriarch of the house of Varlago—wanted to reconcile with his son (Varek’s adopted brother), Juge. Renault then described traveling all over Elibe for decades in search of Juge, only to find out that he, his wife, and his sons had been murdered in Lycia.

Lucius saw the sadness on Renault’s face as he described what happened to Juge, and placed a comforting hand on Renault’s shoulder. It was a gesture that was greatly appreciated, and Renault sounded a bit less tormented as he continued the story. He described how he’d learned that Nino was still alive, and spent the next few years looking for her, somehow managing to just miss her when she joined Eliwood’s army on the Dread Isle. Still, Renault persevered, and he couldn’t keep a smile off his face when he described Canas telling him Nino was happily married in Lycia. He couldn’t keep that smile from breaking apart when he repeated what Isadora had told him: Bounty hunters and driven Jaffar away from his home, and Nino had followed him.

“My only salvation was that her children were unharmed,” said Renault. “Dame Isadora told me that Lugh and Ray were here, and well cared for too. It is…it is my only hope, now. Even though it’s been so long, and even though Juge is long dead, if Varlago’s message can get through to even one of his descendants, no matter how distant…I feel as if my quest will not have been in vain.”

Lucius smiled. “Then you are in luck, friend. Would you like to see the boys?”

“Yes…yes, please.”

They stood up and left the church, and headed nearby to the nursery. Lucius knocked on its door, and a smiling nun popped out. Though her hair was brown rather than red, her kindly demeanor very much reminded Renault of Abbess Meris, something that brought him a degree of comfort.

“Oh, Father Lucius,” she smiled brightly. “What brings y’ here? Oh, another Bishop! Is he come for one o’ the children?”

Renault blushed, and Lucius just chuckled. “No, nothing like that. He’s a…family friend of lady Nino’s, and wanted to check up on her children.”

“Oh, I see. Well, come ye in, but be quiet! They’re takin’ a nap!”

She led them inside where there was a row of cribs, four of which had babies in them. The last two contained two boys, side by side. They looked almost exactly alike, right down to the soft green fuzz beginning to grace their heads, and both slumbered with the most contented expressions Renault had seen on anyone’s face for a very long time.

“Most precious things in th’ world, aren’t they?” the nun smiled. “Elimine’s grace, I can’t figure out who’d want to leave ‘em!”

“Nino had her reasons. It is not for us to judge,” Lucius chided.

“Aye, o’course, Father.”

Renault, meanwhile, had stepped closer to the children, almost as if he were entranced by them. The former mercenary stretched out a hand to stroke their faces, the sort of gentle gesture he had not made in many years, not since he had left Wallace as a squire. But he made it now, and he was not aware that both Lucius and the nun were staring at him. After a few minutes, though, Lucius tapped him on the shoulder gently, and he withdrew.

“You have a way with children,” he said quietly.

“You are too kind,” Renault replied. “Anyways, it is best to let them sleep. Thank you, Lucius. I am sure they have good lives ahead of them under your care.”

Together, he, Lucius, and the nun left the nursery, closing the door quietly and carefully behind them. The nun waved goodbye as she headed off to the scullery for a snack. Meanwhile, Lucius took a deep breath, enjoying the sun—it seemed to rejuvenate him, which Renault noticed.

“Very good,” he muttered to himself, but not as quietly as he thought.

“Excuse me, Your Excellency? What’s very good?”

 “You heard that? Pardon me, Lucius. I was thinking of the…attack you suffered earlier. You’re no longer displaying any symptoms, and you look much better…I presume you have recovered some?”

Lucius smiled gratefully. “Yes. I took your words to heart, so to speak… Thank you.”

“Ah, good. Then you will overcome your affliction in no time.

Lucius shook his head. “How I wish that could…”

Renault, in return, furrowed his brow. He motioned for Lucius to sit down on a small bench right next to the nursery. Fortunately, none of the other nuns were around, all busy with taking care of various chores, so the two Bishops did have some degree of privacy.

He then offered Lucius the same comforting pat on the shoulder the younger man had offered him. “You said the blemish lies on your soul? Speak of it to me, son.”

Lucius didn’t reply immediately. It seemed as if he were thinking.

“Only if you wish,” Renault hastily added. “I won’t pry if…”

“No, it’s alright, Your Excellency.” Even though they were technically of the same rank, Lucius still showed his guest a great deal of deference. “I just…needed some time to collect my thoughts. It’s something of a long story…”

“I have time, Lucius.” _All the time in the world, in fact,_ Renault thought. It was very likely this Lucius was Lucian’s son, but Renault, at this time, was not absolutely sure. He owed it to Lucius—and Lucian, and Varek, and himself—to make absolutely sure. If this truly was his friend’s son, he had to make things up with him, and even if this Lucius, despite appearances, wasn’t Lucian’s son, he still deserved whatever help Renault could give.

“Thank you, Bishop,” Lucius took another breath, and then began his story.

“I… I grew up in an orphanage… and I faced much grief in that place… Poverty and despair can eat one’s very soul… There was one teacher there who was particularly cruel to me… Even now… I pray that this evil man might be led away from darkness…”

Renault nodded. “I see…and were you there from birth?”

“No, Your Excellency. …I remember living with my mother and father until the age of three.”

 _Until the age of three,_ Renault thought, and he felt his face redden, begin to burn. But still he pressed on. His throat was constricted, and he had to struggle to get the words out.

“W…why did you go to the orphanage?” Renault managed to squeak.

Lucius didn’t notice Renault’s obvious inner turmoil, so lost was he in his reminiscence. The words poured out of him, as if they were demons being exorcised from within his body. “Our house…was invaded by a thief. My father was a famous mercenary, but the man was too strong. I saw my father fall before me. I recall it sometimes, even now… The eyes of the thief who killed him. …Like terrible dark stones set in his hate-filled face…… All he left behind was this dagger protruding from my father’s chest.”

Lucius reached into a fold of his robe and took out the memento he kept with him almost all the time.

Renault let out a gasp and drew back. He could deny the truth no longer.

It was rusty and in a state of near-total disrepair, but Renault still would have recognized it anywhere on Elibe. It was his old left-hand dagger, with a small segment of chain still hanging from its attachment at its hilt.

Lucius still had his eyes closed, and so he still continued, unaware of how shocked Renault now was. “After my father’s death, my mother fell ill. I was alone…entirely alone. In a cruel twist, this dagger is all I have of my father” He gripped its handle tightly, and then opened his eyes. At last, he noticed that his guest was in a state of near-panic. “Bishop Renault? What is it?! Your face is bright red!”

Renault could stand it no longer. He had to keep himself from screaming. He’d known that Lucius was who he thought he was, and that he himself was responsible for the horrible suffering that poor, saintly man had endured over the years—every last bit of it. Renault could have tolerated those revelations, albeit with difficulty, but not when they seemed to be contained within a physical symbol, within the stained rusted shell of a weapon he had not wanted to see ever again. That was what broke, entirely, the composure Renault had struggled so hard to maintain.

He could no longer face Lucius—it was too much for him. “E-Excuse me,” he stammered. “I…I must leave.”

“O…Of course,” Lucius stammered back, but by this time Renault was already too far away to hear—he had practically jumped up from the bench and ran as fast as he could out of the orphanage.

-X-

Renault wasn’t sure how long or how far he had been running, but he knew when he had to stop—his legs gave out and he fell flat on his face along the dusty road.

“Lucian,” he muttered to himself. “Lucian, Lucian…I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

He shut his eyes, and received not welcome blackness but a new host of visions. Some were of Braddock—remonstrating him, telling him not to fall in love with violence—but most were of Lucian. Bantering with each other as they fought for the first time, fighting alongside one another at the Bluemoon Tower, and the look of horror and betrayal on Lucian’s face as Renault buried his knife into his chest.

He heard Lucian again, condemning him as loudly now as he had done years ago…

_I said I’d see if you were worthy…I get the distinct feeling you’re not…_

_The power there is too dangerous to leave to someone like you…_

“Lucian…Lucian, you were right. I was unworthy, and too stupid to realize it. I should have listened…should have listened…and because of me, you…your son…so much suffering…”

He turned on his side, curling up and gripping his phylactery with all his strength. “What can I do? I can’t bring you back…nor undo the misery your son suffered…then why was I brought here?”

And then he heard Varek’s voice, and knew the answer.

His mentor had said those words in a time and place far removed from Lucian’s life. But they applied as well to this instance as they did to every other one.

_There’s no forgiveness without repentance…_

_It’s the hardest work of all to make up for taking a life…_

_But if you save lives and improve lives, as much as you can, the stain of your guilt will lessen, day by day…_

_As long as you’re with me, you’re going to be giving back to the world you’ve taken so much from…_

There could be no escape from his sins. But there could be repentance.

Renault took a deep breath, got to his knees, then his feet, and opened his eyes. He was not at all proud of what had just happened. It was a moment of weakness, undoubtedly. Renault had grown too complacent, too satisfied with himself in his years as a Bishop, since Varek had passed. It had taken a face-to-face meeting with the son of his dead friend, murdered friend—living proof of his hideous crime, an innocent child who had suffered more than he could imagine for his foolishness and greed—to remind him of how far he had to go.

But if he had a very long way to go, there was certainly no point in delaying it any further.

Renault looked up at the sky. It was late afternoon now—he hadn’t been running mindlessly for _too_ long, but still a good deal longer and further than he would have liked. He turned around and forced his weary legs to trudge back to the orphanage.

He arrived just at the break of evening. Would Lucius even still be there? Or would he have retired to an early bed, after the exhausting ordeal of his seizures? Perhaps he had locked up the complex, and would not admit Renault entry again. He was more than justified in doing so.

As it happened, that was not the case. When no response came to his knock, Renault, perhaps against his better judgement, tried to open the door—and it did without resistance.

He cautiously stepped back inside the orphanage. “Lucius,” he called. “Lucius?”

Lucius did not respond, but someone else did. “Oh, Father Renault, izzat ye?” It was the nun from the nursery, carrying some clothes she had washed earlier. “We’s wonderin’ where ye went! Saw ye slippin’ out the door earlier today. Is ev’rything alright?”

“Yes…yes, thank you. I just…had something to attend to. Tell me, where is Lucius?”

“He’s in the church, prayin’, methinks.”

“Thanks again.” Before the woman had a chance to respond, Renault headed off towards it.

As he entered, Renault saw Lucius kneeling in front of the altar, evening light from the window in front of it framing his delicate form. So engrossed was Lucius in his prayers that he didn’t notice Renault’s approach, at least not until Renault made a show of clearing his throat.

When Renault did that, Lucius turned with a start.

“Bishop Renault…?”

Renault nodded. “Lucius.”

“Ah, I’m glad to see you again. You ran off so abruptly.”

“Yes, yes…I did. I am sorry for that, Lucius. It was…rude.” _And cowardly,_ Renault thought to himself.

Lucius began to tremble. “…Did I do something? Something…to…to… Have I angered you? If that were so… I would truly…” He closed his eyes again as the trembling intensified. “Please… Forgive me……”

Renault hadn’t expected Lucius to react in this way—in fact, the absolute _last_ thing he wanted, for obvious reasons, was for Lucius to blame himself for anything. Thus, his first concern was putting a stop to that line of thinking, which meant he reacted in a somewhat harsher way than he would have otherwise. “Lucius!” Renault raised his voice. “…Control yourself!”

The younger Bishop flinched, as if struck. “Yes… I am…sorry.”

A wave of guilt washed over Renault a second time as he remembered just why Lucius was acting that way, and why he was trembling. “Ah, your affliction…” Renault grimaced—it had truly been foolish of him to forget what Lucius was dealing with, and such thoughtlessness only compounded his sins. “Forgive me…”

Lucius shook his head, smiling even as he attempted to control his tremors. “…Bishop Renault… Why should you…apologize? This scourge upon my soul… It is my own doing…”

The trembling was less, now, but Lucius’ eyelids were drooping. Those attacks must have taken a lot from his stamina, Renault realized. “Do not speak… It will exhaust you.” He motioned for Lucius to take a seat beside him on a nearby pew; an offer which was gratefully accepted.

“Ah…sorry,” Lucius said. Renault just sat quietly next to him for a few minutes as his breathing steadied and the tremors subsided. When next he looked at Lucius, his friend’s eyes were closed.

“He is asleep,” Renault muttered.

He looked around the church. He and Lucius were alone here, the nuns too busy with their other chores to pay the two of them much attention.

If there was any time to make the apology he needed to—that Lucius deserved—it was now.

Renault got up from his seat and knelt down in front of Lucius, shutting his eyes and bowing his head.  

“Forgive me, son. In those days…I only thought of myself.”

The memories were back. He remembered his angry words to Dougram, who had tried to rescue him from Nergal’s manipulation—and he also remembered what that unfortunate noble had said to him, of his imminent damnation, on the road to Par Massino so long ago.

“I trespassed against many in my singular drive to regain the friend I lost…and to satiate my own…monstrous greed.”

Death, pain, corpses, all of these things flew through Renault’s mind. The screams of the many, many people he had hurt and killed in his quest for quintessence at Nergal’s behest, and beyond…

His voice remained quiet, but it began to shake as guilt and regret chipped away at his self-composure. His eyes were shut tight, and his face contorted into a rictus of sorrow and mournfulness.

“I even sacrificed the lives of others…”

Renault lowered his head even further.

“Forgive me… Lucius, Please, forgive me…”

A soft voice came from above him.

“I forgive you…”

Renault looked up. “L…Lucius?

This time, he saw his friend’s mouth move. “Yes…”

“You–“

Lucius was still very tired, but it seemed he hadn’t been sleeping, for he had heard all of Renault’s confession—and smiled. “I forgive you.”

Renault shook his head. “But you… You cannot know the evil I have wrought… I did it! I killed your father!”

Lucius’s smile grew wider. He stood up, and reached out a hand—a hand that did not tremble even slightly—and placed it on Renault’s shoulder. “Even so, I feel your grief, and it feels like my own…”

“Lucius…”

Renault’s body could no longer produce tears. But both he and Lucius could tell that he wanted to cry. So he did the next best thing.

“Lucius…”

Once again, he turned his eyes away from the face of his friend, who was still smiling beatifically. He had not the slightest right to even look at someone so merciful, so kind, so full of the grace and forgiveness Elimine had preached—so _holy_. A murderer and sinner like him, after all, was the very opposite of holy, barely even a gnat when compared to the pure, unadulterated _goodness_ Lucius had just displayed. Renault bent his head back to the floor—and then covered his face with his hands. He could do nothing else, for the heaving sobs wracking his body would not have allowed him to even get off of his knees.

Lucius didn’t mind. Not a bit. He bent slightly, raised his hand from Renault’s shoulder and draped it around his neck, and did the same with his other hand as well. He embraced the man who had killed his father, and whispered quietly to him, over and over, that everything would be all right.

_-X-X-X-X-Fourteen Years Later-X-X-X-X-_

A Lycian spring was truly lovely. But in Lugh’s estimation, peace was even lovelier.

The scars of war were evident wherever he went, but so, too, were the efforts of the people to heal them. Blasted fields were being planted again, ruined houses rebuilt, and the far-too-numerous corpses of both soldiers and civilians buried. They could never be replaced, but if the number of young couples with children and babies Lugh saw were any indication, the next generation would be able to make up for their losses.

He sighed. Father Lucius almost certainly felt the same way. Why else would anyone devote so much to an orphanage if they did not believe the next generation would carry on where the previous one fell? But even so, sometimes the young felt the loss of the old more keenly than the latter would ever have wanted. Lugh felt that way about Lucius, because Father was definitely one person no-one would ever be able to replace.

So occupied was Lugh in his internal musings, as well as enjoying the beauty of the spring around him, that he almost didn’t notice he had reached his destination. Fortunately, someone was there to tell him.

“Yo! Lugh!”

He immediately looked up—well, down, since he’d previously been looking at a pretty young tree whose leaves were just starting to blossom—and saw his twin brother waiting for him outside the wrecked gates of the orphanage in which they’d grown up.

“What took you so long?” Ray was sneering, but Lugh knew very well that the Shaman—Druid, now, he supposed—was just acting. “I’ve been waitin’ here for ten whole minutes!”

“Sorry, Ray,” Lugh laughed. “I should’ve left the inn a little earlier, but I was up late last night helping the innkeeper organize some new books he’d bought. I didn’t wake up as early as I should have…”

“Hmph. Too soft, as always. Well, _some_ of us have things to do. If you send someone a letter telling them to be at a certain place at a certain time because you wanted to see how they were doing after the war ended, you’d better show up at the right place at the right time!”

“I’m sorry, Ray. I’ll do better next time.”

“Hmph. Well, you’re lucky you’re you…I wouldn’t go this easy on anyone else ya know.” Ray looked thoughtfully at the stone walls, much of which had been torn down or blasted apart, but had recently been surrounded by scaffolding—the local people were trying to rebuild the orphanage. “Besides, I _did_ promise to pick up the kids, after all.”

Lugh couldn’t keep from smiling. “You remembered!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t make a stink over it.” Ray tried to grimace, but Lugh could tell he was hiding a smile. “Let’s just get this over with.”

They passed through the orphanage’s gates—easy enough, since the gates had been reduced to splinters long ago—into the orphanage proper itself.

“Yaaaaaay! Uncle Lugh! Uncle Ray!”

“Guys!”

The moment they stepped through the orphanage threshold, four small children barreled into them at top speed—2 boys and 2 girls. They smothered their “uncles” in hugs, and this time Ray couldn’t even be bothered to hide his smile.

“What the hell’re you guys doing here?” Ray laughed. “Shouldn’t you still be at the Church back at Araphen town?”

“Uncle Luuuugh~” said one of the kids, “Uncle Ray said a bad word!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he grimaced, and then looked around. “But man, this place looks a lot nicer than I expected. It’d all been burned to the ground, but…seems like the walls aren’t the only thing being rebuilt.”

“Yeah,” smiled Lugh. “The nursery’s already back up, along with the schoolhouse and the dormitory, so the kids have a place to sleep. Right now we’re living off donations from Roy, but pretty soon we should be able to plant the gardens again, and the scullery is the next thing that’s gonna be built, then the church. Father Lucius would be so proud! And after that, I dunno…I was thinking of turning this place into a school. A bona-fide magic school!”

Ray’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Lugh, you have any idea how much that’ll _cost?!_ I can’t figure out where you got the money to even rebuild this much!”

“Yeah, about that…” The smile disappeared from Lugh’s face. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Hmph. Alright.” Ray turned to the kids, still clustered around Lugh’s legs. “Listen, your uncles have to go talk for a little bit. Just stay out here where we can see you and don’t give the construction men any trouble, alright?”

“Aw, can’t we come too?”

“It’s boring stuff, trust me,” smirked Ray. “No need to bother you with it.”

“Aw, okay…we’ll sit here and be good for everybody!”

Smiling at the kids, Ray and Lugh slipped into the nearby schoolhouse. Lugh invited Ray to take a seat at one of the desks, which he did, and Lugh sat in front of him.

“So, what’s going on?”

Lugh reached into the folds of his robe and took out an old envelope. He opened it, and removed from it a pair of letters.

“Father Lucius gave these to me just before Bern attacked the orphanage,” Lugh said. “He told me to read them when I was ready, and when the war was over. So I kept a hold of them until peace returned, but I was so busy with reconstruction I didn’t get a chance to read them until recently. You should definitely read them as well.” He gestured to one of the letters, which seemed in much better condition than the others, as if it was not as old. “Read that first.”

Ray took the advice.

_Dear Lugh,_

_I had hoped to show you the other letter in this envelope when you came of age, but I fear the onset of war may make you a man all too soon. So, before you see what you have been given, I wished to write you this note to explain who gave it to you and why he did._

_I have told you before about your mother. She was a sweet young girl and a tremendously gifted magician, and I do hope she is still alive; though I know very well I should not plant the seeds of such foolish hopes in your heart, given that no-one had heard from her since you were left at our orphanage. But I never told you about her father, or her father’s father—your grandfather and great-grandfather._

_Her father was named Juge, and he was the favored son of the patriarch of House Varlago, one of the most influential bankers of Bern. He fell out with his father, however, and fled to Lycia, where he lived in peace with your grandmother and sired Nino before being murdered. The elder Varlago wanted to make amends with his son and tried to find Juge, but was old and near death. Before he died, he wrote the letter you will read after this one. Unfortunately, Juge had died before he could read it, and Juge’s daughter disappeared before she could. But the old banker had anticipated all that—as you will see. My only advice to you, dear Lugh, would be to use this gift wisely._

_Love,_

_Lucius_

“So that’s what the old man said, huh.” Ray tried to hide it, but Lugh could tell, by the slight bit of moisture around his eyes, he missed Lucius. “Read me the other letter, then.”

Lugh took it and began.

_To my dearest son, Juge,_

_I am sorry. You were right. I waste no time with pleasantries, but as I write this, I have little time left. I will die soon, and go to the grave with nothing but my regrets. Before I do, I wanted to give myself even a slight chance of transmitting my last thoughts and feelings to you._

_Few will mourn my death, few will even acknowledge it. Your siblings care nothing for me except my money, and every friend I could have made has kept me at arms length, for a man who has committed and commissioned as many crimes as I have in the pursuit of profit is not a man easily trusted. My sole comfort in these last years of mine has been the Church, and while I may have earned myself some degree of penance through religious charity, there are too many people I have wronged whom I must repay. You are one of them._

_My son, you were right. I was on the wrong path, and my overriding greed has given me nothing but shame. Of all my children, you were the only one to realize that. You and Varek. I will make amends to him as well, and I only hope you’ll have an opportunity to, someday. But I want to know you are a treasure, the greatest treasure a man could ever have, and I will eternally curse my foolishness for failing to realize that. At least I can take satisfaction in having raised a better man than I was. How are you doing? Have you raised a family of your own? I will never know the answers to these questions, but I hope you have found the happiness I was unable to provide, the happiness you deserve. There’s so much more I wanted to tell you, but most of all, I want you to know that I’m proud of you, and I have forgiven you for leaving the family, all those years ago. I should be asking your forgiveness for my foolishness. But please, allow an old man this one indulgence—know, that if nothing else, I still consider us family._

_Perhaps this letter will never reach you, perhaps you have or will, soon, join me in the land beyond this one. But if you have left anyone behind, I hope they read this as well. Wherever they are, whoever they are, your wife, children, or anyone else, let them know that Juge’s father loved him, as I am certain anyone who belonged to Juge was loved well too._

_And for you, and your family, if you have one, my dear son, please let me give you one last gift. It is small recompense for all I owe you, and I beg of you, do not interpret it as a bribe to win back your affections. I am not so small, at least now, and it is far too late anyways. I wish only to bring you joy, and to ensure you never need worry about money while you study or explore or do whatever you wish._

_Should you ever need, take this letter to the Royal Treasury of Bern and show them the seal beneath my signature. I’ve left a small fraction—too small for any of your siblings to take notice—in the care of Bern’s bookkeepers. Their honesty and reliability are renowned across Elibe, and they’ll keep even a single gold coin entrusted to them safe for a millennia. Show them this letter, which also serves as my will, and they will give my small savings to you._

_With all of my love, regret, and desire to make amends,_

_Your Father_

 “So that’s it, huh?” Ray’s face was expressionless. “I take it you visited the Bernese treasury after we captured the city. So how much was it?”

“Uh…five hundred thousand gold.”

Ray raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Y…yeah.” Lugh was afraid his twin was angry at him. “Listen, Ray, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You’re my brother…which makes you Varlago’s great-grandson too, so you had every bit the right I did to this money. But there was so much, and I wanted to give the little ones a home again, so I took some of it out to rebuild the orphanage. I’d wanted to make a real school with the rest, but…if you want it, I’ll let you have it.”

Ray remained silent for a little while longer…and then laughed.

“Oh, come on? Was _that_ it? Don’t worry me like that, Lugh! I thought Chad had gone down to stealing again and bit off more than he could chew. But this? This is nothing!”

“R-really?” Lugh’s face lit up. “You’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be? Because some loser who died years before I was born had a big pile of gold rotting away in some stupid stash? Who cares about that stuff?”

“But it’s a _lot_ of money. Not as much as the rest of the Varlago family has, but…”

Ray waved a hand in the air. “It’s not important to me. I want to master the Darkness, and I don’t need a lot of cash for that. You can keep it. Make your school, do whatever you want with it. I don’t care.”

“A-are you sure? I wouldn’t need _all_ of it to start my academy, I—“

“Yeah, I’m sure. Just…” Ray paused a moment. “Just take care of the kids, OK?”

“Yeah! Definitely!”

Ray smirked. “Great! Guess I’m done here, then.”

“W-wait! Don’t you want to stay? At least for a bit?”

“Sorry. The Darkness calls.”

“Oh, come on, you’re just being dramatic!”

Ray’s smirk turned into a grin. “Maybe I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have stuff to do. See ya!”

With a laugh that seemed to echo across the entire orphanage, the young druid left the small schoolhouse—and left his inheritance behind him as well.

_::Linear Notes::_

 A few notes:

1: Come to think of it, I probably should have included this chapter in my last one—it probably would have fit OK, though there is some more stuff at Lucius’s orphanage I’ll describe. But yes, things are coming to a head. After 9 years and over a million words, Wayward Son is coming to a close. I think the final chapter count will be anywhere from 81 to 84.

2: Most of the information in this chapter comes from Ray and Luge’s supports. There are also some inconsistencies in the game—Lugh and Miredy’s A support says Lugh’s parents died when he was 4, but FE7 says Nino and Jaffar left immediately after Lugh and Ray were born. I took FE7 as canon. But anyways, we finally got to see what was in that letter, after nearly 20 chapters and just as many years of in-story time! :D

3: My struggles in publishing this chapter were what inspired me to get an Ao3 account :D

That’s it for today~


	79. A Return to Bern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not long after he has found peace with Lucius, Renault is called far away, to Bern. What will he find there?

**Wayward Son**

**Chapter 79**

A Return to Bern

Renault had not spoken to anyone like this since Varek had died. Indeed, he had given a full account of his life to no-one else other than Varek, until now. But after the day’s earlier events, he felt as close to Lucius as he had with Varek—and Braddock.

Lucius had managed to get Renault off the floor and back onto a pew, and indeed, his tearless weeping had subsided somewhat. Not entirely, though—he was still in no condition to do anything other than sob and murmur to himself, “I am not worthy, I am not worthy. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Lucius didn’t try to refute any of these self-recriminations. He simply embraced his friend, allowing Renault to exhaust the guilt and sorrow that had built up over the decades.

Renault had no idea how long the embrace lasted, save that the sun had gone down when it finally ended.

“My friend,” Lucius said at last, “This day has taken much out of both of us. Let’s get a good night’s sleep, and you can tell me your story tomorrow. I am in no hurry.”

Renault didn’t have it in him to refuse his host’s hospitality. He was led to the small dormitory where Lucius slept, along with the nuns, and given the single spare room, next to Lucius’s. Almost no sooner than Lucius had left him, wishing him good night, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He slept longer than usual, for he was woken up the next morning by a soft knock on his door. It was Lucius.

“You slept well, I hope?”

“Better than I have in a long time. I…I cannot thank you enough, for both your kindness, and…everything else.”

“Of course. Are you hungry? I’ve already had breakfast, but—“

“N…no.” Noticing Lucius’ expression, he hastily added. “I assure you, I…truly am not hungry. It’s not just that I don’t deserve…want to take any more of your hospitality…”

“But that is part of it.” Lucius sat down on the bed beside him, still wearing that beatific smile. “If you’re so insistent on repaying me for hospitality freely offered, well, I know one way you can make it up to me. Tell me your story, Renault. What brought you here? How did you cross paths with my family? And then, why me?”

Renault sighed. “Do you…wish to hear all of it? It is…not at all a short story.”

“Rest assured, I’m in no rush.”

“You may not believe all of it, either.”

“After the things I’ve seen, you may find I can believe quite a bit.”

“…Very well.”

Renault told him his story. All of it, without hiding anything. Not in one go—Lucius had to sleep and eat, after all. But over the course of five days, Renault did nothing but speak of his experiences, as openly and deeply as he had to Varek. He told Lucius of his birth in Thagaste, over two centuries ago, to the Bishops Monica and Sergion, his initial rejection of his parents’ faith, and then his involvement with the Etrurian Civil War, and how he met his dear friend Braddock there. He recounted the progress of that war, and with great pain in his voice, as if it had happened only yesterday, how Braddock had died at Par Massino. He spoke of how he had then met Nergal and fallen into perdition, helping the evil sorcerer create his morphs in the hopes of reviving Braddock, stealing many souls in the process, and even giving up his own humanity, only to be betrayed at the end.

And then he spoke of his bloody, thoughtless life as a mercenary. How he had killed many for his stupid, childish obsession with Braddock’s resurrection, how he had met Lucian, even called the man a friend, only to betray him and murder him, just as he had with Dougram. And then, how he used the map to the Shrine of Seals taken from Lucian’s home to meet Bramimond—and how the master of the Silencing Darkness had revealed to him the horrible truth of his whole life, what Braddock’s last words really were, and how he had spent centuries of his unnatural life essentially trampling upon the memory of his dear friend.

As hard as this part of his tale was for him, it improved somewhat when he described meeting Varek. How the curmudgeonly yet kind hermit had taken him in, shown him patience worthy of a saint, weaned him off of his childish anti-religiosity, introduced him to the Eliminean faith itself, and helped him exorcise the vengeful spirits of Par Massino—and subsequently listened to the same story he was telling Lucius now, accepted him anyways despite his horrible crimes, revealed the truth about the House of Varlago and its wayward son Juge, brought Renault into the folds of the Church proper, taught him so much about faith, life, and the world he lived in, and essentially molded him into the man he currently was before passing away at the village of Nino’s parents—Ray and Lugh’s grandparents.

After that, there was little to explain except how he ended up at Valor, helped in the fight against Nergal (though, unfortunately, not against the evil man himself), and then traveled across Elibe for several years searching for Nino, meeting his old comrades along the way—Priscilla, Bartre, Canas, Isadora, and then, finally, Lucius himself.

“That…truly was quite a story, Bishop. I wouldn’t have believed it…if I hadn’t fought Nergal myself.”

“Yes…yes, I saw you back then, at Valor. You were one of the ones sent to face Nergal personally, while I was…assigned to protect the rear.”

“Not an unimportant job. We probably wouldn’t have come out of there alive if we’d been swarmed by enemy reinforcements.”

“It was nothing compared to what you did, Lucius. And…not nearly enough to make up for everything I did to help Nergal…and all the other crimes I committed.”

“That may be,” Lucius nodded. “You’ve wronged many more people besides myself and my father, and they deserve your penance every bit as much as I do. But the important thing, Renault…if you would allow me to call you that… is that you provide that penance. And as long…as long as you are on the path to doing so, I will call you my friend. Because I already told you…your grief…feels like my own.”

“L…Lucius…” He should have expected it, but Renault was still overwhelmed by the man’s seemingly unquenchable reservoir of compassion and mercy. “We both know I am not worthy of it…but that you see fit to grant me such grace anyways…I cannot thank you enough.” He sighed, trying to gain control of himself—he knew well already that the time for wallowing in guilt and self-recrimination was past. Now was the time for action—actually trying to make up to Lucius for everything he had done, and to continue down his path of salvation by helping Lucius along his path of faith.

“Now, though…I suppose I should come to you as a parishioner rather than a Bishop.”

Lucius blushed, slightly. “What do you mean? Despite my rank, I merely take care of this orphanage…”

“But you’ve already demonstrated more grace than any of Elimine’s flock I have ever seen in my entire life. If there is anyone on this continent who could guide me, it is you.”

“If…you believe so. What would you like to ask?”

“What should I do now? What should the next step of my path be? I…understand very well I am nowhere near close to salvation…”

“Hmm…” Lucius thought for a moment. “Well, Renault, what first brought you here?”

“…My quest to find Nino’s children, of course.”

“Yes, but is that all? Have you received no guidance from anywhere, from any source, in all the time you’ve been traveling?”

He could see what Lucius was getting at. “I pray, yes, but I am not sure anyone is ever listening…”

“Absolutely sure?”

“Y…well, no…” Renault thought about it a bit more. “I do…I do have dreams. Had them, in truth. Sometimes I hear Braddock…other times Varek. Those were what told me I was on the right path, at least…”

“So those are the guides you need,” Lucius smiled. “That’s no surprise—God often speaks to us in dreams, as the _Journey_ attests.”

“But I haven’t had one in some time.”

“Then wait until you have one again, and see where it takes you. You’re in no rush, if I understand correctly, and you may stay here as much as you like until you receive the guidance you’re looking for.”

“Truly? Lucius, I…”

“Yes, truly. I admit this is a bit of selfishness on my part, too…I’d like to hear more about you and your experiences. You’ve surely learned a lot over the years. If you wish to repent to _me_ , that’s one way of doing so.”

Renault couldn’t deny that, so he did as his friend asked.

For the next two years he lived as a member of the small orphanage, and it was as if he’d lived there his whole life. He occupied himself with many of the small chores that needed doing during the day—chopping wood, making repairs, doing laundry, that sort of thing—much to the pleasure of the nuns, who found their workload significantly decreased. And during the night, he would talk with Lucius, alone, until one of them had to go to sleep. They spoke to each other about their pasts, their friends, their faith, every subject under the sun; there were no secrets between them. Renault described his many crimes; Lucius taught him how he could learn even from his sins, and ways he might be able to repair the damage he’d caused. Lucius talked of his own life, and the privations he had suffered during his time at his own orphanage. But, as the conversation he had with Renault one night proved, this was to teach his guest a lesson, not make him feel guilty, even if Renault did deserve it:

“Your resilience is astonishing, Lucius,” said Renault, after hearing a particularly brutal anecdote about a cruel teacher. “I…had I know I would have caused you this much suffering, I…”

“I have suffered, yes, but we all suffer. That’s part of our lot as human beings, and I can honestly say I’ve not borne too much of it. Not when there are so many others who hurt more than I. Have I ever told you of Lord Raymond?”

“N…No.”

“I knew Raymond for many years. He was the heir of House Cornwell.”

“Cornwell? Priscilla’s house? Then he…”

“Yes, he was Priscilla’s brother. When Cornwell fell and their parents killed themselves, Priscilla was too young to really understand what was happening, but for lord Raymond…the scars on his heart were deep.”

“…I see…”

“He took the name Raven and became a mercenary to get closer to House Ostia, to murder the one he thought responsible for Cornwell’s fall.”

“You mean…Lord Hector?”

“Yes.”

“I take it he failed?”

“In a sense—he never carried out the assassination. He struggled with his hatred, his rage, his pain, for many years, but in the end overcame them. One night, after the battle with Nergal, he took a risk and opened up to Hector, telling him of his true origins. Hector reciprocated his honesty, and made amends for the fate of Cornwell. I would like to think I played a hand in that, but truthfully…” Lucius chuckled. “All I did was nag. It was Raven…Raymond himself who overcame the darkness in his heart, and Lord Hector who responded to his light.”

“So what happened after that?”

“Raymond had spent so many years as a mercenary he found he couldn’t leave the life. I accompanied him for a while, and we traveled the land together, righting wrongs where we found them. But I eventually wanted to settle down, so he gave me a bit of money—enough to start up this orphanage. He still writes from time to time, though I’ve not heard from him in some time.”

“Thank you for the story, Lucius. But I get the feeling there was something else you wanted me to take from it…”

“That I haven’t suffered exceptionally, Renault, and that more important than suffering or its source is how one reacts to it. I lost my parents at a young age, while Raymond lost his when he could truly feel the pain of it. As much as I suffered in the orphanage, Raymond learned to fight for his life for sooner than I ever had to.

“But despite that, Raymond didn’t allow it to break him. He rose above his pain in the end. And that is something I have tried to do in my own life.”

“You’ve succeeded magnificently in that, Lucius.”

“If Raymond and I could do it, perhaps you as well, Renault. Even though you’ve dealt suffering rather than received it…you can rise above it, now. Braddock, Varek, and all the others who have helped you along your path…they gave you the strength to do so.”

“If only I had that strength centuries ago, I wouldn’t have dishonored Braddock’s memory so…and your father would still have been alive, most likely.”

“Perhaps. But what’s done is done, Renault. The important thing is that you learned—a lesson learned late is better than one learned never.”

That was a lesson in and of itself—one Renault was immensely grateful for having learned.

Yet, as happy as he was, Renault soon found he could not delay destiny forever. The dreams were beginning again.

They started on around the 4th Sage, 988 A.S. They weren’t like most of his other dreams. They were, rather, more similar to the visions he’d had with Bramimond. They almost always showed these and only these: Buildings aflame, armored horsemen charging at each other, and most memorably of all, the mighty Bern Castle highlighted under a blood-red sky. Sometimes he heard voices saying “Go, go,” and they sounded familiar, but he could never be sure if they were Braddock’s, Varek’s, or someone else’s.

“Troubling premonitions,” said Lucius over breakfast one day, as Renault told him of the dreams. “But they may be pointing you to where you now must go.”

“You truly believe so?”

“It’s not that I want you to leave. Your presence here has been valuable. I think even the babies have taken a liking to you, though they’re too young to really recognize you. But I think God is calling you, and I certainly can’t deny His will.”

“…That is true. I suppose you’re right.”

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

“It’s not that, but…” Renault paused a moment before continuing. “The last time I met with Bramimond…I spoke to you of this, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“I also saw visions, though. He showed me…”

“What did you see?”

“The same things I saw in my dream. Cities burning, a red star above Bern, but also…”

“What?”

“I saw…I think I saw my own death.”

The two clergymen sat in silence for several minutes after that.

“Lucius…”

“Augury is a difficult business, Renault, even for those well-versed in it. But I don’t think Bramimond would lie to you. Maybe your death really does lie in Bern.”

“You don’t seem particularly concerned…”

“It’s not that I don’t care for you. But as I said, one can’t deny God’s call. You don’t seem too concerned about your own fate either, I might point out.”

Lucius grinned, and Renault couldn’t help grinning back. “That is true. After living as long as I have, death doesn’t seem as frightening anymore.”

“Will you leave soon?”

“Yes. I’ll need some time to prepare, of course…”

Lucius helped him out quite a bit with that. He was given pretty much everything someone could want as they traveled—spare sets of clothes, an extra tome and staff, vulneraries—except food and drink, since he didn’t need such things. A few days later, he was finally ready to set off. In the early morning, after receiving tearful goodbyes from the nuns, Renault stood before Lucius at the door to their little orphanage, his heart as heavy as it had felt in some time.

“Lucius…”

“Say nothing, my friend. I only wish one thing from you…”

“Anything.”

“Write to me now and then, won’t you?”

“Of course…”

“Then I’ll allow you to leave me with no regrets.”

The two men embraced, but not for long. With a sigh from Renault, they separated—and with a heavy heart, Renault resumed his journey.

-X-

Renault’s pilgrimage was no longer aimless—at least not completely aimless. He knew he had to get to Bern, and probably to the capitol itself, though why he was needed there and what he would do he had no idea. It was, thankfully, a pretty easy trip. Rooms on a few boats purchased with some of the gold Lucius had given him allowed him to reach the borders of Bern within a few weeks

Before he did, however, there was one last thing he had to do before leaving Bern behind and continuing his wanderings.

He had made a promise a very long time ago, and now was as good a time as any to keep it.

Renault hopped off the little dinghy and on to the sandy shores of the small, uncharted island off Bern’s southern coast. He turned and tossed a small pouch of gold to the boat’s owner, who pocketed it eagerly. “You’ll get the other half when I come back,” said Renault.

“ _If_ you came back,” came the sailor’s reply. “Haven’t ye heard all the stories about this place?”

“I have, and I believe them. If I don’t return in a day, keep the money and my apologies for not being able to pay it fully.”

“Well, alright. This much alone should be enough to keep my family fed for a while. But if I got the chance, no reason not to go for more, aye? I mean, I’m safe here, right? ‘slong as I stay away from the woods, right?”

“Exactly. You have nothing to fear.” _I don’t either,_ thought Renault, _but you’d not believe that._

With that, he stepped into Deathrose Grove for the second time.

It seemed to have grown quieter since Renault had been here last. There were still faces on the leaves, and skulls strewn about the ground, but he no longer heard the faint screaming he had before. What that meant, he couldn’t know, but soon enough he stood at the clearing in the island’s center.

As he expected, the Lady had her eyes closed, but as he approached the vines tangled under his feet began to move. This time they didn’t grab him, though—they instead gently caressed his face, as if they knew he was an old guest coming back for a visit. He offered no reaction as they did so, which resulted in his hostess smiling softly before opening her eyes.

“Mmm, yess,” she murmured, her voice as sibilant as ever. “You seem familiar, you do…”

“I am Renault, my lady.”

“Truly?” At last, she opened her eyes, and her smile grew even wider. “Why, it _is_ that sstrange little manling! But whyever might you have returned?”

“You once asked me to pay you another visit. So here I am.”

“Ahhh…hmm…yessss, I did, didn’t I? Such a good memory you have, manling, and such an attention to your word! I _knew_ there was a reason I liked you. So, tell me…did you ever get your friend back?”

Renault shook his head. “No, and more than that, I know now it was an impossible, foolish quest. There was never any way to bring him back…and I sullied his memory by trying.”

“Ahhh, I sseee,” she purred, seemingly sympathetic and amused at the same time.  “Death iss something you manlings usually have to accept, isn’t it? I’ve never been able to understand it, but…” She giggled as one of her vines curled around a spare skull lying on the ground. “Perhaps that’s for the bessst…”

Renault shifted uncomfortably. “….Yes…yes, perhaps…”

“Well then, Renault, do tell me…is the inevitability of death the only thing you’ve learned? Your dress is certainly…curious.”

He grinned slightly, and nodded. “I’ve learned quite a lot since we last met, as it happened. The life of a mercenary is behind me, now. I am not a servant of God.” He sighed, realizing there wasn’t the least bit of point in lying to the ancient being. “Not that I am certain of His existence…”

This elicited another peal of laughter. “God? It’s been so long since I’ve heard of one of those. You and the Dragons had lots of Gods, didn’t you? So amusing…”

Renault sighed—there was nothing he could really say to that; he could certainly understand why a being such as the Lady would find the attempts at salvation lesser creatures made to be amusing. “I suppose both Dragons and men alike have done their best to make sense of this world.”

“Maybe, maybe…I’m glad you have, in any cassse. It’s such fun!”

“That is…good, I guess…”

“Anywayss…what year is it now?”

“988 years after the Scouring.”

“That long? It seemed like it was only yesterday, when you visited…two hundred years ago, was it?” She pouted. “Nobody seems to visit me anymore. Are they no longer afraid of me?”

“I think no-one visits precisely because they are too afraid of you, my lady.” He gestured to the skulls on the ground. “Pardon my bluntness, but aside from me, you haven’t shown much hospitality to your guests…”

“Hmph. Annoying little manlings…” The leaves and vines around her began to twitch angrily, and Renault took that as a sign to make a quick exit.

“Well, if there’s nothing else you need from me, milady, I beg your leave.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, yess, you’ve things to do, I know. But I do thank you for keeping your promise, dear Renault. You wouldn’t have had a chance to later.”

Renault paused for a moment before stepping back out into the strange jungle. He thought of asking her what she meant. But then figured he knew—that she had seen the same premonitions he had.

It didn’t matter. If such was destiny, there was no point in trying to run from it.

His little break was over. Renault left his Lady behind him and resumed his trek to Bern.

 

_::Linear Notes::_

After over 9 years, Wayward Son is coming to an end.  A few housekeeping notes before then:

As always, check me out at gunlord500 dot wordpress dot com. I’m going to post a lot of entries every Friday detailing my writing method, musings on writing a fic as long and religiously involved as Wayward Son, that sort of stuff. I’ve also got some other stuff planned that you may like, but I’ll mention it in the upcoming chapters. As I’ve probably mentioned before, chapters 80 and 81 will probably have linear notes, but that’s it. 82 will end with credits, and 83, the final chapter, will just be “THE END.” I *may* release them faster than just monthly, though, depending on how soon I want to finish all this stuff. And on that note…

I suppose I missed my deadline for leaving the fandom in “Early 2015.” Writer’s block and the unexpected length of a story will do that to you, along with pressing IRL concerns. Still, it’s not such a big deal, honestly. The main reason I wanted to leave so soon (though I was getting less and less attached to Fire Emblem as a whole) was some drama, but as it turned out, pretty much all that drama died down. I don’t really have any enemies in this fandom anymore; so far as I can tell the only people I haven’t reached some form of rapprochement with have pretty much left as well. I suppose it’s ironic—I think I may be one of the only people from the old FESS days who’s still even semi-active in the FE fandom, except maybe for VincentASM and a couple others? Certainly on Fanfiction.net, it seems. Summerwolf, Iris, Servant of GOD, Writer Awakened…all the old guard is long gone. I’m so glad I met all of them. Perhaps when I leave, it’ll be the end of an era…not that it really matters.

Time passes and people come and go. The only thing that counts is that there are passionate fans trying to share their work with others, and rejoice in mutual enthusiasm for what they love. Both this fanfiction, and my FFn account as a whole, aren’t important because I’ve been around for so long, or because Wayward Son is so long. They’re important because people enjoyed my writing, and because I was able to bring others happiness, regardless of whether or not they’ve been FE fans for years or just joined this fandom yesterday. And as long as authors share their writing and try to encourage and help each other, my spirit—and those of my friends, and every single Fire Emblem author who’s ever put effort into their work—will survive, even if we as individuals have moved on from the fandom, even if we’re forgotten.

Because as long as your dreams live, so will I. As long as you remember your aspirations, you remember me. And all of us, past and future. So even though I’m glad I met all the old folks in the FE fandom, I’m also glad I met all the new FE fans. You are my legacy-if any of you have derived even a bit of satisfaction from this story, even if you haven’t played FE7, even if you’re just reading this today-a part of me will be preserved in your memories.

That’s also the reason I’ve left so many reviews for people in this section all the time—another habit that will end with Wayward Son. I’ve been made fun of by a handful of people for it. A few folks were annoyed; for that I’m sorry. It’s outweighed, however, by the positive response I’ve gotten from author after author. I’ve got over a thousand PMs in my inbox, and 99.9% of them thank me for my reviews, no matter how small or sparse they may be.

Why have I tried to review every fic in this section, even if only to leave little reviews? Not for self-aggrandizement or anything like that. It is, rather, my way of giving back to a fandom which has given me so much. A lot of folks want encouragement as they write, a degree of comfort, or even proof that someone on this site, somewhere, is reading them and supporting them. If I can give that, even to the smallest extent, then all the time I have spent in this fandom is worth it. It’s my way of paying my debt to all of you.

I suppose that’s enough of my self-indulgent daydreaming for this chapter. A few notes—most of the information here comes from Lucius’ A support and ending with Raven, and for the next chapter, the information comes from what I’ve gleaned of FE7’s ending. In the very last ending scene, Hector says “it’s been 15 years, since my brother’s funeral.” If FE7 took place in 980, the current year then must be 995. Since, in the same conversation, Hector says Desmond attempted to assassinate Zephiel (and failed, allowing Zephiel to kill him) a few days earlier, this means Zephiel “turned evil” in 995, and waited for 5 years before launching his war. This will be significant in future chapters.

That should do it for now. See you next time, friends.

 


	80. Lifting the Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renault finds what he was called to do in Bern...or at least thinks he does. This chapter is dedicated to my friend, Shadow's Nocturne.

**Wayward Son**

**Chapter 80: Lifting the Plague**

**Dedicated to Shadow’s Nocturne**

Renault wondered why he had been called to Bern. Not long after he reached the capitol, he thought he’d found the answer. It was the wrong answer, but he wouldn’t realize _that_ until much later.

The first thing he noticed as his caravan (he’d hitched a ride from some friendly merchants heading there a few weeks ago) passed through the gate was the number of soldiers hanging about. Bern had always been a martial (and often militaristic) nation, but the number of troops milling about seemed excessive even for them, at least in peacetime. Even more curious was the way they behaved. The roads seemed to be clogged along the way to the capitol, largely because of the way everyone seeking entry or exit was accosted. Much to the annoyance and humiliation of the travelers, the inhabitants of every caravan or wagon were halted and forced to take off their clothes—the fact that they all did so willingly told Renault that they must have seen some very nasty and public punishments for those who refused. The soldiers examined them all over, male Knights and Cavaliers going over men, female Wyvern Knights and Mages looking over women. Most of them were let go without much other fuss,  but a few, apparently having something on their bodies that marked them, were taken away—Renault did not know where to—for some reason.

This, naturally, made him feel more than a bit uneasy.

He would find out what was going on when it was his turn to be examined, however. He made no resistance as the soldiers took off his clothes, though there was much grumbling from his caravan-mates. The soldiers paid particular attention to his armpits and groin, but apparently found nothing amiss, and allowed him to get dressed again. As he did so, he attempted to glean some information from one of the younger guards.

“What is going on here, son? Bern is a strong nation, but also a free one. For what purpose are you subjecting your own citizens to these indignities?”

“We’re not doin’ it cause we like it. It’s Wyvern General Murdock’s orders.”

“I am sure the Wyvern General is a wise man. Why-“

The guard looked around, feeling quite uneasy. “I, uh, can’t talk about that, Your Excellency.”

“I am a man of the Church. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Uhh…well, I shouldn’t do this, but…you’ve got a right to know, methinks, being a bishop and all.” He lowered his voice and spoke directly in Renault’s ear. “It’s Bramimond’s Warts, sir. There’s been an outbreak of it in the poor quarter. We’re trying to keep it from spreading _and_ word from getting out. Panic can hurt just as much as disease!”

Renault was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “Understood. May the forces of goodness aid you and your comrades in your mission.”

Now, it seemed, he understood why he had been called.

Bramimond’s Warts was one of the most terrifying diseases on the face of Elibe. Those afflicted would first find strange black and purple pustules growing under their arms and around their groins, among other parts of their bodies, and then waste away and die soon after (this was the purpose of the examinations, Renault realized). It spread like wildfire, and could depopulate whole towns within days.

He could only hope it was not too late to stop.

After thanking the members of the caravan who had so graciously allowed him passage, Renault set forth towards the poor quarter. As he expected, the way was barred by a pair of Bernese Knights. They gave him a great deal of deference due to his ecclesiastical rank, however, and seemed almost relieved when he told them he’d came to help with caring for “Bramimond’s” victims. They said he could not leave the quarter if he entered, and that was fine with him. They also directed him to one of his fellows in the clergy who had been attempting to help as well, but had fallen to the affliction himself—Bishop Gilbert.

Renault thus made his way to the Bishop’s house, noting the abject fear and despair of the indigents who passed him along the narrow, squalid streets—they knew they were trapped and waiting to die. There were several pyres burning openly in the squares, the smoke from burning corpses seemingly ferrying the souls of the dead to the skies above. These grisly bonfires were surrounded by men in black robes and curious masks—strange beaked things that made them look somewhat like ravens. Renault had heard of such devices before—the “beaks” were filled with incense and perfume, in order to stave off bad humors or evil spirits or whatever brought Bramimond’s Warts with it. Renault could only hope they worked, but from everything he had seen, they apparently provided little protection.

And when he finally reached Gilbert’s home, he saw proof of that firsthand.

Renault knocked on the small residence’s door—not much larger than the other hovels in this part of the city, but much better maintained. There was no response, and after a while, against his better judgement, Renault tried to open it. The door swung open with no resistance, allowing a surprised Renault easy entry.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” he called. “I apologize for my lack of manners, but I wish to speak to Bishop Gilbert…”

He was answered by a groan from another room, and Renault headed there to see his host lying on a small cot.

They weren’t joking when they’d said Gilbert was in a bad way. His emaciated frame looked so frail that it seemed a small breeze would break him into pieces, Renault could see large, suppurating warts about his neck, and most troubling of all, his fingers and toes had turned black and gangrenous.

“Ah…” The poor Bishop gave his visitor a weak smile. “Forgive my lack of hospitality, but…I’m in no condition to leave my bed. Who…who are you?”

“I am Renault. A Master Missionary…well, Bishop, of the Church. I have come to give what aid I can to the people of this suffering city.”

“Ah…your kindness is a credit, but it will do me little good. I’m not long for this world…”

“I see…”

“You…you probably shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing anyone can do. I hate to say it, but you’ve doomed yourself…”

“Do not lose faith, Bishop. There is always hope. Even if you die, I will carry on your work.” This was more than just an inspiring phrase—Renault truly did not fear any kind of disease, for he could neither contract nor spread them. On many occasions following his betrayal by Nergal, Renault had served among armies devastated by illnesses ranging from the flux to the pox, and he’d not once suffered from them, nor had any healthy comrades caught them from him. He still had no idea what the origin of these curses were, but they apparently needed living bodies as vectors, and Renault’s Morph-like body was not living.

“Yes…you’re right. I must…must have faith.”

“Rest, Bishop. You’ve no longer anything to fear, now that I’m hear. But works are as important as faith…in that spirit, even if it be impertinent of me…may I ask you some questions?”

“Eh? O…of course, though I don’t see how I’ll be of much help…”

“We must stop the Warts from spreading, first off. When did this outbreak begin, and how soon were quarantine measures implemented?”

Gilbert grinned. “One of my few successes. Almost immediately…I’d heard of the first case about three months ago and notified the Great General and the Supreme Church of Bern. A quarantine was instituted not even a week later. Murdock…he doesn’t take chances. I’m certain the outbreak has been slowed, at least.”

“Hmm…three months ago. Did anything strange happen then?”

“Why do you ask? These scourges, they come from God. We…we have no choice but to endure them…”

“God would also want us to staunch these scourges and ease the pain of those afflicted. It may have been God’s will to infect all of those described in the Scriptures, but it was also His will that Elimine cure them.”

“I suppose I cannot argue with that. But who or what could be responsible for something like Bramimond’s Warts?”

“I don’t know, but _any_ suggestion might help us lift this plague. So, please…”

“Ah…I am sorry to disappoint you. But nothing out of the ordinary for a city like Bern. Messages delivered by Ilian courier, trade caravans from Etruria, Lycia, and Sacae…Argh! Damn rats!” Gilbert pointed to a corner of his room, where Renault saw a particularly large, ugly black rat giving them a malicious glare. When it realized it had been noticed, it immediately scurried away into the shadows.

“By the Saint, I hate those ugly things. There seem..agh! To be so many of them lately!”

“Really?” This piqued Renault’s interest. “When did they start appearing?”

“Since…well…now that you mention it…since the outbreak started. Brown rats are common enough everywhere, but I’d never seen these black ones before…”

“Hmm…” Renault stared long and hard at the location where the black rat had been. “I see…” He turned back to Gilbert, who was now asleep, having exhausted what energy he had left.

Though Gilbert could not have known it, he had given Renault the beginnings of an idea which would help him stop the plague.

The unfortunate Bishop died but a few days later. After casting his remains into one of the pyres with an ostentatious ceremony (not what he would have preferred, but what the custom was for nobles or clergymen in this region—though the burning rather than burying was a concession to the plague), Renault took up where he left off. He visited the sick, cleaning their homes and bathing their bodies to provide what little succor he could in their last days. He distributed food, held Mass, heard confessions, and even gave a few sermons—though Gilbert needed an official replacement, no-one else was willing to venture into the heart of the outbreak, so a letter to the Archbishops of Bern gave Renault the job of overseeing the poor quarter (someone else was appointed to minister to the entire diocese of Bern, giving Renault a rather curious position in the hierarchy—above a priest, but not really a full Bishop, either). It didn’t take him long to gain a degree of acceptance, even affection, from the poor of Bern City. While he didn’t make any close friends due to his taciturn nature, the fact that he worked so hard without falling sick himself also earned him a degree of reverence.

That was how he spent his days. His nights, however, were spent on research. Though he could not leave the poor quarter, he could send letters out. Respecting the soldiers’ wishes to avoid spreading too much information heedlessly, his missives were generally vague and non-specific, but not entirely so. He wrote to Lucius many times, of course, assuring his friend of his continued good health and good work, but he also sent letters out to a few other people. He wrote to his old friend in Etruria, Count Reglay, to the Illian Pegasus Knight high command, to his friends in Dragon’s Heaven in Lycia, and to some prominent merchants in Bulgar, in Sacae. He did not mention what was happening in Bern, but he did pose as an interested historian of disease, asking if any of them had heard of Bramimond’s Warts, or of any disease characterized by the growth of pestilent black and purple warts or rashes across the body.

The responses he gained were useful indeed, though not immediately so. Reglay, quite happy to hear from his old friend again, wrote that he would spend some time in the castle library and also write to some archivist acquaintances in Etruria, much to Renault’s happiness. Similar responses came from Ilia, Lycia, and Bulgar. After a few months, his pen-pals sent him more information they’d gleaned from their own archives or from what they’d gathered from historian friends, and this allowed Renault a better grasp of “Bramimond’s Warts” than nearly any scholar before him had attained.

Though the disease had struck parts of Elibe many times before, no-one had yet tried to collate data from several different regions like Renault had—it seemed most had relied on prayers and hope that the scourge would quickly pass rather than systematic research. However, almost everyone who had experienced it, in Ilian, Lycian, and Etrurian history, gave reports that had some very interesting commonalities, from Renault’s perspective.

His correspondents had commissioned transcribers or given summaries of various royal reports, journal entries, or ancestor’s letters from nearly five hundred years in the past (the Etrurian archivists were the most enthusiastic about the older sources). The oldest outbreak had been recorded in about 501 A.S, in a town bordering Sacae in the northeast of Etruria. That town had been completely wiped out by the disease, but travelers who had seen it before noted its general impoverishment and squalor. There were also a couple of isolated outbreaks in Ilia about a hundred years later, similarly in towns close to Sacae, which were also described as poor and dirty. The Lycian town of Badon seemed to be a perpetual hotbed of plague; the residents of Dragon’s Heaven provided accounts of “Dark warts” popping up on sailors about every hundred years.

The most important thing Renault took from all this was that Bramimond’s Warts seemed to be intimately connected with poor, unsanitary living conditions (the outbreak in Etruria had occurred before the city constructed its magically-enhanced system of water purification). There also seemed to be one particular animal that carried the disease with it wherever it went. Accounts from Etruria, Ilia, and Lycia described how rats seemed to show up whenever people began getting sick. On its own, this would have been of no particular note: Rats were always found among the poor and in dirty places, and they would also be more than happy to feed on the many corpses generated by epidemics. However, an off-the-cuff question posed to the merchant acquaintances in Bulgar made Renault think they had more to do with the present scourge than might be expected at first glance.

The merchants didn’t know what “Bramimond’s Warts” were, but they did describe a disease by a different name-moldrot-that seemed to be exactly the same thing. As it happened, there had been a few cases in Bulgar very recently, and whenever the disease popped up, the victims and their homes would be promptly burned to halt its spread. Renault asked them, and expected the answer he received, if there were many rats around at this time.

“Oh yes,” came back the reply, “but whenever are there not? The nasty black creatures practically own Bulgar.”

That one word—‘black’—caught Renault’s eye. He wrote back to the merchant, asking if most rats there were black. “Yes, of course,” came the reply. “I’ve never seen a rat that wasn’t black!”

When he read this, Bishop Gilbert’s last words echoed in his head. Bramimond’s Warts had only begun to appear after black rats had showed up a few months ago. The black rats were ubiquitous in Sacae, where the disease was also common enough that they burned houses whenever it seemed like it might spread. Throughout history, the first settlements to be infected by the disease were those close to Sacae, and also full of rats. It was only conjecture, but the best Renault had to go on—Bramimond’s Warts was spread by rats, who loved dirty, filthy conditions that gave them lots of food to enjoy and places to nest in. Exterminate the rats and you might staunch the Warts.

After quickly writing to thank each of his correspondents, Renault composed a brief report detailing his findings and offering some recommendations. Not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, and in deference to his predecessor first noting the appearance of the black rats, Renault stated that Gilbert had come up with most of the ideas and that he himself had simply finished it after the Bishop’s unfortunate death.

Renault would be forgotten in the years to come, but ironically, his work would be remembered amongst epidemiologists and medical historians of Elibe forevermore as “The Gilbert Report.”

He sent his report to one of the Archbishops of Bern—the same one which had given him “oversight” of the poor quarter—and, after that, gave it no more thought. He’d hoped his report would gain some interest among the 8 members of the Supreme Church, perhaps enough to get the poor quarter some aid and a few more priests to help the sick, but did not have any expectation of much more than that. He was, after all, essentially unknown despite his rank, and (despite the exhortations of their religion) higher-ranking members of the Church tended to be indifferent to the poor under the best of circumstances.

Renault ended up being quite surprised by a knock on the door a few days after he’d passed the report on to a messenger outside of the Poor Quarter’s gates.

“Are you Bishop Renault?”

Standing before him was a young woman—a Mage in her late teens, by the looks of it—wearing the familiar beaked plague mask.

“…Yes, I am.”

The masked Mage nodded respectfully. “My name is Brunya. I am a cadet in training of Bern’s magic corps. I read Gilbert’s report with great interest, Your Excellency.”

“…Truly?”

“Yes. A copy of it was given to Wyvern General Murdock. We are not the most fervent votaries of Gilbert’s religion, but all of his arguments were backed up by evidence rather than preaching. We suspect you may be able to assist us in halting the outbreak before it spreads further.” She nodded. “I was wanted to ask you to come with me.”

“Am I…under arrest?”

“Precisely the opposite, Your Excellency. We would like you to further clarify some of the suggestions made by Gilbert and offer a defense of the report as a whole to King Desmond himself.”

Renault, to say the least, was shocked. But not so shocked he would pass up such an opportunity. He followed Brunya out of his home and out of the Poor Quarter for the first time in many months (the quarantine guards let him out when they saw Brunya’s royal seal, and they’d suspected he was immune to the plague somehow anyways) and right to the mighty Bern Castle itself.

The castle, somewhat to Renault’s disappointment, wasn’t really much different from the fortresses he had seen in Lycia and Etruria in terms of architecture. It differed mainly in size (it was absolutely gigantic) and location (it was at the top of a large mountain; had not Brunya commissioned a pair of Wyvern Riders to ferry them there it would have been an exhausting trip), but was nowhere near as aesthetically pleasing as the Holy Royal Palace of Etruria. Yet again, function trumped form in Bernese architecture.

Renault was passed through the castle’s giant gates (Brunya left him in the charge of two Generals) and into its equally austere (but clean and well-lit) halls. He was gratified to see portraits of famous kings and Wyvern Generals on its walls; at least there was _some_ concession to culture here. Soon enough he found himself in one of the castle’s great audience halls.

For him, it was not entirely a comfortable feeling. He was very much reminded of the first time he’d stood before a king and his court to be interrogated—just after his very first job as a mercenary, the subjugation of Scirocco.

Quite obviously, he hoped this audience would go better.

At the firm but respectful urging of his escorts, he took a seat in front of the small table in the center of the circular room (unremarkable except for its size). Surrounding him were tall chairs in which sat the top of the top of Bernese society—the highest ranking nobles and nights (an Archbishop and a couple of Bishops were there, but very few clergy—an indication that the Bernese nobility still distrusted the Church). Directly in front of him, in the largest chairs of all, sat the King and Prince of Bern.

King Desmond was the older man. He had blond hair the same color as his son’s, but worn longer, framing a bored, disinterested expression that evinced little intellect. His son—Zephiel, Renault had been told—looked like an altogether sharper specimen. His hair was cut short, his goatee impeccably trimmed, and his expression was bright and inquisitive, as if he took in everything around him but wanted to learn yet more. A sharp contrast to his father.

Nearby were seated the highest members of Bern’s military. There was a tall, muscular man with a pensive expression and short hair a bit brighter than Zephiel’s—he looked like he could be Murdock, from what Renault had heard about the Wyvern General’s size and age. Seated next to him were an older man in Sage’s robes and with greying purple hair, and a haughty-looking middle-aged man with wavy light-brown hair. Next to the former was an attractive young woman with purple hair; when she smiled in recognition at Renault he realized it was Brunya, without the mask. Next to the middle-aged man was a teenager with the same kind of hair and a singularly obnoxious expression on his face. He was leering at Brunya, convinced she didn’t notice him, but then saw Renault staring at him disapprovingly and hastily looked away. Renault surmised that these were the children of the other two Wyvern Generals, and would likely inherit their fathers’ positions in time.

The Queen, naturally, was not there, though Renault supposed this was not entirely a surprise.

“Let’s get on with it,” said King Desmond, and the irritation in his voice told Renault that he was not a friend. “You, you’re the one that wrote this report?”

“Eh…well…it is Bishop Gilbert’s, truly.” Not really true, but Renault really did not want the attention.

“Since he’s dead, you’ll have to do. So, Renault, explain this disease to us.”

“The report did an excellent job of that, father,” said Zephiel enthusiastically. “Gilbert asked sages and scholars all across Elibe and found that it was spread by the black rat. Like most illnesses of its nature, even Heal and Cure staves are of no use against it, but—“

“Silence, Zephiel,” said Desmond, venom dripping from his words. “Speak when you are given leave, _not_ before.”

“Y…yes, Father.”

“Renault. Answer.”

“Yes, Your majesty.” Renault bowed his head. “But your son was essentially correct in his analysis. The plague seems to follow the rats, not the other way around. It only started when black rats from Sacae began to appear, and the fact that in other countries, only those villages close to Sacae have been affected, as opposed to similarly poor, rat-infested settlements in other regions, indicates it is the black rats specifically which are responsible.”

“So, it’s Sacae’s fault? Shall we invade them, then?”

“No! _No!_ ” Renault raised his voice more than was wise. “That would make a true mess of things. The chaos and disorder would only spread the rats further and make the people even more vulnerable to their disease.”

“If there is no military solution, then,” said Brunya’s father, “what do you recommend? Is there nothing we can do?”

“…Quite the contrary. I believe there is much the Bernese military can do.” Renault nodded to the Wyvern generals. “First, seal the border between Bern and Sacae. The merchants of Bulgar might be displeased, but tell them it is but a temporary measure until the plague passes and they will be given benefits once it is over. Also, quarantine any towns along the trade routes north leading to Sacae. Make sure no-one and nothing leaves—not even and especially a rat. Also make sure the people are provided for, however. Impoverishment due to the cessation of trade would make them even easier targets for the rats.”

“And then what?”

“We must do all we can to exterminate the rats to the greatest extent possible. Import cats, shrikes, or some other animal that feeds on them, pay bounties for dead rats, anything to lower their numbers. The most important thing would be to deny them places to nest and feed. Most of the outbreaks in other countries have occurred in impoverished areas with little sanitation, like the poor quarter of this city. Cleaning up the garbage and filth would go some distance in curbing the rodent population.”

“So you insist on spending money to help beggars? The worst of our society?” Desmond made no effort to hide his contempt and incredulity.

“There may be some benefit in doing so,” said Murdock. “The quality of our recruits is a reflection of the quality of our people. The expense of improving the poor’s lot may be worthwhile if it improves our conscripts. The next time we call a draft, better health among the lower classes may provide us with a better crop of Soldiers and other basic infantrymen. It would also reduce the risk of riots and other disorder during trying times.”

“Hmm.” Desmond seemed somewhat but not entirely convinced by this. Zephiel raised his hand, and Murdock invited him to speak.

“I agree with our Wyvern General,” said Zephiel, looking at his father almost pleadingly. What did he want, Renault wondered—approval? He was certainly trying his best. Zephiel continued: “There’s more to war than just the soldiers in the field. My studies have taught me this. They need support from the home front to function. If our citizens are starving and ridden with disease, who will grow food for our troops to eat, or produce their weapons? Perhaps improving the lot of the poor will make them useful to our country in better ways. I—“

“Enough!” Desmond shouted. “Shut your trap! I have no time for this naïve sniveling. Murdock! Get the boy out of this room.”

“He’s far from a boy, Your Majesty,” said Murdock evenly. “The ceremony of his ascension occurred over ten years ago.”

“I don’t care! He has no right to be here. Get him out! _Now!_ ”

“I-I’ll take care of it,” said Brunya, immediately rising from her seat and helping the distinctly dejected-looking Zephiel out of his chair. “Come now, Zephiel.” The Prince took her arm gratefully, and from the way he held his body towards hers, Renault surmised there was more than platonic affection between the future King and the future Wyvern General.

He then stared squarely and evenly at Desmond. The man may have been a King, but Renault had stared down far better men than he in the centuries he had been alive. “Respectfully, Your Majesty, that was unwise. Your son said nothing wrong. In fact, he was exactly right. To disregard wise counsel in such a harsh manner…that befits neither a king nor a father.”

Audible gasps were heard from just about everyone gathered there, but Renault didn’t care. At this point in his very long life, he had neither patience for or fear of self-important nobles.

“I do not need lessons in fatherhood from some effete slave of the Church. Keep your ‘advice’ to yourself, Renault, or I’ll do more than expel you from this room.”

Renault shrugged. “That being the case, I apologize for wasting your time. My…the most important recommendation of Gilbert’s report was to exterminate that rats. Do that, and you might halt the plague. Whatever your decision, I will lend as much support as I can to the people of Bern.”

Before Desmond could respond, Murdock stood up and nodded. “Thank you, Your Excellency. We are grateful for your presence here. You may go.”

Renault was promptly taken out of his seat and escorted back out of the castle and to the poor quarter. He heard Desmond and Brunya’s father raising their voices before he’d left, but it was no longer any of his concern.

As it happened, though, and much to his pleasant surprise, his recommendations were put into action almost immediately after. Just a day after he’d had his audience, a letter was sent to Bishop Gilbert’s house informing him that an anti-plague plan had been approved by Desmond.

The plan was not an immediate success, but within two years it made its mark. The Bernese were an industrious, meticulous, and hard-working people, and they never did anything by halves. The impressive might of the Bernese military was brought to bear against the squalor and filth of the capitol city’s poor quarter. Old, rotting buildings were demolished (albeit much to the dismay of their residents) and new ones constructed by military engineers as quickly as possible. The roads were widened and the public discharge of waste and garbage strictly forbidden—no longer did the citizens simply dump their offal on the streets. To improve sanitation, a new sewer system was constructed (albeit one lacking the hygienic enchantments that were an Etrurian secret) and a system of public garbage collection instituted.

While these public works did improve the quality of life for the poor, it was the rat extermination campaign that really put a halt to the epidemic. The young squires of the Bernese military who were expected to grow into full Wyvern Knights alongside their steeds were put to work in the poor quarter to “bond” with the young wyverns they would eventually ride. Young wyverns, specifically those which had fledged from the nest but were not yet strong enough to fly, made for excellent rat hunters. They were quick, vicious, and perpetually hungry, and one of them could have an entire day’s worth of fun hunting down hundreds of rats thanks to their quick reflexes, keen sense of smell, and that they were still small, not having grown to their full impressive size. Their human squires also learned how to control them and understand their body language through the task of directing them towards rats and ensuring they didn’t try to bite people.

By the 3rd Lancer, 990 A.S, rats were nearly extinct in Bern City, the last new case of plague had been reported nearly a month ago, and the poor were happier than they’d ever been, though aside from somewhat cleaner living conditions, they weren’t much less hungry or better clothed than they were before.  The quarantine of some other towns and cities along the northern trade routes to Sacae and public-health measures taken in them stopped the “Warts” there as well, and the blockade of Sacae as well as the entire quarantine was finally lifted.

Renault received little credit for this. Though he had continued to assist the rat hunters and the engineers throughout the campaign, the Crown soon took the lion’s share of the credit, and Renault found himself doing little more than giving sermons and hearing confessions—and even those came to an end when, finally satisfied that the plague had run its course, the Supreme Church of Bern unceremoniously informed him that his services were “no longer needed” and that the Bishop of Bern City (Gilbert’s replacement) would resume ecclesiastical control over the poor quarter.

Renault didn’t mind this at all. At this point in his life, glory was the last thing he wanted. But as it so happened, there was one person who remembered him well.

On that day, he was awakened very early—while it was still dark out, in fact—by a stern knocking on his door. He opened it a crack to see two cloaked figures in robes that wholly obscured their faces standing in front of them.

“I know how we must look,” said one, and his voice was vaguely familiar, “but please, rest assured we mean you no harm. May we come in?”

“What business do you have here that brings you out in the dark of night? Few honest men are about at this hour.”

“Sometimes honest men want attention drawn to their words rather than their faces. I beg you, Your Excellency, let us speak in private!”

It was against his better judgment, but the voice was familiar enough that Renault was swayed, just this once. He let the two visitors in and closed the door behind them, and when they entered his living room and removed their hoods, Renault saw why they wanted to keep their identities a secret.

Standing before him were Zephiel, the Prince of Bern, and his loyal attaché, Brunya.

Renault was too surprised to bow, but not so much that he forgot _all_ the pleasantries. “Y…Your Majesty, why are you here? And how did they even let you leave the castle without a full complement of guards?”

Zephiel laughed. “I know my own castle well enough to escape it without attracting much attention. Brunya is the same, and believe me, she’s more than enough protection.”

“I…I see. Then…how may I help you, Sire?”

“I’ll get right to the point. I would like you to be my tutor, Renault.”

Renault had seen many strange things over the course of his long, long life, but for the first time in a very long time, he found himself completely surprised. “Your…tutor? Why on Earth…”

Zephiel’s face grew grave. “You saw how my father spoke to me during your interrogation, did you not?”

“Yes, I did. It was…”

“It…it was my fault, truly.” Brunya looked at him sympathetically, but said nothing. “It’s because…Bishop Renault, it’s because I’m yet too weak. I train as hard as I can in the ways of war, and study as hard as I can in the ways of statesmanship, but it’s still not enough. I must grow stronger _and_ wiser, so I can be the King my country truly deserves…and the successor my father truly wants.

“Bishop Renault, I beg of you…will you not help me in this endeavor? You have truly done a great service for all of Bern. I’ve read the Gilbert Report. Even if he wrote most of it, I could tell you had a hand in it as well.”

“N…no, that is…”

“There’s no need to be humble, Renault, not with me. I’ve read some of Gilbert’s letters. His style of writing was very different than what I saw in that report.”

Renault was genuinely impressed. “You are…perceptive.”

Zephiel smiled. “And that would make me a good student, wouldn’t it?”

“Indeed, but…what makes you think I would be a good teacher?”

“You managed to do what all the clergy and all the scholars in Bern could not. You are also apparently acquainted with scholars from all over Elibe. It’s evident that you know more than even a storied Bishop would be expected to. So again, I beg of you, Your Excellency…will you not put that knowledge to good cause? Will you not help me become a wise king, and lead my country to greatness, and perhaps lead the rest of Elibe to peace and prosperity?”

“That…is a weighty offer you make me, my lord, but a great responsibility too. Please…may I have some time to think about it?”

“Of course, Bishop Renault. If you do not wish to, I won’t force you, and this will be the last you hear of me. But if your answer is yes…” Zephiel held out a small gold pendant. “On this pendant is engraved the royal seal of Bern, given only to personal friends of the Prince. Show this to the guards at the castle and they will send you to me immediately.”

Both he and Brunya stood up, bowed (quite significant when you compared their ranks to Renault’s) and quietly left his house, seeming almost as if they had never come at all.

Renault was left with nothing but the flashy little pendant and his own thoughts.

-X- _A Letter to Lucius_ -X-

_To my dearest Lucius,_

_I have been very busy these past few months—it is for that reason I must beg your forgiveness in not writing to you as often as I should. For the good of Bern—not my home country, but a land which has treated me well, thus far, and to which I therefore feel loyal—I have been unable to describe what I have been working on. That trial has now passed, however, and I am now free to tell you this piece of good news:_

_The Prince of Bern himself, Lord Zephiel, has asked me to become his personal tutor._

_I have accepted._

_This was not as easy a decision for me as one might expect. Most would be eager for the power and glory that would come from any association with the future King of Bern, even if as merely a tutor. But I want neither of things—and I want the scrutiny that would accompany that position even less. But after meditating and praying on the matter, I_

_I received no answer, at least not from the Lord. I was left to my own judgement. And in my judgement, I think it would be best for me to accept._

_I have wandered across Elibe for centuries, but still have not atoned for my sins. I must do more, much more, to improve this land and help its people to make up for all I have taken from it. And I believe guiding Prince Zephiel may be the best way to do it. I have lived a very long time, and acquired a great deal of knowledge. Truthfully, as an individual, I have little use for most of it—a better way to put that would be, I could put it to little use. I cast little magic except for my healing staves; what good is it for me to be fluent in Draconic? I will never build a castle, what good is my knowledge of siegecraft? But a King would and will use all that knowledge, and if he were to use it for good, he could better the lives of everyone in his country—perhaps all of Elibe._

_It is for that reason I will head to Castle Bern tomorrow to begin my duties as Zephiel’s teacher._

_This may be the last truly open letter I can write to you, my friend, at least for some time. It is all but certain the spylords of Bern will monitor all of my correspondence, coming and going, with the eyes of a thousand hawks. Thus, I will not be able to be as open with you as I have always been in the past, nor you with me. But do not take this as meaning the bond between us has weakened even one iota. I owe you tremendously, not only for my sins against you, but for what you gave me of your own volition—a light, the brightest yet, on my path to salvation. For that alone I consider myself forever yours._

_Your Eternal Friend,_

_Renault of Thagaste_

_The Fifth Lancer of 990 A.S._

_::Linear Notes::_

The end is near, my friends, as I always say. A couple things:

 

 

 

A special shout-out to a dear friend of mine, Shadow’s Nocturne, who is no longer with us. I wish I had finished this story earlier, even as close as it is to completion, so that he would be able to read it. Still, I’ll honor his memory by finishing it, and I dedicate this chapter to him.

Renault was originally supposed to visit Par Massino and Diotica again, but I cut those out because I felt they were unnecessary. Maybe I’ll mention them in another chapter. But for information on stuff I cut out, as always, check me out at gunlord500 dot wordpress dot com.

Much of the information on anti-plague measures was taken from a PBS site that fanfiction.net unfortunately will not allow me to link to. PM me if interested and I’ll see if I can send links over PM.

<http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aso/databank/entries/dm00bu.html>

Also, as you might be able to get, the nasty little kid listening in to Renault’s interrogation was indeed Narshen/Nacien.

That about does it for this chapter. See you on the next!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	81. Five Happy Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a reward for his work in lifting the plague, Renault is appointed royal tutor to Prince Zephiel. And for five years, he is content. But when Zephiel is finally accepted as heir by his father, King Desmond, tragedy strikes.

**Wayward Son**

**Chapter 81: Five Happy Years**

_My Dearest Lucius,_

_We both know I cannot be wholly truthful in these letters—and yes, Sir Censor who will read this before it reaches its destination, you know that too—but I do have some leeway when it comes to most things besides important military and state secrets. And on those subjects, I can tell the unvarnished truth: My work with the Prince continues wonderfully._

_Zephiel has already shown a firm grasp of economic theory despite the short time I have been training him on this subject. It was foolish of me to be surprised, considering how quickly he took to my lessons on tactics and statecraft last year. It was not even months before I was confident he could take Bern Castle in a siege or defend it in a hundred, and not long after I showed him the Etrurian treatises on the ideal government, he mastered them so thoroughly I thought he must have wrote them! He is already well ahead of schedule in my current lesson plan, having a thorough understanding of taxes, tariffs, and how they affect trade. I will be able to move on to banks soon, I think. Once Zephiel takes power, I doubt Bern will ever have to worry about an economic depression._

_I made this point to you in the letter I wrote two years ago, when I was first given this position, and it strikes me as even truer now. I am sure I was sent to Bern for a purpose. And though I am still not wholly convinced of a beneficent God’s existence, I believe someone must have guided my steps. I do not know how long my redemption may take, but I am certain my work in Bern will work towards it. Zephiel is a good man, and he will be a great leader. He will lead his country not only to glory, but to prosperity for its citizens. He will bring prosperity to all of its people. I will be able to take little credit for that—may the Saint protect me from the sin of hubris! Even if I were not his tutor, Zephiel’s inherent intelligence and goodness would make him an excellent leader. But if I can play some small role in sharpening his already honed mind, it will certainly wash some of this blood off of my hands._

_As I do my part to guide the next generation, I trust you are doing yours as well. Tell me, how are Ray, Lugh, and the rest of the children? Under your care I am sure they grow stronger and wiser by the day, though children can be unruly at this age. I pray they give you no more trouble than you can handle, and I pray, as always, for your continued health and safety. I was immensely pleased to hear in your last letter that you have had no attacks in the past two years, and I also pray this run of good luck continues for you._

_Your Eternal Friend,_

_Renault of Thagaste_

_The Ninth Sage of 992 A.S._

As he put down his pen, placed the letter in its envelope and sealed it, and prepared to leave his study in Bern Castle, Renault looked at the fine clock standing against the wall of his room. A complicated mechanism that told time by two hands which had to be wound up with a knob on its side to move but could otherwise operate by itself (and without the presence of the sun), it was also an import from Lycia—a gift from that country which spoke of its warming relations with Bern.

The clock also said it was a little less than 8 in the morning, meaning Renault would have to hurry in order to keep from being late for Zephiel’s lesson.

Thankfully, by this point he knew the massive Bern Castle like the back of his hand. After a quick detour to pass his envelope to one of the royal couriers, he made his way to Zephiel’s personal library, a small room not actually that much larger than his own study in the west wing of the castle. His student, as usual, was waiting patiently for him, and indeed was already perusing the text Renault had assigned for today.

“I’m surprised, Renault,” said Zephiel, looking up. “Another few minutes and you would have been right on time instead of early!”

Renault grinned. “A tragedy, to be certain. I suppose my speed is not what it once was…”

“Are you getting old? That’s hard to believe!”

 _Harder than you might think, Prince Zephiel,_ Renault mused to himself—but of course didn’t say anything. “Well, you will grow old someday as well, Zephiel.” It had taken more than half a year, but by now Renault was accustomed to addressing his student by name rather than with an honorific—Zephiel had insisted, for despite his high birth he disliked putting on airs. “So we had best begin our lessons before that happens. But we are waiting for someone else, aren’t we?”

“Zephiel~!”

Both men turned to see two women standing at the door. The first was officer Brunya, who had been rising through the ranks with impressive rapidity. The second was Zephiel’s half-sister: Princess Guinevere.

It was about half a year ago that she approached Renault about taking lessons alongside the Prince. He had not known her well before then—in fact, he had known almost no-one aside from Zephiel well, since he spoke little to the guards and generally avoided everyone except his student as much as possible. However, one night he had been surprised by a knock on his door--it was Princess Guinevere, someone he had seen around the castle and occasionally with Zephiel but hadn’t talked to directly. She told him that she had heard of his lessons for her brother, and that Zephiel seemed so much wiser than he had before. She then asked if she could accompany him during those lessons, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, of course. Guinevere seemed like a well-meaning young woman, and though she was only eighteen, a very bright one as well. Additionally, she was royalty (legitimate heir or not); if she should ever be involved in her country’s politics, the more knowledge she had, the better it would be for her people. Renault accepted her request, and from that day on she studied under him alongside her brother. She proved herself an excellent student as well—it seemed Desmond’s children had inherited the intelligence that had escaped him.

Guinevere took a seat next to her brother, which made Zephiel smile. As always, Renault noticed that it was one of the few times that smile did not have a shadow about it. Despite Zephiel’s optimistic and hard-working nature, there always seemed to be a cloud hanging over his head. He tried his best never to show anger, sadness, and discouragement, but it was obvious they were there, and as a result Zephiel’s smiles never seemed entirely genuine. Rather, it was as if they hid a deep melancholy behind the face he showed to the world. When he was around Guinevere, however, there was true happiness in his smiles. He truly loved his sister, and she truly loved him, unlike their father.

Unfortunately, their father would be making an appearance today.

Just a few minutes after they’d begun their discussion of the reading, Renault, Zephiel, and Guinevere were all startled by the sound of the library door slamming open, and in stormed King Desmond, flanked by a pair of fully-armed Generals.

“Zephiel!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

The prince did not allow himself to be flustered—though he did put a reassuring hand on his sister’s arm to keep her from becoming so. “Learning, father. His Excellency, Bishop Renault, is teaching us economics.”

“And why,” Desmond hissed, “is your sister with you?”

“She wanted to learn as well.”

“With _you_? What would she be learning them, hmm? How to hate her father? Perfidy and disloyalty?”

“My liege,” Renault immediately interjected, “I assure you that is not at all the case. She simply wanted to share something with her brother-“

“Do not try my patience, priest!” Desmond’s face darkened. “I allowed you in my castle, even allowed you a room in my own abode, simply because I do not _care_ what…Zephiel…does with his own time. If you’re some assassin, I will let you do as you will; if not, you may fill this fool’s head with whatever nonsense you wish. But you will _not_ corrupt my daughter! It will be _her_ husband who will rule Bern, not Zephiel, and I shall see to it that she acquires the best possible!”

There was nothing but silence throughout the entire room. Renault found himself more surprised at this revelation than he had been when he’d first been asked to become a tutor. He was even more surprised by Zephiel’s excellent response.

“Do you mean that, Father?”

Desmond sneered. “Of course.”

Zephiel then shrugged. “Very well. I don’t mind.”

This took the wind out of Desmond’s sails. “W-what?!”

“I’ve no real desire for power for its own sake, Father. My only concern is for the people of Bern. If you think Guinevere would be a better leader, than I am perfectly content to hand her the crown. I will only do my best to support her as much as I possibly can.”

Desmond’s face twisted, and it seemed that Zephiel’s response had enraged him even more. “W…wh…you…” Only a hand on his shoulder from one of his underlings kept him from throwing himself at his son. “Fine, then. Fine! I’m most glad you’re taking this well. It is the only thing I can give you credit for! But now that you know your place, I won’t have you wasting any more of your sister’s time. Guinevere, come with me! Your lessons are over!”

Guinevere seemed as if she were about to cry. “Father, no!” She looked at him desperately. “I’m learning so much!”

At this, Zephiel’s face hardened. He might have been willing to give up his crown, but denying his sister was not something he could put up with. For the first time ever, Renault heard him raise his voice. “Father, _stop._ There’s not the least bit of corruption going on here. Renault is teaching us everything we need to know to become good rulers. If I’m not meant to rule, fine. But if Guinevere’s husband is to be King, then she will be Queen. And a good Queen is a wise one. I will permit no-one to keep my sister from reaching her full potential. Not even you.”

The anger drained away from Desmond’s face for a moment, replaced by something like awe. It seemed he was as surprised as Renault to see his son standing up to him. Then the anger returned, brighter than ever, and his hands clenched into fists. Unless he were stopped, they would likely come to blows very soon.

Renault knew his actions in the next few moments were critical. He had no idea what would come to pass in a struggle for succession. Perhaps Desmond was speaking only out of anger, for whatever reason, and Zephiel would end up becoming king after all. Or perhaps Desmond was serious, and he truly intended to exclude his own son from his rightful throne. Whatever the case might be, Renault knew that both children would have to be prepared for what lay ahead—which meant they both had to learn as much of the arts of rulership as possible.

Thus, he told a lie. A well-intentioned lie, and not much of a lie, but a lie nonetheless.

“Good King Desmond, wait! I beg of you!” Renault bowed deeply. “Please, you must not stop Guinevere’s lessons now. She is doing extraordinarily well. Indeed, she has surpassed her brother in every respect!”

This made Desmond pause. “Truly?”

“Y…yes, Lord. Her brilliance outshines Zephiel’s by far. She is certainly your trueborn daughter, and gives honor to both your name and that of your mother. Why stop her now? Why not allow her to rise above Zephiel even further?”

“Hmm…” Desmond stroked his beard thoughtfully. Renault was blatantly pandering to his pride in ways that would have been obvious to anyone else, but the King was not sharp enough to see that. “Yes indeed, that sounds very good. I would like to see this continue. But!” He looked at both his children sternly. “Zephiel is a bad influence. I will not have him learn next to Guinevere, and when you should ever teach her, she shall have an attendant with her at all times.”

“Of course, my King,” said Renault. “How about Brunya? She’s most trustworthy.”

“Brunya? No, no…that wench is too loyal to Zephiel.” The Prince’s eye twitched, as if he took an insult to that woman nearly as strongly as an insult to Guinevere, but he said nothing and allowed Desmond to continue. “In any case, Guinevere, attend to your father. In the afternoon you may take Ellen or Miredy for further instructions. But for now, leave these two with…whatever they’re doing.”

Guinevere cast her brother a heartbroken look, but Zephiel simply nodded. “Go on, sister. We will have to take our lessons separately, but we will still take them.”

And with that, she turned away and followed her father from the library, still looking quite dejected.

Renault and Zephiel returned to the lesson, though now it was nowhere near as productive as it would have otherwise been. The previous levity they had shared was now shattered. The cloud had returned over Zephiel’s head—and it was darker than it had been before.

-X-

“Your Excellency…”

“Yes, Zephiel?” Renault stopped as he neared the door to Zephiel’s library, their lesson for the day having been finished.

“Forgive my asking, but…do you think you can teach me magic?”

This was a curious request, coming as it did a few months after their interrupted lesson on economics. “Perhaps, but…now it’s my turn to ask your forgiveness. I don’t think you have much magical power, son. While it can be trained, to an extent, it is based largely on what you are born with.” _Or what happens to you,_ Renault thought as he absentmindedly brought a hand to his phylactery. “Your sister Guinevere has some potential…she has asked me to teach her a bit of magic, and I agreed. But it may come from her mother, not yours…”

“I see…”

“Why did you ask?”

“I thought…maybe my father would be impressed if I learned to cast spells as well.”

“I see.” Renault shifted in his familiar seat in Zephiel’s library. “Zephiel…I am…not a gifted preacher, and perhaps it may be unwise of me to intrude upon your family affairs, but…listen to me now. I will not insult your father, but you must realize that you are your own man, just as he is his. There is no guarantee that anything you do will make him love you. You must therefore love yourself first, so that you will be able to love your people.”

“But…he’s my father! How could I not love him?”

“Your emotions are your own as well. No matter how much you love him, or seek his approval, he may never reciprocate. Even if you were King and he were the prince, even if you were King and he a mere commoner, no order could change the true feelings of his heart. Though you can do your best, you cannot do it alone—your father must do his part to change his emotions, and if he does not, there’s no point in blaming yourself.

“It is a hard thing to accept, I know. But it is also part of what makes us human. I have known…of…beings created by fell, forbidden magic, which no-one can learn. They will obey any command from their creators. Perhaps, even, they can love whoever their masters tell them to. But they are nothing but puppets…empty things without a soul of their own. As much as it hurts to see your love for your father returned with nothing but hatred, know this: it means your father is human, just as you. And in the end, only human beings can say their sorrow and joy are truly their own. It may be small comfort, but I think it justifies the pain of our humanity.”

Zephiel looked at him—not entirely convinced, but certainly impressed. “That…that is truly wise, Your Excellency.”

“I once said the same thing to a Dame of Lycia. I would not say I have much wisdom, but if my experiences can help those who seek answers…I will share them with any who ask, whether they are a lady knight or a future king.”

“I would expect no less from my tutor. But even so, I would like to learn more of magic, even if I’ve not the talent…it’s everywhere in Elibe. No good army would be caught dead without magicians, a sorcerer’s crystal ball can connect one end of Elibe with the other, and I know Etruria uses spells to benefit its people. Surely I should understand how these forces work, even if I can’t use them myself?”

“That is true. I would be willing to teach you…would you like me to procure some books on the old languages?”

“Very much so.”

“As you wish, my liege. Most Light and Anima magic is written in Draconic…I will teach it to you. And while it is not used in the spells themselves, High Imperial is from the same time period, and some of the commentaries on many of the more powerful tomes are written in that language. Would you like to learn that as well?”

“Yes. But what of Dark magic? I’ve heard terrifying stories about Shamans and Druids. Is there a language for that as well?”

“There’s Shadetongue, but--”Quickly, Renault caught himself. It had been a frightful lapse on his part, and he was only glad Zephiel was a man of too high a character to put such knowledge to evil use. “No, that I cannot teach you. Dark magic is not inherently evil, but it is very dangerous, far more dangerous than I would permit in the very heart of a country like Bern. And Shadetongue…only the ungodly use that accursed language. Nothing good can come of studying it, Prince.”

Zephiel understood. “Very well. Then for our next lesson, let us learn of Draconic and High Imperial. There should be some texts in the royal libraries that prove useful. I’ll have them for you by the time we next meet.”

It was a promise Renault kept—though a few years, he would wish he hadn’t.

-X-

As he stared out his window on the cold day of the 9th Sun, 995 AS, Renault couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious.

It was an entirely irrational feeling, he knew. As he had just written to Lucius, everything was going very well indeed. Zephiel was as astute as ever, having already become fluent in both Draconic and High Imperial. And while she was no longer take lessons with her brother, Guinevere was learning a great deal with Renault too. He taught the princess in the afternoon and the prince at night, and both sessions were very productive. Guinevere had wanted to learn some magic as well, and she seemed better at it than her brother, being already able to cast the basic Fire spell and having learned Draconic and High Imperial as easily. This very much pleased her chaperones, either Ellen or Miredy, who attended her lessons with Renault at all times. Indeed, both women had learned a lot from Renault, who had grown to consider them, if not friends, at least acquaintances. Ellen was a pretty brown-haired young lady-in-waiting with a bit of magic potential; though she was already training in seminary to become a Cleric, Renault offered her a bit of teaching in staves, but she refused. In fact, whenever she was around she seemed to shy away from Renault—he got the distinct impression she was very shy, particularly around men. Miredy was a slightly older red-haired woman with a fierce loyalty to her princess, but she was also intelligent and well-read and enjoyed the great deal of history Renault could tell her about her country. She was an accomplished wyvern rider, from what Renault had seen, and in a few years he could see her being worthy of the mantle of Wyvern General. She would deny that, of course, saying that the title belonged to Gale, a tight-lipped Sacaean man with long blue hair a few shades darker than Braddock’s who occasionally came by to deliver messages to Miredy or Guinevere when they were with Renault. He was certainly a capable man; Renault could tell just from the way he walked that he was not to be trifled with, and Miredy’s gushing tales of his prowess in battle were likely not far exaggerated. Alas, due to his heritage, it was uncertain he would succeed the third Wyvern General when the old man retired; even though the plague had passed there was a great deal of anti-Sacaean sentiment in the country.

The other common visitor to Renault’s lessons was Miredy’s younger brother, Zeiss, a Wyvern squire. He shared his sister’s red hair, though it was cut spikier—in fact, Renault remembered seeing him hunting rats with his young wyvern at the time two years ago, as part of the anti-plague plan. He was a bright and enthusiastic young man who treated Renault with a great deal of respect, perhaps because he was somewhat religious himself. Or at least tried to be in order to get closer to Ellen, as he often managed to just “stumble by” whenever she and Guinevere were done. On those occasions he would more often than not end up tongue-tied (and never managed to say anything to Ellen, who never liked being around Renault), but when Miredy was around they would talk about Gale—not only was he Zeiss’ teacher, but Miredy planned to marry him only after the decision of the Wyvern General’s successor was made. She didn’t care whether or not Gale got the job, but did not want to distract him with the problems starting a family entailed until he was certain where his career would lead. Renault found himself impressed by her pragmatism and foresight.

And he was, of course, involved with absolutely none of this; all of it he simply overheard from the conversations his friends had when they weren’t paying attention. But even so, it did put him at ease. If strong friends made for strong rulers, Guinevere’s band would be strong indeed.

Perhaps that was why he feared for Zephiel. There were very few visitors to the Prince’s lessons—and while a teacher didn’t often lament interruptions, it did worry Renault, because it seemed the young prince was almost entirely isolated in the castle, except for his sister, whom Desmond tried to keep him away from, and perhaps the loyal Brunya and Murdock.

Still, even if he was melancholy, he still seemed eager and determined to learn, and was certainly learning well. So as much as Renault felt sorry for him, he couldn’t figure out why he felt as if something darker was afoot.

He would learn the answer soon—though, again, he would not realize it was the answer until later.

On that day, 5 years before the largest war in Elibe’s history since the Scouring would begin, Renault received a knock on the door of his small study. He opened it to find a messenger, who gave him a very strange request.

“Your Excellency, King Desmond requests your presence.”

“What is it?”

“Lady Irelde is dying. He would like you to give her last rites.”

“…I understand.”

This was certainly unexpected—though not entirely so. Given how much Desmond disliked him, Renault didn’t think he would be called for her…but then again, there were likely few other clergymen Desmond actually trusted, and even if Desmond didn’t trust him, Guinevere did—so a good word from Lady Irelde’s daughter would have made him a prime candidate for this duty.

Renault had not been involved at all with any of the drama and intrigue swirling about Desmond’s court, but all the snippets of gossip he had heard combined with what he had seen of Desmond’s behavior told him all he needed to know.

King Desmond was a married man. His wife, Hellene, had been an Etrurian princess, daughter of a duke (the Knight General of Etruria at around the time Renault had killed Lucian), and married off to Desmond simply to strengthen the ties between the two nations. She was therefore his wife but not his lover—that honor belonged to a noblewoman named Irelde, who spent most of her time with Desmond in a manse outside of the castle grounds. Since Zephiel was Hellene’s son and Guinevere Irelde’s daughter, it was not difficult to understand why Desmond loathed the former and adored the latter. Renault had heard that Irelde had fallen ill—though he had never once seen her, he’d heard she was a very beautiful woman but with a weak constitution. The previous winter had been harsh and had perhaps taken more from her than she could bear. It was, therefore, her time.

Renault took the materials he needed—his trusty copy of _Elimine’s Journey_ as well as a flask of holy water, which the messenger had been given by his parish priest in Bern City. Renault was led out of the castle to the messenger’s Wyvern, onto which he mounted and which carried him to the manse about a mile away where Desmond spent most of his time with his lover. The building was nestled in a clearing in a smaller mountain range to the east of the largest one the castle sat on, and it was, of course, a great deal smaller than the castle itself. Still, it compared favorably to the large houses of many nobles Renault had seen, and judging by the statues and fountain in its courtyard, along with the attractive crenellations just below its roof, it had been built with more of an eye for aesthetics than most Bernese buildings were.

He was then led inside, through its winding hallways and past its many doors, until he reached Irelde’s bedroom, outside of which King Desmond and Guinevere were waiting.

“Thank you so much for coming, Bishop Renault,” said Guinevere. “My mother…she’s become more religious, but she doesn’t trust any of the Archbishops. She heard of you when you helped lift the plague, and I’ve told her such good things about you, so she wanted you to give her the last rites.”

“Of course, my lady.” Renault looked at Desmond. “You approve, my liege?”

Desmond regarded him coldly, but not with the outright hostility he had when they had first met. He really did believe what Renault said about his daughter, and that made him more favorably disposed towards the Bishop. He nodded curtly to Renault, and bade him enter Irelde’s room.

She was lying on a large, soft white bed, propped up by fluffy pillows, all in a setup which looked so comfortable that even Renault felt a bit sleepy. Irelde herself was obviously her daughter’s mother—though Guinevere had Desmond’s haircolor, Irelde’s silvery hair was as long and wavy as her daughter’s and kept in almost the exact same style.

“Who’s there?” she called weakly.

“I am Bishop Renault, my lady. I believe your daughter Guinevere has spoken of me to you, and she told me you requested my presence.”

“Ah, yes…my daughter…she tells me her studies with you are…”

“Proceeding excellently, yes. She will make a wise queen, if the day ever comes. Her intelligence and virtue truly do you honor.”

“I’m glad. I can leave this world with few regrets…before I do, would you hear my confession?”

“Of course.”

“God, my…Lord, I have sinned, and now I repent. I have transgressed against my fellow man, and ask for your Forgiveness as well as theirs.”

Renault nodded. “Relieve your burdens to me, milady.”

“Bishop…” she whispered, “I…I lived with Desmond in sin, yes. I never married him, but…I was an honest woman! True to him and him only! I never strayed…Guinevere is his daughter, true as God’s eyes! That…that will save me, won’t it?”

“It may, Lady Irelde. God is merciful, and He understands that bonds built of politics are not those built by the heart. Though you may have sinned in your coupling outside of marriage, your loyalty is a virtue, and outweighs that sin.”

“Thank you…”

“Is there anything else?”

“Y…yes…please…tell Desmond to be kind to lady Hellene and her son.”

“Truly?”

“Yes! I mean it! I was always…I never saw Hellene or her boy much. But I resented her…my love’s wife. I said…cruel things about her. I wish I could go back and change things now, but…it’s too late. I was a stupid girl back then! How I regret it…”

“Yes…but do not lose heart, Lady Irelde. Even if you leave this world, your wishes will remain. Better to repent at the end of one’s life than not at all. Even if you cannot tell Queen Hellene and her son of your true feelings personally, I will convey your will to them. It will give them some solace, for all the days of their lives which remain. That will help expunge the stain of your former thoughtlessness.”

“Thank you…I hope it is enough…I hope my words will reach Desmond’s heart…”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes…please, give me the Rites…”

“Of course.” Renault dictated from the _Adorations, Lamentations,_ and Elimine’s last prayer, sprinkling the holy water in his flask on to Irelde’s feet, chest, and forehead. He said ‘Amen’ and made the ancient sign of the Church. As ill as Irelde was, she seemed revitalized by the ritual, as Renault left her he could see a wide smile on her face.  She may have been dying soon—and indeed, did die two days later—but her death was assuredly peaceful.

“Did it go well?” Desmond asked as Renault exited.

“Indeed, my liege. Lady Irelde has nothing to worry about as she travels on the next stage of her journey.”

“I am glad…” Desmond’s expression, though as pained as one would expect from a man losing his lover, lightened somewhat.

“She also asked me to pass a message to you.”

“What is it?”

“She said to treat the Queen and her son kindly. She begs forgiveness for speaking ill of Her Majesty in the past, and hoped these words would reach your heart. For her memory, King Desmond, please try to live in peace with Queen Hellene and Prince Zephiel.”

Desmond’s face contorted with anger. “How _dare_ you! Vile priest! She never would have—“

“Father,” Guinevere cried, “enough! I know that’s what mother would have wanted! She told me the same thing! I believe Renault!”

“I am not lying, King Desmond. No Eliminean on Elibe would ever lie about a soul’s last words. You may put me on the rack or burn me at the stake, but I will never deny the truth of what I have told you.”

“Is that so?” Desmond’s face grew even redder—and then, suddenly, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Renault wasn’t displeased—quite the contrary—but he was more than a little surprised. He thought Desmond was about to order him executed.

“You’re not lying, you say? Very well. I will take your words into account, Bishop Renault. And yes…I will…make things right…with Hellene and Zephiel.” He waved a hand. “Go. Leave, now.”

Renault bowed and promptly took the King’s advice. As he got on the messenger’s Wyvern, taking him back to the castle, he couldn’t help but think the whole scene had played out much better than he thought it would. A few days later, when he received word that Desmond had finally accepted Zephiel as his rightful heir, Renault thought he had succeeded to a greater degree than he ever thought possible. Surpassing all of his expectations, it seemed that Desmond had truly heeded the dying will of Lady Irelde. Her words had reached Desmond’s heart, just as she had hoped.

Granted, Renault also had to admit that rather more down-to-earth concerns motivated that decision as well—the people were demanding Zephiel, and were getting louder by the day. Despite Renault’s assurances that Guinevere was even more gifted than her brother (which, to be fair, weren’t _entirely_ false, she really was as good a student as he was), the people of Bern had been looking forward to Zephiel’s succession for a long time. They considered him the second coming of Damon, Desmond’s far more accomplished elder brother (which was another reason Desmond loathed his son). Both the commoners and the nobility absolutely wanted Zephiel, and might have possibly revolted if the comparatively unknown Guinevere (not even Desmond’s legitimate daughter), or even her future husband, took the throne.

Still, regardless of whether it was Irelde’s benevolence or the will of the people that motivated Desmond’s change of heart, it was a positive development all the same. On way or another, Renault felt his worries about Bern’s future lessening quite a bit when he heard the good news.

Alas, as it turned out, Desmond meant something different when he said he would “take care” of Zephiel and Hellene.

-X-

“Which constellation is that?”

“It’s called ‘Roland’s Shield,’ Zephiel.” Though his protégé couldn’t see it, since the night that surrounded them was broken only by the stars they were looking at, Renault smiled. This brought back good memories indeed. One of his very best, in fact—Braddock would certainly be smiling on him from heaven to see him passing on this knowledge to Zephiel. “My best friend…a long time ago, he told me about this formation. There was a legend in his homeland of Ilia…after the Scouring, Roland held up the Durandal to restore the blasted lands to life. But the sword had a will of its own, and demanded something in return. So Roland gave up his shield, and placed it in the sky, where it would safeguard Lycia for all time.”

Zephiel smiled too, now. “Really? What a fetching story. Perhaps I’ll win friends among the Ostians if I ever visit that country. Thank you for showing me this, Renault.”

“It is no problem at all, Zephiel. To the contrary, it is an honor. I am…flattered you trust me enough to ask me to star-gaze with you. I imagine you needed something to calm your nerves…”

“You’re exactly right,” Zephiel sighed. “To be honest, I can’t imagine it’s really happening. It still feels like a dream, you know?”

“Yes…I can’t believe it either, truth be told. Your father has finally accepted you.” Renault’s mind drifted back to that fateful day when Desmond crashed his lesson with Guinevere and Zephiel, declaring that Guinevere’s husband would be the king of Bern. Looking back on that terrible scene now, Renault found it hard to believe it had ever happened at all—for the last few weeks, Desmond had treated Zephiel just like a father should treat a worthy son. Indeed, Desmond had scheduled a great banquet for tomorrow night in which he would formally award Zephiel the right of succession. However, as happy as Zephiel was about this, he was also understandably very anxious.

Renault grinned. “Think of it this way, Zephiel. Whatever happens tomorrow, the stars you see tonight will remain the same. They have been the same for every king of every land before you, and will be the same for every one after you.” _They have been the same for every year I have lived, after all_. “So take heart. Your father was not the one who set those stars in the sky, and neither are you. I am not given to preaching much about religion…an irony, I know. But…if God exists, and Elimine is His Saint, then glorifying His name is more important than any title or claim to a country.

“So worry not about what may come tomorrow, Zephiel, or about how your father feels. Instead, think of how best to glorify God…or, if you do not believe, how best to live a life that you can be proud of. Compared to the stars, the only things that truly last are not kingdoms or kings, but the virtue against which all men will be judged.”

“I see.” Zephiel smiled. “Thank you again, Renault. I do feel better. Your words have given me comfort.”

“And I say again, there is no need to thank me. It is my honor to support you in all things, Zephiel. You are Bern’s hope.”

“Yes, but I owe so much to so many people. You, and my sister, and Lady Irelde, too. So many people have given me the strength. Heavens, if it wasn’t for those heroes that protected me during my rite of manhood, I wouldn’t be alive today!”

“Protected you? That’s right…I have heard you mention this before. There is a coming-of-age ceremony every prince of Bern must complete, to prove he is no longer a child. On the night before yours, assassins were sent to murder you.”

“Yes. I would have died if not for another group that came to save me. I owe my life to them, but I still do not know their names or motives. One was a red-haired man with a rapier, another a big man with an Ostian axe…there were many others as well. When they dispatched the assassins, they left as if they’d never existed…”

 _A red-haired man with a rapier and a big man with an Ostian axe…those must have been Eliwood and Hector_ , Renault thought, remembering his commanders from the campaign in Valor. They must have been fighting Nergal’s schemes in Bern, even back then.

“That being the case, you have even more to live for, King Zephiel. I will not say they were angels or something as silly…such cheap sentimentality would only make us both laugh. But…call it intuition or faith, though I know not their exact motives, I know they were good. I know those men were heroes, and that whatever reason they may have had for fighting on your behalf, it was to protect the future of Elibe. So, Zephiel…live up to their expectations as King, and protect the peace they fought for. If you wish to repay all the people who have helped you over the course of your life that is how you can do it.”

“I think you’re right, Renault. And that is indeed what I’ll do!”

Those were the last words spoken between the two men that night. They spent the rest of it gazing at those twinkling stars, each occupied with his own thoughts on his past and future.

The futures of both, however, would end up taking different turns.

-X-

At this point in his life, Renault sought one thing: Tranquility. He had once found comfort in the din of battle, and now he found it nothing more than an irritation. Peace, quiet, and solitude, perhaps broken only by the presence of a few select friends, were his greatest desires now. Being so unsuited to the clamor of the battlefield, you could fairly assume he disliked large crowds and gatherings almost as much.

You would be correct, which was why, sitting at one of the banquet tables in the Great Hall of Castle Bern, surrounded by hundreds (it seemed like thousands) of nattering soldiers and nobles, with nothing in front of him but a small cup of water, Renault was feeling extraordinarily put-upon.

Left to his own devices, he would have wanted nothing more than to sit in his room and study the _Journey_ , or perhaps visit Zephiel’s library to peruse one of the books there. Still, this was a banquet held in Zephiel’s honor; King Desmond had finally— _finally_ —decided to accept him as his true heir. It was certainly the wisest move, given how loudly both the common people and the Wyvern Generals were demanding that Zephiel be their leader—they all knew how capable he was. But it was certainly heartening that Desmond was not so stubborn as to deny all that. Thus, given how important this day was to his tutelary, Renault thought it would not do to miss it, no matter how much he disliked it. He owed it to Zephiel to see the young man finally reap the rewards of his study.

Even so, it was a trial in and of itself for Renault. Guests were expected to eat, and eat a lot, at feasts like this, which Renault didn’t need and didn’t want to do. He informed all the guests that he was fasting, and they accepted it—since the number of Elimineans in Bern was second only to those in Etruria, even the relatively irreligious nobility of the country weren’t surprised to see priests and Bishops occasionally fasting, wearing uncomfortable hairshirts, or going through other acts of self-denial. There was, as expected, quite a bit of snide laughter behind Renault’s back, poking fun at his “fanaticism”—all out of earshot of the 8 Archbishops attending the banquet, of course (While at an Etrurian gala, many clergymen and women would be present, only the most influential Church officials would usually be invited to any Bernese function). Renault didn’t mind it a bit—it was no skin off his back if a few pompous nobles laughed at him.

But at least one of them would try even his patience.

“Mmm, delicious!” crowed the blond-haired fop sitting next to Renault (the same one who had been leering at Brunya during Renault’s interrogation during the plague, in fact), waving a chunk of boar meat speared on his fork in front of Renault’s face. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want a bite, Bishop? A donation to the church would do my soul well!”

 _Not nearly well enough_ , Renault thought—but of course didn’t say that. “I…thank you for your offer, but I must respectfully decline. The religious vows I have taken preclude me from eating. I can only drink. Please allow me to enjoy that in peace.”

“Really, now? Isn’t that a shame. I mean, this meat is _so_ delicious! Just smell it!” The man held it under Renault’s nose. “Sure you don’t want even one bite? God will forgive you, won’t He?”

“Please, my lord.”

“Pfeh!” The fool spat. “You’re no fun. You really ought to play nicer, ‘Your Excellency.’” This was said with a mocking sneer. “I’m not the sort of man to be trifled with!”

“…Forgive me. I was unaware.”

“What? Are you mocking me?”

“No, my lord. I apologize.”

“Really, now? Do you have any idea who I am?”

“No, my lord. I apologize further.”

“Well, it’s Narshen! Do try to remember it. You’ll be hearing of my exploits as Wyvern General quite a lot in the future!”

“…I’m sure…”

Before the argument could continue, King Desmond, sitting at the head of the largest and grandest table in the room, clapped his hands, forcing everyone to silence. As Zephiel and Guinevere (sitting at either side of him) looked on, he stood up and began a speech.

“Everyone,” he said, smiling broadly, “today is an auspicious day for the Kingdom of Bern. At long last, I have decided to recognize Zephiel as my rightful heir.”

This was met by a round of cheers and applause—and for once, Renault joined in. It was the very least Zephiel deserved, in his view.

“It has taken time for this day to come, surely. But I must listen to the voice of my people. From every quarter—the soldiers, the nobles, the clergy, and even the commoners themselves—I have heard the single demand: Let Zephiel be King! And who am I to deny them? You are a great man, gifted with both books and blades. Though it has taken me years to say this, I will say it now: I am proud of you, my son.”

Zephiel was clearly trying his best, but even he couldn’t keep the emotion out of his voice. “Th…thank you, Father. I will…I _will_ live up to your expectations, and those of the people of Bern!”

“I am sure you will, Zephiel… _Prince_ Zephiel.” Beaming, Desmond reached down to the table and picked up one of the golden gem-studded goblets on it. Curiously, Renault noticed that he hesitated for a moment—just a moment—before his hand closed around it.

Desmond held it out to his son. “Now, Zephiel! Come, accept this drink! Not just from a father to his son, but from one man to another! You are truly my heir!”

As the gathered crowd whooped and cheered even louder, Zephiel took the offered cup as Desmond picked up his own. They clanked their goblets together in a mighty toast. Zephiel quaffed the contents of his goblet most enthusiastically, and Desmond did the same for his. The only thing out of the ordinary that Renault noticed was Zephiel’s expression. While he seemed happy, he was also puckering his lips slightly in such a way that indicated something didn’t quite agree with him. Perhaps the booze was stronger than he’d expected?

In any case, the rest of the night proceeded without incident—or at least seemed to. Having seen Zephiel’s triumph, Renault felt no more need to be there. He got up while everyone else was still clapping and quietly slipped away, back to his room.

The next morning, Zephiel didn’t show up for his lesson. Renault thought that he might have had other things to worry about, and gave it little more thought. That afternoon, when he met with Guinevere and Miredy, however, he was informed that Zephiel wasn’t feeling well and hadn’t left his bed since last night.

Eaten too much at the banquet, perhaps? But Renault thought it was something more when Zephiel didn’t show up the day after that, either. Or the day after. Guinevere told him the Prince had fallen very sick, and no-one knew why. His health deteriorated by the day, as did Guinevere’s mental state—after 5 days, Renault told her she could take a break from his tutoring to attend to her brother. But on the tenth day, all was for naught.

On that day, Renault was awakened from his sleep by a frantic knocking at his door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see Guinevere—sobbing her eyes out and flinging herself into his arms.

 “Renault! Oh, Renault!” Guinevere cried. Totally taken unawares, Renault cautiously embraced her while trying to calm her down. It was no easy task, though—she was completely distraught.

“By the Saint, Princess! What has happened?”

“My brother…” She sobbed, “It’s Zephiel! Oh, poor Zephiel!”

“What about him?!”

“He’s _dead_ , Bishop! My brother is _dead!_ ”

_::Linear Notes::_

This is it, my friends.

After nine years, these are the last Linear Notes (at least for Wayward Son) I will ever write.

There’s a lot I have to say here, but first some brief notes—what would be the linear notes of the next two chapters along with this one as well. After those, then some housekeeping issues (the last ever for this fic).

To understand my plotting for this final arc, you need to re-read FE6’s script and FE7’s extended dialogue. The relevant parts:

FE7 Epilogue: Hector tells Eliwood that Zephiel seemed to have been assassinated—but then his father turned out to have been the one who died. This was 15 years after FE7, so 995, 5 years before FE6.

Then, read the script for chapter 2 of FE6. Miredy says to the boss, “I knew I never should have let the princess go down to the border in the first place… I will return to Bern and inform the king about this matter. I’ll try not to turn it into a panic, so you must find the princess as soon as possible! Understood?” Of course, the boss, lord of a castle near the Lycian border while the war with Bern has begun, is keeping Guinevere and her lady in waiting, Ellen hostage. Fortunately, Ellen escapes and tells Roy, who kills the boss and rescues Guinevere, who says she wants to help him stop her brother Zephiel’s war of conquest.

In Chapter 3, Guinevere mentions she didn’t think her brother would start an invasion of Lycia so soon, indicating his speed made her plans at least somewhat more difficult, and in chapter 4, she says he plans to “liberate” the world.

In Chapter 5, we have this very important conversation:

_Saul:_

_“Ahem… Now, princess, I wish to know the location of the ‘Fire Emblem.’ I trust you have it with you?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“! How do you know that?”_

_Saul:_

_“The Head Church in Bern informed us that the Fire Emblem mysteriously disappeared from the Temple of Seals. And at exactly the same time, you disappeared as well.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“……”_

_Saul:_

_“I was sent by the Church to confirm this information. Why did you take the Fire Emblem?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“…To stop my brother.”_

_Saul:_

_“Your brother… King Zephiel.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“Yes.”_

_Saul:_

_“Do you know what the Fire Emblem is?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“…The Fire Emblem is the key to awaken a powerful sword that can ‘seal’ the Dragons. At least, that was what my father told me. I do not know exactly how the Fire Emblem or the sword work. However, the possibility of the Fire Emblem falling into enemy hands seemed to worry my brother…greatly.”_

_Saul:_

_“So you took the Fire Emblem, hoping to make your brother believe that it had fallen into enemy hands and stop his conquest?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“Yes…but my efforts were for naught.”_

_Saul:_

_“As a representative of the Elimine Church, I will ask you this. What do you plan on doing from here?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“…Must I answer at this moment?”_

_Saul:_

_“Ah, so you have a plan.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“Yes. I have not given up hope of settling this war without bloodshed.”_

_Saul:_

_“I see. In that case, please allow me to accompany your journey.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“If Roy accepts.”_

_Roy:_

_“I have no objection.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“I apologize, Roy. I seem to be such a burden on you…”_

_Roy:_

_“No, not at all, princess. I hope there is still a way to end this war peacefully.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“…Yes, I hope so as well.”_

In Chapter 13, Miredy asks Guinevere why the Princess did not consult with her before leaving, indicating that Guinevere did just suddenly leave Bern and take the Fire Emblem, with Miredy knowing only that she had gone towards Lycia.

In chapter 20, we have another important conversation:

 

 

_Roy:_

_“King Zephiel was an outstanding pupil is his studies, he was skilled in warcraft… He grew to be the perfect heir for the king.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“That is correct.”_

_Roy:_

_“But still, the former king did not look kindly at him.”_

_Guinevere:_

_“In fact… Our father began to hate Zephiel because he grew to become such a brilliant and worthy youth.”_

_Roy:_

_“What…is that supposed to mean…?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“Our father was a man of ordinary skill and intellect. Therefore, Zephiel’s outstanding skill made our father cold towards him.”_

_Roy:_

_“Jealousy…?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“And then one day, our father told Zephiel that ‘the next heir to Bern would be Guinevere’s husband.'”_

_Roy:_

_“What! That’s awful!”_

_Guinevere:_

_“But Zephiel was very patient. He said that he did not mind even if he could not gain the throne. But the people around us, who were looking forward to Zephiel’s ability to be a good king, would not allow anyone else to be the heir. Pressured by the public, our father lost his patience at last, and…”_

_Roy:_

_“Decided to kill King Zephiel…?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“At a banquet, our father gave Zephiel a poisoned drink from his own hands. And that was the first and last cup that Zephiel took from our father. After returning to his room, Zephiel started to get sick. For ten days and nights, Zephiel lingered between life and death. But Murdock, Zephiel’s teacher and loyal general, saved his life.”_

_Roy:_

_“…The former king never did anything after that?”_

_Guinevere:_

_“No… But I have heard that he had plans to get rid of Murdock and Zephiel’s mother as traitors. He was scheming to murder them all along with Zephiel. After hearing that, Zephiel made believe that he was dead. Our father then checked the coffin to confirm Zephiel’s death. At that moment, Zephiel rose up from the coffin and…with his sword…”_

_Roy:_

_“……”_

_Guinevere:_

_“I was but a child then, so naturally I could not have understood what was going on. All I knew is that after our father died, Zephiel never smiled again. Until then, he was strict at times, but he was always a kind and loving brother to me. So…”_

_Roy:_

_“Princess…”_

_Guinevere:_

_“So I… At the bottom of my heart, I trust that Zephiel can change, that he can become that loving brother again. I…had to take action.”_

_Roy:_

_“I…see…”_

_Guinevere:_

_“…But now, my brother is in a place where my words cannot reach him. Roy, please… Please stop him. Please stop him from inflicting pain and suffering to the people of Bern…and the rest of Elibe.”_

There is some contradiction here—Guinevere is describes as being in her early 20s by the time FE6 takes place, which means she would be 20 or a little younger in 995, when Zephiel is assassinated—not a child, so she would have some idea of what is going on. I thus took the age in the artbook as canon, meaning she did have some idea of what was happening in the castle.

And lastly, of course, in chapter 21 it is revealed that the Fire Emblem is necessary to unseal the Binding Blade, which was what was used to seal away the Dark Dragon.

So, while I won’t give everything away, it’s fair to wonder just how Guinevere managed to steal away the Fire Emblem from the Shrine of Seals, where it was assumedly reasonably well guarded. You’ll see, in the next two chapters, how Renault just may have had a hand in that. And I hope this chapter might also give a few impressions of how Guinevere was able to become a good queen after FE6 :D

(Also, Eliwood’s conversation with Hellene in chapter 26 of Fire Emblem 7 is also relevant to the next chapter, as well as Miredy’s battle conversation with Gale, and Zeiss’ support conversations with Ellen).

Alright, now, some housekeeping details.

I may have mentioned most of this before, but it bears repeating. Wayward Son will be my swan song for the FE fandom, after it’s done I’ll pretty much leave this place behind me. Not because of any negative experience, and certainly not because I’m unhappy here—all of you know how much I love you and how much I treasure your company. Still, I’m getting old, and I’m not as much into fire emblem as I used to be. Reading some of the Awakening and Fates fic has rekindled my love for the series a little bit, but I still don’t have a 3DS. I also have duties in other fandoms, namely Castlevania (I’m a mod at both the CV Dungeon and the Bloodstained forums) that are most pressing for me to attend to. So, despite the fact that you guys are great and I have nothing but love for you, I think it’s time I move on. As I also said in previous notes, this work will ensure I live on forever in this fandom, even if I’m not here in person :)

Still, I’m not leaving all at once. While I’ll stop leaving as many reviews for everybody as I used to, I *will* stick around for a bit even after the last Wayward Son chapter has been released. I don’t really have anything in particular to take care of, but I really have to send out PMs and personal thank yous to some folks, especially those who haven’t been around for a while. I’ll also be keeping the Wayward Son forums open for the foreseeable future, in case anyone wants to talk about the story after everything’s been said and done. Here’s a link:

<https://www.fanfiction.net/forum/Wayward_Son_Database/78495/>

I will also be keeping the PM option completely open for everyone, for all time, for as long as I may live. Even if I’m no longer part of the FE fandom, I did learn a lot from my years here, both from my triumphs and my mistakes. If anyone would like to learn from either, my door will always be open. My enemies (the handful of them that might still carry grudges, anyways, and even I’m not sure they do, for that matter) might say I’ve lived an evil, terrible life. In that case, first-hand testimony from such a devil would do well in keeping everyone else on the straight and narrow. The rest of you, of course, would say I’ve gained a great deal of wisdom over the years. That being the case, of course I should share it with anyone, even if I’ve moved on! So from this point anybody can send me PMs on FFn to ask me about writing, my time in the FE fandom, anything at all, and may do so for the indefinitely future. Needless to say, I will also *always* respond to *every* review left on this or any other work of mine. :D

And it may be a little bit before I move on entirely. I *may* finish up A Puppet’s History. Emphasis on *may.* I’m not sure if I will or if I won’t. We’ll see. And while I obviously can’t publish this fic officially, I’ve been kicking around the idea of going to a bookbinder and having personal hardcover copies of it made. We’ll see.

And one last thing. The next chapter will end with nothing but the credits for Wayward Son, and the chapter after that will end with just “THE END.” But for now, here’s something I’m really happy with, thanks to the excellent Databunny (that’s also her tumblr). Check it out on my youtube (channel name Gunlord). It also has a link to the Wayward Son “OST,” so to speak, along with a link to a .rar of Databunny’s art!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phhCrFZek44

Well, that’s that. It’s been one hell of a ride, my friends. Thank you for everything.


	82. Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following an assassination attempt, Zephiel is changed, and changed much for the worse. What are his plans for humanity?

**Wayward Son**

**Chapter 82**

**Humanity**

Renault thought he had finally attained a degree of peace in his life—but he knew well it might not last forever. And on the 4th Lancer, 995 A.S, it finally came to an end.

It was luck, really, that he hadn’t been killed. He stayed up a little later than usual, because his study of one a text he planned to use for Guinevere’s lessons wasn’t going very well. He was feeling anxious and disturbed over hearing of Zephiel’s death, and figured Guinevere would almost certainly feel the same. Finally, after a few fruitless hours, he decided he would call off the lessons for a while until everyone had finished grieving properly, and ended up going to sleep a little after midnight. By the time he settled into bed, he wasn’t entirely asleep and was still slightly aware, so he woke right up immediately when he heard his window creak open, ever so softly.

He clenched his fingers harder on his blankets and pretended to be asleep while he kept his eyes just a crack open. He saw two flashes of silver gleam in the moonlight, and knew this visitor meant him no good.

As the cloaked figure neared his bed, Renault suddenly burst into motion. Far quicker than could be anticipated, Renault sat up and tossed his blanket at the intruder. To his credit, the man was very fast indeed and had superior reflexes, wasting not even a tenth of a second before his knives sliced the offending cloth into many small pieces. But it still gave Renault the opening he needed.

As the intruder was distracted by the blanket, Renault reached out to the table at his bedside and grabbed the Divine tome he always kept there. He concentrated on his phylactery, summoning the magic power from its depths, and spoke the approximations of Draconic words in the tome. The room lit up with a bright golden glow as a pillar of light slammed down atop the man’s head. With a scream, the assassin collapsed.

Renault hastily lit a candle and investigated the smoking body. The interloper was still breathing, thankfully—Renault did not really want to kill another human being, even now. His equipment was fairly standard black-work gear; he was dressed fairly similarly to how Harvery had been, even so long ago, except he had a long length of rope tied to a hook which was currently latched onto the ledge of Renault’s window. There was no evidence as to who had sent him.

“Your Excellency! Bishop Renault!” There was a pounding at Renault’s door. “Are you alright?”

Renault opened it and a pair of Bernese soldiers entered. “Seems like you’ve already taken care of him!” one of them said happily, grabbing the failed Assassin and hauling him to his feet.

“I have. Were you expecting him?”

“Aye. It seems we were too late for you, though I’m glad you could take care of yourself! We’ve already foiled attempts on Hellene and General Murdock’s lives.”

“Truly the Saint is with us! You have done good work, men. Have you found the blackheart paying for these assassins?”

The two soldiers looked at each other uneasily. “Uh…we’re not at liberty to say, Your Holiness.”

“I understand. Ah…this may sound strange, but do not be too harsh with that intruder. He did not harm me, and more importantly, killing or torturing him may make it harder to find out what his true intentions were. Punish him for his crimes, but let justice guide your hands, not vengeance.”

“Heh! A true follower of the Saint, you are. Well, come along, nightblade. You ought to thank the Bishop that we haven’t gutted you right here!” Turning back to Renault, the soldier said, “We should have foiled all the elements of the plot, so you can go back to sleep without any worries. But just in case, we’ll keep a guard posted at your room.”

And so Renault did, though of course, he didn’t have a particularly easy sleep. And he dreamed again, too—though that dream was not as unpleasant as one might have expected.

It was the vaguest of dreams, but Renault thought he heard Braddock’s voice. And he thought that voice said—

_“You have something to do…”_

-X-

After everything he had experienced in his life, Renault should not have been so surprised to see a dead man sitting in front of him, alive and well. But here Zephiel was.

It was the 5th Lancer, 995 A.S, three days after Guinevere had told him of Zephiel’s death, and one day after the attempt on his life. Earlier in the morning, Wyvern General Murdock himself had come to the door of his room, telling him that the King wanted a private audience with him. Given how much time he had spent tutoring Zephiel, Renault figured that Desmond wanted him to give the prince last rites or something similar. Thus, he was not at all expecting Zephiel himself to be sitting in Desmond’s favorite chair in one of the smaller private meeting rooms in the King’s wing of Bern Castle.

“Z…Zephiel,” Renault stuttered, “How…you’re alive?”

The young man nodded—and Renault got the distinct sense that his sickness, whatever the cause (he was starting to suspect that fateful goblet of wine Desmond had given out at the banquet) was not entirely to blame for the changes in Zephiel’s demeanor.

There had always been an aura of melancholy around Zephiel, yes, but that was gone now—replaced by one of subtle but barely concealed menace. He did look different, certainly. His cheeks were hollow, his skin sallow, but that was to be expected after a bout with a deadly disease or poison. If he was all right now, his normal color ought to come back within a few weeks. But his eyes…those were something else.

They were cold. Even colder than Henken’s had been. As sad as Zephiel had always been, behind his eyes there was always emotion—a desire to please his father mostly, yes, but also respect for Renault, affection for his family, and above all a burning love for Bern and its people. But all of that was gone. The eyes staring at Renault now were as intelligent and perceptive as they had always been—but this time, they were not graced by the slightest trace of any human sentiment. There was no love, no respect, not even the desire to please there. It was as if Renault was staring through two perfectly clear glass windows into an empty, yawning void—that threatened to consume not only him but the rest of the world.

Zephiel smiled, and that smile did not reach his eyes—nothing did. “I am alive. It is my father who is dead.”

“That…that is…”

“I’ve no wish to discuss that little matter any further. You will hear more than enough of it in the coming days, I am sure. Rather, I wish to continue my lessons with you.”

“Your…lessons? I…yes, Zephiel, I would be glad to continue them, and I am even more glad you are alive. But your father…”

“Enough!” This was the first time Zephiel had ever raised his voice at Renault. “I told you to speak no more of him.”

Renault was quickly coming to understand that this was not the same caring young prince he had previously tutored. “I will accept your request, Z…my liege. I will speak no more of what does not concern me. But…with all the proper respect due to a King, I will note you brought me here as your teacher, not your slave.”

Zephiel’s voice returned to its previous icy calm—but it also had a tone of disdain, and even mild amusement, which raised Renault's hackles. “As you will. Pardon my disrespect, ‘teacher.’”

He could tell Zephiel was being sarcastic, but knew better than to point it out. “Your apology is accepted. Would you like us to continue where we left off? As soon as you’re well, I—“

“You may begin our new lessons tomorrow. But I tire of economics and policy. I would like to learn of Dragons.”

“…I beg your pardon, lord?”

“You heard me. Dragons. The species that once owned this land before men. The ones driven off during the Scouring. I wish to learn of them.”

“I…can teach you _something_ of them, yes, though not much. Why do you…”

“The reasons are not important. We will begin tomorrow. I request the lesson times to be changed to midnight, before I lay myself to sleep, so that I may take care of my duties as king during the day. That is all.”

He directed Renault to leave, and Renault promptly did, not even bothering to bow. And true to his word, he showed up in his library at midnight, as promptly as he always did. For the next few days, Renault polished his mastery of the Draconic language (marveling privately that Zephiel was not dead), and when Zephiel was as fluent as it was possible for a human to get, Renault began teaching him of the Dragons’ history.

On that note, there was not much to teach—though he had gleaned more, far more, than most people ever had, Renault had still swore to keep Arcadia a secret, and thus did not reveal anything at all that might also reveal the location of that hidden desert jewel. He told Zephiel about what the _Journey_ said—how God had created both Man and Dragon, and how the _Chronicles of the War_ described the Scouring. But Zephiel was uninterested.

“I’ve already read the _Journey_. You are only telling me what I already know.”

Renault was taken aback by this. “Well…then what would you like to know?”

“Where the Dragons went.”

“That…no-one is entirely sure of that. I have heard they fled to a land called Akaneia, but none know how. They are beyond our reach.” _Unless you know how to use quintessence,_ Renault thought, but he certainly wasn’t going to mention that to Zephiel now.

“They fled. They were driven away. Why? How could they lose the war?”

“Well, as powerful as they were, human beings had a tremendous advantage in numbers. With the aid of great machines, which we no longer have the means to construct, we were able to overwhelm even the mightiest dragons.”

“Then why did we need to resort to the Holy Weapons?”

“I…am not sure. I doubt anyone is. Somehow, the Dragons managed to…mass-produce themselves. They overwhelmed the humans and their machines with Fire Dragons that were weaker than true dragons but incredibly numerous. Humanity was pushed almost to extinction until God delivered the Divine Regalia to the Eight Heroes.”

“That is all you know?”

“Yes, King Zephiel.”

“I doubt that.”

Renault’s blood ran cold. “…Lord, do you not trust me? Why would you say that?”

“You are not an ordinary man, Renault. I’ve not once seen you eat. Nor shave your face or cut your hair. In fact, it’s been five years and you look just as you did when you first arrived. And where did you come from? How convenient that you happened to arrive just in time to lift the plague destroying my city.”

“King Zephiel, are you accusing me?”

“Not at all. If your beneficence is an act, it is convincing enough that I might as well treat it as the real thing—and I care not either way. I merely state that I know you are more than you pretend to be.”

Renault saw no reason to continue the charade either. “You are truly perceptive, King Zephiel. I will not deny it. I am not…like other men, it is true.”

“That isn’t the only secret you’re hiding. I ask again: Tell me all you know of dragons.”

On this, Renault would not budge. “I have told you all I am willing. Any more than that is something men should not know. If I have sinned by learning such, I will not compound that sin by teaching it.”

“Are you certain? I could have you tortured until you reveal it, you know.”

Renault was aghast. “Zephiel! That is a remarkably poor joke!”

“It is no joke. I can and would, teacher.”

Once upon a time, Renault would never have believed that Zephiel was capable of such a thing. But now, looking at those cold, dead eyes, he didn’t have the slightest doubt.

Even so, Renault didn’t back down. “…Then do so. True or false, your threats do not frighten me. I have seen more than you can imagine, Zephiel, and I have lived far longer than enough. There is nothing you can do to me that would convince me to break with my conscience.”

A long silence drew out between the two men. And then Zephiel chuckled—albeit mirthlessly.

“Impressive, Renault. You’ve more steel than I gave you credit for. You can relax, now. I’ll do nothing to you. You’re still teaching my sister, are you not? Harming you would cause her pain, and…” For the briefest moment, a shadow of Zephiel’s old self could be seen. “I’ve no desire to do that.”

Renault let out a deep breath. “Thank you, Zephiel. But…allow me to speak freely…if you’ve no desire to cause your sister pain, why…why are you acting like this?”

Another pregnant silence.

“Renault, what do you think of humanity?”

“Humanity?”

“The race which triumphed over the Dragons, and to which we belong. Or at least used to—in your case, it seems.”

“I…am not sure what you mean.”

“I have thought about it, Renault, and I have concluded there is truly little to recommend us. Humans are vicious creatures, are we not? We scheme and conspire to hurt each other, slaughter our fellows for the pettiest things…out of jealousy, malice, rage, passion, and fear. All these emotions…how pathetic they are. How unnecessary. You saw how my father treated _me_ , his trueborn son, who had always loved him and tried—and succeeded—to be a worthy heir. All my efforts were repaid with rejection. Is that not pathetic? Is it not unjust?”

“Yes…I suppose it is.”

“Then you see my point. Human beings are pathetic, feckless, utterly contemptible creatures. My father exemplified all of their foibles.”

“I…cannot deny everything you say, Zephiel. Human beings are capable of great evil. I know that all too well. I have committed much of it in my life.”

“Oh? A strange thing to hear from a man of the cloth.”

“Strange, yes, but true. Yet my life proves that humans can do good, as well! It was my friends who brought me back from the darkness. My best friend and his wishes for me, and my mentor, Varek…one of the holiest men on Elibe, who showed me the light of Elimine. And not only them, but all the people I have seen who showed me and others kindness. The loyal Brunya, the steadfast Murdock, Guinevere and her attendants, Miredy and Ellen…and you as well, King Zephiel. Especially you! A race that has produced such people _cannot_ be purely evil!”

“Inspiring words. How I wish I could believe them.”

“King Zephiel…”

“In any case, your job here is done. You have taught me all you can, and I need no more from you. You are free to leave, if you wish, or stay and continue teaching Princess Guinevere. She would certainly appreciate it.”

Renault bowed and promptly did as he was instructed.

And that marked the end of his brief happiness in Bern.

Not long afterwards, when King Desmond had been given a hero’s funeral, Guinevere resumed her lessons with Renault. Much to his relief, he noticed she had not changed that much. She was graver, now—quite pained over the sudden loss of her father, and because of something else Renault could only guess at. But it seemed she was no less kind or caring than she had ever been, and she threw herself into her studies under Renault with even greater enthusiasm, determined to be the best support she could be for her brother.

Or perhaps she wanted to distract herself from the changes occurring throughout the castle.

Though the people were overjoyed to see that Zephiel had not died (and were none too displeased about Desmond’s sudden and very mysterious death), their mood soon grew more somber. Zephiel proved to be a gifted leader, but not an especially benevolent one. Bern had never been known for its personal freedoms, but even those were clamped down. Not even a week had passed since Desmond’s death when freedoms of speech and gathering were severely curtailed. Even this did not seem to dim the people’s enthusiasm for Zephiel; both the commoners and the nobles thought the extra measures were necessary to keep “subversives” from damaging the country—especially since the circumstances of Desmond’s death were still mysterious. What this meant for Renault’s daily life was that more and more, he saw spies sneaking around the castle, keeping an eye on everyone and everything. His letters to Lucius thus grew shorter and less descriptive—and knowing the censors would be paying even more attention to him, Renault only wrote that he no longer had time to say as much as he used to. He had faith that Lucius was smart enough to realize what that implied. His friend, on the other hand, apparently realizing what weighed on Renault’s heart, wrote more and more. The children were growing up, and since they no-longer needed wet nurses, his nuns had left some time ago. Now it was just Lucius and the kids. Still, they were growing well, and Lucius’ letters always contained detailed updates on their education and well-being, which did put Renault’s heart at ease. And though at first, Lucius protested quite strongly, Renault always tried to send a little money to them when he could. Though he had never asked for anything other but room and board when he became a tutor to Zephiel, Guinevere had seen to it that he received a bit of gold each month. Since he had no use for it, he sent it all to Lucius, and it helped quite a bit in preserving the orphanage from destitution.

As the weeks of Zephiel’s kingship turned to months, Renault also noticed another change.

There was a new woman in the castle.

About three months after his father had died, Zephiel had simply disappeared. He had left Murdock in charge of things, but the Wyvern General would not let anyone know where his liege had gone. Guinevere, for her part, had no idea either. The King was only gone for a week, but when he returned there was someone new with him.

Murdock said her name was “Idoun.” She was only glimpsed occasionally around the castle, as she spent most of her time in Zephiel’s private quarters, and was only publicly seen with him. It was hard to tell she even was a woman, since she was clad head-to-toe in purple robes, like those a female Shaman would wear. Occasionally, someone would catch a glimpse of white hair or—very curiously—one green eye matched with one purple eye. But those were the only clues anyone had to her identity. People wondered if she was Zephiel’s concubine, or perhaps even a fiancée from a faraway land, but his behavior towards her seemed to fly in the face of those explanations. He never cast her a single affectionate, or even lustful glance, not a single stroke of her hair nor an offering of his arm as they walked together. Zephiel treated her with the same cold, callous disdain he seemed to treat everyone else with these days.

Aside from that, there were few sudden, overt changes in the castle itself. He had no idea what Zephiel was thinking, or even doing, but his life passed for the next 5 years more or less as it had for the previous five. He gave Guinevere her lessons in magic and governance, and watched her grow into a beautiful and intelligent woman. He also watched (from a distance) Zephiel grow into an immensely powerful, but even colder and more inscrutable, King. Zephiel was building up his country’s military; towards what purpose Renault could not fathom. A draft had been issued and training instituted, and under Zephiel’s skillful leadership the army grew larger and tougher than it had ever been at any time in Bern’s history. The economies and industries of Bern had grown as well; Zephiel negotiating several shrewd trade treaties with Etruria that gave Etrurian merchants handsome benefits for trading ore from the Western Isles to Bern, which would then be used in its industries to produce weapons and armor, improving the troops while increasing employment within the country itself. The soldiers, for their part, spent almost all of their time drilling, which both expended their energies (so as not to get into the mischief idle soldiers often did) and sharpened their skills. While it was expensive maintaining such a large military, Zephiel did send it on expeditions throughout the mountains (to exterminate bandits) and even allowed them to make small excursions into Sacae, scaring away some of the smaller tribes which endlessly harassed and extorted traders and travelers venturing through the region. This certainly made it seem like the new troops were earning their keep, so the people did nothing but praise Zephiel for this.

Renault had to admit, the King had taken all of his lessons very, very well. But while he could see the reasoning behind Zephiel’s economic program, the size of his military still seemed too large for peacetime. It was certainly useful to have them deal with bandits, but by the year 999, pretty much every highwayman in Bern and southern Sacae had been exterminated, and the country was without a doubt the safest in Elibe. Yet military spending had not decreased a bit—indeed, Zephiel was pushing it _further_. There was no reason for it, and Bern had been on deficit spending for some time, cutting into its huge reserves. Renault had protested this several times and had asked Murdock for many audiences with Zephiel, but he was always rebuffed.

Once—perhaps unwisely—Renault had confided these fears to Guinevere. It was only luck that no spies were in the library—Zephiel’s library, in fact, the one he used to use but never did now—the day they held that lesson.

“Y…yes,” she said, “I feel just the same way, Your Excellency. My brother…I fear I do not even understand him anymore. He’s like a completely different person from the loving man I once knew. He always protected me and looked after me…but now it seems he looks after no-one. He never comes to talk to me, always spending time with Idoun…why, I don’t know. He tells me nothing, explains to me nothing, only speaking to the Wyvern Generals…I haven’t the slightest idea of what he’s planning for our country. The last time he spoke to me, he mentioned “liberating the world.” What could he possibly mean by that? I doubt it is anything good…”

She would be correct.

It was on the First Sun, exactly 1000 years after the Scouring, that it all came to a head. Renault had seen this coming for a very long time, of course, and had desperately tried to gain audiences with Zephiel to stay his hand. And, just as before, his requests were rebuffed. Zephiel had cut himself off even further, speaking _only_ to the men and woman who were now the Three Wyvern Generals (Brunya, Murdock, and to Renault’s distaste, Narshen), along with his strange heterochromatic companion, Idoun. Thus, Renault could only watch helplessly as Bern’s massive army (which likely would have been much smaller if Renault had not assisted in stemming the spread of Bramimond’s Warts) set forth first against Illia, and then against Sacae.

Despite everything Zephiel’s government did to staunch the flow of information from the fronts, word of Bernese atrocities reached Renault just about every day. Most troubling was the news—he could not tell if it was just fanciful stories, or propaganda spread by one side or another—that Bern had Dragons in its ranks. Actual _Dragons!_ And though no-one said anything about it, he knew it was only a matter of time before Bern struck out against Lycia and Etruria as well.

Renault began to pray more. He prayed desperately for guidance, as well as answers. “Why was I brought here, Lord? Did I do the right thing? Or have I betrayed you, and Braddock’s memory?” These were the questions he asked every night. Surely the merciful God of Elimine would have wanted him to save the innocent people of Bern from the scourge of Bramimond’s Warts, and surely Braddock would have been proud of him for that. But was it all just so Bern could slaughter the rest of the continent? If not, then why was he in Bern at all? Should he leave now, escape while he can? Or did God still have a job for him here? Was he to play some role in ending this terrible war?

Indeed he was.

Not long after, on the 14th Axe, Renault received a very strange request.

“It’s Queen Hellene, sir,” said the messenger at Renault’s door. “She wants the Rite of Contrition from you.”

“From me? Surely one of the Archbishops of the Head Church would be worthier than I.”

“She requested you specifically.”

“…Very well.”

It seemed to Renault that he had grown much closer to the ruling family of Bern than he ever anticipated or intended. Though he was nothing more than a tutor, he surmised that, ironically, his status as an outsider, uninvolved in court politics, made him attractive as a problem-solver. This hunch would soon be proven correct.

Renault was led to the Queen’s chambers on the eastern side of the vast castle. She had always spent most of her time here, as isolated away from Desmond as possible, but ironically enough, she was now virtually a prisoner in these beautiful chambers following the attempt on her life and Desmond’s death. Ostensibly all this was for her own protection, but it seemed obsessive even if Zephiel were a protective son—and given his new personality, beneficence or filial piety was unlikely to be his rationale.

Renault entered the Queen’s chambers as the messenger bowed and left them alone. He had heard that Queen Hellene had once been very beautiful, but the years had not been kind to her. She could not have been more than fifty, but her hair was grey and her countenance weak, wrinkled, and haggard. She was sitting in a thronelike chair on one side of the room, across from a very luxurious bed, and was dressed all in black, going so far as to wear a black veil. It was as if she still mourned for Desmond, though he had died five years ago—or perhaps she was mourning for something else. The victims of her son’s wars?

“You are Bishop Renault?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Yes, Your Highness. I am honored you called on me for the Rite of Contrition.”

“I’m not surprised, but I would wager you are.” There was a flash of good humor in her face. “I suppose you are wondering why I called for you rather than someone more…shall we say, higher-ranking?”

“If I may speak frankly…yes. I am not even technically a Bishop but a Master Missionary, and I am certainly not well-known. I have spoken to virtually no-one in this palace except for King Zephiel and his sister. While I am honored you would speak to me, would not someone more august serve your spiritual needs better?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” The good humor was gone, now. “The war goes well for Bern, but terribly for Elibe. The Church has condemned it as strongly as it can, and relations between Elimine’s faithful and my Zephiel are growing more strained by the day. I doubt any more proper member of the Church, especially the Archbishops, would agree to do _anything_ for a member of Bern’s royal family. And even if they were, Zephiel has forbid me to leave the castle, and will not permit anyone from outside to enter. Since you were already here, you were the only choice.”

“I understand your reasoning completely, my queen.”

“Truth be told, this is my first confession in many years. I had…lost my faith for a time. Life with Desmond was hard, and life without him even harder. But now I fear there may be no salvation for me or anyone but with God.”

 _I have wondered the same thing myself,_ thought Renault. But his next words were what he truly believed: “If one cannot find salvation at any point, early or late in life, there is no hope for me, or for many of us, for that matter. Let me do what I can for you, Queen Hellene.” He said the words of the Rite of Contrition, and Hellene began.

“Bishop, I fear this war might be my fault.”

Renault wasn’t expecting this admission, but he also knew better than to deny it out of hand. _Any_ explanation for Zephiel’s behavior might provide clues, at least.

“Please continue, Your Highness. I will not condemn you. The first step to repenting for sin, no matter how great or grave, and who knows? Perhaps we may be able to stop this war.”

“Yes. Th…thank you...” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Your Excellency…I was a terrible wife to Desmond and a poor mother for Zephiel. I did not want to marry him in the first place…I was a girl then, and what girl wants to be wrenched from her family and homeland to serve some man she has never even once seen before? But I had to, for my country. Yet I never had the strength to truly sacrifice for it…I was never loving to Desmond—even though he never was for me, that is no excuse. And the Lady Irelde…none of this was her fault either, but I took my frustration out on her, and slandered her and her daughter many times.”

“She told me to tell you that she did the same to you, and regrets it. Her last words, as she lay dying, were to beg forgiveness for her treatment of you?”

“She had forgiven me? I am so glad…I am not worthy of it. I should have made amends with her before…”

“I believe she understood your true feelings at the end, and I am sure they will reach her in God’s country. But how could any of this result in this terrible war?”

“I was…a poor mother to Zephiel as well. I used him as a tool for my own ambitions…I cared nothing for him, only that he become the rightful successor. I was a fool, and a cruel one as well. Only when he was almost taken from me did I realize the error of my ways. After that day, when the—when the heroes saved his life, I tried to reform…I tried to be a good wife to Desmond and a good mother to my son, even to Guinevere. I tried…”

“Then take heart, Your Majesty. God will see your intentions, and repentance in the future can redeem the sins of the past.”

“But Bishop, it wasn’t enough! No matter how hard I tried, Desmond still rejected me. Nothing I did could make up for how I treated him in my youth and foolishness. When he promised Zephiel the throne, I knew something was amiss. I had never heard him say a kind word about our son up to that point, and for such a sudden change? I knew it couldn’t have been sincere. But I said nothing, and allowed myself to nurse my foolish hopes…and now, look what has happened!”

“I understand, but do not blame yourself, Highness. No-one could have foreseen this. The assassination attempts were one thing, as with Zephiel’s mysterious return and the even more inexplicable way his personality has changed. You tried to make things right with your husband, and even if you did not succeed, your intentions were pure. How could you be to blame for this great war your son has started?”

“I…I don’t know, Bishop. But then what _does_ explain it? Zephiel was always such a kind boy…how could he change so? It must be because of my failures as a mother. What else could it be?”

“If he was kind and virtuous when you were a bad mother, why would he change if you tried to be a good mother? Take heart. There is something else going on here, and rest assured, it will come to light eventually. I will use all of what little power I have to ensure that.”

“Truly?”

“I have little honor…and not much faith, either, not as much as is proper for a Bishop. I can swear on neither of those things…but I can swear on the memory of my best friend. In his name, I swear I will do everything possible to end this war and bring peace back to Elibe.”

“Then…I thank you, Bishop Renault. It is not my soul I am concerned for, but my son’s. Please…do what you can to make him see reason!”

Renault nodded, said the last words of the Rite of Contrition, and then bowed and left. It would have been proper to spend a little more time with one’s parishioner, to read some relevant passages from the _Journey_ , but Renault was confident Hellene did not need them. Rather, he needed to get started on his new mission immediately.

He had sworn an oath on Braddock’s name, and he would never renege on it.

-X-

Everything was ready.

Renault had spent the last two hours poring over every nook and cranny within Zephiel’s personal library, which he now used for his lessons with Princess Guinevere. As expected, he found quite a few interesting features of the room which would have gone wholly unnoticed without some particularly enthusiastic sleuthing. Behind one bookcase there was a hole in the wall from which someone could peek in if one of the books were removed. There were several smaller holes in the walls which, while not large enough to permit a good view of anything, were close enough to the tables that a fellow with sharp ears could make out a conversation. The window of the room was positioned in such a way that someone in the guard tower in the distance could spy on the occupants with a good telescope-and it had no curtains.

All this was obviously for the benefit of spies—and Renault was planning on talking about things he definitely didn’t want such people to hear.

So Renault set to work plugging up those little security breaches. Some furniture in front of the window secured that, and with small bits and pieces of parchment he covered up the numerous listening holes all around the room. By the time Guinevere came by for her lessons, all was as secure as he could make it. Of course, he knew well that this would attract attention in and of itself from the spies eventually (they would know that he knew about them), but he planned to move soon.

“Bishop Renault,” said Guinevere respectfully as she entered—though not enthusiastically; she had little enthusiasm for much after the death of her father and the beginning of this terrible war, “Will we be continuing our lessons? I’ve read Eltonian’s _Treatise on Industry and Commerce_ , as you asked…”

“Not today, my lady.” Renault motioned for her to come closer and keep her voice down. “…I would like to discuss something else with you. Something I know has concerned you as terribly as it does me.”

“Zephiel and his war.”

“Indeed.”

She sighed, and Renault could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I don’t know anything more about it than you do. I don’t know why he’s changed, or what he’s planning. I don’t know why he isn’t the loving brother he used to be!”

“He has told you nothing at all?”

“Nothing. Though…” She hesitated.

“If you do not wish to speak of it, I will not force you. But we are as alone here as we can get. And any information you can provide, no matter how small, might help us in ending the war and your brother’s madness, saving untold numbers of lives.

“Zephiel didn’t say anything, but…Murdock told me.”

“What did he say?”

“Zephiel…Zephiel killed our father.”

Renault said nothing—once again, he was quite surprised, but not entirely so. “Go on.”

“The symptoms Zephiel displayed after that banquet five years ago…they were consistent with poison. After ten days, he overcame it. But then…”

“There were assassination attempts. A nightblade visited my room, but I managed to disarm him. I’ve heard similar plots were foiled against Murdock and Queen Hellene.”

Guinevere started, quite surprised. “They came after you as well?! You never told me?”

“I saw no need. I did not want to worry you, and after a life like mine…well, let’s just say I am used to people trying to kill me.”

“Well…yes, that was Zephiel’s breaking point. We captured one of the assassins, and he revealed that Des…my father was behind these plots. His hate for Zephiel had not dimmed…quite the contrary! He took it and nursed it, waiting for the right moment. He poisoned Zephiel’s cup at the banquet, and tried to assassinate Zephiel’s greatest allies—his mother and Murdock.

“And that’s when my brother decided something had to be done. He had manage to finally overcome the poison after ten days, but feigned his death. He was laid in a coffin with his silver sword, and when Desmond came to check the body, Zephiel ran him through.

“I think…I think that may have driven Zephiel to do this. Killing one’s own father…such a horrible deed, but when one’s own father tried to kill you…just as horrible. All of that horror…Zephiel was always so kind and sensitive. I fear it may have broken him…”

“I see…yes, I would agree. Zephiel killed his father because his father tried to kill him and his family. That would be easy on no man, and for someone like Zephiel…it may have twisted him far more than we thought. What a catastrophe…may the Saint remit our sins! I had thought Lady Irelde’s words had finally changed Desmond’s heart, but it was precisely the opposite!”

“I understand, Bishop Renault, but…it’s not your fault, you must believe me. No-one would ever have wished for this!”

“You are correct, my lady. It is the same thing I told Queen Hellene. How silly of me to forget my own advice…” Renault couldn’t help grinning. “It seems I have taught you well indeed.”

“Then what should we do? Should we go to the public with the truth behind my father’s death?”

“No. Zephiel is still too popular, and Desmond was not liked at all—the people wouldn’t care, and we would merely end up executed. Rather, we must figure out what Zephiel is truly planning. I know this is more than just a war of expansion. When Zephiel first summoned me to him, he asked me about Dragons, and where they went after the war. Then he disappeared for weeks, and came back with that strange woman in tow. And I’ve heard the reports from the front, that Bern is using dragons! I would not have believed them before, but now…now I might. If we can unravel the mystery behind that “Idoun,” perhaps we can put an end to all this madness.”

“Then where should we start?”

“Zephiel told me he planned to continue his own lessons without me. Perhaps Bern’s royal librarian might know more. He wouldn’t divulge his King’s secrets to me, but perhaps for you, the princess…”

“I see. Then accompany me to the archives, Renault!”

Together, they left the small personal library and made their way to the great one. The Royal Archives of Bern were kept underground, unlike the Etrurian equivalent, to protect against any sort of incursion. Guinevere led the way, passing by a wide variety of soldiers and spies, most of whom gave her friendly salutes. Renault was thankful that the Princess, at least, was as well-loved as she ever was among the people.

They went down flight after flight after stairs, passing under the castle cellars and even the prisons, until they came to a pair of great oak doors set within a heavy stone wall, guarded by two Generals. Fortunately, both men acknowledged Guinevere’s authority, and they let her and her guest pass without incident.

The Royal Archives were as grand as Renault remembered. He had been here a few times before, but only with a special dispensation from Zephiel, which the King of course would not provide now. The giant library was perhaps not as aesthetically pleasing as its Etrurian counterpart, but the ingenuity of Bernese architects in creating such a cavernous room so deep underground had to be praised. The place looked almost like an ordinary library or archive (a testament to the practicality of its builders) except for its great size; the wooden bookshelves must have reached four stories and there were dozens of huge ladders to allow scholars and researchers to get to the upper levels. There were huge columns in the shape of Dragons holding up the ceiling (the one concession to aesthetics its architects had made), and in the mouths of those dragons were what provided light so deep down here—great glass orbs held in place by the dragon’s teeth and filled with brightly glowing moss or fungi. Torches were far too dangerous to keep in this environment, so the builders of Bern happened on an incredibly ingenious solution when they noticed the glowing plants and animals that could often be found deep underground. Renault didn’t know if these creatures were magical or if there was some natural explanation for the light they gave off, but they certainly came in handy.

Guinevere came up to one of the front desks, manned by an elderly gentleman. “Your Highness! It’s an honor to see you again,” he said. “How may I help you and your guest?”

“Thank you, sir. Ah…we were wondering…has my brother the King taken any materials out of here in the past months?”

The man’s face paled. “Why do you ask?”

Renault was worried, but Guinevere proved up to the task and offered an excellent bluff. “He needs to go back to some of the texts he was studying before to…make sure of something, and sent me and the Bishop to pick up the materials for him.”

“Did he mention which ones he wanted?”

“No, he simply said to come down here and ask for them. I would have liked him to give me a list, but he didn’t even have time for such a thing. He’s been so very busy, and so impatient…it seems like he would consider wasting even a single second to be an offense worthy of death! He just ordered us to come down here and ask the librarians, who were _certain_ to know, or else.”

The change in Zephiel’s personality had been noticed by his staff, and thus the librarian caught the implied threat. “Y-yes, of course, Your Highness. I don’t know which books specifically he would want, but I can tell you all of the ones he checked out.”

“That would be sufficient.”

“Follow me, please.”

The bookkeeper led them down rows of shelves. “Truth be told—and this is just between us three—I haven’t the faintest idea of what His Majesty could be thinking. I thought he’d be looking up books on government or statesmanship, or with the war on, tactics and strategy, but he wanted things that were _completely_ different!”

The man shuddered, and Renault figured he meant “different” in a bad way indeed. “How so?”

“He plundered our archives of black magic, sir. Terrible books written in a terrible language…just looking at those letters makes my skin crawl! I didn’t think he knew the language, but he did take out a codex that had translated passages of it. I suppose that’s how he learned it himself. Is that the one you’d like?”

“Yes. Are there any others?”

“A few. Some more tomes in the dark language, others written in Draconic and High Imperial…he was particularly interested in military reports, and, I am proud to say, we have some essays from Hartmut himself!”

“Those as well, please.”

“As you wish.”

The librarian led them through the bookshelves and piles of parchment and scrolls, and after a few hours they had a decently sized collection of what had been Zephiel’s reading material for the last few months. They took what they had back to Zephiel’s personal library, which fortunately still had the ‘modifications’ which prevented spies from overhearing them too quickly. Those would probably disappear soon, and someone would probably notice which tomes had been taken from the archives a second time, so both Renault and Guinevere worked as quickly as they could. As Renault expected, much of the writing was in Shadetongue, and there was nowhere near enough time to teach it to Guinevere, so he simply translated those while Guinevere worked on the High Imperial documents.

What they figured out terrified them.

The High Imperial reports Zephiel had been looking at were records of the last battles of the Scouring before the arrival of the Eight Heroes. Though most were terribly damaged or incomplete, taken together they painted a coherent picture of how humanity was slowly overwhelming the Dragons via strength of numbers, but suddenly huge armies of Fire Dragons materialized seemingly out of nowhere. The Draconic scrolls, found by the Heroes as they pushed their foes back and back, described the nature of these dragons. Called “War Dragons,” they were similar to Morphs in some ways—artificial beings with no free will of their own. The reports very scrupulously left out any mention of how they were created, but the black books Renault looked at revealed all.

Somehow, a cadre of the most warlike Dragons had captured one of their leaders—a Divine Dragon. The Shadetongue transcribed the foulest magics imaginable, every bit as bad as those Nergal had employed, and that destroyed the godly Dragon’s soul and turned her into what was called a “Demon Dragon.” From this abomination poured forth a seemingly infinite number of unfeeling, machine-like War Dragons.

Renault was very thankful Nergal had never come across these texts. If he had discovered these evil methods, he might have simply created an abomination like the Demon Dragon to spew forth a vast army of Morphs and overwhelm the entire world.

Renault and Guinevere could piece together the rest of the story—God appeared before the Eight Heroes and gave them their weapons, which annihilated the War Dragons (even in their mass numbers) and warped the laws of physics so Dragons had to take human form.

Those were thankfully the last of the Shadetongue documents Renault had to read. The most recent document Zephiel had taken—still over a thousand years old—was instead a journal entry written in High Imperial. It was Hartmuts, and though long, long age had taken its toll, parts of it were still legible.

“Nothing but a girl—God help me, I could not kill her—sealed her in the temple, and my descendants shall watch over her—I pray her soul may return some day, and the Lord allow her to repent for what she has done—should she return before then--whomsoever possesses the burning emblem of the Sword of Seals will be able to banish the Mother of Dragons back to the darkness.”

“This is far worse than anyone could have anticipated,” said Renault. “Saint Elimine said the Dragons must never return to Elibe. I…blasphemous as it sounds, I am not entirely sure of that. But these War Dragons…they are creatures of nothing but destruction. If they are unleashed, the entire continent will be burnt to ash!”

“We must move quickly. Guinevere, I will formulate a plan. We cannot resist Zephiel as we are, but together, we might be able to steal the source of the Binding Blade’s power…the Fire Emblem. I have been to the Shrine of Seals before, and I believe I can infiltrate it and take the Emblem. After that, we should head to Lycia.”

“Lycia? Why?”

“The marquesses of Ostia and Pherae…Hector and Eliwood. I know this may be hard to believe, but you must. Twenty years ago, they saved all of Elibe from a great calamity. They fought and defeated a dark sorcerer who threatened to bring Dragons back to Elibe. To put it bluntly, they have a good deal of experience with this kind of business.” Despite the gravity of their situation, Guinevere couldn’t help but giggle at the turn of phrase, and Renault smiled as he continued: “More than anyone else on the continent, I think they will be able to help you.”

“I see, but…I’ve heard reports from the diplomats. Lord Hector is growing old, and Lord Eliwood has fallen ill…”

“Have they any children?”

“Y…yes. Lady Lilina is Hector’s daughter, and she’s a gifted mage. Lord Roy is Eliwood’s son, and he’s already a skilled swordsman. Though they are both young, all reports say they are worthy successors to their fathers…like Zephiel was supposed to be.”

“Then we must hope fate is kinder to them than Zephiel, for they are the only ones we can place our hopes in. We must steal the Fire Emblem and take it to Lycia. If Eliwood or Hector cannot help us, they can at least provide their children guidance, and that just may be enough. There’s nothing else we can do.”

“V…very well. I’m not sure of any of this, but…I have faith in you, Renault. I cannot say the same for Zephiel, now…how tragic it is for a sister to say such a thing! But at this point, it doesn’t matter. Only…”

“What is it?”

“Renault…I want to know…just who _are_ you?”

Renault smiled. “A few things, my lady. Your loyal servant, who wishes the best for you, your brother, and the land you both love. A wretched sinner trying to wash away the blood from his hands, who hopes the garb of the Church can help him do so. And someone trying to honor the memory of a dead man he loved as a brother. That is not the whole truth…you know that. But at the moment, those are the only three things I am that are important. So…do you believe you can trust me?”

She hesitated for a moment—and then, at last, she nodded.

“Yes, Renault, I do.”

“Then prepare yourself, and be quick as well. Though war has not been declared yet, I am certain Zephiel will move against Lycia eventually. I’ll spend the next few days thinking up a plan of action. You should get ready and gather all the supplies you’ll need for a trip to Lycia. Is there anyone else you can trust?”

“I’m not sure of Miredy, but Lady Ellen and I are as close as blood sisters. She would follow me to the ends of the earth, without question.”

“Then take her along with us. You will need some support in case something happens to me.”

“Renault, you can’t—“

“I can and I will. I’ve taken many risks over the course of my life. Many, many risks. Perhaps this may indeed be my last one…but if it is, it is destiny, and I have no regrets. The most important thing is _you_ survive, more than anything else. The war has already taken so many lives. My own unworthy life is a small sacrifice to add to that.

“You must get used to it, Guinevere. Your kindness makes you a great woman, and perhaps something more than that, someday. I pray you never lose it. But remember there are always prices to pay…in these chaotic times, there may be no alternative except for some to give up their lives. But if we can die for a purpose, to save others…we can rest in peace. Remember that, and mourn our deaths if you must—but do not let them be in vain.”

“I…I will keep your wisdom in my heart, Your Excellency. But I will still pray that you do not have to be one of those sacrifices.”

“I thank you. Now go and prepare, and let me do the same.”

Guinevere nodded—and then, spontaneously, hugged Renault. He held her for a few moments, then pushed her away gently—she took the hint and quickly left. Renault was now alone, and could begin his own preparations. And the first of those involved writing a letter.

_-X-_

_To my dearest Lucius:_

_This may be the last letter you receive from me for a while, perhaps forever. I can say very little in it for reasons of both prudence and safety. I know Murdock respects me—perhaps he can ensure this missive reaches you, and I pray it does._

_There is so much I wish to tell you, so much I wish I could talk about, but time grows short. So I can leave you only with this:_

_Thank you, both for everything you have done for me personally, and for the light you have brought to Elibe. You have earned your salvation, my dear friend, a hundred thousand times over, and it is only by following your example that there is any hope for me. I beg of you and I pray to our God and His Saint: Stay safe. Live on and ensure the children you care for live on. Bern is already moving against Sacae and Ilia, and I would wager it will move against Lycia eventually as well. You must prepare for that. Please keep yourself and your charges alive as best you can._

_With all of my love and prayers,_

_Your eternal friend,_

_Renault of Thagaste_

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	83. Finale: The Wayward Son Returns Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long, long last, Renault's journey comes to an end.

**Final Chapter**

**The Wayward Son Returns Home**

The plan to steal the Fire Emblem got off on a better start than Renault had dared ever hope.

On the 24th Horse, 1000 A.S, Guinevere was finally ready to begin the operation. She’d packed more than four times enough food and other supplies for the approximately two-week journey from Bern Castle to the Lycian frontier by air (it helped that Renault needed nothing of his own). She had told her companion, Ellen, about the plan, and the cleric had taken along some more supplies as well as a single Heal staff, which was the most powerful a novice like her could use. Renault, for his part, had gathered some material of his own as well. With Guinevere’s help, he had acquired a Warp staff, a Sleep staff, a Divine tome, and a two Purge tomes, along with his trusty Fortify staff and Light Rune, which he’d not yet had much of an occasion to use. Most notably, however, he was dressed not in his regular Bishop’s attire but in the fine armor of a Wyvern Lord. It had taken some convincing from Princess Guinevere, along with a bit of a bribe from Renault, to get the castle armorer to part with the excellent suit of plate mail. It was necessary, however, for their plan involved a touch of subterfuge.

It was very early in the morning, and the three of them were standing in front of the royal Wyvern stables of Castle Bern. No-one else was around, because all the guards were busy putting out several large fires Renault had set all throughout the other side of the castle some time earlier. It was the same tactic he’d used to spring Braddock out of the prisons of Castle Nerinheit, so very long ago, and he was somewhat pleased to see his skills in arson had not diminished over the years—though also somewhat embarrassed that a man of Elimine would still have such skills. But it helped his purpose, which helped Elibe, so he didn’t dwell on it too much.

Together, Ellen and Guinevere opened the doors to two of the Wyvern pens, waking up their sleepy, scaly inhabitants. The large beasts stared impassively at Renault—then closed their eyes in pleasure as Ellen and Guinevere scratched them under their chins.

“You are both certain you will be able to carry this out?” Renault asked.

“Yes,” said Guinevere. “I’m nowhere near skilled enough to ride one of these in battle, but Miredy took me riding many times, and taught me the basics…how to take off, keep my mount steady, and land. As long as we aren’t attacked we should be alright.”

“The same applies to me,” said Ellen, not looking directly at Renault. “Miredy was…is my friend as well, and she taught me the same. I am not as skilled as Her Highness, but I will be alright.”

“Very well. Let’s go.”

The two women led the two Wyverns out of their pens. Ellen mounted one, and Guinevere mounted the other--Renault sighed and took a seat behind her. Though Ellen didn’t seem as intimidated by him as she did when he’d first seen her, she still didn’t like him very much, and he did not want to distract her. 

Both women kicked their mounts in the creatures’ scaly sides, and the Wyverns stepped out of the stables and into the dim glow of the morning sun. Another kick to their sides spurred them into the cool air with a flap of their wings. But they did not head west to Lycia. They instead headed northeast.

-X-

The skies were thankfully clear, most of Bern’s forces being occupied with the wars in Ilia and Sacae. Most worrying, however, were the snatches of information they’d gleaned from travelers when their Wyverns needed a rest that Bern was massing its forces at the western borders as well. Though war against Lycia had not been declared yet, it seemed imminent—Zephiel was moving more quickly than Guinevere had anticipated. Speed, therefore, was of the essence.

They pushed their mounts as hard as they could—which wasn’t as hard as they’d have liked, since their riding skills left a great deal to be desired—and arrived at the plateau which housed the Shrine of Seals. Since Bramimond was gone, there were no longer spells weaved around the area to keep it from prying eyes. It was not a well-known location, however (people had avoided it for so long that few in Bern outside of the royal family knew where it was), so very few people ever came near.

But just in case they did, there was always a complement of Wyvern Riders soaring all around the area—even during times of war. It was a squadron of those warriors who caught sight of the two other Wyverns soaring over the Shrine, and directed them to land—or otherwise face the consequences.

Wisely, Guinevere and Ellen did so, and alighted on the healthy green grass—as pleasant to look at as it had been the last time Renault had been here, over twenty years ago—not far from the small hermitage that still stood by the Shrine itself.

“This is a restricted area,” said the leader of the squadron. “What are you—“ He stopped in his tracks when Guinevere lowered her traveling hood, revealing her true identity. “P-Princess Guinevere! Forgive our rudeness!” He and his men promptly dropped to their knees. “But Your Highness, what are you doing here?”

“I wished to pray at the altar of the Shrine of Seals for the…good of my country and the…well-being of my brother. I thought my prayers might be better heard at the resting place of my ancestor’s greatest weapon.”

“We understand your reasoning, Your Highness. But King Zephiel left us strict orders that no-one was to be allowed near the shrine, not even his sister.”

“You’re really going to disobey a direct order from the Crown Princess?” Renault allowed his voice to lapse back into the rough tone he used often as a mercenary—hopefully it would convince the guards he really was a Wyvern Lord.

“I’m sorry, sir, but orders are orders. Only one of the three Wyvern Generals can relieve us. We can’t allow you into the shrine.”

“Hm. Well, good dedication to your orders, kid. I’ll send you a recommendation when we return to Bern.”

“Really?! T-Thank you, my lord!”

“Don’t mention it. But I don’t want to have come all this way to give the Princess nothing. There’s a hermitage right over there, right? Is it inhabited?”

“Yes…sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I don’t know much about the place, only what my parish priest told me when he’d heard I was assigned here. It seems that hermitage used to be a spot for special members of the Eliminean church—exceptionally holy and virtuous ones—to pray and contemplate in isolation from the rest of Elibe. But just about twenty years ago, the spells protecting this place faded away—we’re not sure why. When a unit was sent out to investigate, they saw nothing wrong with the Shrine itself, and the man living in the hermitage, Ivan, simply told us that the enchantment had been placed during the Scouring and had simply worn off. He passed away not long after, so we sent the Church his body and asked if they would send a replacement. They never did. So we put a few farmers in the area. It’s very nice land, there were already gardens and even a dovecot set up, and the villagers can help feed the men and women stationed here.”

“Is that so? What a disappointment.” That was what Renault said, but in truth he was quite pleased. Now that Bramimond was gone, he doubted any more would-be monks across Elibe would be “called” to the hermitage, and was worried that the place would have fallen into disrepair. It therefore did his heart good to see that someone was making good use of it. The hermitage proper served as what he assumed was the magistrate’s house, and a few similarly-sized dwellings and grown up around it. While not a bustling settlement, it certainly seemed like a healthy group of farms, and Renault knew Varek—and Ivan, and all the other hermits who had stayed at this place—would be glad knowing other members of Elimine’s flock were gaining as much use from it as they had.

In any case, Renault continued with his charade. “If we can’t see the shrine, fine, but we’ve come a long way, and the Princess and her attendant need to rest. Think the farmers will lend us a room?”

“Of course! We’ll order them to give you the best accommodations possible, Your Highness!”

“P-please, that won’t be necessary. I wish only to take what my people take, no more.”

“Of course, Your Highness. We’ll leave a complement of guards with you as well.” The point flew completely over the commander’s head, but that was to be expected.

They were marched over to the magistrate’s house, where he turned out to be a chubby, mustached, balding man with a few remnants of brown hair ringing his scalp. He was quite wary and furtive, not even impressed when he was told the Princess was visiting his little community—though of course he was quite polite. His singular desire seemed to have been ensuring he and his farmers were left alone.

“Of course you can stay here, Your Highness, it would be an honor! Just assure me there’ll be no fighting, yes?”

“Of course not! The war is far away.”

“Very good, very good. We’ve not much here, but the Queen and her lady can share the bed upstairs, and her escort and I can take the floor. Is that to your liking, Highness?”

“Yes, very much so. Your hospitality is a credit to Bern, truly.”

Renault was equally pleased—sleeping on the floor here was just like old times for him, far more than any of them could have known. But truthfully, he’d be doing very little sleeping tonight.

The soldiers assigned to keep watch over the hermitage, now that the Princess was there, were sharp and well-trained, but weren’t particularly good as guards. Despite their purpose here, this region of Bern was so remote and obscure that they thought essentially no-one would try to infiltrate the area. Thus, the guards were extremely easy for Renault to fool.

As night fell, he was careful not to fall asleep himself, and waited for his bedmate to start snoring before he began his plan. Once he did, he simply tossed a large rock outside one of the windows on one side of the house, and when all of the guards protecting the hermitage at this hour left their posts to look, Renault slipped out a window on the other side, all without waking anyone up.

He was no longer wearing his Wyvern Knight armor, but merely some thin, easy-to-move-in tunic and linen pants the magistrate had offered him. He’d also been offered a Knight Crest, but he obviously had no use for it. He also carried no equipment other than a single Sleep staff and a small but important artifact in one of his pants pockets. Thus, it was easy for him to dart behind the cover of the many trees that surrounded the little settlement. It took him a very short time indeed to near the massive Shrine of Seals, still as big and imposing as it had ever been, even though its occupant had passed on years ago.

Though an occasional Wyvern Rider flew overhead, and an occasional infantryman passed by, none were paying close attention, it was too dark to see anything outside of the glow of their torches. Thus, Renault hid from them easily by sticking to the shadows surrounding the Shrine, and reached the entrance to it easily enough. That area posed a bit of a problem. Three powerful-looking spearmen carrying lanterns guarded the stairwell leading inside, and were positioned in such a way that the light of their lanterns covered the entire width of the stairs, meaning Renault couldn’t sneak by them.

That was annoying, but hardly insurmountable. Renault brought out his Sleep staff, and still keeping himself out of the radius of the guards’ lanterns, chanted quietly. The man farthest left yawned, blinked, and sat down, setting his lantern beside him as he began to snooze. His two friends didn’t notice it at first, but the one on the right did when he saw that the man in the middle had fallen asleep the same way. He didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because a sparkling mist fell over his head and he joined them in slumber.

Renault tiptoed past the incapacitated soldiers and crept into the pitch-black interior of the Temple. He didn’t need a light, because the place was so firmly inscribed into his memory. And in any case, his objective gave off a soft glow, so he’d have no trouble finding it.

Swiftly but silently, he dashed up to the dim glow in the distance. As he neared, it was obvious what it was—a sword lying atop an altar.

This was the legendary Sword of Seals, one of the two weapons wielded by Hartmut during the Scouring (the other being Zephiel’s personal blade, the Exaccus).

It certainly looked as impressive as one would expect of a Divine weapon, though it was no longer than an ordinary bastard sword. The blade, tapering off to a sharp point that made it effective for both piercing and slashing attacks, seemed crafted of some silvery opalescent metal unlike anything Renault had seen anywhere else. The center section of the upper half of the blade (closer to the crossguard—this part was also known as a ‘fuller’) was overlaid with a narrow strip of gold. The crossguard itself was impressive work, made of an equally unidentifiable blue metal similarly gilt with gold, cast into a shape that could have either been an unknown creature’s wings or an unknown king’s pauldrons. In the center of that crossguard was Renault’s goal.

A brightly glowing red gem that controlled the sword’s great power—the Fire Emblem.

“Almighty God, Lord of Heaven and Earth…after all this time, I still have less than total faith in your existence. I may be foolish, but it is only one of my many failings. But if you exist, please hear this prayer: Forgive my actions of deceit and theft, because unlike my previous sins, I commit this crime to benefit all of Your children, and save them from the insanity of the King I once served. Please watch over me, and watch over Guinevere and Ellen as well. I care not if my unworthy life is sacrificed in the process. I only ask Your blessing as we attempt to bring peace back to Elibe, just as the Saint commanded us.”

With this whispered prayer, Renault wrenched the glowing gem out of its place. Thankfully, there was no explosion, nor any earthquake that began. Indeed, the only difference Renault noticed was that the aura of magic surrounding the sword disappeared.

Renault put the magic gem in one pocket and removed the artifact from his other. The ‘artifact’ in question was a small red ruby shaped into a perfect sphere—it had taken more than a bit of coin for a jeweler in Bern to cut this one. It thankfully proved to be an adequate replacement. Renault carefully placed it within the now-empty crossguard. The fake wouldn’t fool anyone for long, since it didn’t glow, but it would be able to keep the Shrine’s guardians from figuring out their heist immediately.

After that, returning to the former hermitage was easy as leaving it had been. He snuck past the guards around the Shrine, kept to the shadows of the many trees near the hermitage, and another well-thrown rock distracted the guards in front of it long enough for Renault to slip inside. He then crept upstairs, again without waking up the magistrate, to tell Ellen and Guinevere of the good news. They didn’t enjoy being woken up themselves (and Renault was glad neither screamed when he nudged them gently—he supposed they’d expected him), but they were elated to hear of his success.

“You did it, Renault? I can’t—“ Renault put a finger to his lips to keep Guinevere from being too loud.   
“I can’t believe it!” she whispered. “How did you manage?”

“It really wasn’t hard at all. The troops here are well-trained, but lax. Anyways, it should take them some time to figure out the real Fire Emblem is gone. Get what rest you can, but we leave as the dawn breaks.”

Renault kept his word. The moment the first bit of sun rose above the horizon, Renault was awake, and as it happened the magistrate was up too, since he was a farmer. Renault asked the man to wake the Princess while he himself prepared for the next leg of their journey.

“Leaving so soon?” It was obvious the magistrate didn’t really care.

“Yes. We thank you for your hospitality, but we wish to arrive at the border as soon as possible.”

“As you will, m’lord.”

Within half an hour Renault was clad in his disguise again, Guinevere and Ellen were ready, and they had all packed up their things and were prepared to go. Of course, their guards had heard of this, and there was a complement of soldiers waiting for them as they went outside for their wyverns.

“Princess Guinevere!” called the commander of the guards. “We were told you were leaving. Where are you going?”

“T-to the Lycian border,” replied the Princess. “I wish to pay my friend Miredy a visit.”

“Oh, yes, Captain Miredy! Wyvern General—er, Commander Gale’s beloved.” The expression on the guard’s face indicated he thought Gale should have been made Wyvern General rather than Narshen. “Yes, she’s been sent west. We could call for her, if—“

“That won’t be necessary,” said Guinevere curtly. “I…also wish to see how the men on the western front are doing. If war with Lycia truly nears, I hope my presence will…hearten them.”

“Aye, I’m sure it would! But it’s still a risky proposition, and besides, our victory is assured anyways! Surely you’ve heard, Princess Guinevere? Your brother’s managed to tame _dragons!_ What an amazing King he is! He’ll have the whole continent bowing before him within a fortnight! Then we’ll have real peace!”

Guinevere paled, but otherwise made no indication of her true feelings. “Y…yes, of course, but even so, I have a responsibility to the men of Bern who will actually be doing the fighting. You need not worry on my account. My escort here was chosen personally by Gale himself. I will come to no harm. So please stay at your post and worry not as we leave for the west. We’ll be sure to tell everyone there of the discipline and skill of the Shrine Battalion.”

“As you command, Your Highness! Everyone, salute!”

The assembled members of said Battalion did exactly that as they watched the two women, two Wyverns, and one man set off into the sky. Thankfully, they had no idea that one of the women carried the artifact they were supposed to be guarding with her.

-X-

And so Renault and his friends flew west, as fast and hard as they could.

Not as fast and hard as they would have liked—the Wyverns they rode knew they were not the usual masters, and were not inclined to take orders from them as readily. They often had to make stops when the beasts grew even slightly tired, and feed them the best of what provisions they’d brought along to win their trust. Still, thanks to his Wyvern Lord disguise, Renault was usually able to convince (or cajole) the ordinary people near wherever they stopped to share some food with them. Thus, they had very little worry of running out of supplies, and not much concern for being detected, either—Ellen and Guinevere had taken care to wear concealing brown robes ever since they’d left the Shrine of Seals, so no-one thought they were anything other than a pair of travelers or couriers being thoughtfully escorted west by a loyal and kindhearted Wyvern Knight.

Renault knew it wouldn’t likely be this easy forever, though. After a week had passed, he was sure someone would have noticed that the gem now residing in the Sword of Seals was nothing but a fake. However, they had made good progress, being about a third of the way to their destination, so they at least had a good head start.

Renault cast away his fake Wyvern Lord’s armor and put on his normal clerical robes soon after, including the old cape given to him by the nuns of Diotica Abbey. He discarded the heavy armor in a pit outside a small village, since it would just slow their mounts down in flight. Renault also relied on his Bishop’s garb to impress the populace and beg for more rations. He knew this would also make him a specific target, but he didn’t care. Their pursuers would likely be looking for a runaway Wyvern Lord, not a Bishop. Though they’d figure out who he really was soon enough, it might have thrown them off slightly.

Another week passed, and a little over the second third of their journey as well. The Wyverns were getting more used to the women and more appreciative of the food, so they were willing to go a little faster and harder than they were before. Even though they were on the run, the journey was surprisingly pleasant. Ellen and Guinevere couldn’t eat and sleep as much as they would have liked, but at least the weather was good.

Renault, for his part, found the trip actually put him at ease. He felt calmer, more at peace, than he had in a long time. One night, before going to bed, Guinevere noted his good mood.

“Bishop Renault,” she said, “are you not worried?”

“Worried for our cause? For Elibe? Yes, I am,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem to be smiling a lot these days.”

Renault was smiling at the moment, and it grew wider. “I suppose I am. Curious, isn’t it? We’re fleeing from our own friends, and could face death at any time. But I still smile.”

“Why?”

“…At the very least, it is because what we are doing is right. I pray we succeed—but no matter the outcome, we are serving God and His children.” Renault chuckled. “Two hun…well, years ago, I would have called myself a fool for saying something like this. Maybe a ‘white knight’ or some other callow insult. But now that I am no longer a child, I see the wisdom in these words: There is great comfort to be found in virtue. No matter how perilous your lot, no matter how harsh your battle, if you can fight with a clean conscience, you can fight with a smile on your face.”

“I see. Those are wise words indeed. Thank you.”

“Many have told that to me, though I still do not feel worthy as a dispenser of wisdom.”

“Well, you’ve given enough to me to last a lifetime. That qualifies you!”

“Then I have another reason to smile, my lady.”

Guinevere went to bed soon after that, but Renault stayed up a little longer, looking up at the stars. He had said one reason he smiled so, but not the only one.

The memories were coming back again. Some bad, but most good.

He remembered his mother and father, the latter’s strength and the former’s patience, and how much of both they had lavished on him.

_Monica and Sergion…mother and father. I was never a good son to you, God help me. But look at me now…wearing the robes of the faith you so loved, and serving the people you had such compassion for. Would you be proud of me?_

He thought of Serapino, and Henken, and Lisse…

_Thagaste…so many memories. I would have liked to visit once more, but it is of no consequence._

He thought of Khyron, Roberto, Harvery, Yulia, Kelitha, Keith, Rosamia, and Apolli…

_Everyone I fought beside…I learned so much from you._

He remembered Dougram and Lucian…

_The two noble swordmasters, both slain unjustly by my hand. I am so sorry…but I have tried to repent for what I did to you. Dougram, I am standing up for the people of Elibe, just as you would have wanted me to, even if I wear the cloth of a religion you despise. And Lucian, your son has grown into a magnificent man. He has offered me forgiveness, though I know I am not worthy of it, and a cold comfort to you, anyways. But I helped him fight the evil of Nergal, as you would have wanted, and I am helping now to stop an even greater war, so he and the children he cares for can live in peace. Will that repay my debt to you?_

And even Tassar and Kasha…

_My mentor and comrade, and my enemies…I guess you’d both tell me I was simply living the life of a mercenary when I watched you both die._

He even thought of Nergal…

_You damned me, black sorcerer, but in the end you were the one who paid the price. Was it worth it? I don’t think so. But I wonder if you’re out there, somewhere. Will you be offered a chance to repent, like I was? Or will you wander the Cursed Land for eternity?_

He thought of Bartre, Priscilla, and Canas…

_I learned so much from you. Even you, Bartre. Thank you._

Images of Wallace, Hassar, and Lucius floated through his mind…

_Wallace…you grew into a fine man, and Hassar, you raised a fine daughter. Lucius…I wonder how you’re doing now. I pray that God blesses you as much as you blessed me._

He remembered all the good times he had with Varek. Transcribing the Sacaean language, training those kids in Ilia, paying Ryhan a visit…

_Varek…my truest teacher and friend, after Braddock. I’m so glad I met you. Have I honored your name? Have I lived up to your teachings, what you tried to teach me? I have made amends to the son of Lucian, I have helped lift a plague from Bern, I tried my best—though I failed—to set a king on the right path, and now I help his sister to end this war. Would you be proud of me?_

And finally, he thought of Braddock…

_My best friend…my brother…is this what you wanted? Have I found another way to live?_

Renault received no answer to these questions. But he did not complain, and that night he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

It was good he was in such high spirits, for the situation seemed to grow grimmer as they neared the Lycian border. Bernese soldiers were everywhere, preparations for war with the Alliance indeed moving faster than Guinevere had predicted. They began to fly at night rather than during the day, in order to avoid patrols or encampments that would notice them, and one time they tried to fly through the clouds to be stealthy, though they quickly gave that up after Ellen had nearly crashed—it was a miracle (and she admitted as much) that no-one had seen them.

Still, they had managed to reach the mountains that separated Bern and Lycia, and it was hard to find a pair of Wyverns and two women in that terrain. Wild Wyverns were a common sight in this area, so even when a Bernese sentry noted a pair flying overhead, he wouldn’t be paying enough attention to care if it was one of his forces. The downside was that the going was somewhat more dangerous than it had previously been, but Renault and his Divine tome had managed to keep Guinevere and Ellen from becoming snacks.

Alas, their good luck could not last forever, and it happened to run out just as they’d almost reached their destination. Up to this point, the sixth week of their journey, Renault, Guinevere, and Ellen had dared hope that their subterfuge had exceeded their most optimistic expectations, and that Bern still had no idea the Fire Emblem was gone. That proved to be incorrect—it had just taken a long time for word to reach the commanders this far west, since Bern wanted the affair kept as secret as possible, and now soldiers were actively searching for them. And it was on the 4th Lancer, 1000 A.S., that their pursuit finally caught up. They were just two miles from Lycia, right near an old castle situated almost exactly on the border between the two countries. They could even see its parapets standing against the bright blue afternoon sky— but then heard loud cries echoing behind them. Wyvern’s cries—Wyverns that were not theirs. They looked back to see some black specks among the clouds, but those specks were growing with fearful rapidity. Bern’s forces, undoubtedly.

“We cannot outpace them,” said Renault evenly to Guinevere. “They will overtake us before we reach Lycia.”

“No! Not when we’re so close…” Despair was evident in her voice. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“That castle over there…do you know anything about it?”

“I think I’ve heard Miredy complain about its lord, Rude. She always said he was dumb and lazy. She also said he had no loyalty to Bern, and that he would sell out his countrymen at a moment’s notice.”

“So he’s not likely to be the first on the list to receive orders or news?”

“No.”

“So he doesn’t know we’re being pursued, or that the Fire Emblem has been stolen?”

“Probably not.”

“Good! Princess, look down. Do you see the fort over there, in the distance?” Renault pointed to an area east of the castle. There was a small fort there that seemed to have been abandoned (unlike the forts to the south, which guarded the pass between the mountains which connected the small Lycian village to the west with the country of Bern—those were still manned). “Land there!”

“What?!”

“Just trust me!”

They descended rapidly, and landed on the dusty roof of the small old fort. Thankfully, Renault saw that the roof’s entrance was still open. As they dismounted their Wyverns, with their pursuers growing closer by the moment, Renault hastily undid their supply bags and ferried them all into the lower floor.

“Renault, what are you planning?”

The Bishop took his Warp Staff from his personal bag and peered out of one of the windows of the room they were now in.

“Guinevere, Ellen, listen to me. You must evade these troops seeking to send you back to the capitol. The future of Elibe rests on your shoulders. What happens to me is of no importance. I am going to Warp you as far to the west as I can, as close to the Lycian border as possible. From there, try to get to the Lycian army. I’m sure they’ve begun to mobilize now that Bern has begun massing its forces right next to them.”

“But what about the castle? Rude’s men will be everywhere.”

“Avoid them if you can, but if you get caught, do not despair. If what you said about Rude being corrupt is true, he’ll likely be willing to hand you over to Roy’s men without asking too many questions. Just don’t mention you have the Fire Emblem. Tell them I abducted you or something. That should give a believable excuse for why you were here.”

“Abducted? Renault, we—“

“I care not for my reputation. This is more important!”

“Then…what will happen to you?”

“I’ll stay here to hold them off. I have two Purge tomes and a Divine one. I should be able to delay them a while.”

“ _No!_ Renault, they’ll kill you!”

“I don’t care for my life, either. It is a worthy trade for giving you even one more second to run. I told you when we left that your mission is infinitely more important. Listen, we can debate no longer. You must leave!”

“Renault…” Tears formed at the edges of Guinevere’s eyes, and Ellen covered her face with her hands. Impulsively, the Princess jumped forwards and embraced Renault.

Lightly, chastely, the Bishop kissed the top of Guinevere’s head. “You are a good woman, my lady, and you will be a great Queen.” Then, gently, he pushed her away, and chanted the incantation of Warp. She disappeared in a flash of light, in what Renault hoped was a small copse of trees just near the two forts standing by the Lycian border.

Renault then turned to Ellen. “You still don’t trust me, after all this time…”

“Your Excellency, I—“

“No, there is no need to apologize. You’re right not to trust me. But I trust _you_. So, please…take care of Lady Guinevere.”

He closed his eyes and chanted a second time, and with a flash of light Ellen, too, was gone.

Renault was now alone. And he also knew he would never see either of those two women with his own eyes again.

But he didn’t mind.

With a sigh—and not an unhappy one—he went downstairs, to the single door leading to the interior of the fort from the ground. There, he cast the magic of the Light Rune, sealing the fort essentially indefinitely. Now the only way inside would be from the roof, meaning Renault could hold off the enemy with his Purge tomes, and only after he was defeated could they penetrate the fort’s interior from the roof…to find out that their quarry was long there.

He then rushed back upstairs the way he came. The two Wyverns were still there, though they were looking suspiciously up at the sky—their companions were clearly visible now, and Renault could hear the beating of scaly wings.

“Both of you, leave,” Renault said. “You’ve done an admirable job.”

They stared at him blankly.

“Go!” Renault knew Wyverns could understand simple verbal commands, but they also responded to physical ones. He pointed out to the north, away from the approaching Bernese.

It almost seemed as if they gave the reptilian version of a shrug as they flapped their wings and lifted off, heading back off into the mountains. Renault didn’t honestly like them very much, but he did hope they managed to survive, somehow. Not as much as he hoped Guinevere and Ellen escaped, of course.

And on that note, he turned back to the approaching Wyvern Riders, sighed again—this one really was unhappy, now—and removed a Purge tome from the pouch at his feet. He stared again at the approach of his enemies, and squinted. He was lucky it was afternoon rather than morning, for the sun was above the Wyvern Riders, not behind them. He flipped open the book and was about to begin chanting…

When he stopped for a moment. Just a moment. His vision seemed to swim and blur. He saw something…but not what was in front of him.

_“Rude!” Miredy roared. “What do you mean the Princess is here?!”_

_“Yes, Captain Miredy, I’m as surprised as you are! She and Ellen were found by one of our patrols just this morning! We never would have believed it if we hadn’t seen her with her own eyes. She said she wanted to pay you a visit and see how our forces on the western front were doing. But on the way, she and her attendant were accosted by a deserter and taken hostage! She only barely managed to escape!”_

_“Oh, Guinevere…I’m glad you found the Princess, but I must see her condition for myself. Take me to her!”_

_“Um…that is…”_

_“Where is she?”_

_“Er…”_

_“Have you forgotten the common tongue?! What I’m asking is where the princess is!”_

_“Y-Yes, Captain Miredy… I’m certain she was in her room this morning…”_

_“I’ve heard that enough times! What I want to know is where the princess is at this moment!”_

_“Um…she’s…er…”_

_“We’re almost going into head-on war with Lycia. What if something happens to the princess? Can you take responsibility?”_

_The fat Armor Knight shifted uncomfortably._

_“I knew I never should have let the princess go down to the border in the first place… I will return to Bern and inform the king about this matter. I’ll try not to turn it into a panic, so you must find the princess as soon as possible! Understood?”_

_He saluted and said “Yes, Ma’am!” as Miredy kicked her Wyvern in the sides, spurring it into the air. “Good thing those girls are still in the dungeon,” he muttered to himself snidely. But the vision swam, and Renault saw an image of Guinevere sitting in a cell…yet she was alone. His view shifted, and he saw Ellen running…running towards an army…an army led by a boy who looked suspiciously like his old commander Eliwood…_

Renault grinned. Was that a vision of the future he saw, or just wishful thinking? The latter was more sensible, but he suspected the former. When Bramimond had undone him in time for that brief moment forty years ago, the aftereffects of that magic still seemed to be present.

In any case, what was done was done. Even if Guinevere and Ellen were captured, as long as they were not killed, there was hope, and Renault had done all he could. So there was no reason at all not to face his destiny with the same contented smile he had worn for the past few weeks.

He immediately resumed his chanting, though it seemed like his enemies weren’t much closer—how long had that vision lasted? Truly no more than a moment? In any case, he was glad he hadn’t wasted too much time. He completed the Purge incantation and felt a burst of satisfaction as a flash of light appeared in the distance. It was accompanied by a Wyvern’s cry, and one of the black specks in front of him falling away and back. He hoped whoever it was had merely been injured and not killed—he had no compunction against killing Morphs, but had no desire to ever shed a real human’s blood ever again. But if it was necessary, it was necessary. Braddock himself had admitted that the world needed soldiers occasionally.

Renault activated the Purge tome a second time. He didn’t think it hit. He managed to stop himself from cursing and launched a third blast. This one was more successful, and yet another black shape in front of him peeled away and downwards, away from his fellows.

Unfortunately, there were eighteen more heading towards him. And they were close now, very close.

Renault grimaced and began to cast as quickly as he could. One, two, three more blasts shattered the sky in front of him. None of them hit, but that wasn’t his intention—he hoped the barrage would be heavy enough to scatter the fliers, and indeed it was. They broke off their advance to split into two groups moving from each side rather than directly towards him.

He took his second Purge tome from his supply bag and began casting faster than he ever had in his life. He turned left, sent a blast at the group heading around that flank, and then sent out another when that one missed. He was rewarded with one more Wyvern Knight breaking away from his fellows, and even better, the other group sneaking around Renault’s right side was not concerned with him. They were landing on the ground, preparing to invade the fort itself. Renault’s ploy had worked.

That still left the eight remaining members of the other group, though, and now they were too close for Purge spells to be effective. Renault quickly hopped backwards just in time to keep from being skewered by nasty-looking javelin thrown by one of the Wyvern Lords now soaring not far above his head. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t a javelin—the shaft was green, the tip three-pointed. It was a Short Spear, a more expensive throwing weapon, but also significantly more accurate. These soldiers were clearly a cut above the average Bernese recruit.

“Oh, well.” Renault wasn’t the least bit perturbed by this development. He simply tossed the Purge tome aside picked up the Divine tome. As the Wyvern Lord who’d just attacked him turned his mount around for another run, Renault blasted him with the shorter-ranged but more intense magic. A pillar of light tore through the Wyvern’s wing, and while its rider was skilled enough that he wasn’t tossed right off his saddle, he had no choice but to veer his mount away from the fort’s roof to keep from crashing straight into it, and making an emergency landing on the ground below.

One more enemy incapacitated. But there were still more than a dozen left.

Despite that, Renault still wore a smile—and as he watched the remaining Wyvern Lords close in, it grew even wider.

Braddock was with him now. He was coming home.

Another barrage of Divine spells dissuaded the first Wyvern Lord’s friends from coming any closer. Renault was quite thankful this tome contained more energy than the Purge tome—and as he entertained that thought, a familiar voice wafted through his head…

_Nobles are such assholes. Am I right, or am I right?_

Alas, the men on the ground had figured out there was no way into the fort from that level, and Renault heard the flapping of even more wings as their Wyverns carried them back up to the roof. But even as he prepared for their assault, Renault’s mind was elsewhere.

_Braddock held Keith up in the air to pick an apple, wide smiles on both their faces…_

Renault crouched and rolled to the side to avoid a small rain of Short Spears thrown from the Wyvern Lords hovering above him. He dodged most of them, but one managed to clip him on his left shoulder, leaving quite a nasty gash.

_He clasped his hand with Braddock’s, the blood on both mingling together…_

Still keeping hold of his Divine tome, he concentrated and sent yet two more storms of light down upon the heads of a pair of Wyvern Lords who had landed on the roof itself. The bright light stunned their mounts, who had fairly sensitive eyes, and knocked them both senseless, though by the way they mindlessly gripped their harnesses, Renault knew they weren’t dead.

_He felt Braddock’s bloody hand caress his cheek…_

Another flurry of Divine spells convinced another three Wyvern Lords that the roof of the fort was not a safe place to be. But then Renault heard a whoosh of air from behind him—it seemed the detachment sent to secure the ground floor had figured out it was completely blocked, and was now trying to assist in capturing the roof.

_I want you to find…another way to live…_

Another hail of spears rained down on Renault, and this time he couldn’t dodge them all.

A dozen of them were thrown, and three cleanly found their marks. With a cry, Renault slammed to the ground as spears penetrating his right leg, right shoulder, and—fatally—his chest interrupted his second roll.

Renault tried to get up—and was helped in this endeavor by one of the Wyvern Knights landing nearby, dismounting, and then jerking him to his feet with one hand, tearing out the spear in his chest with the other. The soldier then gave Renault a shove and allowed him to fall on his back.

He brought a hand to his chest and gripped his phylactery, then brought it in front of his face. The dull green glow of the magic artifact was rapidly dimming, but Renault was marveling in amazement at the blood that covered it.

“Am I…dying?” It was always something that interested Renault. Though his body was false and unaging, it still bled as a normal human’s did, unlike those of the Morphs, which simply crumbled to dust. Renault certainly had been little more than an unpolished experiment on Nergal’s part.

 _Braddock_ , he wondered, _I found another way to live. I hope this death is equally suitable for you._

The other soldiers surrounded his body as they landed on the roof, two of them wrenching their spears from Renault’s body as well. Their apparent commander walked over to stare at Renault, his expression veering somewhere between anger and respect.

“A Bishop?! I wasn’t expecting that. I have to admit, you gave us a good runaround, but it’s over now.”

“It is indeed,” Renault gasped, the hole in his lung making it hard for him to speak. “My bag of tricks is empty…and I’ve completed my mission, anyways. Guinevere is beyond your grasp, now…”

This was confirmed by some angry shouts coming from the interior of the fortress below. Another Wyvern Knight poked his head out of the stairwell leading downstairs. “Commander, the Princess isn’t here! The fort’s empty!”

“Damn scoundrel,” one of the soldiers snarled, and raised his weapon to silence Renault, but his commander stopped him.

“Don’t dishonor yourself. The Bishop was fought well, as a man should. We are the Wyvern Knights of Bern, and our orders of chivalry forbid us from disrespecting a worthy foe.” He looked back down at Renault’s bleeding body. “But that’s all. We weren’t ordered to take prisoners, and your wounds are too deep for a vulnerary to do you any good.”

“That’s fine. But…”

The commander’s face was unreadable. “But what?”

 “Listen…could you do me a favor?”

“Eh…well, odd thing is, you haven’t killed any of my men. They’ll need to be patched up, but none are dead. Alright, I guess I can give you something in return for their lives.”

“Do you…know the rites?”

“Not really, and I haven’t memorized the _Journey_ , nor do I have a copy with me. No holy water or anything like that, either. But I am a believer, and I’ll send you off as best I know how.”

“That is enough…thank you…”

The man nodded and knelt over Renault. A couple of his more pious fellows did the same, though most of them just watched.

_Blessed Elimine, watch over this soul as he follows you…_

Renault continued to smile, despite the pain, as his eyes drifted away from the man above him. They turned to the sky. It was beautiful, truly so, looking just as it had when Varek had left him—an endless expanse of blue interrupted only by a few puffy islands of white.

_Most Holy God, have mercy on your servant…_

That sky wasn’t empty, though. Renault saw faces. Many, many faces.

_Speed his way to heaven, and keep him safe…_

He saw everyone. He saw them all. The memories surrounded him again, brighter and clearer than they were when he was traveling. Or were they memories, truly? They were _too_ bright, _too_ clear. Renault thought they might have been more visions.  

_As his soul leaves his body…_

He saw his mother…his father…Serapino, and Henken, too. He saw the members of the Autonomous Company—Khyron, Rosamia, Apolli, Roberto, and poor Yulia at first, and then Harvery, Lisse, Keith, and Kelitha. He saw the agonized rictus of the first person he’d killed, Yazan’s ghoulish grin, Vinland’s silver armor, Trunicht’s mocking smile and Nergal’s cruel sneer…but he also saw Dougram and Lucius as they were in happier times, and more…

_And enters Your embrace…_

He saw Wallace and Edmun, Prudence and Hassar, Isadora and Canas, Bartre and Priscilla, and brighter than them all, Varek’s peaceful face on his deathbed along with the beatific smile of Lucius, just the same as when he had forgiven Renault all those years ago…

And one more thing.

Renault felt coldness overtaking him as he heard the word “Amen” spoken above him.

But he didn’t mind. Because he could see Braddock before him.

And Braddock was smiling.

 

_Wayward Son_

_August 31, 2006 – November 18, 2015_

**_THE END_ **

 

 


End file.
